joeldjarin

[joeldjarin]

Observed Behavior

pairing: Reed Richards x Fem!Mutant Reader

summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.

rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.

a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

-

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

-

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

-

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved.  Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

-

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly.  For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time. 

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you. 

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful. 

[joeldjarin]

i think with only in the dark you should write how the readers dad can see how bad her and joel are doing without each other. maybe he slowly makes up with joel but can see he’s not the same, like he’s back to a grumpy lifeless shell of himself without her, and with reader you could carry on with her low key depression and maybe she says she wants to move?? then the dad sees okay they need each other, these are all just suggestions, but i just need to see them happy and together again!! btw the smut is IMPECCABLE *chefs kiss* i rate keep all the same kind of smut

Ooooh, absolutely, yes! Thank you for loving them like I do 💚💚

Without further ado; Only in the Dark, Part Two

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: You moved in. He proposed. You said yes. Now you’re getting married. It’s simple. Small. Sacred. The only thing that matters is that he’s yours—and you’re his.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Established relationship. Intimate wedding. Emotional softness. Joel being the most husband. Love so intense it might make you cry.

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: This is the final scene for the one-shot “Only If You Ask.” Please read that first for all the filthy, filthy build-up. We’ve earned this softness. 🖤

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

You don’t realize when it starts to change.

It doesn’t happen all at once—no big speech, no dramatic line drawn in the sand. Just smaller things, quiet shifts in the way people look at you. The way your dad doesn’t stiffen anymore when Joel pulls into the driveway. The way he passes him tools now without comment. The way the world just… settles around you both.

You and Joel don’t hide anymore.

Not from your dad. Not from the town. Not from each other.

He still has rough edges, still gets gruff when the coffee’s not strong enough or when the new guy at the shop misplaces the torque wrench for the third time in a week. But it’s different now.

He smiles more.

Not big, showy grins—nothing out of character—but those small, quiet smiles. The ones that crinkle the corners of his eyes when you lean into his shoulder. The ones he gives you from across the grocery store aisle when you’re holding up two kinds of cereal like it’s the hardest decision in the world.

He touches you more, too. In public. In front of people.

Not possessively. Just… like he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. A hand on your back when you pass him the keys. Fingers brushing your wrist when he hands you a mug. A kiss to your temple before he heads into the shop in the morning—careful, always soft, but never hidden.

And your dad?

Well.

He hasn’t said anything else. Not really. But you’ve seen him laugh with Joel. Watched them stand shoulder to shoulder fixing the front steps like it didn’t take months to get there. He doesn’t linger awkwardly anymore when Joel’s around. Doesn’t avoid the room. Just nods when Joel offers to help and says thanks when he actually does.

It’s not everything. Not perfect.

But it’s more than you thought you’d get.

And now—weeks later, with the heat of summer settling thick on your skin and your heart finally starting to feel like it belongs in your chest again—you have this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The truck’s parked off the old service trail, tucked between two overgrown pines that lean just enough to shade the clearing. The engine’s been off for over an hour. The doors still creak when you open them, the metal groaning in the heat, but you hardly notice anymore.

You’re in the bed of it now, limbs tangled in the soft fleece blanket Joel keeps behind the seat for mornings like this. There’s a small cooler tucked at your feet, beads of condensation slipping down the sides, and a half-finished beer resting against Joel’s thigh—gone warm under the sun.

You’re on your back, head pillowed against his bicep, the heat of his body seeping into yours even through the fabric of your shirt. His other hand rests on your stomach, thumb stroking lazily back and forth. Not for any reason. Just because you’re there.

The sky above is pale and cloudless, the breeze soft enough to stir your hair when it shifts, and somewhere nearby, cicadas are humming.

Everything feels still.

Your eyes are half-lidded, toes nudging the edge of the bed, when you murmur, “You think anyone else knows about this place?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Just shifts slightly, the press of his thigh against yours anchoring you to the moment. He scratches his jaw and says, “Doubt it. Last time I was here, I was still listenin’ to cassette tapes.”

You snort. “God, you’re old.”

He hums low. “You like me old.”

You roll your head toward him and catch the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Maybe,” you tease. “But only when you shut up.”

Joel turns his head fully. Meets your gaze.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks at you, that same unreadable expression softening with the way your eyes catch the sun. Then he shifts onto his side, carefully, and props himself up on one elbow. His hand moves from your stomach to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout bringin’ you out here for weeks,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Yeah?”

He nods, gaze flicking across your face like he’s memorizing it. “Didn’t want to bring you out until I was sure you wouldn’t disappear after.”

Your breath catches. He says it so simply, but it hits something deep.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Joel leans in. Kisses you—soft, unhurried, his lips warm from the sun and tasting faintly of beer. His hand cradles your jaw, the calluses gentle against your skin. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders with every second he stays there, mouth moving with yours like this—this—is the only thing tethering him to the ground.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against yours. His breath mingles with yours. And his voice drops to something low and certain.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

The words aren’t dramatic. Not a confession, not a performance. Just a truth spoken out loud because it deserves to be.

You slide your hand under his shirt. Let your palm settle over the beat of his heart.

“Me neither,” you say.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. With both hands in your hair, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t ask for anything more than this moment—sunlight, summer air, and the space between your bodies that finally doesn’t have to hold secrets anymore.

—

Later, when you drive back into town, his hand stays on your thigh the whole way.

And when your dad sees the two of you carrying groceries into the house—laughing about the broken eggs and Joel’s refusal to buy the off-brand cereal—he doesn’t say anything.

Just glances up from the porch, nods once, and holds the door open for both of you.

You kiss Joel in the kitchen after.

Not a secret kiss. Not a stolen one.

Just love. Plain and simple.

The way it always should’ve been.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It wasn’t a big decision.

There was no packed suitcase, no teary moment of crossing a threshold. No key exchanged with trembling hands.

You just… started staying.

First it was a night. Then a weekend. Then you forgot your favorite sweatshirt, and he washed it and draped it over the back of the chair like it had always been there.

Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Half your wardrobe. Your favorite pan for eggs.

You moved in piece by piece, and neither of you ever said the words out loud—but now it’s been two weeks since you’ve slept anywhere else, and this house doesn’t feel like his anymore.

It feels like yours.

And Joel—well.

Joel’s still Joel. Still grouchy in the morning when there’s no clean mugs. Still muttering under his breath when he stubs his toe on the corner of the coffee table because “somebody moved it.” Still grumbling about the windows sticking when it rains.

But he doesn’t complain when your books end up on the nightstand. Or when you leave your laundry in the dryer for three days. Or when you talk through half a movie just because you like hearing yourself guess the plot.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Steady.

Like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s a slow evening.

There’s a breeze slipping through the window—barely strong enough to stir the edge of the curtain—and the record player hums somewhere in the corner, spinning something low and worn. Something old. Joel’s hand-picked, of course. You never remember the names, but you know the sound by heart now.

You’re curled up sideways on the couch, your knees folded and a paperback resting open across your thighs. Joel’s behind you—sprawled across the cushions with one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily around your waist.

You’ve been reading for twenty minutes.

You haven’t turned a page in five.

His fingertips trace gentle circles against your side, low and steady, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just following the curve of your hip through the worn fabric of your sleep shorts. His palm is warm. Familiar.

You shift slightly, leaning back into him, and feel his chest rise behind you. Solid. Grounding.

“Comfortable?” He murmurs.

You hum without looking up. “Mhm.”

His thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely.

Not suggestive. Not urgent.

Just… home.

The book starts to slip.

You let it fall onto your stomach, eyes heavy. Joel’s breath brushes the crown of your head when he leans forward to press a kiss there.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” He asks, voice low and amused.

“No,” you lie.

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, into your back.

“You always say that.”

You turn your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I’m trying to read.”

Joel raises a brow. “You’ve been on the same damn page for ten minutes.”

You sigh. Dramatic. Flop the book to the side. “Fine. You win.”

He grins.

You shift again—this time rolling to fully face him. He welcomes you without hesitation, pulling you in, your head resting on his chest and your hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle against the warmth of his stomach.

It’s quiet for a long time.

The music keeps playing. The sky outside slips from gold to gray. And the house feels full in a way you never thought a place could.

Joel’s hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Gentle. Careful.

“You sleepin’ here again tonight?” He asks, like it’s still a question.

You don’t even lift your head.

“I live here, Joel.”

A pause.

Then his chest rises beneath your cheek with a deep, even breath.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

And when he kisses the top of your head again, you feel it in every part of you.

—

You wake to warmth.

Not the kind that pulls you into the day—sunlight or sound or motion—but something closer. Heavier. More alive.

Joel.

Pressed along the length of your body, one arm locked around your waist, the other curled under the pillow beneath your head. His breath is slow against the nape of your neck. Deep. Steady. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with yours, the soft heat of his body wrapping around you like a blanket.

And below that—between you—you feel him.

Hard. Thick. Resting against the curve of your ass, barely contained by the thin cotton of his boxers. The edge of him fits perfectly between your legs like he was meant to be there, like you were built to feel him this way.

You don’t move at first.

Just lie there. Eyes still closed. Breathing him in.

He smells like sleep and cedar soap. Like worn flannel and skin warmed by thick blankets. There’s a soft scratch of his unshaven jaw against your shoulder, and his fingers twitch where they’ve gone slack across your stomach.

You shift—just a little.

Just enough to press your hips back into him.

Joel groans.

Low. Deep. Right in your ear.

His grip tightens reflexively. His cock twitches against you, already straining for more.

You smile, even as your breath catches.

“Joel,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He groans again, deeper this time, like the sound of your voice physically hurts him.

“Jesus,” he rasps, dragging his mouth across your bare shoulder. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You hum and press your ass more deliberately into him. His hips rock without meaning to, the friction making you both suck in a breath.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters into your skin. But he’s already moving—already sliding his hand beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm curve of your belly like he needs to relearn every inch.

“Always wake up like this?” You tease.

He chuckles, low and rough. “When I’ve got you in my bed?”

He palms your breast through the thin cotton, thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp—quiet, needy—and his voice drops to a rasp.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Always.”

You roll your hips back again, and he swears under his breath—fuck, half a growl—and slips his hand down to hook your thigh over his.

The stretch opens you just enough. Your shorts ride up, barely covering anything.

His fingers trail down the inside of your leg, slow and reverent. When they finally brush over your center—light and curious—you’re already soaked.

Joel stills.

“Christ,” he whispers, like he’s been punched. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”

You whimper when he presses in. One long stroke through your folds, dragging your slick across your clit, making your whole body jolt.

He kisses your neck. Breathes you in.

“I don’t even deserve this,” he says, like a confession.

“Yes, you do.”

His hand falters.

You reach back, blindly, and curl your fingers into his thigh. Anchor yourself to him.

“I want you,” you say. “Now. Please.”

He shifts behind you, and you feel him line up—thick and already pulsing against your entrance. He ruts forward once, just enough to drag the head of his cock through your slick, and you shudder.

Then he presses in.

Slow. So fucking slow.

You moan—quiet, long—and Joel swears, burying his face in your neck as he pushes deeper. His cock stretches you inch by inch, and it’s everything. Too much and not enough at the same time. He’s thick, hot, hard as stone and shaking from holding back.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “Tight as ever. Always take me so good, baby.”

You clutch at the sheets. Your whole body arches.

He bottoms out with a guttural sound—hips flush against your ass, arms locking around you from behind like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Feel every twitch, every pulse.

He doesn’t move.

Just stays buried deep inside you. Breathing hard. Grounding himself in the wet heat of your cunt.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed this.”

“You had me last night,” you breathe, smiling.

“Don’t care. Never enough.”

He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, every inch slick and perfect. Then he thrusts back in—deep and unhurried.

You cry out. He swallows it with a kiss to your shoulder.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Please.”

“I got you,” he soothes. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me feel you.”

He fucks you with those slow, deliberate strokes—deep and steady, like he wants to stay inside you forever. One hand slides beneath your shirt to cup your breast again, thumb teasing your nipple until your hips jerk.

The other finds your clit.

You moan when he touches it—light, swirling circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pressure builds fast, sharp and overwhelming, your body tightening around him like a vice.

He groans against your skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Love when you squeeze me like that, baby. So close already, aren’t you?”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked tight.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

You break.

It hits like a wave—long and slow and wrecking. Your body convulses, your cunt clenching around his cock, and Joel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, praising you with every breath—that’s it, baby, so good for me, takin’ me so well.

You’re still trembling when he comes.

Joel groans—fuck, fuck, gonna come,—and thrusts deep, burying himself inside you as he spills. His hips jerk, cock pulsing, hands clutching you like a lifeline.

And then everything stills.

He stays there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being inside you.

Then he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. And another. And another.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”

You reach for his hand where it rests on your stomach.

Tangle your fingers with his.

“I know.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck. Then he says it—quiet, like it slipped out of him without thinking.

“Marry me.”

It’s not a question. Not really. Not the first time.

You freeze.

He goes still, too—like he just realized he said it aloud.

Neither of you moves for a moment. Just the sound of breathing. The slow, sleepy thump of his heart against your spine.

You twist slowly in his arms. Face him. His eyes are open now—barely, sleep-heavy—but watching you. Searching.

You stare at him for a beat.

“Say it again.”

Joel blinks. Swallows. Then brushes your hair back from your face with a hand so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“Marry me.”

You stare at him. At his face. This man. This stubborn, protective, foul-mouthed, good-hearted man who somehow snuck into your life and built a home around it.

And you don’t think. You don’t need to.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

Joel exhales like it breaks him. Like he’s been holding his breath for months. His eyes flutter shut for a second and then he pulls you in, one hand at the back of your head, the other clutching your hip like he thinks you might vanish.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. “I don’t—fuck, I ain’t got a ring. I didn’t plan it. I just… it’s been sittin’ in my chest, and I couldn’t—”

“Joel.” You press your forehead to his. “I don’t need a ring. I just need you.”

His hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“I’m yours,” he says softly.

You smile. “You always have been.”

—

The kitchen smells like toast and melted butter.

It’s hours later—mid-morning now—and you’re barefoot in Joel’s old flannel, standing at the stove with one hand on the frying pan and the other curled around a coffee mug he left on the counter. The sun filters in through the window above the sink, casting gold across the floorboards. Dust motes swirl in the light like they’re dancing for you.

You hum to yourself. Something quiet. Unconscious.

The pan sizzles. You flip a slice of bacon.

And then you feel it.

Joel, behind you—his arms sliding around your waist, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

You smile.

“You didn’t have to get up,” you murmur, still focused on the pan.

“Didn’t wanna miss this.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he hasn’t quite come down from whatever that moment was. Like he still doesn’t believe you said yes.

You lean back into his chest.

He tightens his arms around you. Rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like you in my shirt,” he mutters.

“I like me in your shirt.”

He hums. Then, more quietly—

“Gonna put a ring on you soon.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?”

He nods.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just so everyone knows you’re mine.”

You turn the burner off. Set the pan aside. Then you spin in his arms and loop your arms around his neck, standing on your toes.

“They already know, Miller.”

“Good.”

He kisses you—lazy and soft, one hand on your lower back, the other holding your face like it’s the only thing worth touching in the whole damn world.

You’re still kissing when the toast burns.

Neither of you cares.

—

The trees have just started to turn.

Not fully—just the edges. Hints of red and gold creeping into the green like something secret and slow. The kind of change you don’t notice until you’re standing right in the middle of it, breath caught in your throat, wondering how it happened so fast.

The wind is soft this morning. Crisp. You can smell leaves and distant smoke, the faint sweetness of apples in a bowl by the porch, and the familiar scent of cedar clinging to the flannel draped over Joel’s shoulders.

You picked this place together.

Just outside town. A clearing behind the ridge, where the pine trees break open into a little pocket of wild grass and dappled sunlight. No pews. No aisle. Just a rug thrown down beneath your boots and a few chairs for the people who matter.

There’s no music. No flowers. No white dress.

You’re in a cream sweater and worn boots, a skirt that moves when the breeze catches it. Joel’s in a clean button-down beneath his favorite jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw freshly shaved for the first time in a week.

He looks good.

You think he always does.

But today, there’s something different in his face. Something raw.

Like he still can’t believe this is happening.

You reach for his hand. He takes it without hesitation.

His thumb runs over the inside of your wrist, soft and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of your pulse. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails. A little scratch on his knuckle.

Real life, right there in his hands.

Your dad is the one standing between you.

He didn’t want to at first. Said he wasn’t sure if he could. But when Joel asked—quiet, humble, hopeful—he’d looked at you and sighed, then nodded like the choice had already been made in his chest long ago.

Now, he clears his throat. Glances down at the folded paper in his hands. Then back up.

You don’t hear the first few words.

Not really.

Because Joel is looking at you like he can’t breathe. Like he’s trying to hold it all in—every memory, every ache, every night he laid awake next to you with your name on his lips and fear in his chest.

And then it’s your turn.

You don’t have a vow written down.

Just him.

Just everything you know about his heart.

You take a breath. Let it settle low in your ribs. And then you speak—quietly, clearly, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I don’t know what I thought love was before you. I don’t think I really knew at all. But now… it’s waking up next to you every morning and feeling like I finally made it home. It’s your laugh. Your hands. The way you show up, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

Joel’s eyes shine.

You swallow hard, but your voice doesn’t break.

“I promise to keep showing up, too. Even on the bad days. Even when it’s not easy. I’ll love you with everything I have—for every version of you, in every season we find.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re it for me.”

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Just looks at you like he’s never seen anything more real.

Then—low and rough and thick with everything he’s been holding inside—he says:

“I thought maybe this wasn’t in the cards for me. That someone like me doesn’t get to have somethin’ this good.”

You feel his fingers flex in yours.

“But then there was you. And I don’t—I don’t know how I lived so long without you. I ain’t proud of every part of me. But I’m proud of this. Of us.”

He lifts your hand. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m yours,” he whispers. “Always.”

Your dad clears his throat again—sniffling this time.

“Well,” he mutters, blinking fast, “I guess you two better kiss already.”

Joel laughs. It’s soft, choked, almost broken.

Then he leans in.

And kisses you.

It’s not perfect. Not movie-pretty. His nose brushes yours. Your lips tremble. But it’s real. It’s warm. It’s everything you built in the ruins—hands in the dark, promises spoken between breaths, a love that outlived every reason it shouldn’t have.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t let go.

Just touches his forehead to yours and whispers,

“We did it, darlin’.”

And you whisper back,

“Yeah. We did.”

[joeldjarin]

buddies | j.m

pairings: joel miller x reader (post breakout)

warnings: explicit content, MDNI 18+, full smut w a tiny bit of fluff, asshole joel, bratty!reader, mutual hate, fuck buddies enemies, oral m & f receiving, pinv, unprotected sex, secret hookups, praise kink, degrading here and there, dom!joel, sub!reader, smut, FILTHY, dirty talk, SPITTING, joel is feral, slight cheating? perhaps?, jealous!joel

summary: you hate joel. joel hates you. you think joels hot, you just won’t ever admit it. he thinks you’re hot, just won’t admit that either. solution? let’s just fuck.

word count: 11k

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it was another day in jackson. always something to do. you were wiping away sweat with the back of your hand and resting your hands on your hips. you huff out a breath, your hair sticky against your neck and cheeks. it was unbelievably hot during the day. the only time you’d ever feel fresh during the day was when you were in the shower. but today, you were stuck on reconstruction duty with a handful of other people. everyone looked as equally tired as you.

“gonna keep standing around lookin’ pretty or gonna help out,” someone barks from behind you. you immediately snap in the direction of whoever the fuck said that. your eyes land on a tall man, brooding and scowling in the most annoying way you have ever seen.

“‘xcuse me,” you say sternly, voice low and eyes piercing into the mans.

“told maria i didn’t want girls like you on my shift,” he mutters, looking you up and down.

“girls like me,” you spit. “i’m sorry, what’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” his mouth in a straight line, eyes not easing up at all as he steps closer to you. permanent scowl, noted.

he’s nearly toe to toe with you, you have to crane your neck up just to try to seem more intimidating. “girls that just stand around worrying about gettin’ their nails dirty.”

you had literally took a moment to breathe. and this fucking guy is acting like it’s the end of the world. you laugh, a breathy sarcastic laugh. “alright, old man.” you brush past him and pick up the first useless fucking took you see. this man isn’t gonna get the best of you. he won’t. you don’t turn around to see the man glaring at you. you don’t turn around to ask who he was. you don’t turn around to try to get a better look at him. you don’t give him the satisfaction of another look. fuck him.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

over the next couple of days, you find out the man’s name is joel. and that he’s usually like that. everyone seems to love him. everyone also seems to be extremely intimidated by him. and you have no fucking clue as to why. he’s a dick. that’s all. everyone was just too nice and sweet to put the man in his place. but not you. definitely not you.

you were working in the greenhouse now. maria deemed you fit to be what she calls a ‘floater’. you float to where the hell she needs you. a jack of all trades. it wasn’t that you were good, you just worked. it’s not that you followed orders, you just got the job done. like today, for example. you wouldn’t tell anyone— but the greenhouse was your favorite. you were checking on the fruits, making sure you pick the most perfect strawberries when you hear a door open. you look up and see that familiar scowl.

“oh, great,” you say, “to what do i owe the pleasure.”

“not here for you,” his voice sharp. you ignore him and keep on doing what you’re doing. and honestly? you loved this job because you can take your time. you weren’t rushed or feeling pressured. everyone loved this job. it was easy. simple. “jesus. gonna fucking stare at the leaves all day or do your job?”

you stand up, quick to your feet and watch joel brush past you, bumping into your shoulder as he makes his way to the back room. you remembered the light didn’t turn on so he was more than likely here to fix that. “you are such a dick, joel.”

he mumbles, even in that low tone, it’s dipped in sarcasm, “haven’t heard that before.”

“oh i bet.,” you say, “asshole,” you mutter— barely above a whisper and he storms back. boots heavy and kicking up dirt as he walks up to you. you stand your ground and hold your chin up.

“you’re real fuckin’ mouthy,” he says through gritted teeth. his eyes piercing through your fucking skull.

“you’re real fuckin’ miserable,” you bite back.

his nostrils flare, he doesn’t look away. not when you step up closer to him. he looks down at you, his jaw clenches. your chest is heaving— slightly. up, down, up, down. this was the third time this week you stood toe to toe with the man. only difference is, you don’t have an audience to shoot you sorry looks and mutter pity words to you.

he’s like that with everyone.

oh no, she doesn’t know better.

the new ones’ got spunk.

he exhales a hard breath and you swear his eyes flicked towards your mouth, but you can’t be sure because he retreats to the back room just as fast as he stomped over here. fucking joel miller. you hated that guy.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

here you are again. in the damn greenhouse. well— locked out of the damn greenhouse. it was late, you were laying in bed when you realized that you forgot to shut off the light in the back room. wasting electricity here in jackson was nearly a crime. (the townspeople would be so annoyed with you that they’d have to move curfew an hour earlier just to make up for the electricity you used up.)

you muttered a few fucks, pushing your shoulder into the door, twisting the doorknob, peaking in the window. “fucking shit!” you’re fumbling with the doorknob again when you hear his voice, low and ragged, rumble behind you.

“stealing?”

“oh fuck off, joel. no,” you say, your voice slightly raised. “i fucking forgot to turn off the-“

“don’t care. move,” he interrupts you. he basically fucking yanks you out the way by your shirt and pulls out a carabiner rattled with keys. he doesn’t even filter through them, in one swift motion he’s picking out the right key. you scoff. arms folded over your chest, gaze anywhere but joel miller. you hate this. hate that he always seems to be around when you’re fucking up. hate that that’s what he associates you with. hate that joel fucking miller always gets the upper hand. he pushes the door open, his palm flat on the door. he looks at you, that scowl still there. “gonna just fucking stand there or-”

you push past him. stomping to the back room. “fuck off, joel,” you call over your shoulder. joel smirks and watches you stride past him. he loves this. loves that he’s always around when you fuck up. loves that feeling of ‘i told you so’ when he hasn’t even fucking said shit. loves that you need him to fix your messes.

you don’t even look to see if joels gone. you don’t care. he never sticks around to actually help— just call you out on whatever the fuck is bothering him. you’re muttering now. fuckin’ nerve of that guy. always so damn mad. never needed his help-

“gonna say that a little louder,” his voice grumbles. you straighten up, taking a small breath as you feel his near your ear. he’s so fucking close. if you as much as breathe wrong, your ass would be pressed against his jeans.

“i said… you’re always so damn mad. needa get laid or somethin’,” you say. voice even and drenched in annoyance, but he doesn’t miss the way it falters just a little bit. almost as if… this turned you on.

“and you?”

“me what,” you spit. titling your head just a tiny bit, his eyes scanning the side of your face. he’s tilts his head in an almost observing way. his eyes dragging down to your mouth. the light was still on. his tall frame casting the faintest shadows on your features. you were so damn small compared to him.

“you needa get laid?”

your breath catches, he notices. you start to feel that familiar ache between your thighs. you hated him though. it was just because you’re so sex deprived that a leaf can turn you on. “by you? no thanks.”

he chuckles, gruff and low. he steps closer, his hands ghosting your waist. his lips grazing your ear, “bend over.”

and you don’t fucking wait. you bend over right on that work bench. his hands greedily tugging your pants and panties down in one swift motion. you hear the clinking of his belt and brace yourself for him. his palm is warm and hot and big on your back, strong, holding you down. your cheek pressed against the rough wood as you feel the tip of his cock press right where you need it the most. your mouth betrays you and you fucking whimper at the contact his cock makes with your entrance.

“yeah,” he growls, breath hot on your neck, “you fuckin’ needed this, huh?” voice drenched in that fucking same annoying ‘i told you so’ tone.

but your body right now can’t register your hate for him. you just fucking need him. you whimper, gasping as he slams into you from behind, each thrust punching little helpless noises out of you.

“say it,” he grits.

“i—i needed it—”

“didn’t hear you.”

you sob out, “i needed it, joel—”

“that’s fuckin’ right,” he snaps, hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back, “goddamn. look at you. just a hole, huh?”

you moan at that—humiliating and hot—and he laughs, low and mean, chest pressed to your back as he ruts into you, filthy and rough. fuck him you think. fuck me you wanna say.

“you take cock so fuckin’ well,” he mutters, almost like he’s angry about it. “so desperate for it, ain’t you?”

and you don’t answer. you just moan at that. he pushes you back down hard, your face pressed against the bench again. “opening your legs for a man that don’t even like you,” he says in that low, gravelly tone of his.

“you’re still fucking me, ain’t you,” you voice broken with each thrust into your dripping cunt. he growls at this, hands between your shoulder blades pushing you down harder. you yelp at the pain on your collarbones from the hard surface. but the way his cock slides in and out of you with finesse makes it better.

“such a goddamn brat. gonna teach you.”

he fucks you harder, breathes harder too. his thrusts becoming more erratic. he’s fucking you for him. using you. and this gets your pussy pulsating around his thick, heavy cock. he moans at that, pressing his forehead to your back as he buries himself to the hilt and gives you short thrusts. he’s close. you can tell. and with a few more thrusts, he finishes inside you. not a word. not a kiss. he doesn’t stay inside you for long either. he pulls himself out quickly, doesn’t even help you— just zips up, watching his cum drip down your thighs and says in his usual gruff tone—

“you don’t tell anyone. understand?”

you nod, trembling, heart racing, still bent over and wrecked. he’s gone before the room even stops spinning but before he leaves, he flicks off the goddamn. fucking. light.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it doesn’t stop. as a matter of fact, it happens so often that you leave your front door unlocked. he shows up at random. slams the door behind him, grabs your throat, throws you up against the wall and grinds his hips into you. never a smile. never sweet. always desperate.

“fuckin’ knew this was what you wanted,” he grits, pulling your shorts down roughly, “walkin’ ‘round with that little look in your eye. that fucking attitude. like you need to be fucked dumb to learn your lesson. you wanted to be used, didn’t you?”

you moan, already slick, already soaked. he lifts you like nothing, tosses you on the bed.

“look at this filthy fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, parting your legs with his knees, staring down at your dripping cunt. “soaked for me already. jesus.”

sometimes he uses his fingers first.

“hold your fuckin’ legs open,” he growls, pressing two fingers deep into you, curling them. “there you go. that’s it. that’s my good girl.”

but he never says your name. never kisses you. never lets it feel like anything more than what it is. just fucking. just frustration. just punishment. but that’s okay. perfect even— because he’s just a cock you’ve desperately needed.

he uses your mouth like a toy some nights—grabbing your jaw, tapping his cock against your tongue.

“open,” he demands.

you do. you always fucking do. and he slides in slow, lets the head hit the back of your throat.

“look at you,” he mutters darkly. “mouth full of cock. so fucking nice when you’re not talking. when you’re being used.”

you moan around his cock, making him hiss. you pull back and try to speak, try to say screw you but he just grabs your head and pushes you back onto his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down your chin. he fucks your mouth til your jaw aches. then shoves you back, flips you over and moves your panties to the side.

“don’t need you to talk,” he mutters. “just keep takin’ it.”

and you do. over and over.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

joel is an expert at keeping this shit under wraps. in public? cold. detached. polite enough. but no hint. no touch. no glance. it’s as if he can’t fuck the hate away. no one would guess that a few hours ago, he had you face-down in your bed, ass red with the shape of his hand, moaning like you’d break in half if he stopped. no one would guess he growled “gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” right into your ear while you came shaking around him, fingers clutching the sheets so hard they tore.

that just excited you more. especially when you’d give him extra sass that day. it was your favorite. because you knew that he’d fuck you senseless later that night. it was going real fucking good. you enjoyed being joel’s cum whore. you were fine with it. but then the sex began to get a little… different. more …personal. you knew he wasn’t coming over tonight.

said he had things to do. supplies to get. said you’d “worn him out enough” yesterday—grunted it against your throat while he pushed his come into you so deep your legs shook for hours after. but then he’s there. door creaks open with a heavy groan, and his silhouette fills the threshold. you hadn’t even heard your front door open and shut. hadn’t heard his footsteps make their way down the hall. you’re brushing your hair in front of the old mirror when you see him behind you—his face dark, shoulders squared, eyes locked right on yours in the reflection. you don’t turn. you keep brushing.

he doesn’t speak. you feel him before you hear him. boots thud against the floor, slow and heavy. he comes up behind you, towering over you—hot breath brushing your ear. “you wearin’ that for me?”

you blink slowly. the old shirt you sleep in is short—barely grazing your thighs. no bra. nipples tight under the cotton. no panties. (okay, you might’ve hoped he would come over anyways)

“didn’t know you were comin’,” you whisper.

“didn’t either,” he says roughly, then grabs the brush from your hand and tosses it on the floor.

“hands on the dresser,” he mutters. his voice low and even. you obey.

he glances at you through the mirror—his rough palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, pushing the shirt up your waist, exposing the soft curves of your ass. his jaw clenches. you see it. see his nostrils flare.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath. “you always this wet for me?” he dips a finger between your legs, groaning at how slick you are. then he pauses. doesn’t slide it in. just barely circles your entrance with the tip of his finger. you whimper.

“want it?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

“joel—”

“i said,” he cuts in, dragging his mouth up the side of your neck, “do you want it?”

“yes,” you breathe.

“then look at yourself,” he growls. “look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

you lift your gaze to the mirror, and oh god. joel’s looking right at you. his hand wrapped around his cock, thick and hard, stroking himself slow while he stares down at you like a goddamn meal. he pushes the tip between your folds and stays there.

“joel—please—”

“i don’t think you do wanna be fucked,” he growls softly. “you don’t even know what it means.”

“i do. i need it, joel—please.”

“you need it?”

he slides in just an inch and your breath stutters. your eyes flutter shut then– smack.

his hand cracks across your ass, not hard, but sharp enough to jolt you. “open your eyes,” he hisses.

you do. and when you do, he presses all the way in. you cry out, knuckles white against the dresser’s edge, your reflection unraveling right before your eyes.

“now watch,” he grits. “wanna see how fuckin’ filthy you look gettin’ used like this.”

you do. you watch. you watch the way his hand fists your hair, tugging your head back. you watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your tits bounce, the way your thighs quiver every time he slams into you. the way his hand reaches up and his fingers squeeze your nipples.

“you like watchin’ me fuck you, don’t you?”

you nod frantically, moaning out something senseless. something that sounds like words mushed all together. his hips slow suddenly—dragging his cock out almost all the way, then grinding back in slow. too slow. torturous.

“you take cock so fuckin’ good,” he growls, watching your expression in the glass. “tight little thing. just made for this. made f’me.”

“joel,” you whine, back arching, “don’t stop, please—”

“not gonna,” he mutters, pace still slow, deliberate, “but i should. should leave you here like this. beggin’. desperate.”

“don’t,” you cry.

“tell me who you belong to.” that was new. but fuck, did you love it.

“you—fuck—you.”

he grips your hips tighter, thrusts deeper, and groans against your neck, “that’s fuckin’ right.”

you come with your face pressed to the mirror, eyes blurry, mouth open. moaning his name. and then he flips you. picks you up like nothing and lays you across the dresser, leans over you and fucks you again while your legs shake and tremble and your pussy’s still twitching.

“gonna give me one more,” he growls, voice cracked and filthy.

“can’t,” you sob.

“you can, and you will. look at me.” he gives your face a gentle love tap with his hand. so you do. you look at him. your eyes meet his. just for a second. and for the first time—just once—he kisses you. fast. desperate. possessive. then he pulls back and whispers, “ain’t never lettin’ anyone else see you like this.”

and you break. this might’ve been a mistake. surely he didn’t mean that, you think. except.. he definitely fucking meant it.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

his favorite was when you took control. when you went running to him. telling him you need him. and when that happens, he sits. he leans back in your old wooden chair, legs spread, thighs wide open, hands resting on them like he’s some damn throne, watching you pull your shirt over your head in the flickering lantern light.

“thought you liked bein’ handled,” he mutters, voice low and amused.

“i do,” you say, straddling him, panties still on, dragging your heat over the bulge in his jeans. “but tonight I’m gonna handle you.”

joel raises one brow, that crooked little smirk tugging at his mouth. “is that right?”

you grind against him slowly. enough pressure to feel the size of him, not enough to give either of you relief.

“don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” you whisper into his ear. “me on top. you underneath. me using you.”

he groans—quiet, like he didn’t mean to let it out. you pull back. grip his chin. “keep your mouth shut tonight, miller. just let me fuck.”

that smirk widens. his eyes flash. but he nods. “go ahead, baby girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “show me what you think you can handle.”

you undo his jeans. drag them down, push your panties to the side, and lower yourself onto him—slow. his cock stretches you, fills you, and you keep your eyes on his the whole time. joel groans, fists clenched on his thighs, but doesn’t move. doesn’t buck. doesn’t thrust. just watches you slide down every fucking inch. and then he says, “look at that,” he mutters. “didn’t think you had it in you.”

you snap your hips down, sharp and fast. he hisses through his teeth. “oh, i do,” you breathe, riding him rough, palms planted on his chest. you find your pace—grinding, snapping, rolling—gripping his hair, tugging his head back, claiming him. “you’re gonna sit there,” you pant, “and let me take what i want. no more teasing. just shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

he laughs. low. dark. turned on as hell. but he obeys. keeps his hands to himself. doesn’t thrust. just grits his teeth and takes it. and somewhere along the way? he breaks a little. his eyes glaze. his jaw slackens. and his voice is barely a whisper when he mutters, “fuckin’ look at you. so fuckin’ pretty.”

you lean down. grab his throat—not tight, just enough to make him blink up at you. “don’t get all soft on me now, asshole,” you whisper. “but thanks,” you bite your lip, a small smile threatening to show itself. and that’s when he comes. hard. bites his own fist to keep quiet, and when you clench around him, moaning loud, trembling, he watches you like he’s never seen anything so filthy but beautiful in his life.

you slide off slowly. wipe his cum off your inner thigh with his discarded shirt. on purpose. he doesn’t move. Just breathes hard. and as you walk past him to get dressed, bare and smug and glowing, he grumbles from behind you,“next time, you ride like that again, i ain’t lettin’ you leave bed for a fuckin’ week.”

you just toss him a smirk over your shoulder. “next time? we’ll see if you earn it.”

little by little, the sex began to get more intimate. it began to mean something. starts to be like second nature, like you two heal each other through this. he knows your body needs it before you do. especially on your hard days.

your muscles ache. your back’s sore. you’d been out in the fields all fucking day, sun beating down on your shoulders, dirt caked under your nails, sweat dried on your neck. you don’t realize how quiet you’ve been. you don’t know he was watching. but joel miller sees everything. he always has.

it’s past dark when you hear the knock. two short raps. sharp. then silence. you open the door and there he is—leaning against the frame, arms crossed, face unreadable. “rough day?” he doesn’t actually care. you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. you don’t answer. you just step back and leave the door open. he walks in like he owns the fucking place. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask.

he turns you around by the hips, presses your chest into the table, tugs your pants down and growls, “don’t talk. just fuckin’ take it.”

and you do but tonight.. tonight is different. because instead of just using you until he grunts and spills inside, joel grips your hips, pulls you back onto him slow, and says with that rasp in his voice like he’s already gone, “gonna make you cum first.”

you freeze. he doesn’t repeat himself. he just says, “don’t argue.”

you swallow, trembling. “didn’t say anything.”

“didn’t have to. i can tell.”

he fucks you just the way you need. deep, slow, rhythm steady enough to drive you insane. one hand on your lower back, the other sliding between your legs. he touches you like he means it. finds your clit, starts rubbing tight circles, murmuring just under his breath, “fuckin’ soaked already. knew you needed this.”

you whimper, and his grip tightens.

“come on. let go. i got you.”

you never hear that from him.

you come hard, body shaking, eyes wet, hips grinding back into him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered. and even after you’ve cummed, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it. chasing his own high now, grunting into your neck.

“goddamn,” he hisses, breath ragged. “this pussy—fuck—it’s mine when i want it.”

you nod, desperate. “mhm, yes, god yes, it’s yours,” through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth.

he groans, pulls you close, and finishes inside you with a brutal snap of his hips. he doesn’t leave right away. like he usually does. this time? he steps back, lets out a long breath, and watches the way your body trembles from release. his hands falling down your body back to his sides. he stares at your back, your spine, the sweat along your skin. he wants to reach out. wipe the dirt off your face. run a hand through your hair. lay you down in bed and hold you til your bones stop aching.

but instead, “clean up,” he mutters, already turning. “see you around.” and he’s gone.

you knew something was up with him. but what you don’t know? he saw you that morning. shirt soaked with sweat, bent over a wheelbarrow, jaw clenched. he saw you laughing with someone who wasn’t him. and something in his chest twisted. not jealousy, not exactly. just this awful, possessive ache. something like– she lets other people see her smile, but i’m the one who makes her fall apart.

he hates it. hates what he feels when he sees you. hates that he notices your moods. hates that he shows up for you without knowing why. but most of all? he hates that he’s starting to want more than just the fucking. and he doesn’t know how to stop.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it starts like always. you let him in. you don’t speak. he’s already unbuckling his belt as you back toward the bedroom, shirt half off, nerves buzzing, mouth dry. he pushes you onto the bed, yanks your panties down, kneels between your legs, and fucks into you raw—bare, thick, deep. one hand clutches your thigh. the other grips your jaw.

“been thinkin’ ‘bout this pussy all fuckin’ week,” he growls, hips snapping, breath ragged. “knew it’d still be mine.”

you moan, back arching. his pace gets brutal. he grits his teeth. “you missed me, didn’t you? missed gettin’ split open.”

you’re so close, burning, buzzing, boneless—and that’s when you say it. mid-moan. barely a whisper, “this is the last time.”

his whole body stops. just like that. motionless inside you. chest heaving. a beat of silence. the —

“…meaning?” his voice is gravel. dangerous.

you meet his eyes. swallow. the reason you hadn’t bothered to come looking for joel all week. “i’m seeing someone.”

his jaw tightens. he stares at you, nostrils flared. not angry. not sad. just… calculating. and then he thrusts. hard. once. deep. cruel. you gasp. then again. and again. slow. deliberate. vicious.

“they know you like to get fucked like this?” he growls.

you tremble.

“they know this little cunt gets stretched out, sloppy, takin’ cock like a fuckin’ whore?”

you whimper, try to pull back—he grabs your hips, yanks you flush to him.

“don’t you fuckin’ move now.”

his hand slides down—rough on your clit, circling, forcing. god you loved this so much. but dammit you knew what the hell joel was doing. no one can fuck you the way he can, the way he knows your body needs— loves.

“wanna stop? we can. after you fuckin’ come on my cock one last time.”

you try to fight it. try to stay still. try to show him he doesn’t have that much of an effect on you. but your body betrays you. he knows how to ruin you. knows the angle, the pressure, the filth to whisper in your ear.

“bet he don’t even know how to touch you right.”

“he kiss your pussy or just fumble around like a fuckin’ idiot?”

“you’ll think about me next time you fuck him. know how I know?”

“‘cause you’re squeezin’ ‘round me so tight right now.”

you come with a choked moan, body clenching, tears pricking your eyes. he watches you like you just broke something in him. he finishes inside you. stays buried. breathing hard. and then pulls out without a word. pants up. shirt down. you stay lying there. spent. ruined. he stands at the edge of the bed and says—quietly, “don’t call me when it falls apart.”

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

you’re out with him— miles. he’s nice. sweet smile. soft hands. a little younger than joel. harmless in the way joel never was. he makes you laugh.

youu don’t even realize joel’s there. standing across the street, half in shadow, pretending he’s looking for something—someone—else. but he’s watching you. he watches you lean into this guys shoulder, watches your smile, that sweet little laugh—the one joel’s never earned, the one you never made while he was fucking you into the mattress. he watches him tuck your hair behind your ear. so gentle. and something snaps in joel’s chest. jealousy? couldn’t be. he doesn’t even like you. right?

he just hates… hates that someone else gets your softness. hates that he never touched you without making you cry or beg or moan into the dark. hates that he wants to see that smile again—but only for him. that night, he doesn’t sleep. lays awake, jaw clenched, staring at the ceiling.

thinks of your laugh. your mouth. the way your face used to twist when you came so hard around his cock that your knees buckled. so finally—he gets up. doesn’t even know if you’ll be home. if you’ll be alone.

you’re still half-dressed when the knock hits. two short, sharp bangs. you freeze. you know that knock. you open the door slowly. a mistake, but oke you don’t mind making. and there he is.

joel miller.

grim. unshaven. eyes shadowed with something dangerous. you open your mouth, but he steps into your space, grabs your jaw. leans down. and says in that low, gravel voice of his. “get on your fuckin’ knees.”

you don’t think. you drop. hands to the floor. knees hitting the hardwood with a soft thump. door slamming shut. joel’s already undoing his belt, one hand still tangled in your hair.

“you missed this, didn’t you?”

you look up at him. wide-eyed. silent. starving.

“bet he don’t know what this mouth is capable of,” joel mutters, stroking himself, thick and hard, the tip already dripping. “bet he don’t know how you gag on it. how you moan with it down your throat.”

he slaps it against your cheek. you flinch. he groans. “open.”

you do. he shoves in. no warning. no softness. just rage and lust and something bitter at the back of his throat. he grips your hair. thrusts deep. watches your eyes water.

“yeah,” he hisses, hips snapping, “that’s right. take it. take what you fuckin’ need.”

you gag, but you don’t pull away. you do need this. crave it. you’ve been aching for it. he uses your mouth like it’s his to own. his to ruin.

“mm, fuck,” he growls, eyes fluttering, “missed this. missed that look.”

he’s breathing hard now, fingers twitching in your hair, hips bucking faster— then he rips you off with a wet gasp. you pant, drool slicking your chin, lips swollen, cunt throbbing. he looks down at you, cock still twitching, and says low–

“tell me he makes you come.”

you stare at him. chest heaving. you say nothing. joel’s jaw clenches. “does he?”

you shake your head no. he leans in. Just enough for you to feel his breath. “that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

he grabs you under the arms, drags you to your feet, flips you around, and bends you over the back of the sofa like he owns your body and the rights to your soul.

“gonna fuckin’ remind you,” he mutters, pushing into you raw, rough, deep, “who made you like this.”

all you can do is moan because he’s right. you’re ruined. you’re his. you always were. and he fucking knew it. he’s already backed you into your bedroom, already shoved your clothes off with nothing but gritted teeth and hands that shake too much to be just lust. you didn’t stop him. you didn’t say a damn word. he spreads you open and buries himself in you without a kiss, without a whisper, just a choked “fuckin’ missed this,”—you moaned like he owned you. he fucks you like he never plans on doing it again.

you’re on your back, one leg thrown over his shoulder, the other shaking against the sheets. joel’s braced over you, chest gleaming with sweat, eyes locked on your face like he’s watching something burn.

“look at you,” he snarls through clenched teeth, dragging his cock deep. “so fuckin’ pretty when you’re ruined.”

you sob—tight and breathless—and he growls, fucking into you harder. “you want it this bad, you let me back in this easy? you still need me that bad?”

you whimper, hand reaching up blindly—he grabs your wrist, slams it down above your head. asshole.

“don’t start now,” he pants. “this ain’t sweet. this ain’t a goddamn reunion. you opened the door. you let me in. you fuckin’ asked for this.”

joel grabs both your wrists now, pinning them down, chest pressed to yours, and grinds deep—his hips heavy, cock thick and pulsing, dragging against the spot that makes you break.

“yeah,” he mutters. “right fuckin’ there. that where you want it?”

you sob, nod, eyes wet. and then he lets go. let’s you grab at him. let’s your nails drag down his arms. let’s you sob his name when your cunt tightens and your orgasm hits like a freight train. joel curses. loud. filthy.

“fuck—fuck, there you go—made this pussy mine again, didn’t i?

and then he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills inside you. the silence deafening. just breath. sweat. the creak of the bed. he pulls out. doesn’t say a word. you roll to your side, legs trembling, trying to breathe again. and he—he sits there. still shirtless. still catching his breath. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t grab his pants. doesn’t leave like he usually does. he stares. watches you pull the blanket up over your chest. watches you wipe your mouth, your thighs. watches you sit up and press the heels of your palms into your eyes.

“he treat you okay?”

the words drop like a stone in water. your eyes flutter open. you nod, slowly. joel stares at the floor. jaw tight. like saying it made something inside him crack. he says, “better than I ever could, huh?”

it’s not sarcastic. not smug. just low. honest. soft. and you look at him. straight on. eyes tired. voice flat. “probably.”

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t argue. just gets up and grabs his shirt. he walks to the door and as he opens it, steps into the dark, he says over his shoulder—

“see you tomorrow.”

like it’s not even a question. like he knows you’ll let him in. like he knows he still fucking owns you. lil always, you hate that he’s right.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

the patrol is hell. at least, it is for joel. who’s brilliant idea was it to put miles on his team? surely joel would give whoever was responsible for that hell. joel doesn’t even remember his name—just that he smiles too much and keeps fucking talking.

“i think i’m startin’ to really like her, man,” he says with a grin, reins loose in his hands, horse trotting beside joel’s like he doesn’t notice the tension rolling off him. miles thought everyone was his friend, always spilled too much of his business with little remorse. joel hates it. he doesn’t respond. just keeps riding. eyes narrowed. jaw clenched.

“she’s real funny,” the guy continues. “smart as hell. kind. don’t know what i did to deserve her.” the guy laughs, nudges him. “You know her, right? Said you two work together.”

joel finally turns. his voice flat, empty, “not that well.”

but that night? joel can’t sit still. all he can picture is your laugh, your soft touches, your lips on someone else’s skin. someone who doesn’t know the sounds you make when you’re writhing underneath him, begging for more. someone who doesn’t know how you look when you fall apart. someone who doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to touch you. so Joel shows up. no knocking this time. he just opens your door and steps inside. the door you purposely left unlocked. specifically for joel.

he doesn’t speak. just grabs you by the hips and pushes you back onto the bed, his hands already yanking your shorts down. you’re too stunned to fight it, to ask what the hells going on. he’s on his knees. spreads your legs wide. spits on your pussy and looks up at you with a darkness in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs.

“he don’t do this, does he?”

you stutter. shake your head. brows pulled together. whimper. joel groans—deep and guttural—like that’s all he needed to hear. he dives in. mouth hot and fucking desperate. his tongue drags up your slit, slow and thick and possessive. he sucks your clit between his lips and moans into you like he’s tasting salvation.

“fucking miss this pussy,” he growls into you, “miss the way you taste. sweet little thing. just made for my mouth.”

you’re already shaking. but he’s not done. he presses his fingers into your thighs, spreads you wider, tilts your hips just right, and starts tongue-fucking you like a man with something to prove.

“bet he doesn’t do this, huh?” he snarls, lips wet, voice wrecked. “doesn’t get on his knees. doesn’t tongue fuck you so deep your eyes roll back.”

you cry out, hips bucking, and he grabs your ass, drags you closer.

“fuckin’ knew it. he’s too soft. too sweet. don’t know what to do with a pussy like this. you need this. you need me.”

his tongue circles your clit again, fast and tight, and you arch—screaming, clutching the sheets underneath your palms so tight, it aches. he keeps going. overstimulating. torturing. lapping you up like he’s thirsty and you’re the only thing that’s ever quenched him.

“let me hear it,” he rasps. “let me fuckin’ hear how good i eat this pussy.”

you wail, fists still twisted in the sheets, legs locked around his head as he rips your orgasm out of you. and when you start to come down, he doesn’t stop. just growls, “again.”

you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him. after he is satisfied with the mess he’s made of you, he sits back on his heels. his face is soaked. his lips swollen. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. he looks like a man who’s been holding his breath for too long. he steps to you—when his rough hands find your hips, slide under your shirt, push you slowly back onto the bed—there’s something aching in his eyes.

you don’t speak. he undresses you gently. properly getting you naked. kisses your trembling knee. joel never kisses your knee. he climbs over you like you’re the softest fucking place he’s ever laid his body. you feel his cock through his jeans. your hands fumble with his belt, shimming his jeans and boxers down, freeing his hard shaft. his cock drags through your slick folds and pushes in slow, both of you moan. but he doesn’t move. he just leans down. brushes your hair back. you’re staring at him, his eyes scanning your face. taking all of you in.

he whispers, “say my name.”

“joel.”

“again.”

“joel,” you breathe, furrowing your brows as your hands cup his face.

his lips part. “just like that. don’t stop.”

he starts moving—deep, steady strokes that melt your spine. he keeps his eyes locked on yours, breathing hard, tasting his name on your lips with soft, deep kisses. and then—he crumbles. he fucking breaks.

“jesus christ, baby girl,” he groans, fucking into you harder, faster. “look at you—look at how fuckin’ beautiful you are like this.”

you gasp. joel’s hand grabs your face. thumb brushes your bottom lip. he’s killing you!

“lemme hear it again.”

“joel,” you cry, moaning, legs around his waist, hips meeting every thrust.

he grunts, mouth at your jaw. “that’s my girl. that’s my pretty fuckin’ girl. say it when you come. wanna feel you say it.”

your head falls back, your whole body climbing, burning, breaking.

“c’mon, sweetheart. make a mess for me. show me who fuckin’ owns this pussy.”

“you, joel—fuck—it’s yours—”

he lets out the dirtiest groan you’ve ever heard. his hands are on your face again. both of them. he’s looking down at you like you’re fucking holy. it kills him. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, still pounding into you. “all fucked out and still takin’ it. you were made for this. made for me.”

you’re crying now. shaking. guilt? love? lust? an orgasm? overstimulation? don’t know but joel sees it—leans in, presses his forehead to yours and moans—

“that’s it, baby. that’s it. let me have it. come for me. come on my cock, baby girl. i got you. say my name when you do.”

you scream it. loud, “joel, fuck, joel!” you convulse around him, trembling, breaking, and he follows— catching all your broken moans into his mouth with a desperate kiss— a low, wrecked grunt, spilling inside you like he’s trying to leave something real behind.

he collapses on top of you. breathing hard. face buried in your neck. he lifts his head. looks at your face. wipes the tears from your cheeks with a rough thumb and says—

“so much for just fucking, huh?”

you blink. your heart hammers. “did grumpy, joel miller just make a joke?” your voice soft, sweet, that little smile on your face joel has been dying to see for him.

joel miller– gruff, cold, filthy joel—just smirks softly.

“don’t get used to it,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek.

“don’t go fallin’ in love with me now, asshole. still just your fuck buddy.”

“we’re buddies?”

you roll your eyes and he brings his face down to yours, his nose grazing the tip of yours. “if that’s okay with you,” you say.

he hums, lifting his eyes to meet yours, “‘slong as i get to keep you here underneath me, anything’s okay with me.”

you groan, playfully tugging on curls at the nape of his neck, “you love me, don’t you.” a statement. playful but true.

“would it be so bad if i did?” joel holds your gaze for a long time. his fingers lazily tangling into your hair, body still pressed up against yours. and for a moment, this feels nice. feels warm, domestic. your soft limbs wrapped into his rugged ones. too busy arguing with him all the time that you never stopped to think that maybe just maybe, you two were meant to balance each other out. but miles. sweet, innocent miles. never had a chance, did he?

[joeldjarin]

Only in the Dark - DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Your dad’s best friend has been sneaking around with you for months. But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Secret relationship. Unprotected pi/v. Praise & light degradation. Breeding kink. Sneaky sex. Overstimulation. Soft choking. Oral (f receiving, from behind). Rough sex. Conflicted feelings. Emotional tension. Guilt. Possessiveness. Slight angst.

Word count: 15.2k

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It starts like it always does.

You look too long. And he looks back.

Joel’s standing by the grill with your dad, one hand wrapped around a sweating beer bottle, the other resting on his hip like he’s already sick of standing still. The sun’s high, heavy on his back, catching on the salt-slick sweat at the base of his neck. His shirt—an old gray one with the Miller’s Construction logo faded across the chest—sticks damp to his shoulders, clinging in places your eyes have no business landing.

He talks like he’s distracted. Answers half-asked questions. Grunts through conversation. And every time you glance his way, there’s tension in the set of his mouth—like his jaw is wired shut, like every syllable tastes wrong.

You’re across the yard, curled into one of those plastic lawn chairs that sinks in the middle, one leg tucked under you. Your dress rides up a little more every time you shift. It’s nothing obscene. Nothing anyone would notice.

Except Joel.

You take a slow sip from your drink. Run your thumb along the rim of the cup. Pretend not to notice the way his eyes track the movement. You cross your legs, careless, slow. The hem slides up again—just a touch. Not enough for anyone else to care.

But enough for him to clench the bottle tighter in his hand.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance at you directly.

But his fingers twitch when he sets the beer down. His brows pull in when he thinks no one’s looking. And when he shifts his weight, the fabric of his jeans pulls tight across his thighs—and you catch yourself looking just a second too long.

That’s when his eyes find you.

Direct. Steady. Loaded.

You freeze, your glass halfway to your mouth.

The air pulls tight.

It’s not innocent. Not casual. Not a glance that glances and forgets.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he’s already punishing himself for wanting to look.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

Not for a long second. Not until your stomach flips and your skin burns and your thighs press tight together under your dress.

You’re the one who looks away. You always are.

You shift again in your chair. Run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall back behind your shoulder in a soft sweep that feels just a little too performative.

You laugh when someone calls your name from across the yard. Smile. Sip again.

And all the while, you can feel him watching.

Even when you don’t dare look up.

Joel is careful. He always has been. That’s what makes it worse—how quiet he is about the way he looks at you. How long he holds back before finally giving in. Like his restraint is some kind of mercy. Like not touching you is the best he can offer.

He talks to your dad. Drinks another beer—then a third. Paces around the grill like something’s burning under his skin and there’s no fire he can put out. You see the way his hand curls tight around the neck of the bottle, how his gaze keeps drifting your way only to snap back, like it betrays him every time.

You’re crouched beside the cooler now, fingers digging through the ice as you pretend to search for something buried deep. The hem of your dress rides up against the backs of your thighs, and for a moment, you don’t fix it. You let your back arch just a little. Let your fingers linger.

There are voices nearby. Your cousin. Maybe your dad–Michael, again. You’re surrounded on all sides. But still—you feel him.

Before he even steps onto the patio, before the wood creaks beneath his boots—you feel the air shift. Heavy. Loaded.

His shadow stretches across the cooler. You don’t turn.

“I told myself I wasn’t gonna come over here,” he mutters.

You straighten slowly, your fingers brushing water from your wrist, letting your movements stay slow. Intentional. You smooth your dress down like you don’t know he’s watching your every motion.

“You always say that,” you murmur into your glass.

His voice stays low. Measured. Already strained, like he’s been losing this argument with himself all day.

“You always make it hard.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, lashes low. Your voice soft. Sweet. Dangerous. “Me? I haven’t said a word to you all day.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He’s closer now. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat radiates off him, thick and unmistakable. Close enough that if someone rounded the corner, you’d have to step back. Laugh. Pretend this was nothing. That it’s always been nothing.

Joel lowers his voice, just for you. “That dress. No bra. Nothin’ under it, is there?”

You turn—slow and deliberate. Let your gaze drag up his body, past his chest, his throat, until your eyes find his.

You smile. Sweet. Sharp. Like a blade in honey.

“No.”

His expression cracks—just for a moment. Like it hurts. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it said aloud.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He never does—not out here. Not with your family buzzing behind the hedges. Not with your father three yards away, beer in hand and none the wiser.

Still, you can feel the weight of his want. Pressing. Building.

“This is gonna kill me,” he says softly.

Your dad calls out from the patio then, voice casual but loud enough to carry.

“Hey, Joel—you mind givin’ her a hand with that old cabinet upstairs? Damn thing’s been wobblin’ again.”

Joel blinks. You watch his throat work as he swallows something down.

He hesitates. Just for a second.

You can see it—the flicker in his expression. That split second of panic, of restraint, of God, not now, but your dad’s already waving him off like it’s no big deal.

“She’s been complainin’ about it all week,” he adds, tipping his beer toward the house. “Should only take a minute.”

Joel shifts his weight, eyes skating toward you like it hurts. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “Course.”

You smirk. Sweet as honey.

“Thanks,” you chirp. “It’s just the knob on the top drawer—it keeps sticking. Come on, I’ll show ya.” Your voice is softer than it needs to be. Your smile just a little too wide. Joel clocks it immediately. His jaw ticks.

And maybe your dad doesn’t notice, but you do.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say anything else as you lead the way into the house, your bare feet padding softly across the tile.

You don’t look back.

Not until the door clicks shut behind you—and the silence wraps tight around the two of you like a secret.

The house is cooler than it was outside, the air humming with the low whir of an old ceiling fan and the muffled sound of laughter spilling in from the patio. You lead him through the kitchen without a word, every step deliberate, measured. He trails a few feet behind you—just far enough to keep himself honest.

You open the door to the hallway and gesture toward your bedroom. “It’s just in here.”

Joel exhales slow, like he already regrets this. “Don’t know why your dad doesn’t just buy new furniture.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile coy. “Maybe he likes things that are broken.”

Joel huffs. Doesn’t answer.

You walk ahead, hips swaying gently beneath the soft cotton of your dress. You can feel him behind you—feel the weight of his gaze pressed against your back like a brand.

The room smells like your lotion and the faint trace of summer air drifting through a cracked window. Joel steps in behind you and pauses, hands on his hips, eyes scanning everything but you. You point toward the old cabinet tucked beside the window.

“There,” you say lightly. “Top drawer sticks. Thought maybe it just needed tightening or something.”

He walks over to it. Crouches down. Pulls the drawer halfway out, just to see how bad it really is.

And you?

You step in behind him–too close. Close enough that the hem of your dress brushes his shoulder. Close enough that he can smell your shampoo—feel the warmth of your bare legs, the hum of your breath when you lean just slightly over his shoulder to peek at the drawer.

“Think you can fix it?” You ask, voice soft. Sweet. Barely above a whisper.

Joel stiffens. His fingers pause on the handle. You can see the tension in his arms, the way his shoulders rise just slightly—like every inch of him is screaming don’t.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Maybe not.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll owe you either way.”

He pulls the drawer out farther than he needs to. Not really looking at it now. Not really seeing anything at all. He’s gone still, like something inside him is locking up. Holding him back.

Your chest brushes his arm when you shift your weight. You lay your hand on the top of the dresser like it’s nothing, fingers splayed, pink polished nails catching the light. Joel’s eyes drop to them for half a second before he jerks his gaze away.

“You’re not making this easy,” he says, low. Rough. Almost like it hurts.

You blink, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

He rises slowly to his full height. Not touching you—but close enough to tower.

You tilt your head and smile. “I haven’t done anything.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex at his sides.

You turn back toward the dresser like you’re going to give him space, give him a chance to breathe—and that’s when he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You really gonna keep pretendin’ this ain’t killin’ you too?”

His gaze drags over you slowly. Not like he’s trying to intimidate you—more like he’s trying to survive it. His eyes trace the outline of your parted lips, linger on the delicate curve of your chest, then fall to your thighs, pressed a little too tightly together in anticipation.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Like amusement. Like disbelief that you’re really here—doing this to him again.

“You know what your problem is?” He murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

You swallow hard. Try to speak, but nothing comes.

Joel steps in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You look at me like that,” he says, a half-laugh tucked in behind the words. “Bat those fuckin’ eyes… all soft, all sweet. Like I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

You feel heat rise up your spine. Your stomach clenches.

“And this dress?” He goes on, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “No bra. No shame. Bein’ real generous with your thighs all afternoon. In front of everybody.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not harsh. He says it like he’s teasing you for getting away with it. Like he’s impressed. Like it’s killing him and he doesn’t even want you to stop.

You shift your weight, unsure if you’re trying to get away or lean into him.

He doesn’t let you do either.

Your lips part. You want to play innocent. Want to tease him back. But your voice catches somewhere behind your tongue.

Joel sees it—sees the flicker of doubt, of want, of that same ache carved between your ribs that’s been digging into his all damn day. He smiles then. Not smug. Not cruel. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying this weight for too long and finally stopped pretending he can.

He doesn’t rush.

One hand slips to your hip, the other flattening against your lower back, guiding you—not roughly, but firmly—until your thighs brush the edge of the bathroom counter. His touch is steady. Certain. The kind of sure that says this has been a long time coming.

Then he turns you.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his hand splays wide across your belly—warm and heavy, grounding you to the bathroom counter. Joel’s behind you, chest brushing your back, his mouth hovering over your shoulder like he can’t decide whether to kiss it or bite.

In the mirror, his eyes drag down your reflection—your parted lips, the tight grip you’ve got on the edge of the sink, the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to keep something in.

“Look at you,” he mutters, breath warm against your skin. “All worked up and I haven’t even fuckin’ touched you yet.”

You swallow hard. You’re soaked already. You know he can feel it—your heat bleeding through the thin cotton of your dress, your pulse fluttering just beneath his palm.

Joel’s hand slides up, slow and deliberate, over the slope of your ribs, the curve of your breast. He doesn't grope. He just holds—firm and steady, like he wants to feel the beat of your heart against his fingers.

You lean back into him, needy, aching.

He laughs—quiet, wrecked. “Knew this dress was gonna kill me. Knew the second I saw you sittin’ out there like you wanted to be dragged in here.”

You whimper, and he dips his head, nose brushing your jaw.

“Didn’t say a word all afternoon. Just sat there lettin’ that little thing ride up higher and higher—knowin’ damn well I was watchin’.”

His other hand slips lower—beneath the hem, over your thigh. His touch is light, maddening, fingers skimming until they brush the bare, soaking heat of you.

He hisses, teeth clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s nothing. A sound. A breath.

His fingers slide between your folds, slow and obscene, slick spreading across your skin. His palm cups you from behind, fitting against your body like he was made for it.

“So wet,” he groans, pressing in just enough to make your knees buckle. “You like this that much? Me watchin’? Bein’ this fuckin’ filthy with your whole family sittin’ twenty feet away?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

His hand slides up your chest again—this time to your throat. Just resting. Not squeezing. But it makes your breath stutter anyway. Makes your knees tremble.

You nod—barely—and he smirks at your reflection.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then—

He drops to his knees behind you.

You gasp, hands tightening on the counter, heart pounding.

Joel grips your hips, pushes your thighs apart, and then presses a kiss—hot and open-mouthed—to the curve just beneath your ass.

“You’re drippin’,” he mutters, voice muffled by skin. “Fuck me.”

You whimper, try to look back, but he tugs your hips gently and says, “Eyes on the mirror. You watch what I do to you.”

You do.

You watch as he spreads you open with both hands, thumbs parting you gently, reverently. His breath hits your folds and you jerk, moaning into the air.

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue licks a thick, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circles back—slow and messy and devoted. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. The way you shake. The way your body reacts to every drag of his tongue.

He groans against you, the sound low and guttural, like he’s the one losing control.

Your thighs quake. “Joel—oh my god—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision blacks out for a second. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” you cry, biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Yeah,” he pants against you. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear it.”

He eats like a man starved. Sloppy, relentless, nose buried in you, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

You’re shaking. Your knees nearly give out.

Joel notices.

He pulls back just long enough to rasp, “Don’t fall on me now—ain’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he’s back at it. This time with fingers.

He slides two inside you without warning—thick and rough, knuckles brushing your walls while his mouth stays on your clit.

You choke on a moan. “Joel—please—I’m gonna—”

He groans. “Come for me. Right now.”

You fall apart.

You come hard, gasping, legs trembling, one hand slapping against the mirror as your whole body locks up, your muscles clenching around his fingers.

Joel curses into your cunt. Keeps licking through it.

“Shh—it’s okay. Let me have it. Just like that. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You sob. Actually sob.

And he doesn't stop.

He lets you ride it out, lets you shake and pant, and then—he slides his fingers back in.

You jolt. “Too much—Joel—”

He hums. “I know. S’why I’m doin’ it.”

You cry out, forehead pressed to the mirror.

His free hand comes to the back of your calf—gentle again, grounding, petting, almost—and he nuzzles into the back of your thigh, licking soft and slow while he works you open all over again.

“You wanted this,” he breathes. “Wanted me wreckin’ you in your daddy’s house. Don’t go shy on me now.”

You moan. Loud. Messy.

“You’re mine, ain’t you?” His voice is a rasp now. Wrecked.

You nod.

He presses a kiss to your ass. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

He stands then. Fast. Pulls you back into him.

You can feel how hard he is—straining in his jeans. He fumbles with his zipper, breath ragged.

And when he pushes inside—

It’s blinding.

You both gasp. He grips your hips, steadying himself.

“Fuck—always so tight,” he growls. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He thrusts slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make your eyes roll back. That make the mirror fog up.

Then faster. Rougher. Hands gripping you hard. Like he wants to leave bruises. Like he needs proof this happened.

Your cries are high-pitched now, desperate.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. So fuckin’ pretty like this—face all flushed, eyes tearin’ up.”

He thrusts deeper. “You’re gonna make a mess, ain’t you? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl.”

You nod, mouth open, moaning.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Mine. All mine.”

And when you come again—when your whole body shakes and you scream his name against your own wrist—Joel fuckin’ loses it.

He groans your name, spills inside you, buries his face in your neck with a guttural curse that sounds like regret and worship tangled together.

And still, he doesn’t let go. Not right away.

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, hips still pressed to yours, his breath slowing against your skin.

The mirror’s fogged. Your thighs are soaked. The counter’s cold beneath your palms.

And Joel’s mouth is at your ear again, soft and real.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. Yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder.

And you smile—wrecked and ruined and still so full of him.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

You show up just after lunch rush, a brown paper bag folded neatly in your arms, still warm against your chest. You’re wearing jeans and a loose shirt—something casual, safe. Your hair’s pulled back in a clip. No makeup. Nothing intentionally done to catch attention.

And still—he looks.

The construction site stretches out like a skeleton of something half-born. Steel bones. Exposed wood. Sawdust clings to the air like fog, and the sky above is sharp, cloudless, cruel.

You walk past the truck bays and toward the break area, boots crunching over gravel. A few guys nod as you pass. Most don’t.

You’re not here for them.

You spot your dad’s hard hat first—bright white with a strip of flaking duct tape across the front. He’s crouched beside a scaffolding rig, barking something at a worker below.

Joel’s standing a few feet off, one hand braced against the frame of the trailer office, his other wrapped tight around a water bottle like he’s trying to remember what it’s for. His shirt is stained at the collar. Dusty. Clings to his chest in places it shouldn’t. His pants hang low on his hips, a smear of something dark across his thigh.

He sees you before you call out. Sees you before you even mean to be seen.

The way his jaw locks—quick and brutal—tells you everything.

You wave at your dad. Lift the bag a little. “Brought lunch!”

He grins. “Jesus, you’re a lifesaver. That sandwich place?”

“Your usual.” You pass it to him and he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze before digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days. His attention shifts immediately back to the site, already barking out instructions between bites.

Joel still hasn’t moved.

You turn toward him slowly. Tilt your head. Smile like you don’t know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head once. A warning. A plea.

You ignore it.

“You eat yet?” You ask softly.

He glances around—quick, sharp, like he’s expecting eyes.

“Don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “Not here. Not—fuck, not now.”

But you’re already crossing the distance. Not enough to touch. Just enough for the scent of your shampoo to reach him.

Your voice stays low. “You looked hungry.”

His jaw twitches. He steps back. Barely. Like it physically hurts to put space between you.

“Your dad’s right there,” he hisses.

“And?”

Joel’s eyes darken. His throat works.

“And I just spent the last two hours tryin’ not to think about what I did to you in that fuckin’ bathroom.”

You smile.

Then—quietly, sweetly, so softly it barely counts as a sin: “You wanna do it again?”

His eyes snap to yours. He looks at you like you just spit holy water on him.

And still—he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Joel’s hand shoots out—rough, calloused, certain—and wraps around your wrist. He doesn’t pull hard. Doesn’t have to. You stumble forward easily, chest brushing his as he backs you toward the side of the trailer, behind the stacks of lumber and plywood. The break room door creaks open just as you disappear from sight.

Someone calls out a joke. You barely register it.

Joel slams the trailer door shut behind you and locks it without thinking.

Then he turns to you.

His chest rises hard under the fabric of his shirt. There’s sweat at his temples, clinging to the curls behind his ears. His fingers flex at his sides like he doesn’t trust them not to grab you again.

“You got no fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, stepping in so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Showin’ up like that. Smilin’ like you ain’t already got me on my knees.”

“I think you like it,” you whisper.

His eyes drop to your lips. His voice dips lower. Rougher.

“I think you like pushin’ me.”

You smile—barely—and Joel’s already moving.

He backs you against the trailer wall, one hand cupping your jaw, the other already sliding down your side, dragging over the curve of your ass with a low groan.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he says, but his mouth is on yours before the sentence even finishes.

It’s not gentle. It never is with him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth with a hunger that steals your breath, and he presses his hips hard against yours until you feel him—already thick and heavy through his jeans. You whimper into the kiss, fingers fisting the front of his shirt.

Outside, footsteps crunch over gravel. Laughter. Your dad’s voice, faint.

Joel curses and breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed against yours.

“We don’t have time,” he says.

“So don’t waste it,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are under your shirt in seconds—palms rough against your stomach as he drags the fabric up, exposing bare skin inch by inch. You reach for his belt, fumble with the buckle, but your hands are shaking too hard.

Joel growls low in his throat and does it for you.

He frees himself just as you tug your panties down, not bothering with anything else. The moment they hit your knees, Joel’s hands grip your hips and lift you—just enough to set you back on the edge of the supply table behind you, your ass barely balancing there.

The surface is cold. His body is hot. The air between you, electric.

You spread your thighs instinctively and Joel groans—deep and broken.

“Fuck, baby—already wet for me?” He runs two fingers through your slick, slow and deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. “You need me that bad?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Joel—please—”

That’s all he needs.

He lines himself up, grips your thighs hard, and pushes in—a slow, thick stretch that knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Joel swears, low and dangerous.

“Every time,” he growls, bottoming out. “Every fuckin’ time you feel better than I remembered.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust—he starts moving, thrusting into you with sharp, desperate rolls of his hips, the table creaking beneath your weight.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs locking around his waist.

“Gonna get us caught,” he mutters, teeth grazing your jaw. “You that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait till I get off work?”

“You didn’t stop me,” you pant.

He laughs—wrecked, breathless. “Didn’t fuckin’ want to.”

His rhythm picks up—fast, brutal, unforgiving. His hands grip your thighs, your hips, your waist—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more.

Your back arches. The table groans again.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear.

“Y’know what I was thinkin’ about all mornin’? That mirror. That look on your face when you came all over my fuckin’ tongue. Thought about it till I was fuckin’ hard in the damn truck.”

You moan, loud.

He clamps a hand over your mouth. “Shhh—don’t you dare.”

Your eyes flutter. He slams into you again.

“You wanna get caught? You want your daddy to come lookin’ for you and see me buried in his little fuckin’ girl like this?”

You whimper against his palm.

He growls.

“God, you do.”

He lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to moan his name.

Then he grabs your throat.

Gentle. Steady. But enough to make you whine.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Say it.”

You’re barely holding on. “Yours. I’m yours.”

Joel loses it.

He fucks you hard, fast, reckless—his breath ragged, forehead against yours. You come with a cry, clenching around him so tight it nearly brings him to his knees.

“Ah, god damnit—” he gasps, thrusting deep once, twice—

And then he comes.

It’s raw. Guttural. He groans into your neck like he’s falling apart.

You stay like that for a second—just breathing. Just shaking. Just trying to remember where you are.

Then—

“Hey!” Your dad’s voice cuts through the open air like a gunshot. “You see my daughter? She wander off again?”

Joel jerks back, eyes wide.

“Shit—”

He pulls out, tucks himself away fast, grabbing for a rag off the table to clean you up with. You’re still gasping when he yanks your panties back into place, helps straighten your shirt.

Footsteps. Closer.

Joel grabs your jaw, kisses you once—fast and rough.

“Act normal.”

Then he’s out the door.

You follow a second later, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking as you tuck your hair behind your ear. You can’t help the grin that threatens to pull at your lips, still feeling Joel’s.

Your dad’s already turning the corner.

“Where the hell’d you go?”

You smile. “Bathroom,” you lie. “You good?”

He nods, takes another bite of his sandwich.

Joel doesn’t look at you.

But you can feel him still.

Burning through every inch of your skin.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s already dark when you grab your keys.

Not late—not quite—but the kind of dusk that hums with quiet. The heat’s still clinging to the windows, thick and sticky, and every room in the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

You check the mirror again.

One last time.

Hair loose, brushed soft over your shoulders. A sundress—low-cut, thin-strapped, clinging in the summer heat. You told yourself it was nothing special. Just enough to keep cool. But the way you keep tugging at the hem, the neckline, the way you keep glancing at your reflection like it might betray you—

Yeah. You know who you’re dressing for.

You slide on a light sweater anyway, just to be safe. Something to keep things modest enough for your dad to glance at you and not look twice.

He’s still on the couch when you step into the living room, one hand nursing a half-empty beer, eyes glazed from the TV. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Where you headed?” He asks, voice rough from too many years and not enough sleep.

You slip your keys into your pocket. “Lisa’s. Just for a bit. Movie night.”

He grunts. “You drivin’?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Her place is further out now. New apartment.”

He doesn’t question it. Just nods, eyes still on the screen. “Be smart. Don’t drive back too late.”

“I won’t.”

Your voice is sweet. Normal. The way it always is.

“Alright. Love you, kid.”

You give him a smile—one that doesn’t tremble—and head for the door. “Love you too.” You call out over your shoulder, willing your voice to stay neutral.

The porch creaks under your feet. The air outside is cooler than inside, but not by much. You walk fast across the gravel, sweater tight around your waist now, already feeling the sweat bloom at the nape of your neck.

Your car sits in the driveway. Engine still warm from earlier.

You slide in, shut the door soft and start the ignition.

And when you pull away, your fingers are already shaking on the wheel.

Not from nerves. Not exactly.

From want. From anticipation. From knowing exactly where you’re headed.

There’s no Lisa. No movie night.

Just a field about fifteen minutes out past the highway, where Joel’s waiting in the back of his pickup, cooler packed, blankets laid out in the bed, headlights off.

No one for miles.

Just stars.

You park a little ways down the road from the pickup, engine ticking as it cools beneath the hood. Lights off. Windows cracked. The air outside hums with cicadas and the faint rush of night wind, warm against your bare skin where the hem of your sundress brushes your knees. You tug the cardigan tighter around your shoulders, heart beating too loud in your chest.

He’s already there.

You see the outline of his truck up ahead—just beyond the bend where the woods break open into a patch of field, stars spilling wide across the sky like they’ve been waiting all day just for this.

You sit for a second. Breathing.

It’s been weeks.

Too many hours spent pretending not to care. Dodging glances at family dinners. Playing dumb every time your dad mentioned him in passing. And now—you’re here. Heart caught in your throat. Thighs already pressed a little too tight together.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat. Slam the door quieter than you mean to.

Your sandals kick up dust along the roadside, gravel whispering beneath your steps. The sweater hangs off one shoulder. The sundress sways with every movement. And even though you’re alone, even though there’s no one to see—you feel watched.

Anticipated.

The moment you round the front of his truck, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Joel stands just behind it, leaning one shoulder against the frame. T-shirt stretched across his chest. Jeans slung low on his hips. Hair a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times waiting for you. His eyes catch the light from the dash and flash warm. Familiar. Wanting.

His mouth curves slow.

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your stomach drops. That voice. That look. That fucking pet name. It never fails—it gets you every time.

You smile, soft and breathless. “Hi.”

Joel watches you walk the last few steps like he’s soaking it in. Like you’re something he’s starved for. His gaze drags down over the dress, the sweater sliding off your shoulder, the bare stretch of thigh, the faint pink polish on your toes.

“You look…” he trails off, shaking his head. Doesn’t finish the thought.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“What?” You murmur, tipping your head.

He just looks at you.

And then—he sighs, stepping forward to wrap both arms around your waist, dragging you in against him like he doesn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“Missed you,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Hoarse.

Your hands slide up his chest. You nod into his shoulder. “I missed you too.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your arms, over the sides of your waist, grounding himself.

Then he gestures toward the back of the truck. “Come on. Brought a blanket.”

You climb into the bed of the truck with him, the old metal groaning beneath your weight. It’s already spread out—a thick old quilt, fraying at the edges, familiar from a dozen other nights you weren’t supposed to share.

You sit cross-legged, facing the field. He sits beside you, knee brushing yours.

There’s no rush.

The stars stretch wide overhead, sharp and endless. The wind moves through the tall grass like it’s whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear. Everything smells like earth and woodsmoke and a hint of his aftershave.

He reaches for your hand.

You give it to him.

His thumb rubs slow along your knuckles, rough calluses dragging over soft skin. He doesn’t say anything for a while—just looks out at the dark. Like the silence is safer than whatever he’s feeling.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

He lets you. Presses a kiss into your hair.

Then—quiet, steady, honest—

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath hitches. You sit up, just enough to look at him.

His jaw is tight. His brows pulled. Like it hurt to say. Like it hurts more to mean it. “I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “But I can’t stop.”

Your heart breaks a little.

Because it is fucked up. And neither of you have ever pretended otherwise. But this—this moment, this night, this feeling—it’s real. It’s been real.

“I think about you too,” you whisper.

He turns toward you then. Cupping your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing your jaw. His eyes search your face, like he’s looking for something he lost.

And then—barely audible, barely real— “I love you.”

You freeze.

Not from fear. Not from regret. But from how deeply it lands. How fast it settles into your bones.

Your lips part. You blink.

And you say it back.

Not loud. Not sure. But true.

“I love you too.”

Joel closes his eyes like he’s in pain. Pulls you in. Kisses you.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’s praying.

And when he lays you down on the blanket beneath the stars—he takes his time.

The quilt scratches softly beneath your spine, the summer air curling around your skin, and Joel’s body hovering above yours feels too heavy and too perfect all at once. His palm braces beside your head, the other smoothing along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your sundress higher until it bunches at your waist.

He’s already looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything. Like the moment’s too big, too fragile to rush.

You reach for him—one hand curling around his wrist, the other brushing along the side of his neck, feeling the soft bristle of his beard beneath your palm.

Joel bends down slowly and kisses you again.

It’s different now.

Not just slow. Not just sweet. But intentional. Like every touch is something he means. Something he’s been waiting to give you.

When he pulls back, your lips are kiss-wet and parted, your breath catching as his fingers slide up beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the cotton-soft fabric higher until it’s no longer in the way. His touch lingers on the inside of your thigh—just enough to make you whimper.

“You sure?” He asks softly, voice low and rasping.

You nod, eyes wide.

But he doesn’t move—not until you say it.

“Please,” you whisper, so soft it barely makes it past your lips. “I want you.”

Joel exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days.

His hand shifts, fingertips brushing between your legs, finding you already soaked. He groans low in his throat, almost reverent.

“Goddamn.”

He sinks two fingers into you, slow and careful, watching your face. You gasp, your back arching, thighs twitching. His thumb brushes your clit once—light as a whisper—and you nearly come undone already.

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press kisses down the side of your neck. “Didn’t even have to work for it, did I?”

You shake your head, panting. “Wanted you all day.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right. “Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Tighter. “Thought about me?”

“All the time,” you breathe. “Joel—please—”

“Alright,” he says, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “Okay. I got you.”

He pulls his hand away just long enough to unbutton his jeans, shove them down past his hips. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already dripping for you. You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes still locked on your face.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Laid out for me. Dress bunched up, legs spread, beggin’ for it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, squirming. “Please. I want you—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know. Gonna give it to you.”

He lines himself up, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds, and he groans when he feels how wet you are—how ready.

Then—slowly—he pushes in.

You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sinks deeper. It’s overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the intimacy of it.

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder. “Fuck—you’re so perfect—”

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, your breaths syncing in the heavy silence.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, your hands clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in.

Joel moves then.

Slow. Deep.

His hips roll into yours like waves—long, dragging strokes that have you gasping into the night air. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, every movement laced with something tender and breaking.

You whimper, arching into him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he pants, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Not stoppin’—not ever.”

You come with a sob.

It builds like a storm, low and tight and aching—and then it snaps. Your body seizes around him, thighs squeezing, fingers clawing at his back. You cry out his name, helpless and wrecked, trembling beneath him.

Joel curses, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—so good for me—so fuckin’ good—”

And then he’s chasing his own release, hips stuttering, breath hitching in your ear.

You feel it when he comes.

The way his whole body tenses. The way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go. The soft, broken sounds he makes into your hair—like he’s praying and falling apart all at once.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move. Just stays pressed against you, his cock still inside, one hand cradling the back of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

You kiss his shoulder. Whisper against his skin.

“I love you.”

Joel’s eyes are closed, his face tucked into your hair. “I love you too, baby.”

The stars stretch quiet and endless above you, the warm breeze rustling the grass around the truck bed.

And for once, neither of you say anything else.

Because you don’t need to.

You lie on your side, one leg slung over his, the weight of your body still settling from what just happened.

Joel’s hand rests on your thigh. His thumb moves slow, back and forth, the barest touch, like if he lets go you might vanish.

Neither of you have spoken in minutes.

Not since you curled into him, still trembling, breath catching from the last wave that rolled through you. Not since his lips brushed your hairline and stayed there, unmoving, like maybe he was afraid of what would slip out if he opened his mouth.

The night stretches wide above you—quiet, open, endless. The stars are the only witnesses.

You draw in a slow breath. The truck smells like him. Sweat and soap and heat.

“I hate this part,” you whisper finally.

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.

“This is the part where everything starts to feel too real,” you murmur. “And then it gets quiet. And then I start thinking.”

He hums low in his throat, almost like a warning. “Don’t do that.”

“I have to,” you say. “One of us has to.”

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress rustling under his weight. He’s still not looking at you. “We’ve already talked about it.”

You blink up at the stars, throat tightening. “We said we’d wait. We never said when.”

“Back then it was still a maybe,” he says quietly. “Now it’s not.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

His hand is still moving on your thigh.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

Joel’s voice comes quieter than before. “You think I do?”

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. Not mocking. Just… understanding. “Me too.”

You press your face into his shoulder for a second. Breathe him in. Let your fingers drift across the inside of his forearm, the soft patch of skin that always feels too intimate to touch.

“I keep thinking about how it’ll sound,” you whisper. “Like—‘Hey, Dad, you remember your best friend? The one you’ve worked with for twenty years? Yeah, I’ve been sneaking around with him for months. He makes me scream his name and then drives me home like nothing happened.’”

Joel flinches. Not visibly—but you feel it, in the way his stomach tightens beneath your hand.

“I don’t feel proud of it,” you murmur. “Even though I… I care about you.”

Joel finally turns toward you then. Really turns. His hand stills on your leg.

“I never wanted you to feel ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—this isn’t what I expected.”

His brow pulls. “You mean us?”

You shake your head. “I mean how much it hurts.”

Joel doesn’t respond. He just watches you. Quiet. Intense. Like he’s trying to memorize every word without letting it show.

You trace a small circle against his arm. “You were supposed to be the one I couldn’t have. You know that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I was the one you couldn’t have.”

“And now I do,” you say softly.

Joel shifts. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, curling there. Holding. Steady. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours.

“You don’t just have me,” he says quietly. “I’m yours.”

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s been a few weeks since that night in the truck.

Since the stars and the slow touches and the whispered I love yous that neither of you could take back—even if you wanted to.

And you don’t. Not even a little.

Things haven’t cooled off since then. If anything, they’ve deepened—evolved into something even more dangerous. Even more fragile. You see him more now. More than ever. Little excuses. Stolen afternoons. Late-night drives that last until morning. Joel’s been sweet, too—so much sweeter than anyone would guess. Like saying it out loud cracked something open in him. Something he’d been holding back for a long, long time.

It’s made the hiding worse.

Harder.

And tonight… tonight will be the last time.

You’re standing in the doorway, sweater slung over one arm, keys dangling from your fingers. The sun’s dipping low, the light slanting soft through the living room windows. Your dad’s on the couch, half-watching a ballgame, a soda sweating in his hand.

“Hey, I’m headed out,” you say, casual.

He turns his head. “Another night with the girls?”

“Yeah,” you lie smoothly. “We’re doing that stupid wine and paint thing. Someone’s gonna end up crying over a sunflower again.”

Your dad huffs a laugh. “Sounds tragic.”

You grin. Shrug your sweater on.

But his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. Not suspicious—just soft. Curious. Thoughtful.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he says. “Smilin’ more, too.”

You pause in the act of tucking your phone into your bag. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Hell no. It’s a good thing. Just…” He tips his head a little. “What’s got you so happy these days?”

You freeze.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t notice—or at least he pretends not to. He takes another drink, smiles around the rim of the can.

“It a boy?” He teases gently. “Someone new?”

You laugh. It sounds almost normal. “What makes you think that?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got that look. That… light. Whoever he is, he must be a good one if he’s put it there.”

Your chest aches.

Your fingers tighten around your keys.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You step toward the door and force a smile over your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

You wave once before slipping into the driver’s seat, shutting the door quick, before he can see your hands shaking.

You sit for a second. Just breathe.

Then you pull out of the driveway and head down the road, stomach fluttering like it always does when you’re about to see him.

It’s not the first time you’ve pulled into Joel’s driveway.

The gravel crunches beneath your tires the same way it always does. The porch light glows soft and golden in the fading dusk, casting long shadows over the steps you’ve memorized by heart. You park behind his truck, cut the engine, and sit for just a moment—fingers loose on the steering wheel, stomach fluttering.

You’ve been here before. Countless times now. But tonight feels different.

Because it’s the last time you get to come here like this—sneaking away under a lie, knowing he’s waiting behind the door with that look in his eyes and his shoulders already easing the moment he sees you.

You step out, the hem of your sundress catching on the breeze, the sweater sleeves bunched at your elbows. Your shoes scuff against the walk as you make your way to the porch, and before your hand can even reach the door—

It opens.

“Hi, darlin’.”

He says it soft. Like a prayer. Like the sound of you on the gravel was enough to pull him out of the living room.

Your breath catches. Joel’s leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He looks like he’s been pacing. His hair’s a little tousled, like he’s been running his hand through it. There’s a crease in his brow that only softens when his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile—not fully—but there’s something close to it. Something warm. His eyes flick over you, quick and reverent. Sweater. Dress. Bare legs. Familiar.

But the way he looks at you? That part still makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” you say, breathless.

He steps back without a word, just enough to let you inside.

The door clicks softly behind you. The quiet of his house wraps around you like a blanket—low hum of the fridge, scent of laundry and sawdust and the faintest trace of his cologne still lingering in the air.

You drop your keys into the little dish by the door. Joel’s watching you like he always does—silent, heavy-lidded, like he’s drinking you in. Like he’s already wondering how he’s supposed to let this part go.

“You nervous?” You ask.

He huffs a breath, steps closer. “A little.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours like they’re meant to be there. His grip is warm. Steady.

Then finally, he murmurs, “Feels like this might be the last time it’s just us.”

You look up at him. “It won’t be.”

But even as you say it, your voice wavers.

Joel exhales through his nose. His thumb drags across your knuckles.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what your dad’s gonna say,” he mutters. “What he’s gonna do.”

You nod. “I know.”

His eyes find yours again—tired, worried, but still so soft.

“You still wanna tell him?” He asks.

You hesitate. Not because the answer isn’t yes. But because yes is terrifying.

And you both know it.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “I do.”

Joel pulls you in slowly, arms sliding around your waist, his chin resting against the top of your head. The beat of his heart is steady beneath your cheek. Familiar. Safe.

“We’ll tell him together,” he says.

You close your eyes.

And hold on tight.

⁂

Joel makes dinner.

You offer to help—more than once—but he waves you off with a quiet go sit down, sweetheart, and the kind of stern look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. So you perch at his kitchen table instead, sweater sleeves tugged over your hands, watching him move around the small space like he’s done it a thousand times.

He’s good at it. Fast. Focused. Efficient without being rushed.

He cooks the same way he does everything else—with purpose. With care.

Chicken and vegetables. Roasted potatoes. Garlic bread that fills the kitchen with the warm, buttery smell of something that feels suspiciously close to home. He doesn’t talk much while he works, but you can tell he’s nervous by the way he wipes his hands on the same dishtowel over and over again, the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

When he finally sets the plate down in front of you, you laugh under your breath.

“What?” He grunts.

“This looks incredible,” you murmur. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Joel shrugs. “Wanted to.”

You both eat quietly for a while. There’s music playing softly from the old speaker in the corner—something with strings, low and meandering. Every now and then your knees bump under the table, and neither of you pulls away.

He watches you when you take your last bite. Quiet and full of something like pride. Or awe. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.

And when he clears the plates and turns back toward you, his expression shifts.

It’s subtle. But you know that look–you know what comes next.

The shower is steam and skin and whispered promises.

You laugh when he pulls you in, still half-dressed, your sweater hitting the floor before the bathroom door even clicks shut. His hands are slow on your skin, warm beneath the spray, and everything feels both too fast and too soft—like you’re holding onto something fleeting. Like the world might shift the moment you step out of this room.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Your neck. Lower.

You gasp.

He groans.

But this time—it doesn’t go further. It stays slow. Gentle. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing to say anything at all.

Later, when you’re curled beneath the sheets, your head tucked against his chest and his arm slung heavy over your waist, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Hope.

Fear.

Everything in between.

Joel kisses your hair and doesn’t say a word.

You fall asleep with your fingers curled in his shirt and the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

⁂

The sun is barely up when you wake.

Your clothes are folded at the foot of the bed. Joel’s already up, padding around the kitchen in quiet half-steps, trying not to make too much noise. You sit on the edge of the mattress, staring down at your hands. Everything in your body feels slow. Floaty. Like you’re walking through someone else’s dream.

This is it.

You dress in silence. Joel helps you with your sweater like it’s a ceremony. And then you both stand in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at each other like there’s too much left unsaid.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel reaches for your hand. Holds it just long enough to make your chest ache.

Then you both step outside.

Together.

The walk to the house is slow.

You’d driven separately, like always. Parked down the street like always. But this morning—there’s no space between you. Joel walks close. His hand brushes yours once, then again, until you finally lace your fingers through his and hold tight.

You both know you shouldn’t be touching.

Not here. Not now.

But it’s your last chance to do this before everything changes, and you can’t let go. Not when your chest is aching. Not when your palms are sweating. Not when every step feels heavier than the one before it.

Joel’s quiet beside you.

His face is set. Determined. But the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he keeps flexing his free hand like he can’t stop fidgeting. Like if he doesn’t move, he’ll explode.

When you reach the porch, you both pause.

The house is still. Quiet. You hear the creak of a chair on the back deck, the faint clink of a mug being set down. Your dad’s up. Probably halfway through his first coffee. Probably has no idea his entire world is about to tilt sideways.

You glance up at Joel.

He’s looking straight ahead. His jaw clenches.

You squeeze his hand. “You sure?”

His eyes drop to yours—warm, steady, terrified.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. Swallow hard. And knock.

Your dad answers the door with a smile already forming—slow and a little tired, like it’s too early for anything heavy. He’s barefoot, still in his T-shirt and sleep pants, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

His eyes flick between you and Joel. The smile falters, just a hair.

“Joel?” He says, blinking. Then back to you. “You’re with her?”

Joel nods once. Quiet. “Hey, Mike.”

Your dad hesitates—but only for a breath. Then he steps back slowly, still watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. He waves you in anyway.

“Come on in. Coffee’s fresh.”

The door clicks shut behind you with a final-sounding thud.

You follow him inside, every footstep sounding louder than it should. Joel stays close behind, his hand brushing yours like he can’t help it—even now, even here. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

You step into the living room like it’s the last time you’ll ever see it exactly this way—unchanged, safe, familiar. The couch you grew up on. The crooked photos in the hall. The faint scent of laundry detergent and leftover coffee and something warmer you can’t name.

Joel hovers behind you, quiet. Not fidgeting, not nervous—but held still by something heavier. He hasn’t said a word.

Your dad moves into the kitchen, setting his mug down with a clink before turning slightly, watching the two of you over his shoulder.

“You two carpoolin’ now or somethin’?” he asks, trying for light, but there’s a thread of confusion woven through it.

You can’t lie. Not today.

You shake your head once. “We came to talk.”

That gets his attention.

He straightens, blinking at you both like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Everything okay?”

Joel’s voice is quiet. Steady. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

Your dad narrows his eyes—not angry, not yet. Just… off-balance. Guarded. “Alright…” He jerks his chin toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

He walks first. You follow second. Joel follows last.

Already, you feel it—that subtle shift in the air. Like the house knows something you haven’t said yet. Like the walls are listening.

He shuffles toward the kitchen again, calling over his shoulder as he moves, “You guys eat yet?”

You glance at Joel—at the man who still hasn’t said a word since you stepped inside—and then call out, “We’re good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Suit yourselves.”

He’s humming now. Something soft and tuneless. You hear the cabinet open, the scrape of his mug being set down again, the clink of the coffee pot. Everything is so normal. So painfully, dreadfully normal.

Joel shifts beside you, leans close enough to murmur, “You wanna wait, or…?”

Your stomach flips.

“No,” you whisper. “We tell him. Just… let him sit down first.”

Joel gives a tight nod, his fingers brushing yours again, quick and fleeting.

Your dad returns a minute later, fresh coffee in hand, newspaper folded beneath his arm. He sinks into his usual chair—the one that groans under his weight, the one no one else dares sit in—and leans back with a sigh.

He looks at you first.

Then Joel.

Then back again.

“What’s got you both lookin’ like you just ran over somebody’s dog?”

You try to laugh. It comes out too sharp, too thin.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on?”

Then his face hardens—not with understanding, but with something more hesitant. More off.

“Didn’t think you two spent much time together,” he says slowly. His voice is still casual, but there’s something behind it now—something cautious. “Figured it was one of your friends makin’ you sneak out all the time.”

He chuckles once. It’s dry. Strained. “Sure as hell didn’t think it was Joel.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Choking.

Your dad’s eyes narrow just slightly. He looks at Joel now—really looks at him. And you can see the pieces beginning to shift behind his eyes. One by one. Every memory. Every absence. Every little thing he didn’t question before.

He laughs again. But it’s empty this time.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Dad—”

“No.” His voice is louder now. Sharper. “You’re tellin’ me this’s been goin’ on behind my back? You and him?”

You flinch. Joel stays still. Tense. Silent.

Your father stands, coffee forgotten on the side table, paper sliding off his lap.

“You’ve been lyin’ to me. Both of you.” He looks at Joel, betrayal breaking clean across his face. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But Joel steps in first—just a little. Not enough to crowd. Not enough to scare.

But enough to stand beside you. Steady. Certain. “Mike,” he says, low and careful. “Let us explain.”

Your dad stares at Joel like he doesn’t recognize him. Like the man standing in front of him—the one he’s known for years, trusted with goddamn everything—is a stranger wearing Joel’s face.

“Explain?” He repeats, voice low and tight. “You want to explain?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. “We didn’t plan it this way.”

“Plan it?” Your dad’s voice breaks, somewhere between disbelief and rising anger. “Jesus Christ, Joel, she’s my daughter. You think that justifies it? That you didn’t plan it?”

You step forward, heart pounding. “It’s not what you think—”

He cuts his hand through the air, eyes blazing. “Don’t. Don’t tell me this is anything but betrayal. From both of you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”

Your dad rounds on him. “Then how was it? Huh?” His voice is raw now, sharp. “You just woke up one day and thought, yeah, let me fuck around with Mike’s daughter behind his back? Sneak around like some goddamn teenager?”

“Hey.” Joel’s voice finally cracks through, firmer. “That’s not what this is. I care about her. You know I do.”

Your dad laughs once. Bitter. Disbelieving. “You care? That’s what you’re going with?”

You can barely breathe. You feel the shame hot on your skin, the panic twisting deep in your chest.

“Dad, please—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “You think this doesn’t gut me? You think I don’t sit here feelin’ like an idiot? My best friend and my kid—”

Joel steps forward, tone even. “I would never hurt her, and I sure as hell don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That’s the fuckin’ point, Joel!” Your dad yells. “You already did! You both did.”

Silence falls—heavy and vibrating with tension.

Your dad turns his back. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair. And then, quieter, voice cracking: “I trusted you. Both of you.”

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You do.

You step forward, voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this. But it’s not a fling. It’s not a mistake. I love him.”

Your dad’s shoulders tighten.

Joel breathes in deep, like the words settle in his bones.

And when your dad turns again, there’s no disbelief left—just hurt. Real and bare. “I need some time,” he says finally. “I need you both to go.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

I need you both to go.

You freeze, mouth half open. “Dad—”

“Go.”

He doesn’t yell this time. Doesn’t bark or snap. But it’s worse that way. Worse because it’s flat. Final. Said with the kind of hollow certainty that doesn’t need to be loud to be devastating.

Joel shifts beside you. “Mike…”

Your dad doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at either of you.

He stares at a spot just left of the couch, like if he keeps his eyes on anything else—anything but you—he might be able to keep from breaking.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

And for a second—just a breath—you almost fight. Almost tell him that you’re not a child anymore, that you don’t need permission to feel the way you do. That you’re happy, maybe for the first time in your life.

But you don’t.

Because he’s still your dad.

Because he’s right.

You lied to him. Both of you did.

Joel’s voice is quiet when he says, “Come on.”

You don’t look back as you follow him to the door. Your feet feel numb. Your heart feels worse.

The silence stretches behind you like a wound.

You step onto the porch. Joel shuts the door gently behind you, like closing it soft might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

The morning air is too bright, too clean. The world feels wrong in the way it keeps moving—birds singing, cars passing on the street, nothing stopping just because your chest feels split wide open.

Joel walks you to the truck, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

Once you’re inside, seatbelt fastened with shaking hands, he exhales slowly—like he’s been holding his breath since the moment your dad opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice is small. Barely there. “I shouldn’t have—”

Joel cuts you off, not harsh, just firm.

“No,” he says. “Don’t.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

He’s pale. Sweating. His hand trembles faintly against the steering wheel like it hurts to keep still. But his jaw is set. His eyes are dark with something deeper than guilt.

“He’ll come around,” Joel murmurs, though you can’t tell if he believes it or if he just needs you to.

You nod. Because you have to.

Because the only thing worse than what just happened… is the thought that it could undo all of this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The first two weeks were good.

Not perfect. Not easy. But good in a way that made you start to believe maybe it could last.

You stayed with Joel. Slept in his bed, wore his old shirts, woke up with his hand already on your waist like his body didn’t know how to let go. He made you coffee every morning, cooked dinner every night—real meals, too. Not just quick shit. The man slow-roasted vegetables. Seared steak like he’d been born doing it. He kissed your shoulder while you washed your hair. Held your hand on the couch. Smiled more.

It wasn’t always soft—sometimes it was messy, sometimes quiet—but he tried. Harder than he ever had before. Like he was making up for all the time you’d spent hiding. All the guilt. All the fear. You could feel him working at it, even when he didn’t say much.

And for a while, it worked.

You laughed. Ate better. Stopped checking your phone every time it buzzed, afraid it was your dad, saying the worst had finally come.

But then Joel started to pull away.

It was subtle at first. Long pauses between conversations. Nights where he’d sit out on the porch too long with a beer, staring at nothing. You’d touch his arm and he’d flinch—not away from you, but like he was startled. Like he’d forgotten you were there. Like he’d been somewhere else entirely.

When you asked what was wrong, he said nothing.

When you asked again, he kissed you too hard and pressed you into the mattress like he could convince you with his body instead of his words.

You should’ve known.

He picked the fight the next morning.

Over something small—something about the dishes, maybe, or you staying past the weekend. Something dumb enough that you almost laughed. But Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at you. Just stood by the kitchen counter with his jaw clenched, arms crossed, saying words that didn’t sound like his.

He said maybe you should take a break.

Said maybe you needed time to patch things up with your dad.

Said maybe he’d made a mistake.

But you saw it—clear as day. In his face. In the way he stood like he was bracing for something awful. He was lying. Not about how he felt—but about why. He thought pushing you away would fix it. That if you hated him, maybe your dad would forgive you. Maybe things could go back to normal.

So you left.

Packed what little you had, still crying, too angry to speak. Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t follow you. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the door like it was some punishment he deserved.

You went home.

Your dad didn’t ask questions when he opened the door. Didn’t yell, didn’t gloat. Just stepped aside and let you in. You walked past him, dropped your bag in the hallway, and shut yourself in your room without a word.

He didn’t come in. Not that night. Not the next one either.

He let you stay.

That was all.

⁂

Time passed.

Not quickly. Not gently. But it passed.

You stopped texting Joel. Stopped checking to see if he had texted you back. At first out of pride. Then out of pain. Then because you couldn’t bring yourself to open the thread. Couldn’t stand to see his name sitting there, untouched, like a bruise you kept pressing just to prove it still hurt.

Your dad didn’t bring him up. Not once. Not even when you passed each other in the hallway. Not when he made dinner for two but only ate one plate. Not when you sat beside him on the couch but didn’t speak, didn’t laugh, didn’t look like the daughter he knew.

He didn’t ask if you were okay, but he also didn’t ignore it.

Not really.

He started to notice things.

The way you didn’t go out anymore. Didn’t see your friends. The way you pushed food around on your plate and took your dishes to the sink half-full. How you stayed curled up on the couch long after the TV had gone dark, long after he’d gone to bed.

He noticed the crying, too.

You tried to be quiet. Covered your mouth, turned your face into the pillow. But the walls weren’t that thick. And the silence between you had become a living thing—heavy, breathing, always listening.

One night, he stopped in the hallway. You didn’t hear him at first—just felt the way the floorboards creaked under his weight, how the air shifted near your door. He didn’t knock. Didn’t open it.

But he stood there for a long time.

Just stood there, while you bit your lip and let the tears roll silently down your cheek, hoping the weight of him outside the room meant something was still left between you. That he still cared. That maybe he just didn’t know how to fix it.

Neither did you.

⁂

It starts small, deliberate.

A mug set down beside yours at the table. A fork pushed toward you with a quiet, “Eat.”

He doesn’t say much at first. Doesn’t press.

You pick at your food like always—slow, mechanical, dragging your fork through syrup that’s already gone cold. He watches you across the table, hands wrapped around his own mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I was thinkin’ about takin’ the boat out this weekend,” he says casually, eyes on his coffee. “Could use the company. Not as fun drinkin’ beer alone on the water.”

You don’t look up. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t push–just nods. Swallows it down.

The silence stretches. Long and uncomfortable. You stare at your plate like it might swallow you back if you sit still long enough.

Then he tries again. “You sleep okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. You both know it. But he nods anyway, pretending to accept it—pretending he didn’t hear you crying last night. Or the night before that. Or every night since.

“You been talkin’ to anyone?” He asks gently. “Your friends? That girl with the red Jeep—what’s her name?”

“Jess.”

“Yeah. Jess.”

You shake your head. “Haven’t really felt like it.”

Your dad shifts in his chair. Rubs a hand over his jaw. Looks older today. Tired. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You finally glance up.

The look in his eyes nearly breaks you. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just… lost.

“I’m fine,” you say. It comes out flat. Unconvincing, but he nods anyway.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t believe you. He’s trying not to let it show. Trying to reach you without making you run.

But when he stands to clear the plates, you see the weight in his shoulders. The way he pauses at the sink—quiet, thoughtful—like he’s already halfway to making a decision he hasn’t told you about yet.

⁂

You’re outside when it happens.

Wrapped in a sweatshirt too big for you—one that still smells like sawdust and cedar and Joel’s damn soap. You shouldn’t be wearing it. Should’ve stuffed it in the bottom of your drawer the moment he left. But it’s the only thing that’s felt warm these past few weeks, the only thing that hasn’t asked you to explain.

You’re curled up in the corner of the porch swing, knees tucked into your chest, eyes unfocused as the late afternoon light drapes gold across the yard.

You don’t hear the truck. Don’t notice the front door open, or the footsteps across the porch boards. Not until—

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your heart stutters.

You look up too fast.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots scuffed like he never stopped moving after that night. There’s a hollow behind his eyes. His face is drawn, unshaven. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Like he hasn’t been breathing right without you.

You don’t speak.

The porch swing groans beneath your weight, the night air thick with humidity and the distant hum of crickets. You keep your legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your knees, drowning in the oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that was soft from too many washes.

Joel sits beside you. Not too close. Not far either. Elbows on his knees, hands clenched, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence stretches. Long. Awkward. Familiar in the worst kind of way.

You keep your eyes forward. On the edge of the yard. On the dark tree line beyond it. On anything but him.

He doesn’t look at you either.

And still—you feel him. The weight of him next to you. The guilt rolling off his shoulders like smoke.

You break first.

“You didn’t even fight me on it.”

Your voice is quiet. Flat.

Joel’s jaw flexes.

“You made me think you didn’t care.”

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to. You can feel the ache moving through him, the same ache that’s been living in your chest since that night. The one that cracked open when he raised his voice. When he said maybe you should go. When he didn’t come after you once you turned your back.

Joel’s voice is low when he finally speaks. Rough. Like it costs him.

“I thought it’d be better for you.”

You laugh. Bitter and tired. “You thought pushing me out would help?”

“I thought maybe if I was the one to break it,” he says, eyes still on the floorboards, “maybe you and your dad could put it back together.”

That’s what shatters you.

Not the fight. Not even the silence after.

But that.

Because even now—even now—he’s still trying to save you from the mess he made.

You blink hard.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off gently. Finally meets your eyes. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

The words aren’t pretty. Not dressed up. Just true.

And they ruin you.

⁂

Your dad doesn’t say much at first.

Not after Joel showed up that night, standing on the porch like the weight of the world had finally broken him down. Not after you folded the second he said “Hi, darlin’”—barely more than a whisper—and collapsed into his arms right there on the steps. Not after he sat beside you without speaking, just staying, like that was the only way he knew how to ask for forgiveness.

And not after your dad let him.

Because he didn’t say much then, either.

Now, days later, the worst of it has passed—but only in the way a storm moves through. There’s still water pooled in the aftermath. Still wreckage in the corners.

You’re already on the porch when your dad steps outside. The sun’s low, brushing amber against the grass, and the old hoodie hanging from your frame is one of Joel’s—left behind in a moment of weakness or maybe given on purpose. You haven’t taken it off.

He settles next to you with a quiet groan, the boards creaking under his weight. There’s a pause. He doesn’t speak, just exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been carrying something for too long and still doesn’t know how to set it down.

Then he says, not looking at you, not even really to you—just out into the yard:

“Y’know I was gonna ask him to help with that busted drawer again this week.”

Your heart jumps.

He doesn’t need to say Joel’s name. Doesn’t need to explain who him is. The meaning is already in the silence between his words.

He taps his thumb against his coffee mug. “Could still use the help.”

You don’t answer right away. Don’t even know if he’s really saying it to you. But your hands are clenched around your knees, and you can feel the pulse rising to your throat.

So you just nod. Barely.

Your dad shifts beside you, takes a sip, then mutters, “He looked like shit when he showed up.”

You let out a breath. Almost a laugh. “He wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost softer than the breeze. “I know.”

For a while, you just sit there. No big resolution. No sweeping, emotional reunion. But something loosens in your chest, anyway. Something tired and hopeful and trying.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it’s a start.

[joeldjarin]

Only in the Dark - DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Your dad’s best friend has been sneaking around with you for months. But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Secret relationship. Unprotected pi/v. Praise & light degradation. Breeding kink. Sneaky sex. Overstimulation. Soft choking. Oral (f receiving, from behind). Rough sex. Conflicted feelings. Emotional tension. Guilt. Possessiveness. Slight angst.

Word count: 15.2k

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It starts like it always does.

You look too long. And he looks back.

Joel’s standing by the grill with your dad, one hand wrapped around a sweating beer bottle, the other resting on his hip like he’s already sick of standing still. The sun’s high, heavy on his back, catching on the salt-slick sweat at the base of his neck. His shirt—an old gray one with the Miller’s Construction logo faded across the chest—sticks damp to his shoulders, clinging in places your eyes have no business landing.

He talks like he’s distracted. Answers half-asked questions. Grunts through conversation. And every time you glance his way, there’s tension in the set of his mouth—like his jaw is wired shut, like every syllable tastes wrong.

You’re across the yard, curled into one of those plastic lawn chairs that sinks in the middle, one leg tucked under you. Your dress rides up a little more every time you shift. It’s nothing obscene. Nothing anyone would notice.

Except Joel.

You take a slow sip from your drink. Run your thumb along the rim of the cup. Pretend not to notice the way his eyes track the movement. You cross your legs, careless, slow. The hem slides up again—just a touch. Not enough for anyone else to care.

But enough for him to clench the bottle tighter in his hand.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance at you directly.

But his fingers twitch when he sets the beer down. His brows pull in when he thinks no one’s looking. And when he shifts his weight, the fabric of his jeans pulls tight across his thighs—and you catch yourself looking just a second too long.

That’s when his eyes find you.

Direct. Steady. Loaded.

You freeze, your glass halfway to your mouth.

The air pulls tight.

It’s not innocent. Not casual. Not a glance that glances and forgets.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he’s already punishing himself for wanting to look.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

Not for a long second. Not until your stomach flips and your skin burns and your thighs press tight together under your dress.

You’re the one who looks away. You always are.

You shift again in your chair. Run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall back behind your shoulder in a soft sweep that feels just a little too performative.

You laugh when someone calls your name from across the yard. Smile. Sip again.

And all the while, you can feel him watching.

Even when you don’t dare look up.

Joel is careful. He always has been. That’s what makes it worse—how quiet he is about the way he looks at you. How long he holds back before finally giving in. Like his restraint is some kind of mercy. Like not touching you is the best he can offer.

He talks to your dad. Drinks another beer—then a third. Paces around the grill like something’s burning under his skin and there’s no fire he can put out. You see the way his hand curls tight around the neck of the bottle, how his gaze keeps drifting your way only to snap back, like it betrays him every time.

You’re crouched beside the cooler now, fingers digging through the ice as you pretend to search for something buried deep. The hem of your dress rides up against the backs of your thighs, and for a moment, you don’t fix it. You let your back arch just a little. Let your fingers linger.

There are voices nearby. Your cousin. Maybe your dad–Michael, again. You’re surrounded on all sides. But still—you feel him.

Before he even steps onto the patio, before the wood creaks beneath his boots—you feel the air shift. Heavy. Loaded.

His shadow stretches across the cooler. You don’t turn.

“I told myself I wasn’t gonna come over here,” he mutters.

You straighten slowly, your fingers brushing water from your wrist, letting your movements stay slow. Intentional. You smooth your dress down like you don’t know he’s watching your every motion.

“You always say that,” you murmur into your glass.

His voice stays low. Measured. Already strained, like he’s been losing this argument with himself all day.

“You always make it hard.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, lashes low. Your voice soft. Sweet. Dangerous. “Me? I haven’t said a word to you all day.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He’s closer now. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat radiates off him, thick and unmistakable. Close enough that if someone rounded the corner, you’d have to step back. Laugh. Pretend this was nothing. That it’s always been nothing.

Joel lowers his voice, just for you. “That dress. No bra. Nothin’ under it, is there?”

You turn—slow and deliberate. Let your gaze drag up his body, past his chest, his throat, until your eyes find his.

You smile. Sweet. Sharp. Like a blade in honey.

“No.”

His expression cracks—just for a moment. Like it hurts. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it said aloud.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He never does—not out here. Not with your family buzzing behind the hedges. Not with your father three yards away, beer in hand and none the wiser.

Still, you can feel the weight of his want. Pressing. Building.

“This is gonna kill me,” he says softly.

Your dad calls out from the patio then, voice casual but loud enough to carry.

“Hey, Joel—you mind givin’ her a hand with that old cabinet upstairs? Damn thing’s been wobblin’ again.”

Joel blinks. You watch his throat work as he swallows something down.

He hesitates. Just for a second.

You can see it—the flicker in his expression. That split second of panic, of restraint, of God, not now, but your dad’s already waving him off like it’s no big deal.

“She’s been complainin’ about it all week,” he adds, tipping his beer toward the house. “Should only take a minute.”

Joel shifts his weight, eyes skating toward you like it hurts. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “Course.”

You smirk. Sweet as honey.

“Thanks,” you chirp. “It’s just the knob on the top drawer—it keeps sticking. Come on, I’ll show ya.” Your voice is softer than it needs to be. Your smile just a little too wide. Joel clocks it immediately. His jaw ticks.

And maybe your dad doesn’t notice, but you do.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say anything else as you lead the way into the house, your bare feet padding softly across the tile.

You don’t look back.

Not until the door clicks shut behind you—and the silence wraps tight around the two of you like a secret.

The house is cooler than it was outside, the air humming with the low whir of an old ceiling fan and the muffled sound of laughter spilling in from the patio. You lead him through the kitchen without a word, every step deliberate, measured. He trails a few feet behind you—just far enough to keep himself honest.

You open the door to the hallway and gesture toward your bedroom. “It’s just in here.”

Joel exhales slow, like he already regrets this. “Don’t know why your dad doesn’t just buy new furniture.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile coy. “Maybe he likes things that are broken.”

Joel huffs. Doesn’t answer.

You walk ahead, hips swaying gently beneath the soft cotton of your dress. You can feel him behind you—feel the weight of his gaze pressed against your back like a brand.

The room smells like your lotion and the faint trace of summer air drifting through a cracked window. Joel steps in behind you and pauses, hands on his hips, eyes scanning everything but you. You point toward the old cabinet tucked beside the window.

“There,” you say lightly. “Top drawer sticks. Thought maybe it just needed tightening or something.”

He walks over to it. Crouches down. Pulls the drawer halfway out, just to see how bad it really is.

And you?

You step in behind him–too close. Close enough that the hem of your dress brushes his shoulder. Close enough that he can smell your shampoo—feel the warmth of your bare legs, the hum of your breath when you lean just slightly over his shoulder to peek at the drawer.

“Think you can fix it?” You ask, voice soft. Sweet. Barely above a whisper.

Joel stiffens. His fingers pause on the handle. You can see the tension in his arms, the way his shoulders rise just slightly—like every inch of him is screaming don’t.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Maybe not.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll owe you either way.”

He pulls the drawer out farther than he needs to. Not really looking at it now. Not really seeing anything at all. He’s gone still, like something inside him is locking up. Holding him back.

Your chest brushes his arm when you shift your weight. You lay your hand on the top of the dresser like it’s nothing, fingers splayed, pink polished nails catching the light. Joel’s eyes drop to them for half a second before he jerks his gaze away.

“You’re not making this easy,” he says, low. Rough. Almost like it hurts.

You blink, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

He rises slowly to his full height. Not touching you—but close enough to tower.

You tilt your head and smile. “I haven’t done anything.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex at his sides.

You turn back toward the dresser like you’re going to give him space, give him a chance to breathe—and that’s when he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You really gonna keep pretendin’ this ain’t killin’ you too?”

His gaze drags over you slowly. Not like he’s trying to intimidate you—more like he’s trying to survive it. His eyes trace the outline of your parted lips, linger on the delicate curve of your chest, then fall to your thighs, pressed a little too tightly together in anticipation.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Like amusement. Like disbelief that you’re really here—doing this to him again.

“You know what your problem is?” He murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

You swallow hard. Try to speak, but nothing comes.

Joel steps in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You look at me like that,” he says, a half-laugh tucked in behind the words. “Bat those fuckin’ eyes… all soft, all sweet. Like I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

You feel heat rise up your spine. Your stomach clenches.

“And this dress?” He goes on, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “No bra. No shame. Bein’ real generous with your thighs all afternoon. In front of everybody.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not harsh. He says it like he’s teasing you for getting away with it. Like he’s impressed. Like it’s killing him and he doesn’t even want you to stop.

You shift your weight, unsure if you’re trying to get away or lean into him.

He doesn’t let you do either.

Your lips part. You want to play innocent. Want to tease him back. But your voice catches somewhere behind your tongue.

Joel sees it—sees the flicker of doubt, of want, of that same ache carved between your ribs that’s been digging into his all damn day. He smiles then. Not smug. Not cruel. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying this weight for too long and finally stopped pretending he can.

He doesn’t rush.

One hand slips to your hip, the other flattening against your lower back, guiding you—not roughly, but firmly—until your thighs brush the edge of the bathroom counter. His touch is steady. Certain. The kind of sure that says this has been a long time coming.

Then he turns you.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his hand splays wide across your belly—warm and heavy, grounding you to the bathroom counter. Joel’s behind you, chest brushing your back, his mouth hovering over your shoulder like he can’t decide whether to kiss it or bite.

In the mirror, his eyes drag down your reflection—your parted lips, the tight grip you’ve got on the edge of the sink, the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to keep something in.

“Look at you,” he mutters, breath warm against your skin. “All worked up and I haven’t even fuckin’ touched you yet.”

You swallow hard. You’re soaked already. You know he can feel it—your heat bleeding through the thin cotton of your dress, your pulse fluttering just beneath his palm.

Joel’s hand slides up, slow and deliberate, over the slope of your ribs, the curve of your breast. He doesn't grope. He just holds—firm and steady, like he wants to feel the beat of your heart against his fingers.

You lean back into him, needy, aching.

He laughs—quiet, wrecked. “Knew this dress was gonna kill me. Knew the second I saw you sittin’ out there like you wanted to be dragged in here.”

You whimper, and he dips his head, nose brushing your jaw.

“Didn’t say a word all afternoon. Just sat there lettin’ that little thing ride up higher and higher—knowin’ damn well I was watchin’.”

His other hand slips lower—beneath the hem, over your thigh. His touch is light, maddening, fingers skimming until they brush the bare, soaking heat of you.

He hisses, teeth clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s nothing. A sound. A breath.

His fingers slide between your folds, slow and obscene, slick spreading across your skin. His palm cups you from behind, fitting against your body like he was made for it.

“So wet,” he groans, pressing in just enough to make your knees buckle. “You like this that much? Me watchin’? Bein’ this fuckin’ filthy with your whole family sittin’ twenty feet away?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

His hand slides up your chest again—this time to your throat. Just resting. Not squeezing. But it makes your breath stutter anyway. Makes your knees tremble.

You nod—barely—and he smirks at your reflection.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then—

He drops to his knees behind you.

You gasp, hands tightening on the counter, heart pounding.

Joel grips your hips, pushes your thighs apart, and then presses a kiss—hot and open-mouthed—to the curve just beneath your ass.

“You’re drippin’,” he mutters, voice muffled by skin. “Fuck me.”

You whimper, try to look back, but he tugs your hips gently and says, “Eyes on the mirror. You watch what I do to you.”

You do.

You watch as he spreads you open with both hands, thumbs parting you gently, reverently. His breath hits your folds and you jerk, moaning into the air.

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue licks a thick, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circles back—slow and messy and devoted. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. The way you shake. The way your body reacts to every drag of his tongue.

He groans against you, the sound low and guttural, like he’s the one losing control.

Your thighs quake. “Joel—oh my god—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision blacks out for a second. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” you cry, biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Yeah,” he pants against you. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear it.”

He eats like a man starved. Sloppy, relentless, nose buried in you, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

You’re shaking. Your knees nearly give out.

Joel notices.

He pulls back just long enough to rasp, “Don’t fall on me now—ain’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he’s back at it. This time with fingers.

He slides two inside you without warning—thick and rough, knuckles brushing your walls while his mouth stays on your clit.

You choke on a moan. “Joel—please—I’m gonna—”

He groans. “Come for me. Right now.”

You fall apart.

You come hard, gasping, legs trembling, one hand slapping against the mirror as your whole body locks up, your muscles clenching around his fingers.

Joel curses into your cunt. Keeps licking through it.

“Shh—it’s okay. Let me have it. Just like that. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You sob. Actually sob.

And he doesn't stop.

He lets you ride it out, lets you shake and pant, and then—he slides his fingers back in.

You jolt. “Too much—Joel—”

He hums. “I know. S’why I’m doin’ it.”

You cry out, forehead pressed to the mirror.

His free hand comes to the back of your calf—gentle again, grounding, petting, almost—and he nuzzles into the back of your thigh, licking soft and slow while he works you open all over again.

“You wanted this,” he breathes. “Wanted me wreckin’ you in your daddy’s house. Don’t go shy on me now.”

You moan. Loud. Messy.

“You’re mine, ain’t you?” His voice is a rasp now. Wrecked.

You nod.

He presses a kiss to your ass. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

He stands then. Fast. Pulls you back into him.

You can feel how hard he is—straining in his jeans. He fumbles with his zipper, breath ragged.

And when he pushes inside—

It’s blinding.

You both gasp. He grips your hips, steadying himself.

“Fuck—always so tight,” he growls. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He thrusts slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make your eyes roll back. That make the mirror fog up.

Then faster. Rougher. Hands gripping you hard. Like he wants to leave bruises. Like he needs proof this happened.

Your cries are high-pitched now, desperate.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. So fuckin’ pretty like this—face all flushed, eyes tearin’ up.”

He thrusts deeper. “You’re gonna make a mess, ain’t you? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl.”

You nod, mouth open, moaning.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Mine. All mine.”

And when you come again—when your whole body shakes and you scream his name against your own wrist—Joel fuckin’ loses it.

He groans your name, spills inside you, buries his face in your neck with a guttural curse that sounds like regret and worship tangled together.

And still, he doesn’t let go. Not right away.

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, hips still pressed to yours, his breath slowing against your skin.

The mirror’s fogged. Your thighs are soaked. The counter’s cold beneath your palms.

And Joel’s mouth is at your ear again, soft and real.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. Yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder.

And you smile—wrecked and ruined and still so full of him.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

You show up just after lunch rush, a brown paper bag folded neatly in your arms, still warm against your chest. You’re wearing jeans and a loose shirt—something casual, safe. Your hair’s pulled back in a clip. No makeup. Nothing intentionally done to catch attention.

And still—he looks.

The construction site stretches out like a skeleton of something half-born. Steel bones. Exposed wood. Sawdust clings to the air like fog, and the sky above is sharp, cloudless, cruel.

You walk past the truck bays and toward the break area, boots crunching over gravel. A few guys nod as you pass. Most don’t.

You’re not here for them.

You spot your dad’s hard hat first—bright white with a strip of flaking duct tape across the front. He’s crouched beside a scaffolding rig, barking something at a worker below.

Joel’s standing a few feet off, one hand braced against the frame of the trailer office, his other wrapped tight around a water bottle like he’s trying to remember what it’s for. His shirt is stained at the collar. Dusty. Clings to his chest in places it shouldn’t. His pants hang low on his hips, a smear of something dark across his thigh.

He sees you before you call out. Sees you before you even mean to be seen.

The way his jaw locks—quick and brutal—tells you everything.

You wave at your dad. Lift the bag a little. “Brought lunch!”

He grins. “Jesus, you’re a lifesaver. That sandwich place?”

“Your usual.” You pass it to him and he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze before digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days. His attention shifts immediately back to the site, already barking out instructions between bites.

Joel still hasn’t moved.

You turn toward him slowly. Tilt your head. Smile like you don’t know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head once. A warning. A plea.

You ignore it.

“You eat yet?” You ask softly.

He glances around—quick, sharp, like he’s expecting eyes.

“Don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “Not here. Not—fuck, not now.”

But you’re already crossing the distance. Not enough to touch. Just enough for the scent of your shampoo to reach him.

Your voice stays low. “You looked hungry.”

His jaw twitches. He steps back. Barely. Like it physically hurts to put space between you.

“Your dad’s right there,” he hisses.

“And?”

Joel’s eyes darken. His throat works.

“And I just spent the last two hours tryin’ not to think about what I did to you in that fuckin’ bathroom.”

You smile.

Then—quietly, sweetly, so softly it barely counts as a sin: “You wanna do it again?”

His eyes snap to yours. He looks at you like you just spit holy water on him.

And still—he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Joel’s hand shoots out—rough, calloused, certain—and wraps around your wrist. He doesn’t pull hard. Doesn’t have to. You stumble forward easily, chest brushing his as he backs you toward the side of the trailer, behind the stacks of lumber and plywood. The break room door creaks open just as you disappear from sight.

Someone calls out a joke. You barely register it.

Joel slams the trailer door shut behind you and locks it without thinking.

Then he turns to you.

His chest rises hard under the fabric of his shirt. There’s sweat at his temples, clinging to the curls behind his ears. His fingers flex at his sides like he doesn’t trust them not to grab you again.

“You got no fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, stepping in so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Showin’ up like that. Smilin’ like you ain’t already got me on my knees.”

“I think you like it,” you whisper.

His eyes drop to your lips. His voice dips lower. Rougher.

“I think you like pushin’ me.”

You smile—barely—and Joel’s already moving.

He backs you against the trailer wall, one hand cupping your jaw, the other already sliding down your side, dragging over the curve of your ass with a low groan.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he says, but his mouth is on yours before the sentence even finishes.

It’s not gentle. It never is with him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth with a hunger that steals your breath, and he presses his hips hard against yours until you feel him—already thick and heavy through his jeans. You whimper into the kiss, fingers fisting the front of his shirt.

Outside, footsteps crunch over gravel. Laughter. Your dad’s voice, faint.

Joel curses and breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed against yours.

“We don’t have time,” he says.

“So don’t waste it,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are under your shirt in seconds—palms rough against your stomach as he drags the fabric up, exposing bare skin inch by inch. You reach for his belt, fumble with the buckle, but your hands are shaking too hard.

Joel growls low in his throat and does it for you.

He frees himself just as you tug your panties down, not bothering with anything else. The moment they hit your knees, Joel’s hands grip your hips and lift you—just enough to set you back on the edge of the supply table behind you, your ass barely balancing there.

The surface is cold. His body is hot. The air between you, electric.

You spread your thighs instinctively and Joel groans—deep and broken.

“Fuck, baby—already wet for me?” He runs two fingers through your slick, slow and deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. “You need me that bad?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Joel—please—”

That’s all he needs.

He lines himself up, grips your thighs hard, and pushes in—a slow, thick stretch that knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Joel swears, low and dangerous.

“Every time,” he growls, bottoming out. “Every fuckin’ time you feel better than I remembered.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust—he starts moving, thrusting into you with sharp, desperate rolls of his hips, the table creaking beneath your weight.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs locking around his waist.

“Gonna get us caught,” he mutters, teeth grazing your jaw. “You that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait till I get off work?”

“You didn’t stop me,” you pant.

He laughs—wrecked, breathless. “Didn’t fuckin’ want to.”

His rhythm picks up—fast, brutal, unforgiving. His hands grip your thighs, your hips, your waist—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more.

Your back arches. The table groans again.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear.

“Y’know what I was thinkin’ about all mornin’? That mirror. That look on your face when you came all over my fuckin’ tongue. Thought about it till I was fuckin’ hard in the damn truck.”

You moan, loud.

He clamps a hand over your mouth. “Shhh—don’t you dare.”

Your eyes flutter. He slams into you again.

“You wanna get caught? You want your daddy to come lookin’ for you and see me buried in his little fuckin’ girl like this?”

You whimper against his palm.

He growls.

“God, you do.”

He lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to moan his name.

Then he grabs your throat.

Gentle. Steady. But enough to make you whine.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Say it.”

You’re barely holding on. “Yours. I’m yours.”

Joel loses it.

He fucks you hard, fast, reckless—his breath ragged, forehead against yours. You come with a cry, clenching around him so tight it nearly brings him to his knees.

“Ah, god damnit—” he gasps, thrusting deep once, twice—

And then he comes.

It’s raw. Guttural. He groans into your neck like he’s falling apart.

You stay like that for a second—just breathing. Just shaking. Just trying to remember where you are.

Then—

“Hey!” Your dad’s voice cuts through the open air like a gunshot. “You see my daughter? She wander off again?”

Joel jerks back, eyes wide.

“Shit—”

He pulls out, tucks himself away fast, grabbing for a rag off the table to clean you up with. You’re still gasping when he yanks your panties back into place, helps straighten your shirt.

Footsteps. Closer.

Joel grabs your jaw, kisses you once—fast and rough.

“Act normal.”

Then he’s out the door.

You follow a second later, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking as you tuck your hair behind your ear. You can’t help the grin that threatens to pull at your lips, still feeling Joel’s.

Your dad’s already turning the corner.

“Where the hell’d you go?”

You smile. “Bathroom,” you lie. “You good?”

He nods, takes another bite of his sandwich.

Joel doesn’t look at you.

But you can feel him still.

Burning through every inch of your skin.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s already dark when you grab your keys.

Not late—not quite—but the kind of dusk that hums with quiet. The heat’s still clinging to the windows, thick and sticky, and every room in the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

You check the mirror again.

One last time.

Hair loose, brushed soft over your shoulders. A sundress—low-cut, thin-strapped, clinging in the summer heat. You told yourself it was nothing special. Just enough to keep cool. But the way you keep tugging at the hem, the neckline, the way you keep glancing at your reflection like it might betray you—

Yeah. You know who you’re dressing for.

You slide on a light sweater anyway, just to be safe. Something to keep things modest enough for your dad to glance at you and not look twice.

He’s still on the couch when you step into the living room, one hand nursing a half-empty beer, eyes glazed from the TV. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Where you headed?” He asks, voice rough from too many years and not enough sleep.

You slip your keys into your pocket. “Lisa’s. Just for a bit. Movie night.”

He grunts. “You drivin’?���

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Her place is further out now. New apartment.”

He doesn’t question it. Just nods, eyes still on the screen. “Be smart. Don’t drive back too late.”

“I won’t.”

Your voice is sweet. Normal. The way it always is.

“Alright. Love you, kid.”

You give him a smile—one that doesn’t tremble—and head for the door. “Love you too.” You call out over your shoulder, willing your voice to stay neutral.

The porch creaks under your feet. The air outside is cooler than inside, but not by much. You walk fast across the gravel, sweater tight around your waist now, already feeling the sweat bloom at the nape of your neck.

Your car sits in the driveway. Engine still warm from earlier.

You slide in, shut the door soft and start the ignition.

And when you pull away, your fingers are already shaking on the wheel.

Not from nerves. Not exactly.

From want. From anticipation. From knowing exactly where you’re headed.

There’s no Lisa. No movie night.

Just a field about fifteen minutes out past the highway, where Joel’s waiting in the back of his pickup, cooler packed, blankets laid out in the bed, headlights off.

No one for miles.

Just stars.

You park a little ways down the road from the pickup, engine ticking as it cools beneath the hood. Lights off. Windows cracked. The air outside hums with cicadas and the faint rush of night wind, warm against your bare skin where the hem of your sundress brushes your knees. You tug the cardigan tighter around your shoulders, heart beating too loud in your chest.

He’s already there.

You see the outline of his truck up ahead—just beyond the bend where the woods break open into a patch of field, stars spilling wide across the sky like they’ve been waiting all day just for this.

You sit for a second. Breathing.

It’s been weeks.

Too many hours spent pretending not to care. Dodging glances at family dinners. Playing dumb every time your dad mentioned him in passing. And now—you’re here. Heart caught in your throat. Thighs already pressed a little too tight together.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat. Slam the door quieter than you mean to.

Your sandals kick up dust along the roadside, gravel whispering beneath your steps. The sweater hangs off one shoulder. The sundress sways with every movement. And even though you’re alone, even though there’s no one to see—you feel watched.

Anticipated.

The moment you round the front of his truck, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Joel stands just behind it, leaning one shoulder against the frame. T-shirt stretched across his chest. Jeans slung low on his hips. Hair a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times waiting for you. His eyes catch the light from the dash and flash warm. Familiar. Wanting.

His mouth curves slow.

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your stomach drops. That voice. That look. That fucking pet name. It never fails—it gets you every time.

You smile, soft and breathless. “Hi.”

Joel watches you walk the last few steps like he’s soaking it in. Like you’re something he’s starved for. His gaze drags down over the dress, the sweater sliding off your shoulder, the bare stretch of thigh, the faint pink polish on your toes.

“You look…” he trails off, shaking his head. Doesn’t finish the thought.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“What?” You murmur, tipping your head.

He just looks at you.

And then—he sighs, stepping forward to wrap both arms around your waist, dragging you in against him like he doesn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“Missed you,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Hoarse.

Your hands slide up his chest. You nod into his shoulder. “I missed you too.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your arms, over the sides of your waist, grounding himself.

Then he gestures toward the back of the truck. “Come on. Brought a blanket.”

You climb into the bed of the truck with him, the old metal groaning beneath your weight. It’s already spread out—a thick old quilt, fraying at the edges, familiar from a dozen other nights you weren’t supposed to share.

You sit cross-legged, facing the field. He sits beside you, knee brushing yours.

There’s no rush.

The stars stretch wide overhead, sharp and endless. The wind moves through the tall grass like it’s whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear. Everything smells like earth and woodsmoke and a hint of his aftershave.

He reaches for your hand.

You give it to him.

His thumb rubs slow along your knuckles, rough calluses dragging over soft skin. He doesn’t say anything for a while—just looks out at the dark. Like the silence is safer than whatever he’s feeling.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

He lets you. Presses a kiss into your hair.

Then—quiet, steady, honest—

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath hitches. You sit up, just enough to look at him.

His jaw is tight. His brows pulled. Like it hurt to say. Like it hurts more to mean it. “I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “But I can’t stop.”

Your heart breaks a little.

Because it is fucked up. And neither of you have ever pretended otherwise. But this—this moment, this night, this feeling—it’s real. It’s been real.

“I think about you too,” you whisper.

He turns toward you then. Cupping your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing your jaw. His eyes search your face, like he’s looking for something he lost.

And then—barely audible, barely real— “I love you.”

You freeze.

Not from fear. Not from regret. But from how deeply it lands. How fast it settles into your bones.

Your lips part. You blink.

And you say it back.

Not loud. Not sure. But true.

“I love you too.”

Joel closes his eyes like he’s in pain. Pulls you in. Kisses you.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’s praying.

And when he lays you down on the blanket beneath the stars—he takes his time.

The quilt scratches softly beneath your spine, the summer air curling around your skin, and Joel’s body hovering above yours feels too heavy and too perfect all at once. His palm braces beside your head, the other smoothing along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your sundress higher until it bunches at your waist.

He’s already looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything. Like the moment’s too big, too fragile to rush.

You reach for him—one hand curling around his wrist, the other brushing along the side of his neck, feeling the soft bristle of his beard beneath your palm.

Joel bends down slowly and kisses you again.

It’s different now.

Not just slow. Not just sweet. But intentional. Like every touch is something he means. Something he’s been waiting to give you.

When he pulls back, your lips are kiss-wet and parted, your breath catching as his fingers slide up beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the cotton-soft fabric higher until it’s no longer in the way. His touch lingers on the inside of your thigh—just enough to make you whimper.

“You sure?” He asks softly, voice low and rasping.

You nod, eyes wide.

But he doesn’t move—not until you say it.

“Please,” you whisper, so soft it barely makes it past your lips. “I want you.”

Joel exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days.

His hand shifts, fingertips brushing between your legs, finding you already soaked. He groans low in his throat, almost reverent.

“Goddamn.”

He sinks two fingers into you, slow and careful, watching your face. You gasp, your back arching, thighs twitching. His thumb brushes your clit once—light as a whisper—and you nearly come undone already.

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press kisses down the side of your neck. “Didn’t even have to work for it, did I?”

You shake your head, panting. “Wanted you all day.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right. “Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Tighter. “Thought about me?”

“All the time,” you breathe. “Joel—please—”

“Alright,” he says, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “Okay. I got you.”

He pulls his hand away just long enough to unbutton his jeans, shove them down past his hips. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already dripping for you. You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes still locked on your face.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Laid out for me. Dress bunched up, legs spread, beggin’ for it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, squirming. “Please. I want you—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know. Gonna give it to you.”

He lines himself up, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds, and he groans when he feels how wet you are—how ready.

Then—slowly—he pushes in.

You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sinks deeper. It’s overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the intimacy of it.

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder. “Fuck—you’re so perfect—”

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, your breaths syncing in the heavy silence.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, your hands clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in.

Joel moves then.

Slow. Deep.

His hips roll into yours like waves—long, dragging strokes that have you gasping into the night air. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, every movement laced with something tender and breaking.

You whimper, arching into him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he pants, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Not stoppin’—not ever.”

You come with a sob.

It builds like a storm, low and tight and aching—and then it snaps. Your body seizes around him, thighs squeezing, fingers clawing at his back. You cry out his name, helpless and wrecked, trembling beneath him.

Joel curses, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—so good for me—so fuckin’ good—”

And then he’s chasing his own release, hips stuttering, breath hitching in your ear.

You feel it when he comes.

The way his whole body tenses. The way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go. The soft, broken sounds he makes into your hair—like he’s praying and falling apart all at once.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move. Just stays pressed against you, his cock still inside, one hand cradling the back of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

You kiss his shoulder. Whisper against his skin.

“I love you.”

Joel’s eyes are closed, his face tucked into your hair. “I love you too, baby.”

The stars stretch quiet and endless above you, the warm breeze rustling the grass around the truck bed.

And for once, neither of you say anything else.

Because you don’t need to.

You lie on your side, one leg slung over his, the weight of your body still settling from what just happened.

Joel’s hand rests on your thigh. His thumb moves slow, back and forth, the barest touch, like if he lets go you might vanish.

Neither of you have spoken in minutes.

Not since you curled into him, still trembling, breath catching from the last wave that rolled through you. Not since his lips brushed your hairline and stayed there, unmoving, like maybe he was afraid of what would slip out if he opened his mouth.

The night stretches wide above you—quiet, open, endless. The stars are the only witnesses.

You draw in a slow breath. The truck smells like him. Sweat and soap and heat.

“I hate this part,” you whisper finally.

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.

“This is the part where everything starts to feel too real,” you murmur. “And then it gets quiet. And then I start thinking.”

He hums low in his throat, almost like a warning. “Don’t do that.”

“I have to,” you say. “One of us has to.”

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress rustling under his weight. He’s still not looking at you. “We’ve already talked about it.”

You blink up at the stars, throat tightening. “We said we’d wait. We never said when.”

“Back then it was still a maybe,” he says quietly. “Now it’s not.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

His hand is still moving on your thigh.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

Joel’s voice comes quieter than before. “You think I do?”

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. Not mocking. Just… understanding. “Me too.”

You press your face into his shoulder for a second. Breathe him in. Let your fingers drift across the inside of his forearm, the soft patch of skin that always feels too intimate to touch.

“I keep thinking about how it’ll sound,” you whisper. “Like—‘Hey, Dad, you remember your best friend? The one you’ve worked with for twenty years? Yeah, I’ve been sneaking around with him for months. He makes me scream his name and then drives me home like nothing happened.’”

Joel flinches. Not visibly—but you feel it, in the way his stomach tightens beneath your hand.

“I don’t feel proud of it,” you murmur. “Even though I… I care about you.”

Joel finally turns toward you then. Really turns. His hand stills on your leg.

“I never wanted you to feel ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—this isn’t what I expected.”

His brow pulls. “You mean us?”

You shake your head. “I mean how much it hurts.”

Joel doesn’t respond. He just watches you. Quiet. Intense. Like he’s trying to memorize every word without letting it show.

You trace a small circle against his arm. “You were supposed to be the one I couldn’t have. You know that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I was the one you couldn’t have.”

“And now I do,” you say softly.

Joel shifts. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, curling there. Holding. Steady. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours.

“You don’t just have me,” he says quietly. “I’m yours.”

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s been a few weeks since that night in the truck.

Since the stars and the slow touches and the whispered I love yous that neither of you could take back—even if you wanted to.

And you don’t. Not even a little.

Things haven’t cooled off since then. If anything, they’ve deepened—evolved into something even more dangerous. Even more fragile. You see him more now. More than ever. Little excuses. Stolen afternoons. Late-night drives that last until morning. Joel’s been sweet, too—so much sweeter than anyone would guess. Like saying it out loud cracked something open in him. Something he’d been holding back for a long, long time.

It’s made the hiding worse.

Harder.

And tonight… tonight will be the last time.

You’re standing in the doorway, sweater slung over one arm, keys dangling from your fingers. The sun’s dipping low, the light slanting soft through the living room windows. Your dad’s on the couch, half-watching a ballgame, a soda sweating in his hand.

“Hey, I’m headed out,” you say, casual.

He turns his head. “Another night with the girls?”

“Yeah,” you lie smoothly. “We’re doing that stupid wine and paint thing. Someone’s gonna end up crying over a sunflower again.”

Your dad huffs a laugh. “Sounds tragic.”

You grin. Shrug your sweater on.

But his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. Not suspicious—just soft. Curious. Thoughtful.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he says. “Smilin’ more, too.”

You pause in the act of tucking your phone into your bag. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Hell no. It’s a good thing. Just…” He tips his head a little. “What’s got you so happy these days?”

You freeze.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t notice—or at least he pretends not to. He takes another drink, smiles around the rim of the can.

“It a boy?” He teases gently. “Someone new?”

You laugh. It sounds almost normal. “What makes you think that?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got that look. That… light. Whoever he is, he must be a good one if he’s put it there.”

Your chest aches.

Your fingers tighten around your keys.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You step toward the door and force a smile over your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

You wave once before slipping into the driver’s seat, shutting the door quick, before he can see your hands shaking.

You sit for a second. Just breathe.

Then you pull out of the driveway and head down the road, stomach fluttering like it always does when you’re about to see him.

It’s not the first time you’ve pulled into Joel’s driveway.

The gravel crunches beneath your tires the same way it always does. The porch light glows soft and golden in the fading dusk, casting long shadows over the steps you’ve memorized by heart. You park behind his truck, cut the engine, and sit for just a moment—fingers loose on the steering wheel, stomach fluttering.

You’ve been here before. Countless times now. But tonight feels different.

Because it’s the last time you get to come here like this—sneaking away under a lie, knowing he’s waiting behind the door with that look in his eyes and his shoulders already easing the moment he sees you.

You step out, the hem of your sundress catching on the breeze, the sweater sleeves bunched at your elbows. Your shoes scuff against the walk as you make your way to the porch, and before your hand can even reach the door—

It opens.

“Hi, darlin’.”

He says it soft. Like a prayer. Like the sound of you on the gravel was enough to pull him out of the living room.

Your breath catches. Joel’s leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He looks like he’s been pacing. His hair’s a little tousled, like he’s been running his hand through it. There’s a crease in his brow that only softens when his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile—not fully—but there’s something close to it. Something warm. His eyes flick over you, quick and reverent. Sweater. Dress. Bare legs. Familiar.

But the way he looks at you? That part still makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” you say, breathless.

He steps back without a word, just enough to let you inside.

The door clicks softly behind you. The quiet of his house wraps around you like a blanket—low hum of the fridge, scent of laundry and sawdust and the faintest trace of his cologne still lingering in the air.

You drop your keys into the little dish by the door. Joel’s watching you like he always does—silent, heavy-lidded, like he’s drinking you in. Like he’s already wondering how he’s supposed to let this part go.

“You nervous?” You ask.

He huffs a breath, steps closer. “A little.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours like they’re meant to be there. His grip is warm. Steady.

Then finally, he murmurs, “Feels like this might be the last time it’s just us.”

You look up at him. “It won’t be.”

But even as you say it, your voice wavers.

Joel exhales through his nose. His thumb drags across your knuckles.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what your dad’s gonna say,” he mutters. “What he’s gonna do.”

You nod. “I know.”

His eyes find yours again—tired, worried, but still so soft.

“You still wanna tell him?” He asks.

You hesitate. Not because the answer isn’t yes. But because yes is terrifying.

And you both know it.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “I do.”

Joel pulls you in slowly, arms sliding around your waist, his chin resting against the top of your head. The beat of his heart is steady beneath your cheek. Familiar. Safe.

“We’ll tell him together,” he says.

You close your eyes.

And hold on tight.

⁂

Joel makes dinner.

You offer to help—more than once—but he waves you off with a quiet go sit down, sweetheart, and the kind of stern look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. So you perch at his kitchen table instead, sweater sleeves tugged over your hands, watching him move around the small space like he’s done it a thousand times.

He’s good at it. Fast. Focused. Efficient without being rushed.

He cooks the same way he does everything else—with purpose. With care.

Chicken and vegetables. Roasted potatoes. Garlic bread that fills the kitchen with the warm, buttery smell of something that feels suspiciously close to home. He doesn’t talk much while he works, but you can tell he’s nervous by the way he wipes his hands on the same dishtowel over and over again, the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

When he finally sets the plate down in front of you, you laugh under your breath.

“What?” He grunts.

“This looks incredible,” you murmur. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Joel shrugs. “Wanted to.”

You both eat quietly for a while. There’s music playing softly from the old speaker in the corner—something with strings, low and meandering. Every now and then your knees bump under the table, and neither of you pulls away.

He watches you when you take your last bite. Quiet and full of something like pride. Or awe. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.

And when he clears the plates and turns back toward you, his expression shifts.

It’s subtle. But you know that look–you know what comes next.

The shower is steam and skin and whispered promises.

You laugh when he pulls you in, still half-dressed, your sweater hitting the floor before the bathroom door even clicks shut. His hands are slow on your skin, warm beneath the spray, and everything feels both too fast and too soft—like you’re holding onto something fleeting. Like the world might shift the moment you step out of this room.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Your neck. Lower.

You gasp.

He groans.

But this time—it doesn’t go further. It stays slow. Gentle. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing to say anything at all.

Later, when you’re curled beneath the sheets, your head tucked against his chest and his arm slung heavy over your waist, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Hope.

Fear.

Everything in between.

Joel kisses your hair and doesn’t say a word.

You fall asleep with your fingers curled in his shirt and the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

⁂

The sun is barely up when you wake.

Your clothes are folded at the foot of the bed. Joel’s already up, padding around the kitchen in quiet half-steps, trying not to make too much noise. You sit on the edge of the mattress, staring down at your hands. Everything in your body feels slow. Floaty. Like you’re walking through someone else’s dream.

This is it.

You dress in silence. Joel helps you with your sweater like it’s a ceremony. And then you both stand in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at each other like there’s too much left unsaid.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel reaches for your hand. Holds it just long enough to make your chest ache.

Then you both step outside.

Together.

The walk to the house is slow.

You’d driven separately, like always. Parked down the street like always. But this morning—there’s no space between you. Joel walks close. His hand brushes yours once, then again, until you finally lace your fingers through his and hold tight.

You both know you shouldn’t be touching.

Not here. Not now.

But it’s your last chance to do this before everything changes, and you can’t let go. Not when your chest is aching. Not when your palms are sweating. Not when every step feels heavier than the one before it.

Joel’s quiet beside you.

His face is set. Determined. But the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he keeps flexing his free hand like he can’t stop fidgeting. Like if he doesn’t move, he’ll explode.

When you reach the porch, you both pause.

The house is still. Quiet. You hear the creak of a chair on the back deck, the faint clink of a mug being set down. Your dad’s up. Probably halfway through his first coffee. Probably has no idea his entire world is about to tilt sideways.

You glance up at Joel.

He’s looking straight ahead. His jaw clenches.

You squeeze his hand. “You sure?”

His eyes drop to yours—warm, steady, terrified.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. Swallow hard. And knock.

Your dad answers the door with a smile already forming—slow and a little tired, like it’s too early for anything heavy. He’s barefoot, still in his T-shirt and sleep pants, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

His eyes flick between you and Joel. The smile falters, just a hair.

“Joel?” He says, blinking. Then back to you. “You’re with her?”

Joel nods once. Quiet. “Hey, Mike.”

Your dad hesitates—but only for a breath. Then he steps back slowly, still watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. He waves you in anyway.

“Come on in. Coffee’s fresh.”

The door clicks shut behind you with a final-sounding thud.

You follow him inside, every footstep sounding louder than it should. Joel stays close behind, his hand brushing yours like he can’t help it—even now, even here. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

You step into the living room like it’s the last time you’ll ever see it exactly this way—unchanged, safe, familiar. The couch you grew up on. The crooked photos in the hall. The faint scent of laundry detergent and leftover coffee and something warmer you can’t name.

Joel hovers behind you, quiet. Not fidgeting, not nervous—but held still by something heavier. He hasn’t said a word.

Your dad moves into the kitchen, setting his mug down with a clink before turning slightly, watching the two of you over his shoulder.

“You two carpoolin’ now or somethin’?” he asks, trying for light, but there’s a thread of confusion woven through it.

You can’t lie. Not today.

You shake your head once. “We came to talk.”

That gets his attention.

He straightens, blinking at you both like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Everything okay?”

Joel’s voice is quiet. Steady. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

Your dad narrows his eyes—not angry, not yet. Just… off-balance. Guarded. “Alright…” He jerks his chin toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

He walks first. You follow second. Joel follows last.

Already, you feel it—that subtle shift in the air. Like the house knows something you haven’t said yet. Like the walls are listening.

He shuffles toward the kitchen again, calling over his shoulder as he moves, “You guys eat yet?”

You glance at Joel—at the man who still hasn’t said a word since you stepped inside—and then call out, “We’re good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Suit yourselves.”

He’s humming now. Something soft and tuneless. You hear the cabinet open, the scrape of his mug being set down again, the clink of the coffee pot. Everything is so normal. So painfully, dreadfully normal.

Joel shifts beside you, leans close enough to murmur, “You wanna wait, or…?”

Your stomach flips.

“No,” you whisper. “We tell him. Just… let him sit down first.”

Joel gives a tight nod, his fingers brushing yours again, quick and fleeting.

Your dad returns a minute later, fresh coffee in hand, newspaper folded beneath his arm. He sinks into his usual chair—the one that groans under his weight, the one no one else dares sit in—and leans back with a sigh.

He looks at you first.

Then Joel.

Then back again.

“What’s got you both lookin’ like you just ran over somebody’s dog?”

You try to laugh. It comes out too sharp, too thin.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on?”

Then his face hardens—not with understanding, but with something more hesitant. More off.

“Didn’t think you two spent much time together,” he says slowly. His voice is still casual, but there’s something behind it now—something cautious. “Figured it was one of your friends makin’ you sneak out all the time.”

He chuckles once. It’s dry. Strained. “Sure as hell didn’t think it was Joel.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Choking.

Your dad’s eyes narrow just slightly. He looks at Joel now—really looks at him. And you can see the pieces beginning to shift behind his eyes. One by one. Every memory. Every absence. Every little thing he didn’t question before.

He laughs again. But it’s empty this time.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Dad—”

“No.” His voice is louder now. Sharper. “You’re tellin’ me this’s been goin’ on behind my back? You and him?”

You flinch. Joel stays still. Tense. Silent.

Your father stands, coffee forgotten on the side table, paper sliding off his lap.

“You’ve been lyin’ to me. Both of you.” He looks at Joel, betrayal breaking clean across his face. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But Joel steps in first—just a little. Not enough to crowd. Not enough to scare.

But enough to stand beside you. Steady. Certain. “Mike,” he says, low and careful. “Let us explain.”

Your dad stares at Joel like he doesn’t recognize him. Like the man standing in front of him—the one he’s known for years, trusted with goddamn everything—is a stranger wearing Joel’s face.

“Explain?” He repeats, voice low and tight. “You want to explain?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. “We didn’t plan it this way.”

“Plan it?” Your dad’s voice breaks, somewhere between disbelief and rising anger. “Jesus Christ, Joel, she’s my daughter. You think that justifies it? That you didn’t plan it?”

You step forward, heart pounding. “It’s not what you think—”

He cuts his hand through the air, eyes blazing. “Don’t. Don’t tell me this is anything but betrayal. From both of you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”

Your dad rounds on him. “Then how was it? Huh?” His voice is raw now, sharp. “You just woke up one day and thought, yeah, let me fuck around with Mike’s daughter behind his back? Sneak around like some goddamn teenager?”

“Hey.” Joel’s voice finally cracks through, firmer. “That’s not what this is. I care about her. You know I do.”

Your dad laughs once. Bitter. Disbelieving. “You care? That’s what you’re going with?”

You can barely breathe. You feel the shame hot on your skin, the panic twisting deep in your chest.

“Dad, please—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “You think this doesn’t gut me? You think I don’t sit here feelin’ like an idiot? My best friend and my kid—”

Joel steps forward, tone even. “I would never hurt her, and I sure as hell don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That’s the fuckin’ point, Joel!” Your dad yells. “You already did! You both did.”

Silence falls—heavy and vibrating with tension.

Your dad turns his back. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair. And then, quieter, voice cracking: “I trusted you. Both of you.”

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You do.

You step forward, voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this. But it’s not a fling. It’s not a mistake. I love him.”

Your dad’s shoulders tighten.

Joel breathes in deep, like the words settle in his bones.

And when your dad turns again, there’s no disbelief left—just hurt. Real and bare. “I need some time,” he says finally. “I need you both to go.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

I need you both to go.

You freeze, mouth half open. “Dad—”

“Go.”

He doesn’t yell this time. Doesn’t bark or snap. But it’s worse that way. Worse because it’s flat. Final. Said with the kind of hollow certainty that doesn’t need to be loud to be devastating.

Joel shifts beside you. “Mike…”

Your dad doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at either of you.

He stares at a spot just left of the couch, like if he keeps his eyes on anything else—anything but you—he might be able to keep from breaking.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

And for a second—just a breath—you almost fight. Almost tell him that you’re not a child anymore, that you don’t need permission to feel the way you do. That you’re happy, maybe for the first time in your life.

But you don’t.

Because he’s still your dad.

Because he’s right.

You lied to him. Both of you did.

Joel’s voice is quiet when he says, “Come on.”

You don’t look back as you follow him to the door. Your feet feel numb. Your heart feels worse.

The silence stretches behind you like a wound.

You step onto the porch. Joel shuts the door gently behind you, like closing it soft might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

The morning air is too bright, too clean. The world feels wrong in the way it keeps moving—birds singing, cars passing on the street, nothing stopping just because your chest feels split wide open.

Joel walks you to the truck, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

Once you’re inside, seatbelt fastened with shaking hands, he exhales slowly—like he’s been holding his breath since the moment your dad opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice is small. Barely there. “I shouldn’t have—”

Joel cuts you off, not harsh, just firm.

“No,” he says. “Don’t.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

He’s pale. Sweating. His hand trembles faintly against the steering wheel like it hurts to keep still. But his jaw is set. His eyes are dark with something deeper than guilt.

“He’ll come around,” Joel murmurs, though you can’t tell if he believes it or if he just needs you to.

You nod. Because you have to.

Because the only thing worse than what just happened… is the thought that it could undo all of this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The first two weeks were good.

Not perfect. Not easy. But good in a way that made you start to believe maybe it could last.

You stayed with Joel. Slept in his bed, wore his old shirts, woke up with his hand already on your waist like his body didn’t know how to let go. He made you coffee every morning, cooked dinner every night—real meals, too. Not just quick shit. The man slow-roasted vegetables. Seared steak like he’d been born doing it. He kissed your shoulder while you washed your hair. Held your hand on the couch. Smiled more.

It wasn’t always soft—sometimes it was messy, sometimes quiet—but he tried. Harder than he ever had before. Like he was making up for all the time you’d spent hiding. All the guilt. All the fear. You could feel him working at it, even when he didn’t say much.

And for a while, it worked.

You laughed. Ate better. Stopped checking your phone every time it buzzed, afraid it was your dad, saying the worst had finally come.

But then Joel started to pull away.

It was subtle at first. Long pauses between conversations. Nights where he’d sit out on the porch too long with a beer, staring at nothing. You’d touch his arm and he’d flinch—not away from you, but like he was startled. Like he’d forgotten you were there. Like he’d been somewhere else entirely.

When you asked what was wrong, he said nothing.

When you asked again, he kissed you too hard and pressed you into the mattress like he could convince you with his body instead of his words.

You should’ve known.

He picked the fight the next morning.

Over something small—something about the dishes, maybe, or you staying past the weekend. Something dumb enough that you almost laughed. But Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at you. Just stood by the kitchen counter with his jaw clenched, arms crossed, saying words that didn’t sound like his.

He said maybe you should take a break.

Said maybe you needed time to patch things up with your dad.

Said maybe he’d made a mistake.

But you saw it—clear as day. In his face. In the way he stood like he was bracing for something awful. He was lying. Not about how he felt—but about why. He thought pushing you away would fix it. That if you hated him, maybe your dad would forgive you. Maybe things could go back to normal.

So you left.

Packed what little you had, still crying, too angry to speak. Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t follow you. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the door like it was some punishment he deserved.

You went home.

Your dad didn’t ask questions when he opened the door. Didn’t yell, didn’t gloat. Just stepped aside and let you in. You walked past him, dropped your bag in the hallway, and shut yourself in your room without a word.

He didn’t come in. Not that night. Not the next one either.

He let you stay.

That was all.

⁂

Time passed.

Not quickly. Not gently. But it passed.

You stopped texting Joel. Stopped checking to see if he had texted you back. At first out of pride. Then out of pain. Then because you couldn’t bring yourself to open the thread. Couldn’t stand to see his name sitting there, untouched, like a bruise you kept pressing just to prove it still hurt.

Your dad didn’t bring him up. Not once. Not even when you passed each other in the hallway. Not when he made dinner for two but only ate one plate. Not when you sat beside him on the couch but didn’t speak, didn’t laugh, didn’t look like the daughter he knew.

He didn’t ask if you were okay, but he also didn’t ignore it.

Not really.

He started to notice things.

The way you didn’t go out anymore. Didn’t see your friends. The way you pushed food around on your plate and took your dishes to the sink half-full. How you stayed curled up on the couch long after the TV had gone dark, long after he’d gone to bed.

He noticed the crying, too.

You tried to be quiet. Covered your mouth, turned your face into the pillow. But the walls weren’t that thick. And the silence between you had become a living thing—heavy, breathing, always listening.

One night, he stopped in the hallway. You didn’t hear him at first—just felt the way the floorboards creaked under his weight, how the air shifted near your door. He didn’t knock. Didn’t open it.

But he stood there for a long time.

Just stood there, while you bit your lip and let the tears roll silently down your cheek, hoping the weight of him outside the room meant something was still left between you. That he still cared. That maybe he just didn’t know how to fix it.

Neither did you.

⁂

It starts small, deliberate.

A mug set down beside yours at the table. A fork pushed toward you with a quiet, “Eat.”

He doesn’t say much at first. Doesn’t press.

You pick at your food like always—slow, mechanical, dragging your fork through syrup that’s already gone cold. He watches you across the table, hands wrapped around his own mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I was thinkin’ about takin’ the boat out this weekend,” he says casually, eyes on his coffee. “Could use the company. Not as fun drinkin’ beer alone on the water.”

You don’t look up. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t push–just nods. Swallows it down.

The silence stretches. Long and uncomfortable. You stare at your plate like it might swallow you back if you sit still long enough.

Then he tries again. “You sleep okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. You both know it. But he nods anyway, pretending to accept it—pretending he didn’t hear you crying last night. Or the night before that. Or every night since.

“You been talkin’ to anyone?” He asks gently. “Your friends? That girl with the red Jeep—what’s her name?”

“Jess.”

“Yeah. Jess.”

You shake your head. “Haven’t really felt like it.”

Your dad shifts in his chair. Rubs a hand over his jaw. Looks older today. Tired. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You finally glance up.

The look in his eyes nearly breaks you. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just… lost.

“I’m fine,” you say. It comes out flat. Unconvincing, but he nods anyway.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t believe you. He’s trying not to let it show. Trying to reach you without making you run.

But when he stands to clear the plates, you see the weight in his shoulders. The way he pauses at the sink—quiet, thoughtful—like he’s already halfway to making a decision he hasn’t told you about yet.

⁂

You’re outside when it happens.

Wrapped in a sweatshirt too big for you—one that still smells like sawdust and cedar and Joel’s damn soap. You shouldn’t be wearing it. Should’ve stuffed it in the bottom of your drawer the moment he left. But it’s the only thing that’s felt warm these past few weeks, the only thing that hasn’t asked you to explain.

You’re curled up in the corner of the porch swing, knees tucked into your chest, eyes unfocused as the late afternoon light drapes gold across the yard.

You don’t hear the truck. Don’t notice the front door open, or the footsteps across the porch boards. Not until—

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your heart stutters.

You look up too fast.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots scuffed like he never stopped moving after that night. There’s a hollow behind his eyes. His face is drawn, unshaven. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Like he hasn’t been breathing right without you.

You don’t speak.

The porch swing groans beneath your weight, the night air thick with humidity and the distant hum of crickets. You keep your legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your knees, drowning in the oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that was soft from too many washes.

Joel sits beside you. Not too close. Not far either. Elbows on his knees, hands clenched, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence stretches. Long. Awkward. Familiar in the worst kind of way.

You keep your eyes forward. On the edge of the yard. On the dark tree line beyond it. On anything but him.

He doesn’t look at you either.

And still—you feel him. The weight of him next to you. The guilt rolling off his shoulders like smoke.

You break first.

“You didn’t even fight me on it.”

Your voice is quiet. Flat.

Joel’s jaw flexes.

“You made me think you didn’t care.”

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to. You can feel the ache moving through him, the same ache that’s been living in your chest since that night. The one that cracked open when he raised his voice. When he said maybe you should go. When he didn’t come after you once you turned your back.

Joel’s voice is low when he finally speaks. Rough. Like it costs him.

“I thought it’d be better for you.”

You laugh. Bitter and tired. “You thought pushing me out would help?”

“I thought maybe if I was the one to break it,” he says, eyes still on the floorboards, “maybe you and your dad could put it back together.”

That’s what shatters you.

Not the fight. Not even the silence after.

But that.

Because even now—even now—he’s still trying to save you from the mess he made.

You blink hard.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off gently. Finally meets your eyes. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

The words aren’t pretty. Not dressed up. Just true.

And they ruin you.

⁂

Your dad doesn’t say much at first.

Not after Joel showed up that night, standing on the porch like the weight of the world had finally broken him down. Not after you folded the second he said “Hi, darlin’”—barely more than a whisper—and collapsed into his arms right there on the steps. Not after he sat beside you without speaking, just staying, like that was the only way he knew how to ask for forgiveness.

And not after your dad let him.

Because he didn’t say much then, either.

Now, days later, the worst of it has passed—but only in the way a storm moves through. There’s still water pooled in the aftermath. Still wreckage in the corners.

You’re already on the porch when your dad steps outside. The sun’s low, brushing amber against the grass, and the old hoodie hanging from your frame is one of Joel’s—left behind in a moment of weakness or maybe given on purpose. You haven’t taken it off.

He settles next to you with a quiet groan, the boards creaking under his weight. There’s a pause. He doesn’t speak, just exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been carrying something for too long and still doesn’t know how to set it down.

Then he says, not looking at you, not even really to you—just out into the yard:

“Y’know I was gonna ask him to help with that busted drawer again this week.”

Your heart jumps.

He doesn’t need to say Joel’s name. Doesn’t need to explain who him is. The meaning is already in the silence between his words.

He taps his thumb against his coffee mug. “Could still use the help.”

You don’t answer right away. Don’t even know if he’s really saying it to you. But your hands are clenched around your knees, and you can feel the pulse rising to your throat.

So you just nod. Barely.

Your dad shifts beside you, takes a sip, then mutters, “He looked like shit when he showed up.”

You let out a breath. Almost a laugh. “He wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost softer than the breeze. “I know.”

For a while, you just sit there. No big resolution. No sweeping, emotional reunion. But something loosens in your chest, anyway. Something tired and hopeful and trying.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it’s a start.

[joeldjarin]

Ten Years Later

Joel Miller x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 18k Warnings: Old secrets. Characters were lied to and manipulated by someone they cared about. Insecurities. Arguing. Fingering, cum eating, vaginal sex, protected sex. Summary: Tommy convinces Joel to attend his ten year high school reunion, forcing his brother to take some time off. Little does Joel know, his old flame will be there too. Notes: The poll for which character would get a story this week was a tie between Joel Miller and Marcus Pike, so I let @absurdthirst choose! Here is a little 'one that got away' with our boy Joel.

"You're going." Tommy crosses one arm over the other and leans against the archway to the kitchen, frowning at his older brother.

Coffee cup halfway to his lips, Joel shoots him a glare and shakes his head. "Haven't got the time." He grunts, wincing slightly as he slurps down a sip of the scalding brew. "Gotta bid in on another project, plus we have the Miller project to complete." The irony of having a job with his own last name isn't lost on him, but it was definitely a family from another tax bracket. No kin of his. "And there's Sarah."

"It's four days. A long weekend, Joel. That's all." With eyes narrowed on his brother, Tommy tilts his head. "The project bid will be over before Friday anyway, and the Miller project is right on schedule." He huffs a breath and shifts his weight again. "Sarah and I will be fine for a few days. We'll watch movies you hate and I'll teach her the fine art of grilled cheese. Uncle-niece bonding."

"I don't need to go to a ten year reunion." Joel snorts. "What the hell is that? I thought it was only done at twenty?"

"You need to have some damn friends again." Tommy contends. "See people that aren't employees, clients, or Sarah's friends' parents." Abandoning the wall, Tommy comes and sits down at the table with Joel and picks up his half-drunk orange juice. "Plus?" He shrugs through a gulp of the sunny liquid. "I already RSVP'ed for you and paid. So you're going."

"Goddamnit, Tommy." Joel closes his eyes and sighs, setting the cup down and pinches the bridge of his nose. "How much was it?" Even though the business was slowly growing, money was always tight, especially when he has a little girl that seems to outgrow her clothes every few months.

"You'll never know." Smirking triumphantly, Tommy leans forward in his chair and steals an abandoned bite of toast from the edge of Joel's plate. "I used my own money, it didn't bankrupt me, and you're going."

“Fuck.” Joel hisses and shakes his head. “Tommy.” He groans in warning.

"Take a few days to just relax, would you?" He pushes out of his seat to start loading the breakfast dishes into Joel's dishwasher. "Come on, old man, we gotta work. And when we get home tonight you're gonna pack." Tommy point a finger at his brother and grins evilly. "Because if you don't, I'm gonna pack for you. Speedos and Hawaiian shirts. And nothing else."

“Fuck.” Joel snorts and shakes his head. “I would never wear speedos.” He reminds his brother. “They never fit right.” His own grin flashes. “Not enough room.”

******

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" It's the fourth time this hour you've asked, but you still look to your sister with wide and beseeching eyes. Packing your suitcase for this reunion getaway is proving far more stressful than you expected and you reach for the cocktail sitting on your nightstand. "How did I let you talk me into this?"

“Because you deserve to have a good time, away from everything.” She grins as she reaches for the bathing suit you had taken out of your bag. “You need this.”

"The hotel might not have a pool," you argue, although you can't imagine a resort in Texas not having a pool. Or even more than one. "And I do have a good time! I go out on the weekends and everything!"

“You go out to the same sad little bar, order one dirty martini - which is disgusting by the way – have their Greek salad and come home.” She snorts, rolling her eyes and shoving the two piece into the pocket where all your panties and bras are. “You need another one.”

"They make my martinis exactly the way I like them." It's a lame defense, but it's all you have at the moment, and you frown at her deeply. "This is going to be four days of painfully awkward mingling with people who didn't even like me growing up."

“You had friends.” She huffs. “You just…stopped talking to them when you went off to college.”

"My best friend decided to start dating the guy I was in love with, and then completely cut me off," you remind your older sister quietly. "And it's not like Mom and Dad had enough money to fly me home from college all the time just so I could hang out with half-assed friends. I had to stay in Boston." The fairly recent return to your hometown came on the heels of your father's death, and the decision to stay was a difficult one. "I'm sorry, I just...being home has been weird. And this is going to be weird, too."

“I know.” She softens, knowing how difficult this has been for you and she pulls you in for a hug. “If nothing else, get some vitamin D, drink some cocktails and read the three books I know you will shove in the front pocket.”

Your frown transforms into a pout, and you glance guiltily at your living room bookshelves through the open doorway before looking back at her. “I’ll probably bring four,” you admit, shrugging slightly. “Since the thing is four days long.”

There’s a guilty look on your face and she laughs. “So worst case, you get to read four books while relaxing and not working. Sounds like a good reason to vacation to me.”

A long groan escapes your throat, but you tip your head back and sigh. “I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this.”

“You’re gonna have so much fun!” She squeals, happy that you are giving in and going.

"I'm going to drink cocktails and read books," you correct, giving her a good natured stink-eye. She means well, and she's right. You haven't had so much as a tiny vacation since you started your professional career right out of college, six years ago. "Get that bathing suit out of my suitcase or I'm changing my mind again."

“Nope.” She picks up a big straw hat and tosses it in. “Because you need to sit by the pool and read while you drink cocktails. You can’t do that in business wear.”

“Mean sister,” you grumble, but sigh and turn to your closet to find some kind of coverup to put over your swimsuit by the pool. This reunion will be best if you speak to no one, so that’s what you’re planning on doing: Just sun, books, and booze all weekend.

******

“Fuck.” There’s nothing wrong with this place, it actually looks amazing, but it’s also the last fucking place Joel wants to be. Looking around, he expects Tisha to pop out from behind a fucking bush like the boogeyman. Nervous because he knows people will be asking questions, wanting to know what happened and he doesn’t have the mental energy for that shit.

“Checking in, sir?” The cheery young woman behind the desk asks, ready to be snipped and sniped at by another member of this class reunion party, judging by the attitudes she’s seen so far and this man’s approximate age.

“Yeah.” He frowns slightly, for a second wondering if Tommy put the reservation under his name or Joel’s. “Uh, Miller.” He tells her quietly. “Joel? Or it could be Tommy? My brother set this up.” He admits, looking a little sheepish.

“I do have a reservation for a Joel Miller.” She takes his license and clicks through the computer, frowning after a moment. “It appears the room has been double booked,” she admits, worrying her lip between her teeth. This large event was the kind of thing that unfortunately sometimes led to errors and the reservation was initiated by one of the newer employees. “Unless…you aren’t traveling with anyone, are you Mr. Miller?”

"Uhhhhhh, no." He shakes his head and looks around. "Not that I'm aware of, but I wouldn't put it past that fucker." He adds under his breath, wondering what the fuck Tommy had done. "Who is it?"

She says the name carefully, searching his face for a reaction. “I have you booked into one of the cabins.”

"Not a room?" He asks, frowning slightly because he knows a cabin has to be more expensive than a room. Cursing Tommy again for backing him into this corner and making him come.

“No sir, a queen cabin. There’s a dozen of them of varying sizes on the property. Very coveted. It’s an excellent reservation, but as I said…it seems to be double booked.” She can see two credit cards and two names on the reservation. The new employee must have thought it could be split like the larger, two bedroom cabins.

"Well, hell..." he contemplates just turning around and going home but he knows Tommy will have his ass. Especially since he enlisted Sarah to telling him off on how much he needed a vacation. His eight year old girl being her bossy self. "I don't need a cabin. Give it to the other guy and I'll just take a room." He offers.

“I’m afraid we’re fully booked, sir.” The desk agent fidgets and shifts her weight under the desk. Out of sight. “The reunion has booked the entire facility for this weekend. But you do have the cabin. If you would like it.”

"And who is that going to leave without a room?" Joel asks, not wanting to take the cabin from someone who would actually want it.

The other young woman at the next computer over clears her throat gently and politely whispers something in the ear of the agent checking in Joel. A few near-silent whispers and a few nods between them and the woman a few feet away from Joel at the desk fidgets.

“It’s…um…I think it’s us who got double booked.” And you’re instantly sick to your stomach at the thought of it. You’re absolutely going to murder your sister when you get home.

Joel hadn't noticed anyone else coming up to the counter but he recognizes that voice right away. Turning his head as your name comes out of his mouth, he is a bag of mixed emotions as he sees you after ten long years. Twelve if you count the fact that you just suddenly stopped talking to him in tenth grade. Ignored him like he didn't exist even when he was standing beside you.

“Hi Joel.” It’s such a lame ass sentence. Two words with no meaning whatsoever. But they’re all that you can force out of your mouth when he’s standing there next to you looking perfect.

"Hi." He shifts and frowns slightly. "Uh, so we are the two lucky one, huh?" He asks, snorting slightly and wondering how the hell he had gotten into the mess. He is going to kill Tommy when he gets home. His chuckle sounds a little dry to his own ears and he shrugs, motioning to the desk. "Why don't you take the cabin?" He offers. "I didn't really - uh, Tommy pushed me to come anyway."

He didn’t want to come. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t plan this as some big gesture. The exhale you can manage feels crackling and dry. “Can you just send extra pillows and an extra blanket to the cabin? I can sleep on the couch.” This isn’t the desk agent’s fault. They’re both just doing their jobs. But you are going to kill your sister for talking you into this. “I made Evie a promise. To stick this weekend out,” you tell Joel, stricken with the inexplicable need to be honest. “I’ll stay out of your way. Just go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

Joel frowns, still reeling by the idea that you are acknowledging his existence. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He automatically argues. “Because there’s no way I can go home. Sarah will kill me.”

“Sarah?” Glancing behind him to look for some sign of Tisha proves futile, and now you don’t really know what to expect at all.

Joel looks at you in confusion for a second. “She didn’t even fucking mention her daughter when she fucked off to see you?” He snorts, that familiar feeling of soul crushing disappointment burning in his chest.

Taking the key from the desk agent with tense, sharp movements, you shove the little piece of plastic in your pocket and immediately regret the decision to share space with him. “I haven’t seen or heard from Tisha since graduation.” You inform him briskly, and walk away.

Joel closes his eyes and sighs. “Shit.” He hisses, regret curling in his gut and he takes his own key from the worker and bites his lip. “Sorry.” He offers quietly before hustling to catch up to you.

“I’m sorry she seems to have turned out to be as awful to you as she was to me,” you bite out, facing resolutely forward as you stalk toward the other side of the lobby.

“Wait.” Your pace doesn’t even falter a single step and he starts to jog to catch up to you as he pants your name. “Please?”

It takes a hell of a deep breath and a slight waver when you stop short, but you finally pull to a halt and turn around. Thankfully no one else in the lobby seems to be paying too much attention to you. It’s still too early in the arrival process for people to be excited about drama.

He almost runs into you, reaching out and catching your shoulders so he doesn’t bowl you over. “I- I’m sorry.” Joel murmurs quietly, dropping his hands and sighing. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

"Why don't we get out of the lobby before people start getting interested?" You suggest, shrinking away from his touch more than you're proud of.

“Yeah.” He sees the way you react and he steps back to give you more space. “Sure.”

The path to the cabins is well-marked when you get outside, and the tree-lined path helps protect from the afternoon sun. If you weren’t so fucking upset right now it might even be pretty.

“Listen, I’ll just go.” Joel murmurs from behind you, “I’ll go get a hotel somewhere and just tell my asshole brother I had a great time. You can have the cabin and you don’t have to worry about seeing me.”

Like some edict from the universe, your phone goes off at that exact moment — and rather than ignoring it like you would usually do, you pull it out of your pocket to see what the text says.

From Ivy: Talk to him.

Oh you are absolutely going to murder your sister when you get home. “Joel—” It takes every ounce of discipline in your body not to growl or huff or fuss. Just to say his name. The name of the boy who broke your heart when you were sixteen and you haven’t spoken to since. Until today. “…wait?”

He stopped when you turn around, making sure to keep a good two feet away from you. “It’s not that big of a deal.” He promises. He doesn’t know what caused the rift so many years ago, why you dropped him and your best friend, but it’s obvious you don’t want to be around him.

“It’s…” It feels so immature. So ludicrous. And so wildly past the point of mattering. But you still finish the two word sentence with your eyes trained on your shoes in the dirt path. “…Complicated.”

He huffs quietly, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “Okay.” He doesn’t know what’s complicated or why, but he doesn’t argue with you.

“Let’s just go to the cabin,” you say, although your nose is quickly back in your phone when you turn around to type a hasty reply to your sister.

To Ivy: Your death will be slow and painful. XOXO

Joel sighs and nods. Walking towards the cabin while you type away on your phone. He’ll listen to whatever you have to say, hand you his room key and get out of dodge. He hadn’t wanted to come anyway and he damn sure didn’t want to hear about how well Tisha was doing without him or the child she apparently never mentioned.

Cabin 3 is only a few yards down the path, set back from the walking route by a trail of flat stones and lively flowers. It would look romantic and picturesque if you didn’t feel like you were walking to your death, and as it is you tap your keycard to the lock and shove the door open with a swallowed sigh.

Joel follows you inside, but he doesn’t go father than the little inside table. Dropping the key on it and waiting for you to tell him off in private.

“You said your brother sent you on this trip?” You’ve barely taken your hand off your suitcase, not even put down your purse. But the door has shut behind him so at least this is private.

“Yeah.” Joel snorts. “Said it would be good for me to catch up with people.”

"Yeah." A vague nod of your head belies the knots in your stomach. "My sister said the same thing. And then sent me a text telling me to talk to you. So I have a sneaking suspicion that our siblings may be...meddling."

“Why?” He asks, looking confused. “You haven’t talked to me since tenth grade.”

"Hell if I know." You cross one arm over the other across your chest. "You're the one who decided to spread a rumor all over school that I gotten the clap from Coach Jenkins. Why don't we start with that fun memory?"

Joel frowns, shaking his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He growls. “I never fucking said that. Never fucking believed it.”

"It's been twelve years," you huff, trying not to seem as hurt as you are. As you have been for all of those twelve years. "Just be an adult and admit it, please."

“Is that what you think of me?” Joel is sixteen again, hurt and angry by the way that his friend had turned away from him. You had told your mom that you didn’t want to talk to him when he called your house after the rumors started. You avoided him in school. He had been bewildered and Tisha had just assured him that you needed to deal with some things and you would come back around, that you weren’t talking to her either. Or any of the people you hung out with. You don’t say anything and Joel nods. “Got it.” He snaps, jaw clenched and his eyes narrowing. “Good to know.” He picks up his bag. “Well, this hasn’t been fun. Enjoy the next twelve years and tell my bitch ex-wife that my daughter never asks about her.” He growls, turning around and snatching the door open.

"I told you, she hasn't spoken to me." Not since all the bullshit started. Not since sophomore year. Not since the rumor that made all of your friends turn their backs on you and left you virtually entirely alone for the last two years of high school.

“Well that’s funny to me, because the day she fucking left, she said she was going to you.” Joel grunts, looking over his shoulder with the door open.

"Then obviously she was lying to you." It's your turn to feel small again – teenaged and immature and naïve but convinced you were old enough to do every single thing in the world yourself. "Look, I– I'm sorry. I don't really–" Pushing out a sigh, the best you can do in this moment is shake your head and swallow back the threat of tears that is cracking through your voice. "Never mind."

You’ve always had the ability to pull on his heart, it’s why your complete icing out had hurt. He sighs and turns around, the door still opened in case you want him to leave and he searches your face. “Tell me.”

"Tell you what?" Shuffling in place makes you feel just as pouty as you probably look, and your sister's text message flashes in your mind again just to make your shoulders sag even more. "Tell you that that rumor ruined the rest of my high school year? I spent two years as a pariah. No one would talk to me, teachers were afraid to be in a room alone with me, and my parents kept me under lock and key at home because even they believed it."

“I didn’t.” Joel snorts. “There’s no fucking way you would have looked at Coach Jenkins. Man was an asshole. But you wouldn’t even fucking take my call when I wanted to tell you that.” There was more to it than that, but you never gave him an opportunity to get to that point.

"Then why did everyone say it came from you?" The decade-old heartache of having him stand here in front of you and call you a liar is something altogether different, but you dig the toe of your shoe into the rug rather than look him in the eyes.

“I don’t fucking know, but I swear on my daughter’s happiness, I didn’t start that rumor.” He insists. “Why would I when–” he breaks off, shaking his head. “That doesn’t matter, but I didn’t say it.”

"When what?" Needling him may be slightly immature and more for personal satisfaction, but you're still hurt after so many years, so you ask anyway.

It doesn’t matter now, the past is behind both of you and nothing can change it. He shrugs, “when I had planned on asking you out that weekend.” Joel admits.

"Oh, bullshit," you huff, shaking your head and all but throwing up your hands. "That was right when you started dating Tisha. You don't have to lie to me, Joel."

“I went out with Tisha that weekend when you wouldn’t take my calls.” He reminds you. It was petty and probably a little hurtful, but he had been so hurt by your refusal to even talk to him and the rumors were swirling, so he had taken Tisha up on the offer to go out together. And the rest was history.

“But you…” There is a feeling in your mind like all of your memories are short circuiting. Like things have been out of order with jagged edges and sharp spines and had always been too dangerous for you to touch — but now they start to slip together like a puzzle. “You were just calling to taunt me…?” Wide eyes come with the feeling of being sick to your stomach and you swear you swallow bile in your throat.

"No, I wasn't." Joel sighs and turns to close the door, wanting to at least clear the air before he leaves. "I was calling to check up on you. To tell you that I didn't believe that bullshit rumor and to see if you wanted to go down to the lake. Get away." The lake back then was much more remote and more of a local hangout than it is now. He huffs in amusement and looks around the cabin. "Didn't have these fancy places here back then."

“You were going to…?” The way your mind just about short circuits is comical.

“Yeah.” He sighs softly. “So why would I start that rumor?”                                                  

“But Tisha said…” You shake your head as though it might shake a screw loose, and in the process only make yourself all the more confused. “You hated me. That…you were only pretending to be my friend to make fun of me behind my back.” Obviously the thoughts had festered. Had followed you. And though years of therapy had helped you to realize that your teenage years could not define your entire life unless you let them, this hurt had stuck with you deep in your soul. Because Joel Miller was the first boy you ever loved. And because your best friend had known that. “She said…she was doing me a favor…being honest with me…?”

Joel closes his eyes and sighs. “Tisha lied.” His tone is flat and almost emotionless. The weight of the revelation sucking any kind of life from him when he realizes how cold his ex-wife was. “She was jealous of you. She hated you. I realize that now.”

“She was my best friend from the time we were like four years old…” It’s almost too much to wrap your head around, but it’s starts sinking in at your shoulders first. Tisha was the one person you confided in entirely. Including when you both had crushes on Joel in middle school. She had gone on to date someone else during freshman year while you stayed focused on the older Miller brother, and…had she really been so hateful the entire time? So jealous? And how had you been so blind to it?

“I don’t know.” Joel could never figure out Tisha’s motivations. “The day she left me, she said she was going to you.”

“She didn’t.” A lie. Another lie. Which hits you so hard that your knees buckle and threaten to give out altogether. Was all of it a lie?

He shrugs slightly, not able to change events that were so long ago and he has stopped caring about what happened to her when it became obvious that she wasn’t coming back to her infant daughter. “I don’t know where she is, then.”

“I’m sorry.” You wobble again, needing to sit down and collect yourself, and stumble one step backward to the nearest chair. “I’m…I’m so sorry…”

He notices your near collapse into the chair and he frowns. “Why are you sorry?” He hates Tisha even more, the flare of anger reigniting for the woman who had abandoned him when he was a fucking kid with a kid. Leaving him to figure everything out on his own. He had barely known how to change a diaper when she left. Apparently, she had done even more damage than he had thought.

“Because I blamed you…for twelve years.” Just when you thought this whole situation had devastated you enough — when you thought you had internalized and worked past all of it that you could — it feels like your heart is breaking all over again. “But she…she did worse to you than she did to me.” And you wish you had been there for him, like the friend you had claimed to be to him for years.

Your breathing is short and shallow, almost panting. Something that he recognizes from Sarah’s overstressed moments. His guard drops along with his bag to the floor and his frown turns into one of concern as he moves over in front of you. Crouching down eye level and looking into your devastated eyes. “Breathe for me.” He instructs you calmly. “In and out. Breathe baby girl.” He uses the same soothing tone he would use for his daughter, reaching around your body to rub your back. “It’s okay, but you gotta breathe.”

Even in a panic you recognize the term of endearment and feel nauseous. You don’t deserve it. Or his attention. He ought to scream at you and walk out the door for how you treated him. For how you believed her words over his actions. But…you were only a kid. And a naive, trusting kid at that. “I’m sorry,” you manage to murmur again, sucking in a shaky breath with your eyes so wide that the world is fuzzy gray around you.

For a split second, he thinks you’re going to faint. Reaching out and cupping your face in both hands, he shushes you. “Breathe for me.” He instructs. “Come on. Innnnnnnn.” He inhales a deep breath. “And oooooout.” You can talk about all this shit later when you calm down.

It takes a full minute or two for you to calm down, and by that time you have tears streaking your cheeks and not enough presence of mind to do anything about it other than be ashamed. “I can’t believe it…” Is really the only coherent thought you can manage to voice.

“Shusssssshhhh.” He murmurs, shaking his head. “We can talk about all this later.” He promises.

“You should hate me.” The realization makes you sink further into yourself, though you breathe deeply when he guides you through it.

“Why would I hate you?” He asks. “Because you believed a lie Tish told?” He snorts. “Sweetheart, I believed all her bullshit too.”

“But I was awful to you.” That might be what is so unforgivable. Not that you believed the lies — no, you know how gullible you are. You’ve known for years thanks to therapy. It’s that you believed them strongly enough to disappear into a mire of hating a boy you had once adored.

“Because you stopped talking to me?” Joel frowns and shakes his head. “I hated losing you, but you weren’t awful to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, sitting up in your chair and wiping your hands down your face like you’re trying to wipe the whole slate clean. “This is…not what you needed today, I’m sure. Just give me a minute to collect myself and I’ll get going. You can enjoy the cabin for the weekend and relax.”

“You should stay.” He murmurs. “If you’re worried about people talking shit, I’ll set the record straight.”

“People will always talk shit.” Finally feeling a little more under control, you drop your forehead into your own upturned palm and sigh. “I care what you think.” You admit after a moment. “Not them.”

It’s odd that you would care about what he thinks after so long. Especially if you believed that he had said those things about you and ruined your reputation. “I think you should stay.” He tells you quietly. “You deserve to stay.”

“I don’t deserve shit.” Of that, you are more than certain. But you do shrug a little, and end up sighing again with a groan. “Especially not you being nice to me.”

“That’s not true.” Joel snorts. “I’m not fucking nice, I’m an asshole.”

“You were always nice to me.” A fact which makes you feel enough shame that your stomach churns. “Even when I thought you weren’t, you were actually just a sweet guy that I was being shitty to.”

“I was nice to you because I–” it wasn’t love. He hadn’t been close enough to you to love you, but it was almost love. He probably would have been in love if you had gone on that date with him. “I cared about you. A lot.”

“I—” Looking up, you still avoid his eyes by squeezing your own shut tight for a long moment. “I cared about you a lot too.” And the problem is — you never really got over him.

“So when Tish told you that I started that rumor….it made me seem like a complete fuckwad.” He understands, he really does.

“And the fact that the two of you got together after…” Crossing your arms over your chest again is almost like caving in, but at least you’re not crying or hyperventilating anymore.

“I was upset you wouldn’t talk to me.” Joel admit, shrugging slightly “She told me that I needed to get my mind off it. I had told her that I was trying to ask you out, so she told me that we should go on that date.”

That expression of crestfallen heartbreak crossed your features again, but this time instead of shock There is a resignation there that you hadn’t expected at all.

She did this. She did this entirely. And she did it knowing full well what it would do to you.

“She knew…” You manage, shaking your head and all but throwing up your hands in utter dismay. “She knew how I felt about you so of course she asked you out instead.”

“How you felt about me?” He frowns, unsure what you mean by that. He had thought you liked him before everything went to shit, but after you refused to talk to him, he hadn’t been sure.

It’s been well over ten years at this point and you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, so you just flail your hands again and throw in the proverbial towel. “I was completely in love with you…for years. And she knew I was too shy to do anything about it.”

Joel sighs softly, thinking about what you are telling him and it clicks into place. The missing piece of the puzzle. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs softly. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s not your fault.” It isn’t either of your faults. The only person in the wrong here is the woman who fucked both of you over and then disappeared. “She did far worse to you than she did to me.”

“She just made your fucking life miserable to get a guy she didn’t actually care for.” He huffs.

“And left you with a daughter to raise all on your own,” you point out. It’s needless, and you aren’t saying he doesn’t love his little girl, but she sure fucking did leave him in the lurch.

Joel nods. “But I think the best thing she did was leave.” He admits. “But I’ll never forgive her for leaving Sarah.”

“She doesn’t deserve her.” The assertion leaves your lips automatically, making you fluster. “Just…if Sarah is anything like you…she’s far too good for Tisha.”

“Sarah is better than I could ever hope to be.” That part is true, and his face shifts to a small smile. Paternal pride radiating from him when he thinks about her. It’s hard raising the little girl by himself, but with Tommy’s help, he thinks he’s getting by.

“Then she is far too good for Tisha.” You can say that with the utmost certainty, especially now.

He bites his lip. “You should stay.” He urges you again. “Listen, I didn’t want to come because I didn’t want to run into Tish.” He shrugs.

“Same.” The admittance comes with a soft, incredulous laugh. “Although…I didn’t know you’d split. It was more like I didn’t want to have to see both of you, and happy together.”

“I asked her once why you stopped hanging around her, and I got my ass jumped so bad I never asked again.” Joel sighs. “She was never happy with me. That’s obvious looking back.”

“I don’t know if she was ever happy at all.” Maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was the issue all along. But you’re starting to understand that maybe the problem was hers and not to do with you or Joel specifically. “Maybe she was just never content with anything.”

“And if she knew that you wanted to be with me, and I wanted to be with you….” Joel sighs. “She decided she would get in the way of that.” He shakes his head, unable to imagine the blackness of his ex’s heart to do that to the girl she had claimed was her best friend in the entire world at one point.

“Well…” The layer of inky awfulness that feels like it is settling into your skin makes you long for a shower or a soak or something, and you’re nominally grateful that your sister made you pack that swimsuit after all. “Maybe we could both stay?” You offer meekly. “Catch up a little?”

For the first time, Joel looks around the cabin and notices that there is a couch in the little sitting room, the studio layout showcasing the bed behind that. “Will you be comfortable with me here?” He asks seriously. “It’s been ten years.” He doesn’t want you to feel like you have to share a space with him.

“Unless you sleep walk or have violent nightmares or something, I think we’ll be okay.” And even if he did, you know in your heart you wouldn’t do anything but try to help him. “Unless…you’re not comfortable with me here?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not uncomfortable.” He promises softly. “We can stay here. We’re both adults.”

“So does this mean we’re not killing our siblings for forcing us here?” Your sister will consider that a win, but you’ll hardly tell her so yourself.

Joel snorts. “Tommy’s still going to get his ass beat, but that’s just for GP.” He jokes.

“Fair enough I guess.” An actual smile cracks through the gloom and you look up at him. Joel Miller has been tucked away in a dark, aching corner of your heart for so long that it feels almost self indulgent and fantastical to even look him in the eye. “I’m glad you’re okay. And that your daughter is too.”

He nods, not sure if he's okay, but he's muddled his way through fatherhood. It's easier now than it had been when she was a baby, that's for sure. "How have things been going for you?" He asks, wondering what path you had taken after being out of his life for so long.

“I’m an architect.” There is no real story to tell in terms of family or close relationships, but that is the choice you made along the way. Your inability to connect to another romantic partner is something you’ve started talking to your therapist about, though it isn’t going well. “For my degree and started working at a firm in Boston, but my dad died a couple of years ago and I came back to Texas to take over his firm instead.” Following in your father’s footsteps is the thing that you’re proudest of, even if moving back home had been a tough choice under a worse circumstance.

Joel's brows shoot up in surprise. "Followed in the old man's footsteps, huh?" He asks, smiling at the thought. He had been interested in architecture at one point until he realized college wasn't in the cards for him. He didn't have the money for that and being a single parent had completely changed the course of his life. While Tommy was off in the Army, he had started working in construction and when he had come home, Joel had actually ventured out and started his own company. "How's that going?"

“Not bad.” There is a brightness in your smile that comes with his praise that you can’t deny but you also don’t want to examine too closely. “We have some really good contracts right now. I’m designing a couple of houses for families around Austin and my partner has some businesses in downtown he’s working on.”

He nods. "That's good." He hates that he wants to ask about the partner, but he doesn't really want to know if it's just business or if it's something more. "The housing market is in a boom right now. Building is up and thank God the price of lumber is staying reasonable."

You tilt your head at him, smile curling slightly into the corner of your mouth. “Don’t tell me we picked the same career?”

"Oh no." Joel shakes his head quickly. "I build the houses, I don't design them." He snorts. "Didn't have the money or time for college." He admits. "Had a baby to feed and take care of. My first construction crew boss let me bring Sarah to the jobsites." He smiles when he thinks about how crazy it looked with a tent erected over a playpen with a sleeping baby inside while the sounds of hammers rang all around her. That crew had helped him become a fucking good dad, steering him on the right path and giving him life saving advice for when he was at home with her.

“I bet she can sleep through anything now.” Having been to enough job sites to know how loud they are, the image of sleeping baby next to an active construction site makes you smile even more.

"Yeah she can." He snorts. "I told her that she could sleep through bombings or the end of the world." He jokes. "Running the vacuum at midnight is not a problem."

“That’s got to be handy, at least.” It’s comforting to think that he’s happy, even if things had been hard. Even if you aren’t the one to make him that way. “My sister and I are backing living in the house we grew up in. It’s too much for two people but it was left to both of us to share.”

"That's a good thing, right?" He asks, wondering if the memories of the past were haunting or helping you.

“I guess so.” You bob your head in acquiescence. “Pretty soon I suspect she’ll want the guy she’s seeing to move in and then I’ll go apartment hunting. It’s the circle of life.”

Joel chuckles quietly. “I bought this shitty starter home. Needs a ton of work, but I’m slowly redoing it on the weekends.” He shrugs. “The neighbors are good.” He thanks God the Adlers watch Sarah after school until he gets home. It's a comfort knowing she can get off the bus at home.

“Neighbors make the difference.” Shuffling slightly in place, you look around the cabin again and move a step inward. “I’ll take the couch,” you insist, putting your small suitcase next to it. “It sounds like you barely ever have a chance to relax and you could use a couple of nights sprawled out.”

“Not a chance.” Joel snorts, shaking his head. “I might be an asshole, but there’s no way I’m going to let you take the couch.”

“I thought we established you weren’t an asshole?” At least not to you. At least not intentionally and not directly. For the last two years of high school after he’d accepted that you weren’t speaking to him, he’d left you alone.

“Yeah…but I really am.” He promises, flashing you a quick grin. “Just ask Tommy.”

“Your brother’s opinion doesn’t count. Just like my sister’s opinion doesn’t. Siblings are too close to the source.”

“Then I’ll have to track down the guy I cut off on the interstate.” Joel jokes. “I’m sure he knows I’m an asshole.”

"Oh, well sure." You grin, smothering a snort in the middle of laughing. "That guy has all the facts."

“Seriously.” He nudges you towards the bed. “Sleeping on the couch won’t kill me. I do it plenty at home. Damn fine naps on the sofa.”

"If you say so." It seems selfish, but he's insisting, and you shift your suitcase over toward the bed hesitantly.

“You haven’t lived until the baby is asleep on the floor in the most awkward position known to man and you can catch a fifteen minute Power Nap.” He chuckles, picking up his own bag and setting it on the chair you had vacated.

"I'm looking forward to finding out." That, at least, is honest, and a soft smile graces your face effortlessly.

“So no boyfriend or fiancé?” He frowns slightly and feels bad because he’s hoping you say no.

"None at all." For now you'll try to ignore the way your heart clenches hearing him ask that question, and you'll probably stew in it instead of sleeping tonight, but at least you're not fighting or yelling at each other any more. That's a positive. "Did you...ever date? After Tish?"

“No.” Joel shrugs slightly. “I was too busy raising her to think about dating and now….” He sighs. “I don’t want women coming into her life if they aren’t going to stay.”

“That’s fair.” And something you wish your own father had abided by, but that’s not worth getting stuck on thinking about. “She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”

“Somebody has to.” He reflects, wishing that she had two parents, but she had never complained. She had asked questions when she was younger, but had accepted his answers on why she didn’t have a mother like most kids.

“And I’m sure you’re doing better than you give yourself credit for.” Having wandered over to the bed, there is a reunion itinerary in the nightstand that you pick up and wave slightly in his direction. “Looks like there are activities for us this weekend.”

“Oh yay.” He snorts, rolling his eyes. “I had just hoped to sleep by the pool and drink beer.”

“I brought four books,” you admit with a sheepish grin. “I had no intention of doing too much socializing once I let my sister talk me into coming.”

“Nice to know we had the same plan.” He unzips his back and pulls out a set of swimming trunks. “Why don’t we go lay by the pool then? You can bring your book and I’ll doze while getting sunburned?”

“I bet you didn’t even pack sunscreen.” You did, out of an abundance of caution, but the thought of going out to the pool with Joel and lounging makes you want to wrap yourself up in your cover up and hide in a very teenage sort of way.

You would be wrong and Joel smirks as he grabs a bottle of it out of a side pocket. “Are you kidding? Sarah loves being in the pool and I’ve got to even out my construction tan.”

“No blatant white lines across your arms?” You tease with a grin. “How disappointing.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m so sure.” He snorts.

“I’ll just go in the bathroom and change.” Your swimsuit is in the corner of your suitcase and you pull it out discreetly, wishing you hadn’t let your sister talk you into packing the more revealing of your suits. She had sworn you would be grateful for the tan, but now you disappear into the cabin’s bathroom wondering if you’re about to embarrass yourself.

“Well shit.” Joel glances around and peels his shirt off after tossing down his swimming trunks and the sunscreen. “I guess I’m changing too.” He hopes he doesn’t embarrass himself when you come out on your suit, it’s been a long fucking time since he’s been on a date or gotten laid.

The second you’re behind the closed bathroom door, you pull out your phone and hit your sister’s contact info with a ferocity rarely seen outside devouring popcorn on movie night.

It only rings once before she picks up. “I’m going to kill you.” are the first words out of your mouth.

“No you aren’t.” Your sister cackles and hums. “So I take it that you have received your surprise. How does he look?”

“How?” You demand to know, hissing into your phone as you start to change your clothes. “How the hell did you do this?”

“Tommy found me on MySpace.” She singsongs down the line. “I asked him if Joel pulled that shit back in high school and he swore he didn’t. But you’re so hardheaded, you wouldn’t believe it unless you heard it from the horse’s mouth. So we decided to set this little meet cute up.”

"Oh my goooood." The mortifying part of being so obviously seen through comes with the fact that your sister had known full well how much of a crush you had on Joel previous to everything happening. "Which one of you assholes had the idea to double book us in a room?"

“That was Tommy’s idea.” She admits with a snort and then pauses to hear you curse her out. When you don’t, she sighs. “Joel still has a picture of you up in his living room.” She hisses. “I don’t think that there’s a downside here.”

"I'm sure that's not true." Carefully setting your phone down on the edge of the sink, you tug your shirt over your head and jeans off your legs in turn before glancing over at the swimsuit she packed for you. "You really had to pick my skimpiest suit, didn't you?"

"It makes your figure look amazing." She scoffs. "No, seriously, Tommy told me that there this photo of you, Joel, Terry, Tisha and Shelia all in the science lab. Joel has his arms around both you and Tish." He had said that Joel claimed it was to keep a picture of Tisha up for Sarah, but she had pictures of her mother and she never looked at them.

“So it’s an old photo,” you reason, hating the way your pulse picks up with hope. “With his ex in it. That’s not up because I’m in it.”

"There are no other pictures of Tisha up in the house." She argues. "Sarah wanted to take that one down, but Joel said no. He wanted it up. Now why would that be?"

“How would I know?” Your sigh as you trade your panties for bikini bottoms is audible. “Maybe Terry and Sheila got married and asked him to be their best man?”

"Just.....talk to him?" She asks softly. "If he's not the same man you've built up in your teenage mind, you can finally move on."

“Well…we’re about to go be boring by the pool.” Tying on your suit top takes a little extra twisting but at this point you’re trying not to look at yourself in the mirror on principle. It will just make you more nervous. “When this inevitably goes south, I will come home early and talk it over with my therapist at length.”

"But what if it goes right?" Your sister asks softly. "Even if it's not exactly what you had dreamed of in high school, being able to close this chapter will be good for you."

“I think the best possible scenario is leaving this weekend with a promise to get together again soon that we both politely forget about when we get home.” You sigh again and stretch, gathering up your clothes in your arms and pick up your phone. “I’m gonna go, Ivy. I’ve been in this bathroom so long he probably thinks I’m trying to climb out the window.”

Joel glances at the door to the bathroom and wonders if you are regretting letting him stay. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, turning when the door opens and you appear in the doorway. He freezes for a second, eyes fixed on you and he knows that he's in deep shit, his mouth watering when he sees your bikini. "Uh," he drops his hand, hovering over his head and shuffles to cover the fact that his cock is hardening. "Ready for fun?"

“Towel, sunscreen, and a book,” you confirm, moving back over to the bed and dropping your clothes in favor of the little stack of necessaries you put together. Your cabin is close enough to the main hotel area that the pool isn’t more than a dozen yards away, and you glance down at your phone in your hand and swallow. “Apparently our siblings were conspiring,” you reveal, deciding not to keep anything from him.

“I figured as much at check in.” Joel admits, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” The offer is mostly just a platitude, he can’t really be angry at Tommy for this. Especially since he knows now what you had thought of him all this time. “How pissed are you at them?”

“I’ll hold it over Ivy’s head for a while.” Bundling your things against your chest is basically just an effort to do anything but stare at him. Joel isn’t all defined muscles and six pack abs, he’s broad planes and sculpted shoulders and endless hours of physical labor making him strong as well as soft. He’s mouthwatering. “I’m—” Clearing your throat gently, you avert your eyes and move toward the door. “I’m not upset to be able to clear the air, though.”

He nods, understanding that sentiment. “Still, I say we don’t tell them anything for at least two weeks.” He poses, flashing you an evil grin. “Whadaya say?”

The sweet playfulness of it is enough to make you nod your agreement, even though you know there won't be much to say. But you'll go back to your life after this weekend with less of a hole in your heart, so that will be something to be grateful for if nothing else. "Alright. You're on."

His feet are in the flip flops he had dug out of the bag and he grabs his sunglasses. “Do you want to get your sunglasses?” He asks, knowing it will be hard to read without squinting out in the summer sun.

"Right!" Too distracted by looking at him – or trying not to look at him – you had forgotten to grab yours out of your purse. Now you double back and dig into the deep bag, only to frown...keep digging...dig more...and groan. "Shit," you huff, letting your head drop to your chest momentarily in annoyance. "Looks like I forgot them. That's going to be annoying as hell."

It’s not often Joel gets to feel like a knight in shining armor. Mainly reaching something from the top shelf at the grocery store for a shorter woman. Now he gets to be a little more valiant. He hands them to you. “Take mine. It’ll be hard to read without them.” He adds when it looks like you are going to protest.

"It's okay." Any sort of kindness from him seems like more than you deserve considering you had believed him capable of spreading an awful rumor for more than ten years. "I'm sure there will be some kind of shade out there."

He chuckles, “as long as I can throw a scrap of fabric over my eyes, I’m good.” He almost makes a joke about your top, but it’s not like you’ve been on the best of terms for the past twelve years. He might have said that before you stopped talking to him, but he has more couth now.

"I wish I was ladylike enough to carry a handkerchief or something," you joke, knowing how stupid it sounds but maintaining that it would be a nice, genteel gesture to make. "I'd offer it to you in exchange."

He hums as you both come out of the cottage. “That’s alright. I’m sure there’s also towels at the pool.” He feels a little jittery and he tries to keep his steps light.

There are a hell of a lot more people around now then there were earlier. Your old classmates are swarming the patio and the back of the hotel with drinks, chatting away and filling out nametags, mingling on the other side of the pool.

“I think a drink is needed.” Joel grunts as he eyes the group of people. “Wanna open a tab on the room? We can settle it later or I’ll pay for it.”

“Our siblings paid for the room,” you shoot him a grin. “They can pay for our drinks, too.”

Joel smirks, figuring it serves them right for being meddling assholes. “You’re right.”

“Should we get something grossly overpriced to start out with?” All hotel pool bars have specialty and high priced cocktails, and that’s the least Ivy and Tommy owe you right now for trying to force you and Joel into bed together.

“Can you see me drinking a ‘Sex on the beach’?” He asks, almost embarrassed by the name when he says it out loud. He’s not a prude but it was better than the Buttery Nipple shot advertised below that.

The menu looks fairly standard but you catch a glimpse of a bright blue cocktail floating by on a tray beside a tiki glass that clearly holds a Mai Tai inside. “Are the Blue Hawaiians glittery?”

“Yes madam.” The bartender behind the pool side bar is shirtless and obviously in his early twenties. “Would you like one? They are delicious.”

“Why the hell not?” You shrug your shoulders and give him your room number. “Let’s drink some glitter.”

Joel chuckles at your decision and lifts a shoulder himself. “Might as well make it two.” He tells him. “If I’m going to drink girlie cocktails, might as well piss glitter.”

“That’s the spirit,” you agree, smothering a giggle.

He rolls his eyes slightly and turns to lean on the bar while the order is being filled. Glancing out over at the pool so he doesn't stare at you. "Is that Brian?" He asks, narrowing his eyes slightly as he asks. His sight is not as good as it could be, but he refuses to go to the optometrist.

“Brian Turcotte?” Swiveling on the spot, you glance across the pool to see one of Joel’s old baseball teammates with a woman you don’t recognize. “Yeah, that’s him. Less hair, but that’s him.”

"Huh." He snorts in amusement and rolls his eyes. "Glad to see that he is just as fucking loud as he was back then."

“Guess he found someone to put up with him, though,” you say, nodding to the woman beside him as she wraps her arm around his waist.

"Good for him." He hums and considers the old adage that there is someone for everyone. "Look, there's a couple of chairs." He points out. "Do you want to grab them and I'll bring the drinks over?"

“Sure.” But you point to the drinks being made and then to him. “Remember, those are billed to the room.”

"Oh, absolutely." Joel promises, crossing his heart playfully.

“Good.” With a nod, you make your way around the pool to the chairs he pointed out in the other end of the patio.

It only takes a few more minutes to get the drinks and they are very glittery. Signing the bill that charges the drinks to the credit card on the room, Joel smirks as he adds a generous tip and nods to the bartender and turns to take the drinks over to you and the chairs you have been holding.

"Shiny." You grin, reaching for the hurricane glass of swirling blue drink with gold glitter whirling about inside. "What should we drink to?"

Joel straddles the chair and leans back into it. He thinks about it for a moment and then offers his drink up. "To rekindling old relationships." He offers.

"One hundred percent." The clink of your glasses is welcome, and you take just a moment to hope that he doesn't notice the way you fluster before taking a sip of your drink. "Ooo," your eyes open wide. "That is good."

He takes a sip and is actually surprised by the fruity, smooth taste of it. He is still more of a beer drinker, but doesn't mind this at all. "Not too bad." He agrees. "So what book are you reading?"

"Something irreverent." Holding up the black and white paperback in your hand so he can see the cover, you recite the full title from memory. "Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. It came out a couple of years ago and I really like Terry Pratchett's stuff."

“Don’t think I’ve read that.” He admits easily. “Any good?”

"I like it so far." Almost as much as you like this drink, and you take another sip with a happy hum. "It's...hard to explain. But it's funny and introspective. Which I appreciate when I spend most of everyday staring at charts."

He snorts. “No, staring at blueprints that make no fucking sense, is the best part of my day.” Joel jokes. “Seriously, this one asshole designer has every door opening backwards and the windows off center.”

“I hate lazy work. Most of my apprenticing years were spent cleaning up senior architect’s bullshit and I hate it.” It has seemed like twice as much crap as any of the other recent graduates had to deal with, but you were the only woman in the office so you took it as a miracle that the partners didn’t want you taking minutes at meetings and fetching coffee.

“Yeah.” Joel nods. “Half the time when I order headers for a project, I have to go back to the plans and call the company to ask if they really undersized the structural support. The engineers have to be called in and it’s a goddamn mess.”

A warm, naive, hopeful part of you wants to suggest that Joel should start taking contracts from your firm instead, but that’s far too intimate of a suggestion for someone you just reconnected with after twelve years. He would think you were crazy. Or worse, think you were flirting and back away from it. From you. Apparently those feelings you always had for Joel Miller really are imbedded firmly as hell in your psyche. “Thank god somebody understands,” you say instead, raising your glass in a friendly salute to him.

“To talking shop on vacation.” Joel snorts. “Our siblings will kill us.” Your laugh makes him smile and he sips the drink again. “I know you wanted to an architect like your dad, but do you like it?” Now that you are talking to him again, he wants to know about the last twelve years. Still finding you just as beautiful as before, maybe more so since you have seem to grow into your skin and wear it more confidently.

“It’s gratifying,” you admit, a touch flustered to find him paying such steady attention to you, but you hope you aren’t showing it. “To be able to look at a building and know it all works and stands and will lay because I designed it just right? That’s…It sounds silly but it’s kind of a rush. Like it makes me wish I could get out there with the contractor teams and actually help build, but I am not good at the practical applications.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t.” Joel hums. “You just need to work with a contractor you trust and respects you enough to show you around the site without being a dick about it.”

“Well,” you feel brave and warm and ever so slightly cheeky having him sitting here with you. “Maybe one day I’ll work with you, and you can be the magical unicorn contractor who doesn’t look down on female architects.”

“Gotta girl on my construction crew now.” Joel admits with a small shrug. “I’ll work with you, no problem.” Of course you could just be paying lip service to the idea, but it’s an idea that Joel wouldn’t mind at all.

“I’d like that,” you hum, finding your cheeks warm and the butterflies in your belly flapping to life.

He watches you fluster slightly and tilts his head. "Maybe we can find a project to work on together." He shrugs. "If you like my work. You probably need to see it first."

“I have a feeling I’ll love it.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them and you fluster all over again.

Joel smirks slightly but he doesn’t say anything, just taking a sip of the glittery drink that is fast growing on him.

A slight moment of hesitation comes with a press of your lips, but you take another sip of your drink and decide to ask out of an abundance of good memories. “Are you still playing guitar?”

“Less now.” Joel admits, although the guitar is still sitting on its stand in his living room. “Not as much as when I was trying to get Sarah to sleep and she liked the sound.”

“That’s so sweet.” The mental image sticks in your chest and settles inside like it’s giving your heart a hug. “I bet she would still love to hear you play.”

“Only sometimes.” He chuckles, smiling at her sometimes bossy demands for him to play. “But she thinks my music is ‘too old’.”

“That seems like your right as a father.” You lean back in the patio chair and set your forgotten book in your lap. He is far more compelling than the novel anyway. “Old music and embarrassing jokes.”

He snorts. “She’s already got a sassy sense of humor.” He admits proudly, “her and Tommy play off each other on who’s gonna annoy me most.”

“Sounds like a pretty ideal childhood if you ask me.” He didn’t. You know that. But it sounds like he’s putting every ounce of himself into raising his little girl, and if that doesn’t make you a little misty-eyed over the man all over again, nothing will.

“Oh yeah.” He sighs. “I just hope that she doesn’t hate me for being too corny.” His tone is morose but he’s smirking.

"She'll have some years of hating it, I'm sure. But that's the beauty of it. When she comes around again she'll cherish it." Without realizing it, you have almost reached the end of your drink already. It's just a warm day and the cold, sweet drink has hit the spot – not to mention it gives you something to do with your mouth besides embarrass yourself in front of Joel.

He might be a little alarmed that you’ve sucked the drink down, but his own is almost gone and he waves down at roaming server. “Hey, can we get another of those glittery drinks?” He asks. “For both of us, please?”

“I swear I’ll switch to water after, you grin, not wanting him to think that you’re here to party or be irresponsible or anything like that. “That was just so much tastier than I expected.”

“All things considered?” Though you don’t explicitly say it, you mean the rumor that circulated about you during school. “I’d rather not add to the gossip at all.”

“Yeah.” His grin slips and he frowns slightly. “You think she started the rumor? Just said it was from me?”

“The more I think about it?” You frown and shuffle backward in your seat. “Probably.”

“That’s fucking shitty.” He doesn’t want to make you think about bad shit all weekend, but he had been thinking about it since finding out that you had thought he had started those rumors.

“It is.” You can’t deny that, and to him you wouldn’t. Tisha did shitty things to both of you and that is an odd sort of bonding point.

“I wish we had this conversation twelve years ago.” Even if you wouldn’t have trusted him enough to date him, he hated you being so heartbroken over the lies. Losing Tisha since you would have seen it as a betrayal that she was dating the boy who ruined your life. Even if he would never wish Sarah away, he wishes you had talked.

“I do, too.” The pit in the bottom of your stomach says you know you should have, and now it’s too late now. Too late to get him back into your life in the way that you want him. In the way that he apparently used to want you.

Both of you seem lost in your own thoughts until the next round of drinks are brought over and Joel signs for them. Handing you the fresh one and taking your empty glass to give to the server.

The lull in conversation seems to be where you both falter, and luckily or unluckily for both of you this is exact time that former class president, class reunion organizer, and all-around busybody Serena Sorenson chooses to butt into the small bubble that you and Joel have created for yourselves.

“Well heeeeeeeeeeeey.” Joel tries not to wince at the almost ear piercing greeting. It seems that over the years that her voice has gone higher, instead of coming out of the baby pitch she had used in school. “I couldn’t imagine I would run into you two getting cozy.”

"Time heals all wounds," you offer, trying not to cringe at the ear piercing tone of her voice. "Isn't that what they say?"

“Is that what you are doing?” She tilts her head curiously, obviously delighted to perhaps get some good information out of this little meet up. “Burying the hatchet?”

"Something like that." It isn't any of her business, and despite having a very strong drink in your system you're not inclined to give away details to someone you wouldn't even trust in fetching your mail.

Joel could almost giggle at the way that she seems to deflate but she turns towards him. “I’m surprised Tisha isn’t here.” She hums. “What is she up to these days?” He huffs and takes a nonchalant sip of his drink before he answers her. “Dying.” He answers dryly.

When she looks positively stricken and confused by that answer, you swallow a snort and look up at your former classmate innocently. "We're all dying a little from the day we're born, aren't we?"

“That’s not funny, Joel Miller.” She hisses but his answer does the trick because she immediately spots someone else to talk to and rushes off.

That suppressed snort comes out full force when she scurries away from you by the pool and you're shaking with otherwise silent laughter when you look back up at Joel. "Well I thought it was funny."

"I thought it was too." Joel laughs himself and shrugs. "Maybe we just need to stand up and make announcements?" He suggests. "I tell them that Tisha ran off to join a cult or whatever the fuck she did when Sarah was four months old and you tell them that they can all kiss your ass if they think you would have slept with that prick."

“Let none of us forget the man was thirty years old the year this rumor hit,” you huff, but shake your head and simply brush it off as best you can. It was a long time ago and you can see now the level of malice and jealousy in what was said.

"So yeah, wouldn't he be like the Crypt Keeper now?" Joel jokes, wrinkling his nose playfully. Sarah already tells him that he's old and he's around the same age as the coach would have been when those rumors started.

“By Sarah’s terms I’m sure he’s older than the universe,” you joke, picking up on his line of thought.

"Ancient." He snorts and shakes his head. "Although she wants a sibling." He huffs. "As if I'm not too old."

“You’re not.” At the mental image of Joel cradling an infant in his arms with his older daughter by his side, your heart seems to clench and your eyes soften to give you an unintentionally dreamy expression. You used to daydream about being with him. Growing up with him and becoming an adult version of yourself with him. A couple. With a home. Marriage. A family. All of it. Now it’s like your foolish heart is making up for lost time. “Anybody would be lucky to have you.”

He doubts that, he's often tired and churlish when he's been working too hard, which is too often lately. Sarah can pull him out of his funk, but it's been so long since he's been in a relationship, he wouldn't even know how to go about one. "I don't—" He turns towards you and sees the almost day dream look on your face, wondering what you are thinking about. "—know about that." He murmurs.

“The Joel Miller that I was friends with would have made a great partner,” you contend, although you nearly mumble it out of flustered embarrassment. “You’re still him. Even if it’s not the Joel that’s in the surface anymore.”

"Now you're just trying to make me blush." Joel huffs, secretly pleased that you would think of him so favorably. "Doing a damn good job of it too."

“I’m just being honest,” you mumble, but you really are just telling him the truth. The fact that the truth makes you feel fuzzy and light is an extra. “Booze makes me honest,” you tell him with a shrug.

"Yeah?" He smirks slightly and leans over towards your chair. "So tell me something else that's honest."

Every single one of your nerves lights on fire when he comes closer to you, and you’re not sure how much of your second drink you’ve had but you’re feeling much more intoxicated than just one or one and a half cocktails should make you. Is that cedar in his cologne? It Smells like a campfire in winter. “You grew up really fucking good,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Joel's eyes hold your gaze, his smirk growing a little wider, daring. "Yeah?" He asks gruffly. "Single construction worker dad does it for you?" He asks, looking down at your lips before back up into your eyes.

“Guess so.” Joel Miller is still what does it for you, apparently. Even after a decade of thinking he believes the worst in you. And you were too gullible to think anything except what you were told. But now? Now with him looking at you like that? You could melt all over again.

"Good to know." He winks at you and somehow manages to make taking a sip of his drink both alluring and ridiculous as he sucks on the straw.

“Christ, Joel,” you chastise, all but huffing at him even though you’re doing it out of attraction rather than annoyance.

Joel chuckles, feeling a little more lighthearted than he had been before he arrived. Nothing will happen right now, he wont let it, not when you are tipsy. Still, it feels good to flirt with you, to be honest with it. "I'll be good." He promises. "For now."

“For now.” The huff is still thick in your voice, but the grin on your face is almost giddy. “Is that a promise?”

"Depends." Joel laughs and shrugs. "All depends on how drunk we get."

“Well…it’s all on Tommy and Ivy’s dime,” you joke and make yourself shrug. Just in case he means the only way he would ever let that happen with you now is intoxicated. Because that’s not going to happen. Not for you. It’s full and enthusiastic sober consent or nothing at all, in your book.

"Yeah." Joel looks down at his drink and decides that he's had enough. He sets it down next to the chair and glances back at the pool. "You know, this place has really changed." He muses, tucking his hands behind his head and leaning back in the lounger.

“I don’t know that I was ever here before.” Just like you were never able to trace the distinct plane of his bare chest and stomach before, either. But you sure as hell can right now, as long as you don’t get caught staring.

“Sure you did.” Joel snorts. “Don’t you remember that weekend we went water skiing in tenth grade?” It was before the rumors started, so you had been with them. “With the upper classmen?”

“Was that here?” To be honest you hadn’t gone looking for any water beyond the pool, so it’s a shock to realize that he’s right as you swivel your head to look around the resort.

"Yep." He hums and closes his eyes. "That was a good weekend, wasn't it?"

"It was." You had sat with him at the bonfire that night, wearing his sweatshirt and wishing and hoping that he would kiss you, but it never happened. The disappointment was heart wrenching for a young teen, but you had survived by the sheer joy of being close to him for a while.

“I thought about that night a lot.” Joel admits, his eyes still closed. “I was too much of a fucking wimp to kiss you like I wanted to.”

"Yeah?" The hope in your eyes must be obvious, but you're not sure you care. It was a long time ago. A time that feels like a whole other life. But that teenage girl is still locked somewhere deep inside you and she is so, so hopeful for that dreamy and romantic moment she never got.

“Yeah.” Joel sighs softly. “I never regret my daughter for a second, but…”

"But." You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "What if?"

“Does that make me a bad dad?” Joel asks, opening his eyes and looking over at you seriously.

"I don't think so...not really." Somehow, without meaning to or even realizing it, your hand has ended up right next to his on the arms of your side-by-side chairs. "You're not saying you wish Sarah was different. You're saying...I think you're saying...that you wonder what about her might be different. If...you know..."

“If she was our kid.” Joel finishes the unspoken comment and nods. “Yeah. I love everything about her. She’s perfect. But I wonder sometimes how amazing she would be, if.” He chuckles. “I guess I hate that I saddled her with a mom who walked away.”

“It’s okay to wonder.” Your pinkie touches his and you wonder if you’re being too forward. “Just as long as you don’t get the wondering mixed up with reality. Keep on loving her just as she is.”

“Never a chance of anything else.” He promises, the proud smile curving his lips. “She’s sweet and kind, funny and sassy.” He laughs. “Amazing smile. Sings pretty good too.”

“Sounds like you have nothing to worry about, then.” The place where your hands touch is warm and welcoming, and feels like a promise somehow. “She’s just like you.”

Joel doesn’t look down, but he turns his hand over and offers it to you. “She’s better than me in every way.” He promises. “She’s made me the man I am today.”

"Too far. Got it." An understanding nod and a wave of your hand are the way you try to brush the sentence away, and you wrinkle your nose, wishing you hadn't said it at all. "Forget I said anything. Go back to triceratops."

“No, nooooooo.” Joel shakes his head and swallows. “No going back from that one.” He would never stop thinking about it. Ever.

"I was just being honest." And vastly oversharing, but you studiously avoid meeting his eyes just in case he can read how much you want him in those orbs. You've already made things awkward enough as it is.

“Yeah?” He abandons the movie and shifts to turn towards you, finding it absolutely cute that you won’t even look at him after admitting something so…personal. “Only certain things or would anything do?” He asks, dying to see how embarrassed you get and to fuel the fantasies that will no doubt be front and center in his dreams. “And how did you discover this particular kernel of knowledge?” He props his elbow on the back of the couch and leans his head against his fist, grinning.

"Certain things," you huff, groaning and dropping your burning hot face into your hands in dismay. "Fuck, Joel, stop looking at me like that before I burst into flames."

“Like what?” He huffs innocently.

If you're honest with yourself, you're actually not entirely sure how he is looking at you because you're too afraid to look up. You just know that if he looks into your eyes you're going to give yourself away. "Like that."

“I’m not looking at you any kind of way.” He’s lying, but he’s dying to know about this sudden revelation more. “I’m just curious.” He confesses.

"You're naughty, Joel Miller," you accuse playfully, finally too curious to not take a teeny, tiny peak at him. He's grinning at you like the Cheshire Cat that got the cream and you know you've been utterly caught out but you just can't bring yourself to care when you see how giddy his expression is.

“Never said I wasn’t, but pot? Meet kettle.” He cackles. “I apparently have nothing on you.”

"I am a modern women and entitled to like whatever I like." It's such a poor excuse for an answer, but it's more like you're trying to do your best to figure out if he's excited by you feeling that way or just any woman feeling that way.

“Completely agree, but did you just wake up one day and decide you wanted to try anal?” He asks, leaning closer. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

"Inquiring minds, huh?" You really can't help but laugh at this point. It's a very male response to be so interested in the fact that you admitted to liking anal sex, but you can't begrudge him being curious when you're the one who opened the door to the conversation. "My ex," you admit with a little shrug. "Was very big on wanting to experiment."

“And you were surprised to find out you like it?” He asks.

"I was actually." At the time you had agreed out of sheer curiosity, when your boyfriend-at-the-time had begged you to try it with him. The results were, as Joel says, surprising. "I liked it a hell of a lot more than he did, which was even more surprising."

Joel hums and pokes his lip out, impressed. “Good for you.” He smirks. “He’s lucky you didn’t want to give him the same treatment.”

"Nah," you shake your head and end up laughing under your breath. "Turned out he was more squeamish than he thought. And I'm never gonna push someone to do something they're not fully on board for."

He nods, "I can agree with that. Let me guess, he didn't think about the actual realities of anal?" He can't say that he's ever wanted to have anything inside him, but at least he understood that if something like that happened, there would be stuff to deal with.

“Let’s just say research and forethought were not his strong suits,” you agree with a smirk.

"Fun." He says dryly, even as he's sharing that grin and he wonders how you would react if you knew he wasn't as experienced as you in that department.

“Yeah, well…” one tiny shrug of one shoulder is just a way to brush off the whole thing, but the expression on your face never falters. “He’s an ex for a reason.”

"How long ago was that?" He asks softly, wondering how long it has been since you were with someone. He knows his own history is woefully bare, but he would tread carefully if you are fresh out of a relationship.

"About..." It takes a second to think back, digging through the history in your head. "Three years ago. Boston. Before Dad died."

"I'm sorry about your dad." He had heard, but he hadn't thought his presence would be welcomed at the funeral. He didn't like them anyway, they were for the living. The dead were already gone. "He was a good man."

"He liked you." It seems like such a small commendation to say it out loud, but your father was an excellent judge of character if nothing else. "When...when everything happened and you weren't coming over anymore and I wasn't taking your calls...we actually fought about it. He was so sure I was wrong and that you wouldn't have started any kind of rumor about me." Your heart clenches, regret filling your lungs so you have to take an extra deep breath just to get a little air. "I should have listened."

"You were told a lie by the person you should have been able to the trust the most." Joel sighs softly. "I'm sorry that you fought because of me. I'm not worth that, sweetheart."

"Yes you are." Of that, you have absolutely no doubt. Not anymore. Even just a day with him as an adult has reminded you of every good thing he ever did for you as a friend. Every good thing he ever said. "You're worth a hell of a lot more than either of us ever gave you credit for, I think. And that's my own fault. Because there was a time when I knew you were worth the world."

"Don't worry about that." He doesn't want you to feel anymore guilt or shame for the past. It isn't worth it. "We are mending things now."

"Yeah." He's still leaning in close to you, and you nudge him slightly in an affectionate gesture. "We are. Sorry to bring the mood down."

"Nothing to apologize for." He snorts. "We are just covering all the topics today."

"Apparently so." You try for a laugh, falling a little short and coming out with a soft huff.

"Anything else?" He asks with a grin. "I'm getting old, you don't want to shock me too much. Might have a fuckin' heart attack."

"If talking about anal didn't do it," you tease, shoving him slightly as if in admonishment, "Then I'm sure you're safe."

"Not like I've done it…" Joel shrugs casually, pretending like he's not giving you a lot of new information. "So yeah."

"Never?" You ask curiously.

He snorts. "No way Tisha would do that." He reminds you, even as a teenager, she had been very vocal about being against that kind of sexual activity. "And it's not like I've dated a lot since. Couldn't imagine asking the few one night stands I've had if I could fuck their ass."

"Fair enough." When he puts it like that, it's obvious. Tisha was never one to do anything but what she wanted. Never willing to try anything that wouldn't immediately benefit her somehow.

He hums and looks back at the movie, less interested in that than the current conversation between the two of you but he also doesn't want to act like a creep.

Even if you hadn’t seen the movie a half dozen times before, you still wouldn’t be too interested in watching it now. Now that you’ve actually talked about sex and no move has been made at all, you’re starting to think you were entirely wrong that he had flirted with you at all.

Joel honestly doesn't know what to say. He thinks it would be really shitty to just ask you if you want to have sex, it would be that sleazy kind of move that plenty of men pull, but he's not most men. But he doesn't know how to move past the end of that conversation. He smirks when he sees the raptor push her head through the brush. "Clever girl." He hums along with the character right before he is killed.

It breaks the spell of tension beautifully, making both of you laugh. When you shift slightly on the couch you end up leaning closer to him by accident, but his arm is right there, stopping you from moving away again.

"You don't have to move away." He offers, turning and giving you a smile. "Spread out."

“You don’t mind me in your space?” You ask quietly, a little awed by the offer.

He almost says something sarcastic, but your expression is hopeful so he just shakes his head. "Not at all." His voice is a little raspy, but he doesn't think you notice.

A small adjustment has you leaning shoulder to shoulder, and you kick your legs up onto the couch to spread out like he suggested. It’s nearly intimate like this, and a warm feeling of anticipation settles over you where the tension used to be.

Joel relaxes as much as he can with you pressed against him. The ache in his groin one that's hard to ignore, but luckily you haven't noticed that he's hard as a rock. Your little blanket thrown over his lap as well as yours, hiding it.

That’s it for concentration as far as either one of you is concerned. It’s all shot to hell but in the most individual and silent ways, dowsing you both in pure torture as the movie ends. If you have one more vivid and detailed thought about shoving the throw blanket aside to swallow his cock you’re going to explode, and he deserves better than your horny nonsense. If only you knew how very similarly he is thinking.

"Break before the next movie?" Joel asks, almost a little desperate. Even if he had jerked off in the shower, he might need to rub one out again if he's going to have you leaning against him for another movie.

“Sure.” Your breakfast was finished hours ago, and you need something to do to take your mind off how badly you want him, so you pop up from the couch immediately and hope like hell your shorts don’t have an obvious damp spot at the crotch where you’re so slick that you’re basically a damn waterfall. “Popcorn?”

"Sounds good." He chokes out and stands quickly. "I'm gonna— bathroom." He makes sure that he doesn't turn back around so hopefully you didn't see the way his basketball shorts were tented out in a very obvious way.

“Get your shit together,” you huff at yourself out loud as soon as he’s left the room. “Fucking hell woman…”

Once the door is closed, Joel hisses, reaching down and squeezing his cock. "Get your shit together." He hisses to himself, annoyed that he is acting like a fucking teenager. This isn't like him, he normally jerks off a few times a week, ignoring his sex drive because of his responsibilities. He closes his eyes and thinks of bills or the goddamn jobsite that is driving him crazy, anything to make his cock go limp. Sighing when he can move over to the toilet and take a piss.

The second movie is just starting when he comes out again, and you’ve assembled cold drinks with your movie snacks in front of the sofa. A quick inspection in the long closet mirror proves that you haven’t made the damp spot in your shorts that you feared and you swear to yourself that you’re going to be calmer for the second movie of the day.

"Sorry." He hates that you have set everything up, while he was trying to get control of his hormones in the bathroom.

"Don't worry about it," you promise him. You've shifted four times on the sofa already, wondering if you're still allowed to lean against him this time, too.

Joel throws his arm back on the edge of the sofa, inviting you to lean against him if you want and looking like he's sprawling out himself if you don't. Wondering what the fuck you are wearing that smells so damn good.

It's worth the chance, you decide, shifting closer to him and tucking yourself into his side to get comfortable. The warmth of him is immense, almost to the point where you shuck the little blanket altogether, although you know the two have nothing to do with each other.

When you settle against him, Joel slides his arm down to your shoulder. Curling you closer to him as he chuckles. "Sarah loves this movie." He admits quietly.

"The second one over the first? Really?" That makes you chuckle softly. "So she's a dinosaur kid, then?"

"She likes the fact that Kelly doesn't look like her dad." Joel admits, shooting you a self conscious smile and shrugging one shoulder.

"Nah." You shake your head slightly, comfortable and settled under his arm. "You're better looking than Jeff Goldblum."

"High praise." He barks out a small laugh. "I have it on good authority that Jeff Goldblum is 'kind of hot', God help me."

"Oh, he absolutely is." Taking a chance, you glance up at Joel and offer him a half-smile. Self-conscious, perhaps, but hopeful and honest. "You're still hotter."

His grunt is surprised and he can't help but look down at your lips. "Am I?"

"Yeah." The heat rises all the way up your body when you realize where he's looking, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. "Without a doubt."

Joel licks his lips and edges closer to you. "Is that right?" He's humming the question but he really doesn't expect an answer, too busy praying that he's reading these signals right.

"Absolutely." It's a miracle you can even hear him over the way your blood in pounding in your ears and your heart is throbbing in your chest, but somehow his words cut through everything. Even through the blossoming fuzzy quality to your vision as you narrow your sights between his eyes and lips. "Cross my heart."

He doesn't pull back, leaning closer and he can feel the slight exhale of your breath against his lips. So close to you and he decides to just go for it. "Good to know." He murmurs right before he presses his lips to yours.

The electricity in the room snaps and crackles as the tension between you pulls so tight that it finally brings you together. Your hand flies up to steady you, fingertips digging into his t-shirt and holding on tight as the kiss deepens without hesitation.

His head fills with you, your scent, your taste. How you feel against him. His other arm comes around you, pulling you closer and dragging you onto his lap.

It all happens fast, but the swift movements are fluid. The blanket hits the floor, your leg swings over Joel's lap, your fingers find purchase in his short curls, and your hips rolls down on his as you deepen the kiss and sweep your tongue through the moan he lets out when he opens up to let you in.

You are aggressive. Not that Joel minds in the slightest. He actually loves that, his hands slide down your back and grip your ass firmly as he twitches against your covered core. "Fuck." He gasps when you pull back slightly.

“I—uh—did I hurt you?” You ask, panting for breath and anxiously searching his eyes to see if you did something he didn’t like

Joel is panting, trying to catch his breath and all he can do is shake his head and grab the back of your neck to drag you back down for another kiss.

Good enough for you, you think wildly right in the second before all coherent thought leaves your head besides the moan in your throat when Joel’s hands squeeze your ass again.

He can't touch enough of your, grunting in frustration when your shorts are too tight for him to get his fucking hand down the back of them. Taking it out on your mouth and applying a little aggression of his own when he bites your bottom lip and tugs on it gentle. "Take your fucking pants off." He hisses against your lips before he kisses you again.

You’ve never taken an order so fast in your entire life. As quickly as you possibly can without breaking the hungry kiss for too long at a time, your shorts and panties are blindly discarded somewhere across the room without ever having to leave his lap.

Groaning, Joel grabs handfuls of your bare ass and moans into your mouth. You are hot, your skin literally hot to the touch and he rocks you on the very prominent hard on under his shorts.

“Yours too, fuck.” You have just enough presence of mind to find the waistband of his shorts when you reach down, groping blindly and shoving your fingers inside his boxers to wrap your fingers around the cock that you swear wasn’t this hard a minute ago.

Joel groans, his head flinging back against the sofa and he rocks up into your grip. "Fuck."

“In a minute,” you admonish, playfully tutting at him like he’s just given you an order instead of groaning out loud.

He manages a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering closed and he shakes his head. "I— fuck, I wasn't planning on this." He confesses. "I don't— I don't have any condoms."

“I don’t either—” But your head tilts as you look down at him, fingers stroking the velvet skin of his cock slowly and watching the way his eyes flutter when you give it a little extra pressure. “But I’ll bet you anything our siblings packed them for us.”

His jaw clenches, stomach heaving and he throws his head back again. "I- probably." His fingers dig into your hip and he manages to slide his hand between your thighs to start stroking your clit. Wanting to give you as much pleasure as you are already giving him.

The way your legs quake at the contact doesn’t escape him, but you’re feeling far too good to even tease him about the sly grin on his face when your head drops forward and you moan sharply into the empty room. “Fuck. We—we should look. Because I need you so damn badly right now.”

"We should." But he doesn't pull his hand away. Instead he is sliding two fingers deep into your pussy and curling them back to make your mouth drop open.

“I—fuck—Joel—” You fall forward in his lap so your forehead presses into his shoulder, holding on to his thick bicep for dear life with one hand while your strokes and his start to find a rhythm together. “Fingers are so fucking thick, oh my god—”

"Pussy's just tight." Joel growls out, cock twitching in your grip as he pants out your name. "You— you gotta let go of my cock if you want me to fuck you." He reasons, even as his fingers continue to pump into your body with the singular goal of making you see stars.

“Under protest,” you admit, huffing a laugh in between moans before putting all of your focus into riding Joel’s fingers and using your now free hands to tear off your shirt and bra. Your tits are gorgeous and Joel has always been a tit man. Lunging up, he captures a nipple in his mouth to start sucking as he finger fucks you until your thighs shake.

The room becomes a jumble of sounds — pants and whines, groans, creaking sofa coils, and the slick wetness of Joel’s fingers being sucked in and out of your pussy at a tempo so furious that you can’t be entirely sure his arm isn’t going to give out. The full effect has your eyes rolling back in your head and your head then falling back, pushing your tits even more toward his face and locking down him entirely as you start to drench his hand in cum.

You are gorgeous when you cum, shaking in his arms and making him groan and feeling like he's about to cum even though you are not even touching his cock.

“Fuck…” The repeating of the word only proves how limited your vocabulary is right now, with your whole world narrowed down to the man underneath you as you float back down to earth in his arms.

He slows his fingers, the slickness of them making him eager to taste your cum and he withdraws them to smirk at your dazed expression as you try to catch your breath. He slips his fingers into his mouth and groans at the tangy sweetness.

The sight of it makes you whine, as though you’re protesting the fact that only your cum is in his mouth and not some other, more substantial, part of you.

"You taste good." He hums, popping his fingers out and smirking at you. He's a little calmed down now, but he still wants to be inside you.

“I’m going to find out how you taste later.” It’s a promise to both of you, and you shiver slightly making it. “First? We need to see if we can find some condoms.”

"You gotta get off my lap, sweetheart." He reminds you.

“Right.” Standing on wobbly legs isn’t easy, but you back off of him and cross the room to where you have your suitcase open on a stand beside the large, comfortable bed.

"Fuck." Joel tears through his own bag, sure that Tommy didn't sneak in some condoms since he hadn't been in the room when he had packed.

“No need to growl, gorgeous.” You hum from behind him. Turning around, you have a full box of condoms in one hand and lube in the other. “My sister either thinks very well of you or somehow knows I’m kinkier than I seem.”

"Thank fucking God." Joel closes his eyes in relief and quickly pulls his shirt off over his head so he is just as naked as you are.

"Thank fucking God," you agree, letting your eyes rake over him hungrily.

He chuckles and he nods towards the bed. "You want to fuck in the bed, or go back to the couch, sweetheart?"

"Bed." Taking a step back to see if the invisible string that attaches you will make him step forward, you grin when your hunch is correct. "We have a hell of a lot more options over here."

"Yes we do." Joel watches you as you back up towards the bed, not turning your back on him. He smirks slightly, enjoying the view and the game as he follows you.

"How do you want me?" The condoms and lube go down on the nightstand beside the bed after you've broken the seal on both items so Joel won't have to waste time fucking with opening the packaging.

"Right now?" He twitches as his cock sways as he moves. "On your back." He chuckles. "Face down ass up is for round two."

"Gladly." In seconds you're up on the bed, tugging a pillow under your head to get comfortable on the bed that had been far too large just last night. Now, Joel's looming frame made it seem just barely big enough.

Reaching for the box, he pulls out a string of condoms and rips one off the length and tosses the rest aside. "Fuck." He groans, watching your thighs part for him. "You are so goddamn gorgeous."

“Been waiting years to hear you say that,” you admit, without even a hint of shame. Everything you had felt for Joel as a young teen was fully justified and you are not going to be shy about making up for all that lost time.

He hums as he opens the condom and enjoys the hungry gaze of your eyes as he pinches the tip of the prophylactic and rolls it down his cock. Squeezing the base and pumping himself lightly. "Been waiting years to say it." He promises as he slides into your welcoming arms.

"Need you, baby." It feels like hours ago that he had his hands on you instead of minutes, and you're already craving him so badly you moan simply at having him near again.

He doesn't answer you, he's too busy settling into the cradle of your thighs and pushing his arms under your back to pull you close as he lines up. "Have me." He promises, pressing his lips to yours right as he starts to push inside you.

If you thought his fingers were thick, it’s no wonder you’re contemplating reach for that lube after only a few inches of his cock. All of Joel is broad, all of him overwhelming in the best sense, and you whine in deep pleasure as he seats all of himself inside you. It makes all of your senses fuzz over and invades every thought, but that is entirely welcome after so many years of missing and wanting him in the depths of your heart.

"It's okay, sweetheart." He murmurs softly, pressing his lips to yours again as he gives you a moment to adjust to him. "I've got you." He kisses around your mouth and down your chin.

“I know.” Lifting your legs to wrap them around his waist feels like coming home in a way you never knew you needed, and you put everything you have into kissing him back. “I’ve got you too.”

"Yes you do." He groans softly, smirking slightly against your lips. "Feels fucking perfect."

“Bet it’ll feel better when you move,” you tease, feeling lightness and joy swell in your chest.

He rolls his eyes and pouts at you. "So I was just supposed to wreck you the first time?"

“Joel Miller,” you smirk at him and roll your hips. “You can wreck me anytime you want.”

He snorts and leans in to kiss you softly before he grins against your lips. “Okay.”

Despite meaning it, you’re grateful when he starts slow, rolling his hips against yours before pulling back just a little at a time with each thrust. You could drown in his kisses, loving having his lips on yours or on your skin the whole time, and start to match his rhythm with the roll of our own body.

You had told him he could wreck you, but he doesn’t like to start out rough and furiously thrusting like he’s running a race. Especially when this is a moment that is years overdue for both of you.

Instead it’s a slow build up to a pace that works for both of you, letting you indulge in long kisses and long strokes of his cock scrubbing against the walls of your sensitive cunt with every thrust. It’s indulgent. Luxurious. And you hope it never ends.

“Glad I didn’t jerk off in the bathroom again.” He pants, chuckling against your pulse as he holds you close and rocks into you. “Would have been embarrassing if you had pressed against me and I wasn’t responding.”

“So glad.” You can agree to that instantly. “You feel so fucking good baby.”

“You feel good.” Joel groans. “Perfect, just like I know you would be.”

“So fucking good—” That gorgeous repetition drips from your lips with a deep moan as his pace increases.

Joel rocks into in a slow, steady pace that makes both of you feel every second of the slide. He’s thankful for the condom, because if it was any more intense, he wouldn’t be able to last to make sure you cum. “Do you need more?” His voice is raspy and hot in your ear. “Can you cum like this or do you need your clit rubbed too?”

“S’good—perfect—” You feel almost dizzy from it, but the way he grinds down into you with every thrust is hitting things inside you that you didn’t even know where there. “Fuck Joel—”

“So you can just cum on my cock?” He loves the way you respond to his voice in your ear, even if it’s just a grunt, you clench around him. Obviously you like to be praised and talked to in bed. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart. Tight little pussy squeezin’ me. Gonna make me blow my load if you don’t stop.”

“We’ve got all—all fucking weekend,” you remind him through gasped pants. And you fully intend to spend the rest of it naked in his arms if he’s up for it.

He chuckles and his hips snap forward with a sharp thrust. “You read my mind, baby.”

When you can think a coherent thought later, you’ll write yourself a note to buy your sister a beautiful souvenir in the hotel’s gift shop. Right now you’re just focused on hanging on to Joel for dear life.

Gradually the pace had moved from slow to needy. The insistent push of his hip giving away the fierceness of his craving for you and his kisses turn to tiny nips of your skin with his teeth.

When you cum the second time it rolls in like a hurricane, washing over you and rocking through your body like it’s about to rearrange your DNA. You know his teeth on your skin have left bruises under the skin, just like his fingers digging into your hip to hold on tight. You know and you absolutely could not care less as you cry his name into the quiet afternoon.

Joel shudders, a shiver racing down his spine when you body bucks and heaves under him, around him. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as he feels his own orgasm rocket that much closer every time your walls flutter around him.

“Come on, baby,” you moan into a kiss, nipping at his bottom lip since he seems to like to nip and bite. “Cum for me.”

"Goddamn." He groans, hips stuttering and he pushes deep, your name falling brokenly from his lips as he fills the condom in a better orgasm than he had this morning.

“Fuck.” A sigh and groan of agreement passes your lips with that word, and your head drops back against the pillow which such a solid thunk that you can’t help but giggle.

"We just did that." There's a smile in his voice, his head buried against your throat. "If you're demanding more, you gotta give me a little bit."

You bury your nose in the crook of his shoulder, muffling a snort, and kiss his sweaty skin when you start laughing again. “Smart ass,” you tease, altogether too fondly.

"Got an ass right here." He huffs. "Think you might have dug your claws into it, you she-cat." He's teasing, having loved ever time your nails dug into his skin, urging him on.

“You liked it,” you remind him, not missing the way he bit and nipped and scratched right back.

"Damned right, I did." He kisses your chin and groans because he has to move, has to pull out of you.

“I say we don’t get dressed,” you propose, accepting his silent offer to cuddle closer when he rolls over onto his side and opens up one arm to you.

"That sounds good to me." He admits, having secured the condom before laying back down and he tosses it on the nightstand to discard later.

“Perfect.” Dusting kisses along his bicep, you rest your head on his arm and sigh happily.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

[joeldjarin]

Be the Thing I Want part 5

pairing: joel miller (the last of us) x femsexworker!reader

summary: 1.1k words. Your body still trades well when you move to Jackson. Though ostracized by the majority of the town, you find an ally in Joel Miller.

rating: E for sexual content, rough piv sex, angst, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Joel is in his 60s), degradation, power dynamics, angry sex, sub!Joel

a/n: non-beta’d; all mistakes are my own.

masterlist

You don’t expect to run into her again.

Jackson is small, and the town’s got a rhythm— the same paths, the same routines. You’re by the water trough near the stables, brushing off your gloves, when Ellie rounds the corner with her sleeves rolled up and a shovel slung over one shoulder.

She spots you immediately.

You brace yourself for discomfort, but she doesn’t slow. She walks up and says:

“You look like shit.”

You huff a breath. “Good to see you too.”

Ellie leans on the post beside you, arms crossed, nose red from the cold. “So... something happened, right?”

You glance at her. “What makes you think that?”

She snorts. “I’m not stupid. You’ve got the ‘I yelled at someone and cried about it’ look.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Was it Joel?” she asks, a little too quick.

You say nothing.

“It was Joel,” she says, half-horrified, half-satisfied.

You sigh. “He kissed me.”

Ellie’s eyes widen. “Gross.”

That makes you laugh. It’s sharp and flings out of you involuntarily.

“I didn’t want him to,” you add. “I told him not to.”

Her face sobers. “Seriously?”

You nod. “He was being a jealous asshole. Grabbed me like he thought I owed him something.”

Ellie looks down, jaw tight. “He can be like that. Doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

You nod. “I know.”

There’s a silence, though it’s not altogether heavy.

Ellie mumbles, “He’s such an asshole.”

You smirk. “He is an asshole.”

She breaks. Laughs.

Then you’re both giggling like it’s something light—like he didn’t fuck you raw and then fuck everything else up too. It’s a good sound. Wrong, but good.

When it fades, Ellie nudges your elbow. “You okay, though?”

You nod slowly. “Getting there.”

She studies you a second, then shrugs. “Let me know if you want him punched.”

You blink. “You’d do that?”

“Depends. You paying?”

You snort. “Go shovel snow, kid.”

She grins and disappears down the path, boots crunching, whistling low. For the first time in days, your chest doesn’t ache quite so much.

-

He knocks this time.

Just once, barely audible. As if he’s hoping you won’t hear.

You do anyway. You open the door because you’re tired of avoiding things, because the tension’s already living under your skin, so what’s one more bruise?

He’s standing there like he never really left.

"Didn’t think you’d answer,” he says.

You lean against the frame. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

He nods and looks down at the porch boards, scuffed and soft from years of wear. “Shouldn’t’ve done what I did.”

You don’t say anything.

“I crossed a line. I know it.”

You remain silent.

“I’m not here to make excuses,” he says. “I’m just... sorry.”

You study him.

He’s not cleaned up. He still has dirt on his boots. A rip at the cuff of his jacket. His hands look raw, like he’s been working or pacing or something else that didn’t fix anything.

“You want something?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Just wanted to say it.”

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t snap.

He doesn’t fill it.

You want to slam the door. You want to step forward. You want to scream and cry and maybe touch his face just to prove you still can.

Instead, you cross your arms. “You don’t get to act like this is noble. Showing up. Saying sorry. You kissed me after I told you not to.”

He nods, face tight. “I know.”

“Do you?” you snap. “Do you really?”

His jaw flexes.

“I do,” he says. “And I hate myself for it.”

That surprises you. Not the guilt—but the softness in his voice. Like the truth’s been carving him up from the inside and he’s only just now letting it bleed.

You want to hate him.

You really do, but something in his shoulders—something in the way he doesn’t try to get closer, doesn’t reach, doesn’t ask—makes your throat feel thick.

“I ain’t askin’ for another chance,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Just wanted you to know I heard you.”

You nod once. You shut the door. Not a slam. Not a fuck you. It's quiet but not kind.

-

He doesn’t say much when he returns days later.

He stands in the doorway like he did the first time, cold biting at his collar, eyes low but steady.

“I got something,” he says. “If you’re still… taking.”

You lean on the frame and Cross your arms. You study him like he’s just another offer to weigh.

“Yeah,” you say at last. “You can pay.”

He nods and ollows you inside.

You don’t ask what he wants this time.

You tell him. Coat off, shirt unbuttoned, belt gone—you strip him with your eyes and your hands, push him back on the edge of the bed without a single command spoken aloud.

He doesn’t resist.

You climb over him like you’re mounting a horse, like he’s not a man but something to ride out your frustration on. You sink onto him without ceremony—dry and blunt at first, then wet enough that he gasps.

You cover his mouth with your hand.

“Don’t make a fucking sound.”

He nods. You roll your hips slowly. Then hard. You grind.

His hands clench at his sides. Not on you. He knows better now.

Your pace quickens. You’re already close. It’s all nerves and memory and fury. You’re chasing something mean inside yourself.

His eyes squeeze shut.

“Open them,” you hiss.

He obeys. You fuck yourself on him faster.

“Look at me,” you growl. “Watch what you did.”

Joel moans beneath your hand. You lean down, teeth close to his ear.

“You don’t get to come,” you whisper. “Not until I say.”

He nods again. Face flushed. Sweat beads at his temple. You keep going.

Keep dragging every noise out of him with your silence, your control, your body moving like it remembers what it needs and doesn’t need him to give it.

When you crumble—when your back arches and your thighs clench—you don’t whimper. You curse. You spit his name like a warning.

Then you climb off him. He looks up at you, wrecked. Breathing hard. Still hard.

Still waiting. You tilt your head.

“On the floor.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He shifts down, hand wrapped around his cock, jerking fast, messy. You sit on the edge of the bed and watch him, arms crossed.

He comes with a grunt, spilling across the worn floorboards.

He doesn’t ask for anything after. You don’t offer a towel. Don’t say a word.

You get up and pull your shirt on.

He’s still catching his breath when you say, “Leave the payment and go.”

He does. The door clicks shut behind him like a question unanswered.

You don’t look back.

tagging: @joeldjarin @gay4magneto @smvtwitchmiller @pleurpetal @onlythehobi

[joeldjarin]

#plaid always looks good

PEDRO PASCAL in: Strange Way of Life, The Last of Us, Nurse Jackie, The Bubble, Red Widow, Brothers & Sisters, Narcos, Freaky Tales, and Touched by an Angel

[joeldjarin]

PEDRO PASCAL 'Eddington' Press Conference | Cannes Film Festival

[joeldjarin]

You may like that guy but I like him in a worse and more perverted way than you

[joeldjarin]

#he turned 50 and all filter just melted away lmao

[joeldjarin]

PEDRO PASCAL as REED RICHARDS/MISTER FANTASTIC

The Fantastic Four : First Steps (2025) dir. Matt Shakman

[joeldjarin]

Be the Thing I Want part 4

pairing: joel miller (the last of us) x femsexworker!reader

summary: 2.9k words. Your body still trades well when you move to Jackson. Though ostracized by the majority of the town, you find an ally in Joel Miller.

rating: E for sexual content (no smut in this part), rough piv sex, angst, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Joel is in his 60s), Daddy kink, dirty talk, degradation

a/n: non-beta’d; all mistakes are my own. this part is kind of mean, just warning you. but I promise this fic has a happy ending!

masterlist

You wake to cold sheets and silence.

No scent of coffee. No weight beside you. Only the echo of last night sinking into the mattress, your body still tender where he held you down, mouth still bruised from the way you kissed the pillow instead of him.

Joel’s gone.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave you the chocolate.

It shouldn’t matter. You’ve had rougher exits. Cleaner ones, too. But the quiet this time feels like a door closing. Like a decision made in the dark, behind your back.

You get up slowly, wash with freezing water, pull on your warmest sweater. The house smells like sex and the broth he made you. You open a window and let the cold wind scour it out.

By noon, you’ve had another visitor. He’s quick and polite, says thank you like he’s buying tea. He leaves a couple of ration cards and a soft comment about your sheets being nicer than last time.

You nod, smile, and let him go. When you open the door to let him out, Joel is there.

He’s standing halfway down the street, by the hitching post. His hands are in his pockets with his scarf pulled up over his mouth, watching.

Your stomach dips. You pretend not to see him. You don’t wave. You close the door like it’s any other day, like you didn’t just feel the air shift.

-

Later, he knocks. Not right away but two days later.

You open the door and lean against the frame, not moving to let him in.

“You left quiet,” you say.

He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he glances past your shoulder, like he expects someone else to be inside.

You sigh. “What do you want, Joel?”

His jaw works. “You've been busy.”

You arch a brow. “Since when is that your business?”

He shrugs. “Just sayin’. Don’t like seein’ strangers comin’ outta here.”

You cross your arms. “You’re not the only one who pays.”

“That what it is? Just payin’?”

You narrow your eyes. “What else would it be?”

Joel doesn’t answer. That silence—that hesitation—it makes you angry.

“You don’t get to act like you own me,” you snap. “You pay, Joel. That’s the deal. If you want something different, then say it. But don’t stand there like some jealous fucking—”

“I ain’t jealous,” he growls, stepping forward. “I just—fuck.”

You hold your ground.

“Then what is it?”

He looks at you, hard. For the first time, you see it in his eyes—not just desire, not just want.

There’s need. Ugly, hot, unfair. He wants to be the only one.

You leave the door open behind you and the wind rushes in, to make him feel unwelcome if you won’t say it out loud. Joel doesn’t step inside, but he doesn’t walk away either.

You stand there with your arms crossed, sweater tugged tight at the sleeves. His eyes flick to your bare legs, then back up.

“You gonna come in or keep tryin’ to guilt me from the porch?” you ask flatly.

He takes a slow breath, steps in.

You shut the door behind him with a click that sounds too final.

Joel doesn’t sit. He doesn’t touch you.

He just stands there like he’s still deciding what role to play.

“I don’t want anyone else in here,” he says.

You laugh dryly. Cruel, because you need it to be.

“That’s not how this works.”

“I know.”

“You pay. You fuck me. You leave. That’s the deal.”

“I know.”

You watch him. Watch the jaw twitch, the fists tighten, the stubborn silence that’s always hung around him like a second skin. The part of him that won’t ask for what he wants. Not out loud.

“I don’t belong to you,” you say, voice quieter now.

Joel’s eyes darken. “Didn’t say you did.”

“Sure feels like that’s what you’re getting at.”

He doesn’t argue. Just stares.

It makes something in you clench, hard and sharp and familiar. That place deep down that remembers being claimed before it ever knew it wanted to be.

You step closer. Close enough to smell the snow on his coat, the faint copper of his skin.

“You left without a word,” you whisper. “Now you’re pissed that someone else didn’t.”

Joel’s jaw tightens.

You lean in just enough to test him.

“You don’t get to have it both ways.”

His breath catches. Just barely.

“You want me all to yourself?” you murmur.

Still no answer.

You reach up, brush your fingers along his collar. Light. Barely there.

“Then say it.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he moves fast.

Grabs your wrist, not hard—but enough. Enough to stop you. Enough to make you feel the heat in his fingers. The desperation.

“I don’t share,” he says. Voice rough. Dangerous.

You smile like a knife.

“Well, neither do I.”

Joel’s breathing hard now. You’re toe-to-toe, and he looks at you like he’s torn between kissing you and tearing the house down around you.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you murmur.

“Neither did I.”

You stare at each other for a long, burning moment.

Then he says, soft and bitter: “But here we are.”

You hold his stare.

Too long. Too hard.

The way he says I don’t share like it’s something sacred, something earned, something he thinks gives him a stake in you.

You breathe out, sharp. “That’s bullshit.”

Joel doesn’t flinch. He just watches you, tight-lipped. Like he knew you’d say it but hoped he’d still win.

“You think you can just—what?” you scoff. “Show up after days of nothing, glare at me from down the fucking street, and now suddenly you care who’s in my bed?”

“I been caring.”

“No. You’ve been fucking me. That’s not the same thing.”

He looks away. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

You push.

“You think you’re the only one who hates leaving? You think I like waking up to cold sheets and silence like it was all in my head?”

His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t speak.

“So don’t stand there acting like I did something wrong just because I didn’t shut the door on someone else’s wallet.”

That lands. You can see it.

Joel’s mouth curls into something bitter. Not quite a smile.

“You done?” he asks, voice flat.

“No,” you snap. “You don’t get to twist this around. You left without a word. That’s not about me, that’s about you. So don’t come back acting like I’m the one crossing lines.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then laughs mirthlessly, hollow.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You sound like you've been waitin’ to say that.”

You don’t blink.

“Yeah. Maybe I have.”

You step back, arms still crossed. The space between you stretches like pulled thread—tense and fraying.

“Come back when you’re thinkin’ straight,” you say, voice low now, even. “Not when you’re mad at yourself and need someone else to carry it.”

Joel stares at you like he wants to argue. Like something’s at the edge of his mouth but he knows it won’t come out right.

So instead, he nods. And then he leaves without another word.

The door closes with a soft click.

Nothing dramatic. Just wood against the frame. And then—quiet. That same fucking silence that’s followed Joel out every time he’s left you.

But this time, it’s worse.

Because he saw you. Heard you. And still walked.

You stand in the middle of the room, arms dropped, fists loose. Heart thudding so loud you feel it in your teeth. The heat is up too high—it feels stifling now, like you’re choking on all the air he left behind.

You should sit down.

You should pull yourself together. Act like none of it matters.

But something sharp twists under your ribs—too fast, too much.

Before you know it, you grab the nearest thing: a chipped ceramic bowl off the table. It’s ugly, functional. You’ve eaten out of it a dozen times without thinking. But now it’s just in your hand, and then—

It explodes against the wall.

Ceramic and grit scatter across the floor. A jagged piece bounces, clinks into the leg of a chair.

You stare at the mess, chest heaving.

And then, like it needs somewhere to land, the word bursts out of you.

“Damn it!”

The sound cracks your throat on the way out. It feels wild and foreign and hot—hotter than his hands ever made you.

You’ve never yelled before.

Not like that.

Not here.

Not in this little house where everything’s always been quiet, managed, held together by whatever calm you could stitch between appointments.

But it’s out now, echoing through the room.

You put your hands on your knees, breathe like you’re coming down from something worse than sex. Worse than fever. Your pulse won’t settle.

Neither will you.

The bowl didn’t deserve it. Neither did the wall. But fuck it.

You straighten slowly, step over the shards, and press your palm flat against the wood just below the cracked plaster. You feel the warmth there, left over from your own fury.

Your hand trembles.

-

You don’t mean to be out.

You needed air. Maybe bread. Something simple that doesn’t smell like guilt or cold sweat. The sky’s a low, stubborn gray, and you’re halfway back from the trade post—hands empty—when you hear it:

“Hey.”

You glance up.

It’s Ellie.

She’s leaning against the butcher’s railing, a paper-wrapped package in her arms, blood soaking the corner. You haven’t spoken since that awkward moment weeks ago—your memory of it is sharp, unfinished.

“Hey,” you say back, cautious.

Ellie eyes you, shifts her weight, then shrugs. “You look... fine.”

You smirk. “That’s generous.”

She shrugs again, kicking the post like she’s trying to summon something braver in herself.

There’s a pause before she blurts out, “So, uh—people talk.”

You wait.

“About, like... who goes where. Who pays who.”

You lift a brow and stay quiet.

She squints, like she’s not sure she should continue, then grimaces. “Is it true Joel—?”

You tilt your head.

She groans. “Ugh. Never mind. I’m just—He’s so... old.”

You bark out a laugh, and it’s genuine and sharp. 

Ellie winces. “Sorry. That was... yeah. Sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” you grin. “He is.”

“Like, really old.”

You nod. “Ancient.”

Her lip quirks, like she didn’t expect you to take it that way. “Just—wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s just weird to think about.”

“It’s weird to live,” you reply, dry.

Ellie looks like she wants to crawl into the snowbank beside you.

She shifts again, then clears her throat. “Anyway. Just—was checking in. Guess I shouldn’t have said anything.”

You pause. “You didn’t say anything I haven’t thought.”

She glances at you, sharp but not unkind.

And then, softer: “You okay, though?”

You blink. It’s almost a whisper, the way she says it. The first real question in the whole exchange.

“Getting by,” you say.

Ellie nods like she understands. Or wants to.

“I should get this home,” she says, nodding at the bloody package. “Just—y’know. Don’t let him throw his old-man feelings around like they mean something.”

You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She hesitates. “Also—uh. He’s a good shot. If anyone gives you trouble, he’d probably gut them.”

You hum. “Noted.”

“Okay. Cool.” She backs away awkwardly. “Stay warm, or whatever.”

“You too.”

She turns, and you keep walking, the smile still ghosting your mouth.

Joel might be old. He might be complicated, but Ellie made you laugh.

-

It shows up a few days later.

You don’t hear the knock. You’re not even sure there was one.

It’s early. Gray light. You open the door because the wind’s been rattling it all morning, and there it is—

A small wrapped parcel. Brown paper, tied with string. It’s neat and quiet.

No note.

You look around the porch. No one. The street is empty, snow-dusted, still.

You crouch, pick it up. It’s light. Cold.

Inside, folded carefully, is a pair of wool socks—thick and handmade, the kind you only get from someone who understands what cold really feels like.

Beneath them: a tin of cocoa powder.

Not the cheap stuff. Not trade post stock. This must’ve been stashed somewhere deep—brought from a QZ, maybe, or bartered from someone who didn’t know what they had.

You hold it in your palm.

It’s warm from your touch already.

You haven’t had cocoa since you were a teenager. Since some woman with soft hands and quick fingers smuggled it under your pillow in a QZ infirmary. You’d been feverish then too.

You press your thumb to the string.

There’s no name. But you don’t need one.

Joel didn’t say anything. He didn’t show his face.

He just left this.

You stare at the tin a long time before you set it on the counter. You pour boiling water. Stir slowly until it darkens and smells like memory. You sip it standing up, fingers curled around the cup, the wool socks folded beside your elbow.

He still hasn’t come back, but he wants you warm.

That’s something. Maybe not enough.

Maybe not nothing, either.

-

He shows up at dusk.

No knock this time either. Only a shadow at your window. A pause. Then a single rap—knuckles on wood.

You know it’s him. You’re already wearing the socks.

They’re thick enough that the floor doesn’t bite when you cross it, cup still in your hand from the last sip of weak broth you made just to pass the time.

You open the door.

Joel doesn’t speak.

He just stands there, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, jaw tight, eyes flicking down to your feet.

His gaze stays there a moment too long.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “You’re wearin’ ’em.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t grateful.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

You take a step back, enough to let him in.

He hesitates. Then crosses the threshold.

Inside, he shrugs off the snow. He doesn’t take his coat off. He stands near the fire, eyes still roaming the room like he’s cataloguing what’s changed.

It hasn’t. Not really. Except maybe you.

You lean against the table. “You leave that stuff because you felt bad? Or because you couldn’t say it out loud?”

Joel’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not even close. Just something that wants to be one but doesn’t dare.

“I didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

“You’re not.”

That lands but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

“You still mad at me?” he asks.

“No.” You shrug. “Not mad. Just tired of the rules shifting every time you walk in here.”

Joel nods, slowly. “I get that.”

A long beat passes.

“You could’ve just said thank you,” he mutters, quieter.

“I don’t thank men for what they should do.”

Joel looks at you. And there it is again.

That flash of something in him—need, guilt, want—all twisted up in the wrong shape.

You lift your cup. Sip. “Besides, I liked the cocoa better.”

He huffs a breath, like he almost laughs. Almost.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he says.

You meet his eyes, sharp. “You don’t have to.”

He shifts, hands clenching.

“I do, though.”

He lingers by the fire too long.

You should’ve told him to go the moment he stepped inside, but something in your chest—maybe the softness of the socks, maybe the tin of cocoa—hesitated.

Now you regret it.

Joel’s standing too close. Watching you too hard. His hands flexing at his sides like he's choking on words.

“Someone else been by?” he asks.

You go still.

“Don’t do that,” you say, quiet.

He doesn’t stop. “I saw the footprints…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You let him sit in the silence. Then you smile. Except it’s not kind.

“Oh, I get it. You think I should’ve waited, sat here like a good girl, legs crossed, lights off, just in case you felt like showing up.”

He looks away, shame flickering across his face.

You step forward,closing the gap on purpose.

“Do you want me to be your little wife?” you ask, voice honeyed and cruel. “Is that it? You want to come home to dinner and a fuck, and maybe a smile if you’ve been real sweet that day?”

Joel swallows hard.

You lean in, low and cutting. “Do you want to be my daddy, is that what this is?”

His eyes snap to yours.

And then he grabs you.

Hands on your arms—not rough, not tender, just too much—and he kisses you like he can’t stop himself. Mouth hard, desperate, a half-swallowed apology dressed up like need.

You go still.

Your fists ball against his chest. You don’t kiss him back. The tears hit, fast and hot.

You break away first.

His breath stutters as he sees your face.

Wet. Tight with anger.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t do that.”

He blinks, confused.

You wipe your cheeks. “You don’t get to turn this into something else just because it hurts now.”

Joel opens his mouth—then closes it.

You step back. “You don’t want a wife, Joel. You want a warm body that doesn’t talk back.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” you snap. “And I’m not your little anything.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing something for the first time, like maybe it was never his.

You shake your head, voice soft now, deadly: “I told you not to kiss me.”

Joel doesn’t speak. When he leaves, you don’t watch.

You just sit on the floor, breath shallow, your arms still buzzing where his hands held on.

tagging: @joeldjarin @gay4magneto @smvtwitchmiller @pleurspetal @onlythehobi

[joeldjarin]

SIR??

[joeldjarin]

Be the Thing I Want part 3

pairing: joel miller (the last of us) x femsexworker!reader

summary: 3.1k words. Your body still trades well when you move to Jackson. Though ostracized by the majority of the town, you find an ally in Joel Miller.

rating: E for sexual content, rough piv sex, angst, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Joel is in his 60s), Daddy kink, dirty talk, degradation

a/n: non-beta’d; all mistakes are my own.

You wake shivering.

Not from cold, but from something deeper—your skin feels too tight, your throat lined with ash. Every joint aches like it’s been scraped clean, and your pulse stutters against the roof of your mouth. You try to sit up, but the room swims and tips like you’re on a boat.

You get as far as the door before your legs buckle.

You land hard on your knees, hands clutching the floorboards. The wind outside howls against the slats of the house, and somewhere in the back of your skull, you register that you haven’t eaten in two days. Maybe more.

You meant to fix that.

You meant to get up.

You meant—

A knock at the door.

You can’t answer it. Not really. You lean against the wall, breathing like you’ve just outrun something. Your voice comes out weak: “Go away.”

Another knock. Firmer.

“Jesus,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer.

Then the door opens.

Joel.

He steps inside like he expected to find you this way.

You squint up at him, vision narrowed to shadow and outline. He’s bundled in that worn coat, snow melting in his hair. His boots thud across the floor. He crouches beside you, reaching to touch your shoulder.

“Don’t,” you rasp.

He ignores you. His hand is warm where it presses to your back. “You’re burning up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Not a chance.”

He gets an arm under you. You’re too weak to fight him, but you manage a little dignity by slurring, “You here for a discount?”

“Shut up,” he says, soft. “Save your strength.”

You black out before he lifts you.

-

When you come to again, you’re in your bed. The covers are layered thick. Your sweater’s gone, but your shirt’s still on—clinging to your skin, soaked through. The room smells like broth and salt and Joel’s sweat. You hear something clatter in the kitchen.

You blink. Time slips sideways again.

When the light shifts orange through the curtains, you realize it’s nearly sundown.

Joel’s there when you blink again. Sitting beside the bed in the chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, knife in his hand. He’s carving something—small, careful strokes—but when he sees you awake, he sets it down.

“You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately.”

He offers you water. You sip it. It tastes like metal and warmth.

“I didn’t ask you to stay,” you mutter.

“You didn’t have to.”

You stare at him.

“What are you doing here, Joel?”

He hesitates, doesn’t answer right away.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“You’re not.”

A silence stretches out. You break it with a breath.

“You pay to fuck me,” you say, flat. “You don’t owe me anything else.”

He watches you for a long time. You meet his gaze.

“Then why’d you come?” you ask.

Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

He just says, quiet and certain: “’Cause I wanted to.”

-

You drift in and out.

The fever breaks, then surges again. It curls inside you like smoke, tangling in your limbs, pressing behind your eyes. Every time you surface, Joel is there.

He doesn’t speak much.

But you catch the sound of water boiling, the scrape of a spoon, the clink of metal against your chipped bowl. Once, the chair creaks and you feel his hand on your forehead. It’s rough and calloused, but steady. Measured.

You don’t remember what you said when he pulled your sweat-drenched shirt off. But you remember the way he looked away as he did it. Like he’d seen you naked a dozen times, but this was different. This wasn’t part of the deal.

At some point, you hear him mutter something under his breath.

Not for you. Just to himself.

Your body shakes from the heat still trying to leave you. You press your face into the pillow, tasting salt, barely able to move. Everything aches.

When you open your eyes again, it’s night.

The lamp’s been turned low. The room glows gold. You hear the whistle of wind outside, a thud somewhere far off—maybe the gate, maybe a branch falling. Joel’s still here.

He’s dozed off in the chair, legs stretched out, arms folded over his chest. His head leans back like he couldn’t help it anymore.

He stayed.

Even when he didn’t have to.

You let your eyes roam over him, slow and heavy. His face looks softer like this. Older. But the lines don’t seem so sharp when he’s asleep. He looks like someone who used to be at war with the world and forgot how to stop.

Your heart does something strange and sore.

You cough—quietly—but it wakes him.

He sits forward, alert in an instant. “You okay?”

You nod. “Water.”

He brings it to you without hesitation and holds it to your mouth. You sip. A little more this time. It’s warm. So is his hand where it cradles your head.

“Thanks,” you say, voice wrecked.

He sets the cup down and doesn’t move away right away.

You watch him.

“Still not charging you for this,” you croak.

That earns a breath of a laugh. “Didn’t think you would.”

You study him. The way he lingers. The crease between his brows that hasn’t eased all night. The way his hand brushes your arm, barely there.

“Why are you helping me?” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours.

You see the answer before he says it.

“’Cause I care what happens to you.”

You close your eyes.

And let that truth settle under your skin like the heat in your bones.

-

You wake to the quiet sound of your own breath.

Cool now. Damp with sweat, but not burning. Your skin no longer feels like it’s on fire—just wrung out, raw at the edges. The worst has passed. You’re still here.

You blink slowly. The room has gone silver-blue in the low moonlight.

Joel is awake.

Sitting at the edge of your bed now, not in the chair. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed. When you stir, he looks up fast—like he’d been waiting for it.

Your throat is dry. “You’re still here.”

He nods.

You shift under the blankets. The sheet clings to your damp skin. Sweat curls your hair at the temples. You’re limp, wrung out, softer than you like to be in front of anyone.

Joel doesn’t look away.

His hand twitches on his knee, like he wants to reach for you but thinks better of it.

You lie there a moment, then murmur, “Joel.”

He leans forward a little. “Yeah?”

You wet your lips. “I know you care. Even when you pay. You always looked at me like you did.”

He swallows. His voice goes quiet. “You see too much.”

You close your eyes, too tired to argue. “Then tell me why.”

A long pause. The chair creaks again as he shifts his weight.

“’Cause I’d hate myself if I didn’t,” he says finally.

Something inside you drops. Not in fear. In recognition.

You nod, just once, and let silence settle again.

The air is close. The kind of quiet that fills in after a storm. You shift again under the covers, and the scent rises off your skin—earthy, mineral, warm from where the fever boiled out of you. You notice Joel’s breath hitch slightly.

When you open your eyes again, he’s closer.

His hand is on the sheet now, fingers curled near your hip. He doesn’t touch you. But his eyes have changed—darker, glassy. His chest rises a little faster.

You feel it before he says anything.

That he’s not just concerned anymore.

That the scent of your skin, flushed and sweat-slick from the fever, is doing something to him. Something he can’t quite mask.

You give him a look. Half-lidded. Sharp.

“You’re not gonna fuck me when I’m half-dead, Joel.”

His jaw twitches. “Didn’t say I would.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

He exhales through his nose. Long. Controlled.

“I’m human,” he mutters.

You don’t say anything. Just let the moment stretch and hum between you like heat rising from a long-cold stove.

Then, softer: “Wait ‘til I’m better.”

Joel blinks once.

Then nods.

His hand stays where it is—close, but not touching.

He stays beside you until dawn.

-

By morning, your strength has come back enough to sit up.

The fever’s broken. Your skin is damp but cool, and your limbs feel heavy, not hollow. Joel is still there—coffee on the stove, a tin of something open on the table, one of his hands wrapped around the chipped mug like it’s all that’s keeping him grounded.

You watch him for a moment.

He doesn’t realize you’re looking until you shift the blankets down, just a little.

He turns.

And he stops breathing.

Your shirt is clinging again, the neckline wide from being pulled off and on in your haze. One shoulder exposed. The slope of your chest visible in the dim morning light.

“Coffee?” you rasp, voice low from sleep and recovery.

He doesn’t move.

Then he sets the mug down, stands, and crosses to the bed.

“I said—” you start, but his hand reaches out and grazes the sweat-damp skin above your collarbone.

You freeze.

His fingers slide gently—down your throat, across the sharp line of your clavicle, to the center of your chest where heat still radiates low and slow.

“You smell—” he murmurs, but cuts himself off.

“Like what?” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Dark. Not hesitant anymore.

“Like you survived,” he says. “And it’s driving me fuckin’ crazy.”

Your pulse kicks.

He leans in, doesn’t kiss your mouth. Just presses his face to your neck, inhales deep.

You feel his breath stutter, the way his hands settle on your thighs through the blankets.

“You said wait ’til you’re better,” he says, voice ragged.

You tilt your head, baring more of your throat.

“Then take what you want.”

Joel groans—quiet, guttural—and pushes the blanket aside. You’re bare under it. Still sticky with sweat, but he doesn’t care. He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters. His hands slide under your knees, spreading you open.

He kisses everywhere except your mouth.

Your stomach. Your hip. The softest part of your inner thigh.

Then he buries his face between your legs and drinks you like you’re the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.

You fist the sheets, eyes rolling back. Your body arches, feverish in a different way now—hot with the slick sound of his tongue, the grind of his stubble, the way he growls low when you moan his name.

When you come, you don’t scream. You just shake—shuddering hard under his hands, clutching the blanket like it might anchor you to the world.

He pulls back with his mouth wet, lips swollen, eyes black with need.

“You still charging for this?” he rasps.

You grin, breathless. “Fuck yes.”

Joel chuckles. His thumb presses between your legs again.

“Then I better make it worth it.”

He doesn’t let you come down fully.

His thumb circles slowly and sure while he leans up, drags his tongue across your chest—your nipples tight from sweat and air and everything he’s doing to you. You gasp when he takes one into his mouth, hums low like it tastes better than it should.

“Still hot,” he murmurs against your skin.

“Fever’s gone.”

“Not talkin’ about the fever.”

You huff a laugh, or maybe it’s a moan. Your hips lift, chasing friction. His hand tightens on your thigh, anchoring you.

“You want it?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“I’m not sayin’ please.”

“You never do.”

He rises up, unbuckling his belt, eyes on you. You can see how hard he is—his cock flushed and leaking, thick and twitching as he fists the base with one hand.

Then, softer: “Tell me where you want it.”

You spread your legs wider. One hand cupping your breast, the other tracing lazy circles over your own belly like you don’t need him—but you do. You really, really do.

“Right here,” you say, tapping between your legs. “Where it’s already wet for you.”

Joel curses under his breath.

He lines himself up, pushes in slow—not teasing, but reverent. The stretch is deep, aching, perfect. You both groan at the same time.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”

“Like what you did to me,” you pant. “Like what you always do.”

He thrusts hard, once, all the way to the hilt. Your eyes roll back.

Then again.

And again.

He fucks you like it means something. Like you’re not just a hole, not just a body, but a thing he wants to wreck and worship and keep.

You claw at his back. Bite down on his shoulder when he hits that spot that makes you see stars. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t ask if it’s too much.

He knows it isn’t.

Your bodies slap together, the room thick with sweat and slick and breathless curses.

“You gonna come for me again?” he growls.

“Already close,” you gasp. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. His hand finds your throat—light, not choking, just resting there like a promise. Your eyes meet.

“You let me stay last night,” he says, grinding into you.

“You earned it.”

He leans down, presses his lips to your temple. “Gonna earn it again.”

You come again so hard it rips a sob from your throat.

Joel follows, groaning deep in his chest as he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you, panting, shaking, saying your name like it’s the only thing he remembers.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

And neither do you.

-

You wake with the light stretching across the bed in stripes. Pale, low sun. The kind that barely warms but still fills the room like it belongs there.

You sit up slowly, the sheet dragging against your hips. Wrap it around your waist. Your thighs ache, slick at the seam. Your chest is bare, nipples soft in the chill. Elbows on your knees, you let your head drop forward for a breath.

Joel shifts beside you.

Still half-asleep. One arm slips around your stomach, rough fingers splaying over the skin just below your navel like they own the place. He inhales behind you, slow and low, like he already knows exactly where you are.

You don't look at him. Just murmur, “I want chocolate.”

His voice is gravel. “That what you get outta this?”

You scoff. “Only thing that doesn’t make me feel like shit after.”

He chuckles against your back, the sound curling warm into your spine.

“Could be worse,” he mutters. “Could be askin’ me to kiss you.”

You hum. “You’d say no.”

“I would.”

The quiet that follows is soft. Familiar.

Then, rougher: “What about callin’ me ‘daddy’?”

Your head turns. Slowly.

He’s smirking.

Not a real one—just that flicker of mischief he lets slip when his guard's low. But there’s something under it. Not quite mockery. Not quite daring. Something that sees all the cracks in you and digs at them gently.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you shift and pull one leg over his thighs. You sink your weight down and straddle him, fully bare beneath the sheet. He blinks up at you, still drowsy, but you can already feel him stirring beneath you.

You don’t grind yet. Don’t move. You only lean forward, palms planted on his chest, hair falling over your shoulder.

His eyes trace every inch of you.

He doesn’t smile now.

“You’re not gonna say it,” he says, voice low.

You raise a brow. “You want me to?”

Joel shrugs. “Don’t need it.”

You hold his gaze.

He’s hardening under you—slow, insistent—but doesn’t reach for you yet. Just keeps looking. Like he’s trying to see something past your skin.

He says, almost quiet, “You don’t let anyone keep you, do you?”

Your pulse stirs.

You shake your head. “No one stays long enough to try.”

Joel’s hands come to your hips. Tight. Grounding.

“I’m still here.”

You lean down, chest brushing his. “Yeah, but for how long?”

He doesn’t answer.

You kiss his throat, not his mouth.

And slide your hips forward, slow.

You start slow.

Rocking your hips, dragging your wet heat over the length of his cock. Not taking him in, not yet—just letting him feel it, the soft slide of your slick lips along the underside of him, again and again until his jaw tightens.

“Don’t tease,” he warns.

But you just smirk, hips circling, your cunt slicking him up so deliberately he twitches under you.

You lean forward, breasts brushing his chest, mouth near his ear.

“Do you want it,” you murmur, soft and cruel, “Daddy?”

The effect is instant.

Joel exhales sharp through his nose and grabs your hips hard—fingers digging in like he means to leave marks. His voice cuts low, rough and dark.

“You wanna be a little brat about it?”

You smile.

But it’s the last time you’re in control.

He moves fast—rolling, shifting, catching you off balance. You gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, sheet yanked away, leaving you bare and vulnerable beneath him. He follows, pressing his chest flush to your back, his cock sliding between your thighs as his weight pins you.

“You want me to take care of you, huh?”

You moan into the pillow.

“Don’t stop now,” you pant. “You started it.”

He growls and lines himself up. Then pushes in—one thick, deliberate stroke. Deep enough you choke on your breath. You’re so wet he doesn’t need to work for it, but he does anyway. Drags it out. Makes you feel every inch.

“Joel—”

“Quiet,” he grits. “I’ll give you what you need.”

His hand finds your jaw, turns your head just enough so his fingers press against your mouth. You open obediently, take two into your mouth without hesitation.

He starts to fuck you then—slow, punishing thrusts that punch gasps from your lungs. His chest stays pressed to your back, mouth hot on your shoulder, hand never leaving your jaw.

You suck his fingers like you mean it, moaning around them, drooling a little when your body starts to shake again.

“Fuck,” Joel groans, voice strangled. “That’s it. Good girl.”

The praise hits you harder than the rhythm of his hips.

You whimper.

He gives you more.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that. Good fucking girl.”

Your body tightens, spasms. You come hard, stars behind your eyes, fingers curled into the pillow. You don’t scream—you can’t. Just shake and sob around his fingers as he grinds into you, chasing his own finish like a man lost.

He buries himself with a final, vicious thrust and groans your name against your shoulder, staying there, shaking.

Breathless. Feral. Human.

tagging: @joeldjarin @gay4magneto

if you want to be added to the taglist, hmu ❤️

[joeldjarin]

Take It

PAIRING: joel miller (the last of us) x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 2.1k words. You should’ve known better than to offer. Joel should’ve said no. But now you’re wrecked, ruined, filled to the brim, and he’s not sure he’ll ever let you come down from this. (Part of the Hard Bargain series)

RATING: E. Rough sex. Cockwarming. Creampie. Breeding kink. Praise kink. Dacryphilia. Overstimulation.

A/N: You've been so patient, thank you for waiting for more of this series! ❤️

Your thighs tremble when he pushes in again—not because it feels good, not because it’s something new, but because you’re sore, because you’re already raw and leaking and stretched open from everything he’s already taken, and still he wants more. Still, he’s hard. Still, he’s thick inside you, holding your hips down like this is the only way he knows how to keep you.

“Joel,” you gasp, breath catching as your fingers dig into the sheets. “I—”

“I know.”

His voice is quiet. Breathless. Like maybe he feels it too.

But he doesn’t stop.

He slides in deeper, each inch slow and deliberate, dragging thick and hot through your aching walls. You jolt beneath him—legs twitching, back arching involuntarily, like your body’s trying to fight it even as it begs for more.

“Can’t—can’t take it—”

“Yes, you can.”

He says it soft. Like a fact. Like it’s not even up for discussion. Like it’s a truth older than either of you.

“You always do.”

You whimper, trying to shift away, trying to close your legs even as your body clenches around him. But he grabs your thigh and shoves it open again—wide, forceful, unforgiving.

“Don’t.”

You freeze.

He stays buried inside you—deep, unmoving, cock pulsing against the rawest part of you. He doesn’t thrust, not yet. Just holds there. Like it’s enough to feel you stretched around him. Like the edge has been riding him since the last time he had you, and he hasn’t come down since.

“You’re still sore?” he asks, almost gently.

You nod. You can’t speak.

His hand slides between your thighs. Calloused fingers brush the swollen mess of your cunt—still hot, still slick, still trembling—and he groans at the feel of it. A long, low, reverent sound.

“Good.”

You blink. Your breath stutters.

“Means I did it right.”

He moves.

Slow at first — almost thoughtful — and then faster, then harder, then meaner, until the drag of him makes your eyes roll back in your skull and your voice crack like something’s coming loose inside you, something that can’t ever be put back.

Your hands scramble for purchase, grasping at the sheets, the pillows, anything solid — but Joel grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, presses them down into the mattress like he’s anchoring you to the moment.

“Look at me.”

You try.

Your vision swims, throat tight, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from the stretch, the pace, the fact that you don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore.

“You want me to stop?” he asks.

You hesitate. Chest rising fast, lips trembling, body a battlefield of want and overwhelm.

He smiles, just barely.

A sharp, knowing little curl of the mouth that says he already knows your answer.

“Didn’t think so.”

Then he fucks into you like he means to ruin the shape of your cunt — hard, merciless strokes that drive the breath from your lungs and make the whole bed frame shudder beneath you. Your spine curves up off the mattress, hips lifting into every thrust, and he groans when your walls clamp down in response.

“Fuck, baby.”

The word slips out of him like a secret. Unplanned. Uncontrolled.

And it lands like a match to dry grass — hotter than anything else he’s said tonight.

“Say it again,” you gasp, wrecked.

His thrusts slow. Not gentler — never gentler — just deeper. More deliberate. Every stroke dragging the edge closer.

“Baby,” he breathes. “You’re takin’ it so good.”

You cry out, voice cracking, toes curling.

And then Joel leans down, mouth to your throat, to your shoulder, hot against the shell of your ear. He breathes you in and growls:

“Next time you say you can’t, I’ll remind you what you fuckin’ took.”

You come hard.

Too hard.

Your entire body locks up — hips jerking, back arching, fingers curling into fists above your head like you’re trying to anchor yourself to the feeling or crawl right out of it. Joel groans, low and filthy, and rocks in deeper, chasing the pulse of you fluttering around him like he’s trying to memorize it.

“Shit, baby. That’s it.”

His arm stays locked tight around your waist, the other hand braced at your throat — thumb resting flat just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, just holding, like he needs the feel of your pulse under his skin to keep himself grounded.

Your legs twitch again. Your breath hitches. You’re still crying — not from pain anymore, not even from the stretch or the pressure or the bruising pace of it all — but from everything else. From the weight of it, the need, the sheer unbearable truth of how much you want this.

Joel leans in, chest pressed to your spine, lips brushing your ear with every panting breath.

“You done?”

You try to nod. Try to breathe. Try to answer.

But he’s still hard. Still thick and pulsing inside you. Still refusing to pull out.

You shift — weakly, instinctively — and your voice cracks.

“Joel—”

His palm slides lower, fingers spread across your belly. He stops just beneath your navel and presses down — not cruel, not forceful — just steady enough that you feel it, feel the way he’s seated so deep inside you that you could map his cock with your hands.

“Gotta keep it in,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “Gotta make sure it takes.”

You whimper.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His tone changes — soft now, coaxing. Sweet in a way that makes it hurt worse.

“You want it.”

You shake your head. Breath shuddering. But your body betrays you — tightening around him, clenching, fluttering in helpless, greedy little pulses.

He feels it.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You want me to fill you up. Want me to fuck you so full you can’t even walk right.”

You try to deny it.

But he knows.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, kissing the curve of your neck. “All fucked out and still beggin’.”

You don’t beg — not out loud — but you let him move. Let him roll his hips slow and deep and deliberate, every thrust branding you from the inside out like he means to live there.

You feel it everywhere — the ache, the heat, the overwhelming stretch of being claimed like this.

You feel ruined.

And you never want it to stop.

“You fuckin’ move,” he snaps. “You’re gonna stay right there. Gonna let me come inside you.”

You sob — helpless and cracked open — but you don’t move.

You couldn’t if you tried.

Joel presses in deeper, grinding slow and punishing, hand still anchored low on your belly like he’s claiming the space beneath your skin. Like he’s already imagining it — the stretch of it, the bloom of something growing there, his, and he groans like the thought alone might finish him.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he mutters. “Gonna fuckin’ stay there.”

Your hips buck. Your legs tremble. And he takes it — all of it — like a man possessed.

“You’re mine, baby,” he pants. “Every fuckin’ part.”

Then he comes.

Hard. Brutal. A sound rips from his chest — part growl, part moan, all need — and he sinks his cock as deep as your body will let him, grinding his hips down as if he could brand it there, lock it in place. You cry out again, not from pain this time, but from the sheer overwhelm of it — the way he shakes, the way his arms clamp tighter around you, the way he doesn’t pull out.

Not even when your body starts to quake.

Not even when you whisper his name like it’s the last thing you’ll ever say.

His cock pulses deep inside you, and he breathes raggedly against your cheek, his voice almost reverent now.

“Take it.”

And you do.

Because you always do.

—

You’re not sure how much time has passed.

You’re on your side now, face turned into the sheets, thighs still slick and shaking, hips propped on a bunched-up pillow like your body doesn’t know how to come down. Joel’s behind you — solid and warm and still there — one hand at your waist, the other between your legs, spreading the mess he left inside you with slow, filthy fingers.

You twitch when they brush your entrance again. Sharp. Sensitized. Sore.

“Too much?” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Not right away.

He waits.

Patient. Still.

And then, on a broken breath — your voice barely audible — you whisper:

“More.”

He stills.

You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way the air shifts, in the heat of his breath suddenly sharper against your neck.

“Say that again,” he breathes.

You swallow. Your voice cracks when you say it, and maybe that’s what seals it.

“Want more.”

Joel’s hand coasts up your spine — broad and steady and warm, like he could calm the storm he started. Like he might hold you still just long enough to break you open again.

“Yeah?” he growls, voice already roughened by the shape of you. “You want me to split you all the way open?”

You nod, already shaking.

“Already stretched, baby. Already leakin’.”

“I know,” you whisper, hoarse.

“I already fucked you raw.”

“I know.”

He curses low under his breath, some awful and reverent thing, and then he grabs your hip — drags your leg up, opens you back up around him, and shoves in.

You scream.

Not from pain. Not exactly. From everything.

From the stretch. From the sting. From the way he slides in like your body was made to take this — like you owe him this.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” he groans. “Still tight. Still wet. Look at you.”

You sob into the sheets, claw at the mattress, try to breathe, try to stay present, but Joel doesn’t give you the time. Doesn’t give you anything but the rhythm of his hips — slow, then faster, then rough enough to bruise.

“You wanted this,” he pants, pushing your face into the bed.

You gasp, nod.

“You wanted me to ruin you.”

“Yes—please—”

“Look at you. Fucked full, beggin’ for more. Don’t even care what I do to you anymore, do you?”

You don’t. You don’t.

All you care about is this. Him. Whatever he'll give.

Joel leans down again — chest slick against your back, mouth at your ear, his voice more vow than threat now.

“I could keep you like this. Drippin’ and ruined. Just for me.”

You moan.

His hand wraps around your jaw, turning your face until your eyes find his, glassy and wild.

“I say the word, you stop seein’ anyone else.”

You nod.

“I say the word, you come when I tell you.”

You nod again.

His hips snap harder, voice unraveling.

“I say the word, you carry for me.”

Your breath catches.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — just heat, just the ache of wanting that, too, wanting it more than anything.

“Say it,” he growls.

“Yes,” you whisper.

And then you’re gone.

—

You can’t move.

Not really.

Your legs shake when you try to sit up. Your thighs are slick, trembling, sore. Your voice is shredded.

Joel helps you stand. His arm hooks around your waist, his hand sweeps your hair back, and he murmurs something you barely register as he walks you to the shower.

The water hits your skin — too hot, then cooler — and you flinch.

He adjusts it without a word, then steps in behind you, anchoring your hips, steadying you.

You lean into him. Let yourself be washed.

He lathers soap between your legs, slow and careful — until his fingers brush where he’s still leaking out of you and you gasp. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps his touch gentle, soothing, like he’s worshiping the damage.

“I know, baby,” he says. “I know you’re sore.”

And then — as if your body were waiting for the water to wake it again — you feel him.

Hard.

Pressing against your back.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

His hand slides up to your breast. The other presses between your legs, thumb slow and sure. You moan.

“You’re still mine,” he murmurs.

You nod.

“You’re gonna stay ruined for me.”

You whimper.

He fucks you slow this time. Not sweet — not gentle — but deep, controlled, reverent. Like every thrust is a question and your body is the only answer he trusts.

His arm wraps tight around your belly, keeping you upright, his breath ragged in your ear.

“You gonna let me keep it in again?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Gonna let me come inside you?”

“Yes.”

“Gonna let me fuckin’ fill you, baby?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Please—”

He slams in deep.

You cry out. Clench around him like you’ll never let go.

He groans — raw and ruined — and stays inside you, pulsing and shuddering and whispering things you don’t have words for anymore.

“I ain’t ever had this before,” he says. “A body that wants to be wrecked.”

You turn to him, wide-eyed, shaking.

“I want you to.”

Joel kisses you.

Not sweet.

Not tender.

Just needy.

His hand slips back to your throat. His cock throbs inside you.

And he whispers:

“I don’t know if I wanna fix you. I think I wanna keep you like this.”

tagging: @joeldjarin

[joeldjarin]

Be the Thing I Want part 2

pairing: joel miller (the last of us) x femsexworker!reader

summary: 3.3k words. Your body still trades well when you move to Jackson. Though ostracized by the majority of the town, you find an ally in Joel Miller.

rating: E for sexual content, rough piv sex, angst, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Joel is in his 60s), come on face, dirty talk, degradation

a/n: non-beta’d; all mistakes are my own. thank you for your enthusiasm so far! I've tagged everyone who was interested in a second chapter. 🥰

part 1.

You don’t see him for three days.

Not that you’re counting. Not exactly. But you know what absence feels like. You know how the silence rearranges itself when someone’s supposed to come back and doesn’t.

You don’t wait. You eat.

There’s food in the house now. It’s more than you’re used to. Rations folded in cloth, traded for favors or maybe left by someone who doesn’t want to be known. You don’t ask. You don’t thank.

You eat slowly. You boil oats and stir in a corner of powdered milk. Toast stale bread on the stove, scrape it with garlic. You save a few pieces of dried apple like it’s candy.

The cold doesn’t bite as hard when your belly’s full.

The quiet doesn’t sting as much, either.

Clients start to come back. One by one, like the thaw. The wiry man with the crooked teeth comes first. Then a boy no older than nineteen with shaking hands and too many apologies. They leave cards or old tins, sometimes nothing but matches.

You don’t pretend it means anything.

But the door gets easier to open.

And the town—the town seems to back off a little.

You catch fewer stares. Hear fewer whispers. No more spit on the steps, no more broken bottles. It’s not kindness, but it’s distance. And that’s something.

You still keep to yourself. Still walk with your hood up, still sleep in your coat. Still hear the wind like it’s warning you of something.

But the warnings feel softer now.

You walk to the depot and no one blocks your path. A man nods to you once, and though his face turns sour right after, it still feels like something broke open.

You wonder if Joel had something to do with it.

You wonder if he said your name.

Or if they just figured out that even broken things have uses.

You sit on your porch that evening, legs wrapped in a blanket, and eat the last of the dried apple with your fingers. It's soft, sticky, and sweet.

You don’t think about the night he came inside. You don’t think about the way he held your hip like it hurt him to let go. You don’t think about how quiet he was when he left.

You don’t think about him at all.

Until the next morning, when you step outside and find a piece of split firewood resting on your stoop. Just the one. No note, no trail.

You bring it inside anyway. You place it beside the stove and you wait. Not because you have to.

Just because there’s still space where he should be.

You start turning people away.

Not because you’re overwhelmed—just full. More clients come in three days than you saw in the last three weeks. Some leave candles. Others bring salt. One offers firewood, and you almost laugh. Almost.

It’s not respect. You’re not naive. It’s hunger. It’s cold. It’s need.

They come because you’re still here.

You learn again how to hold your body like an answer.

You learn how to make them think it doesn’t touch you.

In the quiet, afterward, you find yourself looking at the window. Listening for boots on the steps. Wondering if it’s him. It never is.

-

You walk into town for flour. Just enough for flatbread, maybe. You count your cards twice before leaving, scarf tight around your jaw, hood low.

The street’s quieter than usual. The wind has teeth again. You pass a group of men loading hay near the stables. One of them - tall, with a birthmark on his neck - lowers his voice just enough to make it feel worse.

“—the whore one?”

He doesn’t laugh.

It’s not said cruelly. Only flat, as if he doesn’t know what else to call you.

You were already walking past. You weren’t supposed to hear, but someone else does.

“Hey.” It’s sharp, fast. “Shut the fuck up.”

You turn.

It’s Ellie.

She’s standing beside a crate, arms crossed tight across her chest, face hard as stone. The man blinks, taken off-guard.

“I didn’t mean it like—” he starts.

“I don’t give a shit how you meant it.” Her voice is low, cold. “Just shut up.”

You don’t stop walking.

You don’t want to see what her face looks like when she looks at you.

Later, sitting on your porch, with a bag of flour unopened beside you, you think about her voice. The anger in it. Not righteous, not noble—only sharp. Protective, maybe.

You think: She knows.

You think: He told her.

You think about how close her age is to yours. Not in numbers, maybe. But in weight. In the way you both carry things you don’t talk about. You're not that much older. Not really.

And Joel—he could be your father. Or hers.

You stare at the sky until your eyes sting from it. Until the weight of everything you’ve let him take starts to feel like more than you can hold.

You think: He didn’t kiss me.

You think: That’s what makes it worse.

You think: Maybe I should’ve let him.

You don’t cry. You haven’t in a long time.

-

It’s near dark when he knocks.

Just two raps this time. Much quieter than the last. Like maybe he doesn’t want to wake anyone, unsure if he should be here.

You don’t rush to the door. Your hands are steady by the time you reach it.

You open it.

He stands there, same jacket, same tired eyes. A cloth-wrapped bundle in one hand. He shifts his weight like it hurts to hold your gaze.

“Hey,” he says.

You don’t answer.

He nods, like that’s fair.

Then, quieter: “Can I come in?”

You step back and let him in.

He doesn’t go far. Just inside the threshold, like last time. The air between you is colder than it was before. But he’s not. His eyes flick to your face, your mouth, and then down.

You watch his throat work.

“I brought something,” he says, lifting the cloth in his hand.

You take it but don’t unwrap it yet. You don’t need to.

“You want the same as last time?” you ask, and your voice is steadier than you feel.

Joel’s mouth twitches. Almost like he wants to say no. But he doesn’t.

He just nods, so you undress. He watches. He always watches.

You pull your pants off, leave your shirt on, like before.

But something’s different this time. In him.

When he touches you, it’s slow. Careful. Reverent, almost. His fingers brush your thigh, your hip, your waist—like he’s making sure you’re still real.

You turn around, bracing on the table like last time. You wait.

He doesn’t move, not yet.

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s staring at you like he’s forgotten what to do with his hands.

“Joel,” you say, and you don’t mean to say his name but it leaves your mouth anyway. “It’s alright.”

That breaks it. He steps forward. Unfastens his belt. Takes himself in hand.

The first push is slow. The next isn’t.

He fucks you harder than before.

He grips your hips like he’s angry at something—at himself, maybe. At you. At the way your body opens so easily for him. At the sound you make when he slams in deep.

You cry out. Not loud. Not desperate. You’re just honest.

He grunts behind you, hand sliding up your back, then into your hair.

“You take it so good,” he murmurs, voice rough and broken. “Fuck.”

You tighten around him.

He pulls out suddenly, hot breath shaking.

You drop to your knees.

He doesn’t have to ask.

He fists your hair but not cruelly, holds you steady, finishes with a groan that shudders through his whole body.

Hot, wet, on your face.

You blink it away, chest rising, lips parted.

He reaches for something—maybe the cloth, maybe his sleeve.

You shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t.”

Joel stares.

You wipe your own mouth.

He leaves again without a word.

And still—you don’t close the door right away.

-

He’s back the next night.

No knock this time.

Just the door creaking open, quiet and certain. You don’t startle. You don’t speak. You’re sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, chewing a sliver of dried meat like it’s paper.

Joel steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

He doesn’t ask.

He crosses the room, pulls you up by the arm, and presses you against the wall with one hand flat to your chest. The other comes up—slow, deliberate—curling fingers around your throat.

You don’t flinch. You smile.

“Careful,” you whisper, catching his wrist. “You sure you want to strangle me?”

His eyes are dark, unreadable. His grip tightens—not enough to choke, just enough to hold.

“No,” he says roughly. “I want to fuck you quiet.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t undress you. Just yanks your pants down, rough and fast, makes you step out of them while he works his belt open. He turns you toward the wall and pushes inside with no warning, no mercy.

You gasp.

He sets a rhythm fast—deep, brutal, punishing. His fingers find your throat again, holding—not hurting, but reminding.

You grind back into him, greedy for every inch.

“Filthy girl,” he mutters. “You want it like this?”

You nod, barely able to breathe. “Yes.”

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit. You cry out when he circles it, even harder when he slows just to deny you.

You dig your nails into the wall.

“Say it,” he growls in your ear.

“That I want you?”

“That you need it like this.”

You don’t hesitate.

“I need it,” you breathe. “I need it hard—I need you.”

Joel groans, slams in deeper. You feel him come seconds later, buried deep. His weight against your back, his breath loud in your ear.

He stays there for a beat, then pulls out and steps away.

You slide down the wall, panting.

He tosses a cloth-wrapped bundle beside you on the floor. Ration cards. Another bar of chocolate.

You blink at it.

“Sweet tooth?” you ask, voice cracked.

He doesn’t answer. He gives you one last look before turning and leaving as quickly as he came.

The door shuts behind him.

You wait for the sound of his boots fading. Then unwrap the chocolate with shaking fingers, tearing through the paper like it might disappear if you don’t eat it fast enough.

You bite down hard.

It melts across your tongue—rich and bitter and almost too much.

You moan, just once. A different kind of pleasure.

Then pull the blanket tighter and eat the whole thing, crouched on the floor like a starving thing that’s forgotten what it means to be fed gently.

-

You open the door before he can knock.

He looks startled. Just for a second. Then his eyes settle into something heavier. Like he knew this was coming.

You lean against the frame, arms crossed. You don’t move aside to let him in.

“You here to use me again?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You tilt your head. “It’s fine if you are. I don’t mind being the thing you take it out on.” You pause. Let the silence build. “But it always costs, Joel.”

That lands. You see it in the way his mouth pulls tight, how he shifts his weight like guilt’s made his boots heavier.

He steps forward, almost in, but you don’t move.

“You mad?” he asks, voice low.

You scoff. “Why would I be mad? I got fed. I got fucked. Not a bad deal.”

His jaw ticks.

“Did you even come?” he mutters. “Or were you just—”

You step closer, enough that your breath hits his collar. “You know I did.”

He doesn’t deny it.

His eyes stay locked on your face. His hand comes up like he might touch you, but he lets it fall. You see it, though—the wanting, the pull.

He laughs, humorless. “You get off on fucking old men?”

You shrug, swing your knee slightly as if it’s a dare. “Only the ones who fuck me like they mean it.”

He grabs your sweater and yanks it up, off, over your head in one rough motion. You let him. Stand there bare-chested in the cold, nipples tight, chest rising. His gaze drops like it’s dragged.

He exhales through his nose. “Where’s the bedroom?”

You nod toward the back of the house. He grabs your wrist and you let him drag you there.

The mattress is still thin. The sheets are still cold. He doesn’t seem to care. He pushes you down face-first, shoves your hips up, and fucks you like he’s punishing himself for wanting it.

You moan, not quiet. You grind back into him, greedy and slick.

He grips your shoulders, pulls your hair. Calls you a filthy thing and fucks you deeper.

When he’s close, he pulls out. Flips you over. Stands over you and growls, “Open your mouth.”

You do. He finishes down your throat with a sound like a snapped branch. You swallow around him, eyes wide, breath caught, hands gripping the sheets.

When he twitches, spent and shaking, you grin up at him.

“Think you can go again?” you ask, voice husky.

Joel looks wrecked, breathless. And something else—something like awe.

He brushes your lip with his thumb and mutters, “Wicked girl.”

He pants like he ran here.

One hand still grips the edge of the mattress. The other rests on his thigh, loose and trembling. His eyes follow you as you slide off the bed and walk toward the bathroom, naked and slick and unbothered.

You don’t give him the show this time.

You just wipe your mouth with a washcloth, rinse your hands. You pull on your sweater, step into clean underwear and the softest pants you own. There’s still salt on your skin. You don’t bother with it.

When you come back, he’s sitting up.

He’s still flushed, still watching you like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or apologize.

You climb onto the bed and lie back with your arms folded under your head. You don’t touch him.

He clears his throat.

“How long you been doin’ this?”

You glance sideways. He doesn’t flinch under your stare, but he does look away first. You think about lying or saying something smart.

Instead: “Years.”

He nods like that hurts, or like it makes sense. Perhaps it’s both. You don’t elaborate and he doesn’t press.

The wind whistles outside the thin window glass. Somewhere across the street, a door slams. A dog barks once. Then silence again.

Joel shifts on the bed like he doesn’t know what to do with his body anymore.

You know the feeling.

“You always this rough?” you ask, eyes on the ceiling.

“Only when I want it bad,” he mutters.

You huff a breath. Could be a laugh, pr it could be disbelief. “Lucky me.”

He glances over.

“You don’t act like you hate it,” he says.

“I don’t.”

More silence. Then, softer: “You shouldn’t have to.”

You turn your head. Meet his eyes.

“That’s not your call.”

Joel nods. Looks like he’s chewing on something he won’t spit out. His hands flex. His thigh twitches. He opens his mouth and then closes it.

You know what’s coming next. The guilt. The apology. The maybe I shouldn’ta—

You roll onto your side, pinning him with one sharp look.

“Don’t ruin it by feelin’ sorry for me.”

His jaw locks. He nods once.

You close your eyes.

You don’t sleep, but you let yourself drift for a while. The bed smells like sweat and salt and smoke. Joel shifts beside you, breath evening out but not quite softening.

He doesn’t leave, not yet. You don’t ask him to.

-

You both fall asleep by accident.

It’s not deep sleep. Just the kind that slips in sideways. You feel the pull of it in your limbs, the weight in your chest. The silence is thicker now, wrapped around the two of you like wool.

Joel’s arm is still beside you, slack and warm. His breathing is steady. He hasn’t moved since you turned away.

You drift. You don’t dream.

When you wake, it’s to the sound of the wind and the faint creak of the floorboards under the bed. There’s a softness in the room you don’t trust.

Joel’s still there. His eyes closed and his boots are off.

You clear your throat.

He stirs, blinking. He looks at you like he forgot where he was.

You stretch and sit up. "You stay the night, you pay for the night.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He nods slowly. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and starts pulling his boots back on. You stay where you are, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. He doesn’t look your way.

“Joel,” you say.

He glances up.

You hesitate. Then: “Does she know?”

His face goes still. You hold his gaze.

“Ellie,” you clarify, even though you don’t need to. “Does she know about us?”

“No.”

It’s immediate, firm. You believe him.

He stands there a second longer. Like he wants to say more. Like he’s working through something behind his eyes that you’re not supposed to see.

He doesn’t speak, only adjusts the collar of his coat when he slips it back on.

You lie back on the bed, stare at the ceiling.

“Door locks behind you,” you say.

Joel pauses at the threshold. Hand on the knob.

“Good,” he mutters.

Then he’s gone. You wait until his footsteps fade. You exhale.

You don’t know what you wanted him to say. Only that he didn’t.

Maybe it’s better this way.

You don’t move for a long time after he leaves.

The silence fills back in, heavier than before. You listen to it settle—into the walls, the mattress, the skin under your fingernails. You could swear it smells like him in here now. Sweat and regret.

You peel back the blanket and dress slowly, without urgency. No one’s waiting for you. There’s nowhere you need to be.

At the window, you watch his shape disappear into the trees. Not fast, but not lingering, either. He’s like someone walking away from something he knows he’ll come back to, even if he doesn’t want to.

You wonder what he tells himself. You wonder if he tells himself anything at all.

The sky starts to pinken with morning. The frost hasn’t lifted yet, but there’s a softness in the light. You crack the window an inch and breathe it in.

When you turn back toward the bed, you catch a glint of something folded beside your coat.

Another ration card. Tucked under a tin of instant coffee.

No chocolate this time. You snort.

"Guess I’m off the sweets," you mutter, but your fingers linger on the tin like it means more than it does.

You put it away with the others. You’ll trade it for something later. Oil, maybe. Or salt. Another bar of soap. You stretch your back until it pops, then crawl into bed, not because you're tired but because it’s the only place that still smells like someone else.

You pull the covers up and close your eyes. You try not to remember the look on his face when he came.

Try not to remember the way he hesitated—like he might stay.

You don’t know what this is between you and Joel Miller.

You don’t know what to call it.

But you know one thing:

You’re not the kind of girl men stay for. And he’s not the kind of man who lets himself be kept.

So you rest, and you wait.

The next time he comes through that door- you know exactly what it’ll cost.

tagging: @joeldjarin @b00klvrs @imsonotweird @ker0senebunny

😘😘😘