#Joel miller x MEEEEE

[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller x Reader Lips of an Angel

Summary: You left for school, chasing a better life. Long distance wouldn’t work. You both knew it. So you ended things, moved on. Or at least, that’s what Joel thought… until the phone rang just before midnight on his birthday, and there you were—sounding just as sweet, just as lovely as he remembered. And just like that, everything he’d buried came rushing back—to his mind, his chest… every part of him that still ached for you.

tags: porn with plot, smut MDNI, masturbation, adultery, phone sex, dirty talk, legal but big ol' age gap (reader in her mid 20s? Joel late 40s), daddy kink. voice kink, size kink, unresolved feelings, jealous!Joel, sexting, dual pov, no outbreak, inspired by Lips of an Angel by Hinder word count: 10k a/n: I won’t lie, this has been on my mind for weeks. I'm literally obsessed sorry I went a little crazy here

Joel hated his birthday.

Always had, always would.

There was nothing special about getting older—just meant more gray in his beard, more aches in his back, and another year closer to being one of those old men who grunted every time they stood up. But this one? This one really cemented the fact that he was damn old.

Forty-nine.

And what did he get to celebrate it? A stiff peck on the lips from his girlfriend this morning, followed by a Happy birthday, babe! as she slid a gift card across the table.

Fifty bucks to Home Depot.

Like he was some suburban dad who got his rocks off walking through the lumber aisle. 

Not a nice dinner. Not a thoughtful gift. And sure as hell not a blowjob.

Not that he was expecting much on that front. It had been months since the woman put her mouth anywhere near his cock, and even when she did, it was with the enthusiasm of someone doing court-ordered community service. He’d long since stopped asking. Joel wasn’t about to beg for something that felt more like an obligation than want.

So instead, he spent the night on the couch, working through a couple of beers, half-watching highlights of last week's football game on TV while she went to bed early, leaving him alone on his own goddamn birthday.

Sarah was out of the house—he’d told her to go have fun with her friends after dinner, not wanting her to feel obligated to sit around with him all night. She’d given him a sweet hug before she left, gifting him his old watch—the one he’d completely forgotten about, buried somewhere in his collection of things he’d sworn to get to someday. A thoughtful gift, something that actually meant something. His heart had tugged somethin’ awful when he’d opened it, and he put it on right away.

But now, standing in the dim light of the bathroom, Joel looked at himself in the mirror, scowling at the tired man staring back at him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand over the scruff of his jaw.

God, he was getting old.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he shifted, adjusting himself in his jeans. The rough denim chafed against his briefs, which dragged against his cock, and for the first time tonight, something other than irritation stirred in his chest.

What he wouldn’t do for a fucking blowjob.

But his only source was long asleep now, curled up under the covers, completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing in the bathroom, half hard, frustrated, and more than a little bitter.

Joel sighed and turned, leaning back against the porcelain counter, his fingers pulling at the leather of his belt and shifting down the waistband of his jeans, wrapping his hand around himself with a quiet hiss. His head tipped back as he gave himself a slow, steady pull, trying to work up something, anything to get fully hard.

He tried picturing her mouth around him, but the image wouldn’t stick—not when all he could think about was the dry, dismissive kiss she’d given him this morning, like they were some elderly couple celebrating their fiftieth anniversary.

His grip tightened.

He could still hear her voice, all saccharine and uninterested. Happy birthday, babe.

Didn’t even try to make it special. Hell, he’d always gone down on her. Would spend ages between her thighs, dragging her over the edge until she was too sensitive to take any more, and he hadn’t even minded—he liked making her come. Liked hearing the sounds a woman made.

But when it was his turn? She always had some excuse. Too tired. Too late. Too much work.

His jaw clenched, frustration buzzing under his skin as he stroked himself, but it wasn’t enough.

His mind started reaching for anything else—porn, maybe. That might do the trick. He fished his phone from his back pocket, but with his jeans bunched down around his knees, it was awkward, fingers too big for the small screen as he finally pulled it out and tried to type with one hand.

The damn thing slipped.

“Shit,” he muttered as his hand reached for it haphazardly until it hit the floor with a loud crack.

Joel bent down, his hand still wrapped loosely around himself as he grabbed the phone, turning it over to inspect the screen. Still intact.

He exhaled a small sigh of relief, only to freeze a second later.

The app open on his screen wasn’t the one he’d meant to pull up. In his scramble to catch the phone, his fingers must’ve swiped across the screen, opening Facebook instead.

Joel never used the damn site. Sarah had made him a profile years ago, mostly to keep up with her school events and soccer team updates. He never posted anything. Sometimes Sarah would tag him in photos, like the one from her soccer match today, and they’d show up on his profile. Hell, most of the time, he didn’t even remember he had the app at all.

Except for when he did. Because every now and then, he’d find himself searching for someone he wasn’t supposed to be looking for. 

Someone he hadn’t seen in two years.

And when he glanced at his screen now, his stomach dropped.

Right there, at the top of his feed, was a photo of you. Bright-eyed, beaming, holding a diploma in hand.

So, you’d done it. You’d gotten your degree.

That was why you left. Why you’d sat on his couch that night, knees curled up under you, eyes red-rimmed and wet as you told him it wouldn’t work. That long distance was impossible. That you had to go, that he had to let you. And maybe he didn’t say much—maybe he just sat there, jaw tight, arms crossed, nodding along like he’d expected it all along—but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

Because deep down, he had known.

Knew he couldn’t keep you. Knew you had bigger things ahead of you, a future you’d worked too damn hard for to throw away on a man like him. You were young, and he—well, he wasn’t. He was set in his ways, tied down to Austin with a business, a daughter, a life you were never meant to fit into long-term.

What he didn’t know was how the hell he ever got you in the first place.

Maybe that was the cruelest part of it all—because it wasn’t him who begged. Wasn’t him who chased.

It was you.

You were the one who looked at him like there was no one else. Like no other man could ever come close, no matter his age, no matter how stuck in place he was. And for a while, he let himself believe it. Let himself have you. Let himself feel what it was like to be wanted, truly wanted, by someone like you. Someone who was sweet and charming and funny and beautiful. Someone good.

The one that got away. That’s what all the songs and movies called it.

So Joel did something very stupid, and he tapped your name at the top of your photo, taking himself straight to your profile. He swiped through the pictures. Just to see, he told himself. Were you happy? Were you content? Did you have someone? He scrolled past a photo of you and a boy. Stupid floppy hair and polo. Did he treat you well? Did he touch you like he—

His breath hitched.

Joel blinked down at himself, realizing his palm was still wrapped around his cock, his grip tight, squeezing without even thinking. He was suddenly rock hard. 

Jesus Christ.

Joel slammed his phone down onto the counter, the sharp sound cutting through the silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tension out of his body, the thought of you from his mind. As hard as he tried to picture anything else– those porn stars he liked, an actress, hell, his own damn girlfriend– they kept getting shunted by memories of you that suddenly crashed over him in waves like some cursed memory reel. His mind played you back to him in perfect clarity: your body beneath him, your big, pleading eyes, the way you used to beg to have your mouth on him, the way you’d ride his face, his cock, head thrown back and pussy clenching around him like a goddamn vice.

He let out a sharp breath, his hand still curled around himself, hips twitching forward into his fist before he forced himself to stop. He needed to stop this.

And then, a sudden buzzing had his mind finally quieting as his breath hissed, looking down onto the sink where he’d thrown his phone. 

Bzz bzz.

Oh god.

Bzz bzz.

His stomach dropped. His heart fucking lurched.

This had to be some kind of sick joke.

Had he butt-dialed? Had he fumbled so badly—opened Facebook, scrolled through your pictures, and somehow hit 'call' in his stupid desire befuddled haze?

Because why the fuck was your name popping up on his screen at this time of night?

You hadn’t spoken to him once in the two years since you left.

It had been too hard, too much, too tender of a wound to press against. You told yourself it was for the best, that letting go meant really letting go—but tonight, in your bed, with your phone in your hand, staring at a photo Sarah had posted after a soccer match, that resolve started to crack.

It was just a picture. Just her and her dad, both smiling– her sweaty from the game, his arm slung around her shoulders.

But your eyes weren’t on Sarah.

They were on him.

Joel.

Your stomach clenched, something deep and familiar twisting inside you as you traced his face on the screen. His hair was grayer, beard a little thicker. But it was his eyes that held you captive. Something about them, something in the way he smiled—it was dimmer than before. Like something was missing.

And then something clanged into place as you looked at the date above the photo.

It was his birthday.

He’d told you once—if you ever needed anything, no matter how much time had passed, to call. Emergency, bad date, ride home after a night out—didn’t matter.

But you never had. Never dared.

Because you knew—one moment of hearing his voice, and you’d be packing your bags, catching the next flight home to Texas.

Still, the longer you stared at the photo as you laid in your bed, the harder it was to talk yourself out of reaching out. You wondered if he’d had a good day. You knew he had a girlfriend now, and you wondered if she had treated him to anything special. If they’d gone out to a nice dinner, if she’d…

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers tightening around the phone.

Your pulse was already picking up as you squeezed your eyes shut.

Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flew open and you were tapping his profile. Scrolling. Searching.

God, you shouldn’t be doing this. But each photo only made it worse—the memories slamming into you like a tidal wave. Sweet, simple moments sprawled out on a blanket by the soccer field, screaming your lungs out for Sarah’s team, laughing when Joel grumbled about the refs. Late nights at the diner, splitting a milkshake, your knees brushing under the table, his eyes warm when he watched you sip from the straw. Wandering the dusty aisles of the old record store, flipping through stacks of vinyls, sneaking glances at the way his hands—so big, so rough—handled them with care. Then the memories, damn them, the clearest ones, swarmed your mind like a thousand bees. The weight of him pressing you into his mattress, his body heavy, warm, covering you completely. Those same hands, no longer careful but gripping, claiming, leaving bruises in their wake. His mouth dragging over your throat, your shoulders, your thighs, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. And that voice. Low, gravelly, rich with something dark, something sweet, something only you ever got to hear, whispering filth into your ear until you were shaking.

A slow heat started to pool between your legs, your thighs pressing together as you kept scrolling, the ache building, your breath coming a little faster.

You shouldn’t call.

You shouldn’t.

But your thumb was already hovering over his name as you opened up your contacts app.

And before you could stop yourself, you tapped it.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Then, “...Hello?”

Your breath caught in your lungs, fingers tightening around your phone, suddenly too warm, hands clammy, pulse racing against your chest.

“J-Joel?”

There was a beat of silence. Then he exhaled—a low, quiet sigh, almost like relief. Like he was just as surprised to hear your voice as you were to hear his.

“Honey, why you callin’ me so late?” His voice was quieter now, lower, like he was speaking into the phone from somewhere dark. Like maybe he didn’t want someone else to hear him. Then, softer, “Is everything okay?”

God. The pet name.

Already, he was undoing you, his voice so hushed and soft. It settled low in your belly, turning you to molten heat, just like you knew it would.

You swallowed, pulse hammering, suddenly too warm and you weren't even under the blankets.

“Yeah,” you rushed out, voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “Yeah, everything is fine.”

Your fingers twitched at the hem of your pajama shorts, rubbing the fabric between them, grounding yourself in the sensation. Your mind was completely blank, you wish you’d thought of what the hell you were going to say to him once he actually answered.

You squeezed your thighs together, heart hammering, breath shallow.

“I… I wanted…” you trailed off, exhaling a shaky breath. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

It sounded stupid now. No contact for two whole years and that’s all you could come up with?

You waited, heart in your throat, listening for his response.

He let out another sigh, like he was trying to keep himself together through the phone. You wondered for a moment if your voice affected him just as much. 

“It’s kinda hard to talk right now,” he murmured, voice hushed.

That wasn’t what you were expecting.

Hell, you weren’t even sure what you were expecting. Some kind of revelation? A confession? That he missed you just as much as you did him, that he shared your thoughts that no matter how much time had passed, no matter who you tried to date to fill the hole he left, no one compared to him? 

But he was quiet. Almost distant. You should’ve known better, known better than to call after all this time. It was your fault, after all. 

Your stomach twisted. Your throat burned. Tears pricked at your eyes before you even realized they were coming.

“Honey, why are you cryin’?” he asked suddenly, voice sharper now, more alert. He must’ve heard it, the way your breath hitched, the way the silence stretched just a second too long. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

You sniffled, trying to hold it together. He was always like this—always knew when something was wrong, always saw right through you even before you understood it yourself.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, voice shaky. “I just… I missed you. Your voice.”

There was a long pause, and then, “I miss you too.”

Not just your voice. Not just whatever this had turned into.

He missed you.

Your breath caught, fingers gripping your phone even tighter.

“Why are you whispering?” you asked quietly. “Where are you?”

He breathed in deep, something rustling in the background. You could almost picture him shifting, running a hand over his face, maybe rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was tense.

“My girl’s—” A slight pause. “My girlfriend is in the other room.”

Oh. Right. Girlfriend.

Just like you very well had a boyfriend. One who wouldn’t like knowing you were talking to your ex in the middle of the night. Your much older, and, in your opinion, much hotter ex.

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting, reality settling in cold and sharp.

“Oh. Of course.” Your voice barely made it past your lips. “I can let you go. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Why’d you call?” His voice cut through yours, low and firm.

You froze. That… wasn’t what you were expecting. You thought he’d let you go. Let this slip away like he probably should have. But instead, he was asking.

“Why now?”

The question nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. You weren’t sure you had an answer. At least, not one you were ready to say out loud. So, instead, you told the truth.

“I saw that picture of you and Sarah at her soccer match.”

Joel made a noncommittal Mhm, waiting for you to say more.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shorts, your throat tight. “You look… you look happy.” A lie, but you didn’t want to say what you truly felt. That the twinkle in his eye looked like it had been blown out like a candle. 

Another pause. He didn’t say anything at first, just breathed slow and steady on the other end of the line.

“Are you happy, Joel?”

A long, thick silence that stretched between you, the weight of it pressing down hard. You barely even realized you were holding your breath, waiting, anticipating, heart still hammering, a low thud in your ears.

Then his voice came through the speaker, lower now. Rougher.

“…You askin’ ‘cause you care or ‘cause you wanna hear somethin’ else?”

Your lips parted, stomach twisting, heat curling low in your belly. His tone had shifted—just slightly—but you felt it. Like a spark igniting something dangerous between you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, warmth spreading through you, and your fingers toyed with the fabric of your shorts again, this time for a very different reason.

“'Course I care. Why would I want to hear anything else?” you whispered, but the words didn’t sound innocent.

Joel let out a slow exhale through his nose, “Dunno,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower. “You tell me, honey.”

And just like that, the air between you changed. It was still thick, still charged, but now there was something else. You swallowed hard. His voice, so low, steady, dipping into something dangerous, sent heat curling through your stomach, settling deep in your core.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you murmured, but the words came out soft, breathy, full of something he was smart enough to catch.

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, low and rough, the sound vibrating through the speaker.

“Honey,” he drawled, like he didn’t believe you for a second.

You felt it now, the shift between you. The slow unraveling. The way your body reacted to him like muscle memory, like instinct, like no time had passed at all.

“I saw you in that picture,” you admitted, voice quieter now, fingers ghosting along the inside of your thigh. “And I just…”

You were breathing too heavy now. Your skin felt too warm, your heartbeat thrumming heavy in your chest, your hand trembling slightly where it gripped the phone.

“I just started thinking about you,” you confessed.

Joel went quiet. Not the kind of quiet where he was trying to figure out what to say. The kind of quiet like he knew exactly what kind of thoughts you were having.

“Yeah?” he said finally, voice softer now, but rougher somehow, like gravel dragged over silk. “What exactly were you thinkin’ ‘bout, baby?”

Your whole body tensed, the pet name sending a jolt through your spine. It was unfair how easily he still did this to you, how effortless it was.

You exhaled slowly, shifting against the pillows, the hem of your shorts riding up your thighs.

“…You,” you whispered.

Joel hummed, like he wanted more, like he was just waiting for you to say it.

You swallowed, fingers trailing over the curve of your stomach, your muscles tightening at the thought of him on the other end of the line—shirt rumpled, sprawled back against something, his fingers dragging through his hair, trying to decide if he should stop this before it went too far.

But he wasn’t stopping.

“Tell me,” he growled under his breath, “Does that frat boy of a boyfriend take care of you?”

Your fingers tensed against your skin, crimson blush flooding your face, but your mouth was faster than your shame, “Does your girlfriend take care of you?”

There was a beat of silence, then a chuckle, “Can’t say it’s the same.”

You bit your lip unconsciously, what the hell did he mean by that?

Your chest tightened, heart pounding as warmth licked up your spine, making your skin feel too tight, too aware. It was familiar—he was familiar. That rush Joel Miller always gave you, even now, even after all this time. Your legs squeezed together, desperate for friction, for something.

“Not even on your birthday?” you pouted playfully, voice dipping into something teasing, something that felt too easy despite how wrong this was.

Joel hummed, voice quieter now, like he was thinking about it, “Not even for my birthday.”

Your fingers curled against the sheets before moving back to your shorts again, lips parting. Your body was betraying you, already giving in, the heat pooling low, making your head swim.

“I would’ve—”

You stopped.

Your breath hiccuped, your body going still as your fingers rested against the soft fabric of your pajama shorts, right there, hovering, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

You needed to stop.

This was wrong. So, so wrong.

Joel must’ve sensed it, must’ve heard it in your silence, because his voice softened, still low but gentler now, sweeter.

“Easy, honey,” he murmured. “Once you cross that line…”

Like a warning. Like he was trying to keep you from falling over the edge—like he was trying to keep himself from doing the same. It already felt too late.

You sighed, exasperated, on fire, like you’d been running from this feeling for too long and now it was catching up to you, wrapping around your throat, dragging you under. “I just think of you all the time, Joel,” you admitted, voice unsteady, heavy with something deeper than just need.

There was a pause. You could hear his breath—slow, steady, but not controlled.

“Nothing ever…” you trailed off, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising and falling unevenly. “It’s not the same for me either, Joel.”

Another sharp inhale on his end, like your words hit him, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear them or if he’d been waiting for them.

“It’s really good to hear your voice,” he said, and you recognized what he was doing. Steering you both away, trying to veer off that edge before it was too late. “Just as sweet as I remember, baby.”

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers clenched the fabric of your shorts, crumpled now from your grip..

“Do you think of me, Joel?”

Another long silence.

Joel Miller was going to hell.

That was for certain.

Your voice—soft, sweet, and yet goddamn sultry—wrapped around him like a noose. And the worst part? You weren’t even trying.

Didn’t even realize how you sounded, how your voice had dipped just a little lower, quieter, breathier. That sugary lilt that went straight to his cock, made his pulse throb behind his teeth.

His jaw clenched, his grip flexing around himself, fingers tightening as his stomach tensed. Hard to soft to rock fucking hard again, like his body had been waiting, hoping for an excuse, for just the smallest reason to give in.

And now you were giving it to him. Unknowingly handing him the rope to hang himself with.

He sucked in a slow breath, trying to get his shit together, but it was a losing battle. he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, using his now free hand to run it over his face, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose like it might somehow stop the inevitable.

It didn’t.

Because your voice was still there. In his ear. In his head. Under his skin.

Do you think of me, Joel?

He squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening again, fingers flexing over the thick length of himself as his cock twitched in his palm.

“…You know I do.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Heavy. Like the two of you were teetering over the edge of something dangerous, forbidden, inevitable.

“When?”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Joel exhaled, sharp and slow, head tipping back, jaw locked so tight it ached.

“All the time, baby,” he said, sighing out the breath he'd been holding in.

He heard it then—your breathing, uneven, picking up with every inch closer you both crept to the edge. He should stop, should shut this down before it went too far.

But Joel had never been able to keep himself in check around you.

Not when Tommy had pulled him aside, voice low and pissed, telling him it wasn’t right, that you were too young, that people were talking. Not when the side-eyes and whispers started when the two of you were out together, your little hand in his, the way you’d lean into him and brush your lips against him. Those sweet, sweet lips. Like a fucking angel.

He could never say no to you.

Not when you had him wrapped around your pretty little finger. Not when you nearly begged for him every night, made those sweet noises, pleading and needy and hungry. No man is his right mind would deny you.

Oh, he was sooo fucked.

His hand flexed around his cock, the weight of it heavy, throbbing, aching in his palm.

“Was thinkin’ about you tonight too,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher, slipping into that sweet spot where he knew exactly what he was doing. If he was going to hell, he might as well take full advantage the whole way down.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

That single word sent a shiver down his spine. He could hear it in your voice and he wondered if your body was betraying you just as his was.

“I was…” He said, hesitating a bit, fingers tightening around himself, heart thudding hard in his chest. Fuck, was he really gonna admit this?

“I saw your picture on Facebook,” he admitted, voice gruff, raw, like it physically hurt to say out loud. “Was lookin’… lookin’ through your page.”

Silence.

“You were stalkin’ me, Joel Miller?”

Joel let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, his stomach twisting, churning, that hunger clawing at his insides. Because fuck, hearing his name on your lips again—low and teasing, all soft and sweet like it had been made for you to say—made something dark and needy snap inside of him. 

It didn’t matter how much time had passed.

Didn’t matter that you were miles away, years removed from him.

He needed you like he needed the very oxygen he breathed, like his heart had only been keeping his old ass alive long enough to get back to this.

“Only a little,” he chuckled, voice low, rough, barely there.

His hand squeezed tight at the base of himself, a groan slipping through his teeth. If he didn’t get off soon, he was going to fucking implode. He could feel it, the pressure mounting, the tension coiling so tight he thought it might break him in half.

There was still a part of him—the righteous, rational man—who told him to stop. The one who had tried so fucking hard to be better. Just end this now, hang up the phone, put on some shitty porn and get himself off like he always did. Alone. Like he was supposed to. 

But the devil—the one he was headed for either way—whispered louder.

“‘Sides, you sound like you were enjoyin’ the view too,” he said, a little breathless, picturing you with the phone in hand, looking at the photo of him from today, “What’re you doin’ now, honey?”

He could hear shuffling around on your end, like bed sheets or something soft beneath you. Settling into the bed, and Jesus, just the thought of you so pliant, so sweet and soft and in bed so innocently scrolling pictures of him…

“I’m… laying down.” Your voice had changed—softer now, lower. “In my PJs.”

His stomach flipped, fingers flexing without thought.

“You know, the little gray and white shorts—”

“And the matching little tank top,” he finished without thinking, the image flashing so damn clear in his mind, memories flashing in his mind of his own hands sliding up that tank top, underneath the fabric that was so soft and left absolutely nothing to his imagination. Except for now, he supposed.

A breathy chuckle on your end, teasing. “You remember ‘em?”

Joel gritted his teeth. “Fuck, baby.” His voice was raw now, unsteady, every nerve in his body lighting up. “Always loved how those looked on you. Made your ass look so fucking good.”

That part good man in him, the one with morals and a goddamn conscience, the one screaming at him to get off the fucking phone—was long gone. There was something about you, something that pulled at him, dragged out a part of himself he thought he’d buried.  The one who worshipped the ground you walked on, who got drunk off the way you used to look at him, the way you used to need him. That part of him had never left, never dulled, no matter how much time had passed.

His hand flexed around himself, squeezing at the base of his cock as his stomach tightened, as he let himself feel it—let himself remember. The way your body used to move beneath him, the way you’d whisper his name against his skin, the way you’d let out those sweet little whimpers, breathless and eager, begging for him. No one had ever sounded like you, felt like you, and he knew no one ever fucking would.

Joel let out a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself, his voice lower now, thick with heat and want. “Bet they still fit you real nice,” he murmured, gripping himself harder, his strokes slow, measured, his restraint hanging by a thread. “Bet you still look so damn good in ‘em, don’t ya?”

You exhaled a little laugh, breath still shaky, teasing, knowing exactly what you were doing to him. “They’re a little tight now, actually.”

And it was all he could do not to lose it right there.

Then, soft, playful, pure fucking sin, you said, “Wanna see?”

His cock twitched hard in his fist.

And his answer came out instinctive, raw, from somewhere deep in his chest: “God, yes.”

His phone buzzed against his ear seconds later. He pulled it back just long enough to glance at the screen, his hand still wrapped around himself, already knowing what it was, already aching for it.

Then he saw it. And he almost fucking came right then and there.

That damn little pair of shorts—hiked up so high on your hips, the soft, round curve of your ass spilling out the bottom, thighs pressed together, your skin looking so damn smooth, so fucking perfect.

And the way you took the picture—angled from above, like he was looking down at you, like he had you belly-down on the bed, back arched, ass up in the air—

Just like when you used to suck his cock in bed.

Begging. Pleading for him to come down your throat, to ruin you, to let you take it all because you could. Because you loved it.

His throat went dry, his cock throbbed, and his restraint snapped like a goddamn rubber band. He barely heard your voice over the rush of blood in his ears, over the sharp groan that slipped past his lips.

“Did you get it?” you asked, voice light, innocent, like you weren’t the reason he was about to lose himself in his own goddamn hand.

He grunted a rough Mhm, spit into his palm, his cock pulsing as he worked himself a little more, now slick and smooth. 

Your gasp came through the receiver, a sharp inhale, “Joel,” you whispered, breathless, “are you touching yourself?”

“Y-Yeah,” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut, doing his best to picture it—your hand, your mouth, your sweet, clenching pussy wrapped tight around him, just like he remembered.

“What did you think about?” you asked softly, and fuck, you sounded so innocent, so needy, “When you saw the picture? Tell me, please.”

Like it wasn’t enough that he was already losing his mind imagining the way you used to beg for him—now you were actually pleading again, your voice syrupy, thick with anticipation, and he swore it was going to kill him.

His fist dragged up over the swollen tip of himself, a sharp hiss slipping past his teeth as he squeezed before sliding back down, forcing himself to hold back, to make it last. His hips jerked, instincts begging him to give in, to fuck into his palm until he lost himself completely.

But no.

He had to drag this out. Had to make you feel it, too.

His eyes flicked back to his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, looking at you. At those damn shorts squeezing each cheek, the soft curve of your ass spilling out, practically inviting his hands, his teeth, his lips.

God, the things he wanted to do to you.

To bite and slap and kiss every inch of you, just like he used to. His jaw clenched, his breath heavy, his cock twitching in his fist as he let himself sink into it.

“Was thinking that…” he trailed off, voice raw, his chest rising and falling with each slow, deliberate stroke. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady his breathing, forcing himself not to let this end too soon.

Your breath hitched on the other end. It felt it like a caress, like you were right here with him, like your lips were brushing against his ear instead of whispering through the receiver.

“Tell me,” you pleaded again, your voice so soft and desperate.

His eyes squeezed shut, his fist tightening around his cock, squeezing at the base, forcing himself to hold back the groan bubbling in his throat.

“Was thinkin’ about how good you look under me,” he admitted, his voice a little rougher now, slipping deeper into that place where there was no turning back. “How the angle reminded me of your sweet mouth on my cock.”

A whispered fuck came through the line, and Joel had to force his hand to slow down.

His jaw clenched, his breath heavy, his thumb teasing over the sensitive slit of his cock, spreading slick, adding just enough pressure to make his hips twitch. “Was thinkin’ about how I used to look down at you,” he murmured, words slow, like he was savoring them, like he was picturing it so clearly it hurt. “All wide-eyed, pretty little mouth stretchin’ over me—God, baby, you always took me so well.”

You let out the softest whimper, barely there, and it nearly destroyed him.

“You’d look up at me,” he continued, his strokes getting slicker, slower, teasing himself just as much as he was teasing you. “Bat those pretty lashes. Workin’ me over like you loved it. Like it was all you ever wanted.”

“I did love it,” you whispered, voice breathy, wrecked, needy, and fuck, fuck, fuck—Joel’s cock jerked in his fist, another deep groan spilling from his lips before he could stop it.

A soft, breathy moan came through the line, and Joel nearly dropped his phone again.

“Baby,” he rasped, his grip tightening, his breath heavy and uneven, “are you touching yourself too?”

“Yes, Joel, yes,” you whimpered, and fuck, it was more like a plea, an urging, just like you used to urge him to keep going, to keep fucking you, asking for it deeper, harder, more–

He was going to lose his fucking mind.

“Stop.”

His voice came sharp, commanding, cutting through the haze of slick heat between your thighs, through the desperate rhythm of your fingers teasing yourself through the tiny shorts that had long been soaked through.

Your breath hitched, your body stilling at the unexpected shift.

“…Stop?” you asked, incredulous, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, your fingertips still resting over your folds, damp with your own arousal.

“Want you to listen to me now,” Joel heaved through the phone, like he’d realized something, like it had hit him all at once. His voice was still wrecked, still thick and husky with want, but there was something firmer now. More in control, “Gonna listen to me, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy—”

Oh, shit.

Your body froze the second the word slipped past your lips, your breath stuttering in your throat, heat flushing up the back of your neck, “I—I’m sorry,” you gasped, voice rushed, panic creeping in. “Joel, I didn’t mean—”

“Daddy wants you to play with your tits, honey,” he said, like it was nothing, like he’d just been waiting for you to slip back into your old ways, waiting for you to give into him. “Do you remember how I used to touch you?”

Every nerve lit up in your body as heat coursed through you now, nipples hardening as you looked down at them, clothed and covered, licking your lips.

“Baby?”

“Y-yes,” you shuddered, your free hand dragging up your stomach, your fingers ghosting over the neckline of your thin tank top, “I remember,”

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice thick, warm, rich with something dark and hungry through the receiver. “My sweet girl.”

Your body reacted to the praise, stomach tightening, thighs clenching. You loved it when he talked to you like that—when he made you feel cherished and filthy in the same breath.

Slowly, you pulled down your top, letting your breasts spill free, nipples pebbled against the cool air. You dragged a teasing hand over one, not kneading yet, just pressing, applying the slightest friction with your palm.

It wasn’t him.

Wasn’t his big, warm, calloused hands, the way they’d palm your breasts, squeeze, flick at your nipples just to hear you gasp. You swallowed hard, already aching.

“Are you teasing yourself?” Joel rasped, voice like honey dripping with filth. “Teasing your cute, perfect tits like I did, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes slipping shut, imagining his hands on you instead.

“Good,” he growled. “Want you to lick your finger now, get it nice and wet, and swirl it around your little nipple, honey. Can you do that for me?”

You moaned in response, sliding two fingers past your lips, tongue swirling around them, coating them in spit before sliding them out with a wet little pop, and Joel heard it. 

A deep, wrecked sound left his throat, and you knew he was squeezing himself harder now, barely holding on.

The second your fingers flicked over your nipple—slick, sensitive, teasing—a shocked gasp escaped your lips.

“Fuck,” Joel groaned, breath heavy, thick with need.

You could hear him swallow hard, could imagine him—head tipped back, hand wrapped tight around himself, his cock slick and aching in his grip, his chest heaving with desire.

“Can you picture me there, baby?” he murmured, voice smooth, coaxing, laced with pure sin. “Picture my mouth around you?”

Oh, God, you could.

Your body tensed, your breath coming quicker as the memory flooded back—the way Joel used to hold you tight, his strong arms caging you against him, his mouth hot and wet around your breast, tongue swirling, sucking, lapping at you like he couldn’t get enough.

He’d look up at you through those thick, dark lashes, gaze heated, possessive, worshipping as he worked you over. He’d groan against your skin, his lips latched onto you, devouring you, sucking until you were whining, until your back arched, until you were begging for more.

Your hand worked over your other nipple, slick and sensitive, the ache between your legs becoming unbearable.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Feels s-so good.”

He moaned into the phone, rough and low, his breath ragged in your ear. “I know, honey,” he whispered. “Now, trail your fingers down that sweet body of yours—slow.”

The last word was a command, and you obeyed without thinking, your body responding instinctually, muscle memory kicking in. Because with Joel, you always listened. Every word he spoke—whether praise or command or plea—was like dogma, something you bowed to, something you ached to follow.

“Joel,” you whispered, desperate, needy.

“Yeah, baby?”

You swallowed hard, your breath shaky. “Can I touch myself?” A pause, then softer, whining—“Please? Please, Daddy. I need it. Need you.”

Joel let out a deep, guttural sound, and for a second, he didn’t answer. You could hear it, the way his breath hitched, the way his grip tightened around himself, could picture him—his cock slick in his palm, pulsing, aching, his free hand gripping the phone, barely holding himself together.

“Not yet,” he murmured finally, voice rough, measured, dripping with restraint. “Want you to just gently tease. Let your fingers graze over your shorts, baby. Nice and slow, like daddy would,”

Your body obeyed before your brain even processed the words, fingers drifting down, skimming over the soft skin of your stomach, tracing the curve of your hips before ghosting over your mound in your tiny, soaked-through shorts.

The breath you sucked in was sharp and Joel groaned softly in response.

“You wet for me, sweet girl?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you cooed, eyes slipping shut, your fingers teasing the edge of the damp fabric, pressing lightly against your folds but never giving yourself what you really wanted, not enough to give yourself any real relief.

“Bet you are,” he rasped, voice thick, breath heavy. “Bet you’re fuckin’ dripping, baby. Just from my voice, huh? Just from Daddy telling you what to do?”

You whimpered, shifting against the mattress, legs squeezing together, hips rolling up subtly, trying to create the smallest bit of friction. 

A low chuckle rumbled through the receiver, dark and knowing. “Getting impatient, honey?”

You whined again, your fingers twitching, your whole body begging for more, for him, for relief.

“Please,” you whispered, “I need—”

“I know what you need, baby,” he cut in, voice low, soothing, but firm. “And you’ll get it. But you listen to me, you hear?”

You nodded quickly, before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Y-yes, Daddy. I’ll listen.”

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “Now—” a pause, a deep inhale, like he was picturing it just as vividly as you were. “I want you to slip your fingers under your shorts, baby. Feel how wet you are for me.”

You let out a shaky exhale, obeying immediately, fingertips slipping beneath the damp fabric, grazing over the slick heat of your swollen cunt.

The second you felt it—felt how soaked you were just from him, from his voice, from the way he knew your body even from miles away—you couldn’t hold back the moan that spilled past your lips.

Your eyes squeezed shut as you pressed against yourself, skin to skin, your breath hitching, pulsing under your own touch, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t him.

“I miss you,” you murmured, voice small, breathless—then immediately corrected yourself, trying to recover, trying to keep this exactly where it needed to be. “Miss your mouth, Joel. Miss the way you made me feel so good.”

But he caught it.

His breath faltered, the sound of it shaky through the phone, followed by a long, deep exhale, like he felt those words more than he should.

“…Miss you too, baby girl,” he admitted, something rougher beneath it, something unspoken. Then, clearing his throat, pushing you right back under, owning the moment, “Gonna play with that pussy for me, right? Let her feel real good for me? I know she misses a real man’s cock.”

You groaned, your hips instinctively pushing into your hand, fingers circling over your aching clit, relief blooming in your stomach at the friction.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Tell me,” he commanded, voice deep, firm, taunting. “Tell me what that stupid boy does for you.”

You whimpered, words incoherent, body tensing, toes curling against the sheets.

“He—he,” you swallowed, trying to collect yourself, trying to focus, but it was impossible with the way Joel’s voice had settled in your bones.

“It’s not the same—”

“Tell me.” he growled, sharp and rough and… Jealous?

He wasn’t going to let it go.

“Wanna know how he neglects you so bad you come runnin’ to Daddy for a fixin’, baby.”

Your stomach flipped, heat rushing through you, your fingers slipping lower, your body betraying you.

“Joel—”

“Go on,” he coaxed, voice thick, taunting but sweet, like honey laced with sin. “Tell me, baby. Tell me how he doesn’t take care of you.”

You shuddered.

Because fuck—he already knew.

“He…he fingers me sometimes,” you exhaled, voice barely above a whisper, breath shaky as your fingers pressed onto your aching clit.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, but then, like he knew, “Stop playin’ with your clit, baby.”

Your body froze, instinctively obeying, thighs tensing as your hips twitched for more.

“I can tell you’re getting close,” he murmured, voice low, smooth, controlled, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Just want you to take your time.” A beat. Then, deeper, commanding: “Slowly make circles around it—soft, teasing. Think about Daddy’s tongue on you, baby. Think about how I’d do it, yeah?”

You let out a shaky moan, pulling away from your swollen clit, dragging your fingers in slow, lazy circles instead, teasing yourself the way he would.

“Yeah,” you sighed, pleasure building, aching, the wet sounds of your slick filling the silence between you.

Joel groaned, a deep, low sound that sent a shockwave down your spine.

“Can hear that pretty pussy from here, baby,” he grunted, and you knew he was gripping himself tighter now, fucking into his fist, the slick sounds of his own hand barely muffled over the phone.

“Go on, then. Keep tellin’ me how Jack-Off Junior tries to fuck you.”

Your whole body tensed, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, a broken little moan slipping past your lips, because fuck, you shouldn’t love how filthy he was, how jealous he sounded, but God, it only made it so much worse.

So much better.

He wasn’t sure what exactly had come over him, but suddenly he was seeing red.

The thought of that stupid fucker—some kid, some boy—putting his hands on you, touching what once belonged to Joel, had his teeth clenching, his grip tightening around his cock until the pleasure almost blurred into pain.

“He, um…” you murmured, distracted, breathy, your mind clearly slipping, and fuck, he wished he could see you.

Sure, he could picture it—your body sprawled out, flushed and needy, your thighs trembling as you worked yourself open, the way you used to look when he had you like this—but it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Joel swallowed thickly, voice coming out lower, rougher, gritted, “Can you do me a favor, baby?”

A distracted little hum came from you, “Mmm?”

“Take a picture right now. Wanna see you.” he said suddenly.

“Only if I can have one of you.”

Oh.

So you were playing games. Joel would play. He loved to play.

“Fair enough, honey,” he muttered, flipping his camera open, angling the shot just right, careful to keep the focus exactly where he knew you wanted it.

His cock was thick in his fist, aching, flushed red at the tip, beads of precum pooling at the slit from holding back, from denying himself what he so desperately needed to release. His fingers flexed around the base, his breath shuddering as he gave himself a slow, teasing stroke.

“Sent,” he gritted out, using his thumb to smear the wetness over his tip, spreading it, slicking himself up, shuddering at the sensation.

Then, the phone buzzed and he looked down—

And fuck.

He had to take his hand off his cock completely before he fucking lost it. Because Jesus Christ, you looked like a dream. Not just any dream.

His dream. The one that had haunted him for the past 2 years. The one that had him waking up in the middle of the night, hard as a fucking rock, his cock pulsing so bad he’d have to grip himself through the sheets, the one that made him hop in a frigid cold shower to shake the thought of your little body beneath him.

In the photo, your breasts spilled over the top of your tiny tank, the hem bunched around your waist, your shorts still on, but the gusset pushed to the side, exposing just a little bit of your pretty pussy where your fingers were teasing yourself.

He let out a long, wrecked groan.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Joel,” you moaned, voice thick with sin, dripping with need. “You look so good—just like I remember, so big and perfect and fuck—”

The wet, slick sounds coming through the receiver, your fingers working yourself, the breathless way you whined— it was all going to kill him.

He needed to come. He needed to.

But not before you.

“Want you to push your fingers inside, baby,” he ordered, voice low, taut, still clinging to that last shred of control. “Two. Now.”

You whined, hesitating for just a second, and Joel could hear your breath stutter, could nearly feel the way your body tensed in anticipation.

“Won’t feel the same as that beautiful cock, Daddy,” you sighed, voice like velvet in his ear.

He smiled despite himself. Only you could make him blush like a kid again.

“Does he make you come on his cock, baby?” Joel’s voice dropped lower, thick and slow, taunting as he wrapped his hand around himself again, “The way you used to come undone all over me?”

You’re moaning, your breathy sounds like heaven in his ears, spurring him on.

He pumped himself slowly, drawing it out, torturing himself, his mind flashing with the way your pussy used to choke his cock.

“Your pussy would milk me so well, honey,” he murmured, voice almost tender, thick with longing, with ache. “Would feel so fucking perfect and warm and tight around me, sugar.”

You whimpered, breath coming quicker, shaky, like you were barely holding yourself together.

“Jesus, Joel—”

“Does he?” His voice was harder now. Tense. On edge.

He needed to know. There was a long pause, filled only with the soft, broken sounds of your moans, the slick, wet noises of your fingers pushing inside yourself.

“No.”

Joel let out a sharp breath through his nose, a knowing sound, “No, huh?”

Another pause, another stuttered breath, “I have to do it myself,” you admitted, voice softer now, small, almost embarrassed. And That fucking broke him.

“After-after he leaves.”

Oh, now Joel was pissed.

“You gotta do it yourself?” he growled, voice deeper, rougher, nearly feral. His hand fisted his cock, working himself harder, faster, his control slipping with every word out of your mouth. “You lay there all alone, stuffin’ those pretty little fingers inside yourself ‘cause he don’t know how to take care of you?”

You whined, your voice barely a breath. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s a goddamn shame, baby,” Joel groaned, stomach clenching tight, his hips jerking up into his palm. “Bet that boy don’t even know how to touch you right. Bet he don’t know how to make you come like I do.”

“No one does,” you gasped, voice so small, so wrecked, and he could hear it, the way you were unraveling, the way your breath was coming out in fast, sharp bursts, the way your fingers were working yourself open, “You’ve ruined me Joel,”

“Fuck,” he praised, his voice thick, dangerous, dripping with possession. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I’ve gone and treated you so good no man can compare, huh?” His hand tightened, stroking himself harder, groaning at the wet slickness coating his palm as he spits on himself again, at the way his cock pulsed at just the thought of you—fucking yourself open, stretching yourself, thinking of him while you did it.

“But that ain’t really my fault, is it?” he rasped, voice dark, teasing, cruel in the way he knew would make you fall apart.

“No,” you whimpered, and goddamn, the way your voice shook, the way you were gasping between words, had his stomach clenching tight, pleasure searing through his spine like a live wire.

“No, Daddy,” he corrected, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No, Daddy,” you repeated, mewling, desperate.

“That’s my girl,” he grunted, his hips thrusting even harder at the sound, at the way you still said it like it belonged to him. Like you still belonged to him, even when you both knew better, "You've ruined me too, angel. Ain't no one like you." he wasn't sure why he was admitting it, he felt so drunk off the thought of you, his mind burning up like molten lava, scorching every bit of reason he had left.

“Now, I want you to fuck yourself on those fingers for me,” he ordered, voice thick with lust, heavy, nearly slurred from how wrecked he was. “Stretch yourself real good—want you open for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you whined, and fuck, he could hear it, the slick wet sounds through the phone, the way you were working yourself, the way your moans were turning higher, breathier, more frantic.

Joel grinned, mean and hungry.

“Tell me, baby,” he rasped. “Can you feel how tight you still are? Hmm?” He sucked in a breath, his strokes slowing just a little, drawing it out, making himself wait, even though he was so fucking close it was painful. “Bet you can barely fit those little fingers inside, huh?”

You let out a broken whimper, voice wrecked. “S’not enough, Joel,” you gasped.

“I know, honey, I know,” he cooed through broken breaths, “Know you need something bigger, huh?”

“Need you,” you admitted, whining, voice breaking on the words.

Joel groaned, his cock jerking in his fist, his whole body tense, stomach tight with how bad he wanted to see you, touch you, fill you.

“That’s right, baby,” he muttered. “Know you need my big cock to stretch you open proper.” He sucked in a breath, squeezing himself at the base, forcing himself to hold on just a little longer, just until he could drag this out and ruin you completely.

You let out a choked little moan, and he could hear how frantic your fingers were moving now, how much you needed more, how much you were aching for something you couldn’t have.

“Bet you can still feel it,” Joel murmured, voice smooth and soaked in filth. “Bet you can still feel how deep I used to fuck you, huh? How I used to stretch that pretty little pussy wide open—fuck you slow, make you take it all.”

“Y-yes,” you panted, your breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts.

“You miss it, baby?” he pressed, his voice dark, coaxing, his grip tightening around himself as he fucked into his palm, pace rough, chasing that edge. “Miss Daddy’s big cock filling you up, ruining you for anyone else?”

“Miss it so much,” you cried, voice trembling, breath catching, and fuck—he could hear it, you were right there, teetering, about to fall apart.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna come,” you gasped, words tumbling over each other, desperate and pleading. “Please let me—let me come, daddy, please, please—”

Joel’s breath hitched, stomach tightening brutally at the sound of your begging, his cock pulsing in his fist, but fuck, you were going first.

“Come for me, honey,” he rasped, voice wrecked, commanding, pushing you right over that edge. “Now.”

Your cry shattered the air, sharp, needy, high and desperate, and he could just barely hear the wet slick sound of your fingers fucking yourself through it, pleasure crashing through you so violently he swore he could feel it through the phone.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he was right there, right there, 

“Joel!”

The sound of his name on your lips, the lips that always tasted so damn sweet, so soft like heaven, it made him snap, his body locking up as he turned towards the sink. His jaw went rigid as his orgasm ripped through him like a fucking storm, his cock jerking violently in his fist as thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles, splattering on the porcelain, hot and endless.

A deep, wrecked groan tore from his throat, his body shaking, muscles trembling as the pleasure hit him in waves, rolling over him, dragging him under.

Both of you were heaving on the line, quiet and shocked by the clarity that so often followed mind blowing orgasms like the one he’d just had. He let his head tip back, exhaling slowly. His grip loosened, warmth still coursing through him, but his mind was already catching up, already reminding him what he’d just done.

Maybe he really was going to hell.

“…Joel?”

His throat was dry. His muscles still tensed, his cock still throbbing even though he had nothing left to give.

He smiled, despite himself, “Yeah, baby?” His voice was thick and gravelly, the exhaustion warm in his tone.

A soft laugh. “I… I can’t believe we just did that.”

Joel huffed a lazy, satisfied chuckle, running a hand down his face, still catching his breath.

“Me neither, honey.” A pause spanned between you, then, softer, he added, “Hope you don’t get in too much trouble with the boyfriend,”

“I won’t." you said, and then after a moment, added, "We broke up.”

Joel’s eyes flashed open, staring at himself in the mirror now, wrecked and exhausted and flushed with red, sweat beading on his face. He stuffed his cock back in his pants, turning away from his reflection again, “Yeah?” he murmured, his tone dipping into something a little too close to hopeful. “Good to hear.” That little shit never deserved you anyway.

He ran a hand through his hair, still feeling the last ghostly pulses of his release in his spine, still a little drunk off the sound of your moans, the way you’d whimpered his name, like he was the only goddamn thing in the world.

“Yeah, he was an asshole.” you chuckled.

“And Joel?” Something in your voice shifted—careful, softer, like you were weighing your words now.

“Yeah, honey?”

“I’ll be comin’ back soon…for the holiday. To see my parents,” you said, your voice lower now, carefully, treading with caution, “If you…wanted to get coffee or somethin’,” 

Joel swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he stared at the floor, trying to keep his cool, trying to make sense of the sudden shift in his brain.

Because he wanted to say yes.

God, he wanted to say yes.

Wanted to say yes to you and your big, bright eyes that looked up at him, that soft skin he ached to touch again, your easy smile—the one he used to live for, the one that made everything feel lighter—pulling him back in like no time had passed at all.

But time had passed.

And he still had a girlfriend.

The woman sleeping in his bed, the woman who—what? Gave him a gift card for his birthday? Barely kissed him? Didn’t even want to touch him the way you begged to run your hands over him? It was so easy to push her out of his mind when it was you on the other end of the phone, saying his name like he was still the only man in the world for you.

And if he saw you again, he’d need to figure that out first. Because he knew how easily he slipped back into you, how fast everything fell away when you were involved, how easy it was to forget about real life. 

But you had a life now, a future he wasn’t supposed to be meddling in anymore. He’d already made peace with that—or at least, he thought he had. Until tonight. Until you moaned his name through the receiver, shattering every bit of distance time had built between you. Until he forgot...about his girlfriend, about real life, about everything but you.

And that should have been enough for him to say no. Enough for him to put an end to this, to tell you that whatever had happened tonight was a mistake, that it couldn't happen again. That you both had lives now, separate paths that weren’t meant to cross anymore.

He should have told you that. He should have hung up the phone, let this be the last time.

But instead, before he could stop himself, the words were already leaving his mouth.

“That sounds real nice, darlin’.”

when I tell you im literally so obsessed and proud of this! I hope you liked it!! Please leave your comments and thoughts if you made it through this behemoth :')

[burntheedges]

ok first of all "Joel's arms require their own tag" told me I was going to love everything about this fic and I WAS RIGHT!!! thank you so much!

I hope you’re ready for live reactions because here we go.

He works so hard 🥺 that’s so true! Sarah is such a good daughter, she knows that man. I love that she get’s reader in on it!

Gripe all you want, Joel, we know you’ll do anything Sarah wants!

I love their first meeting 😂. And biceps!!! And that Joel picks a cookie jar to one up Sarah (and to impress the pretty shop owner, you can’t hide from us, Joel).

“Good god was he broad” amen

So much hand touching ☠️ and that man, with his knowing smile! What a menace. And the fingers! And his expertise! He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Oh, believe me, darlin” his voice rings out, big fingers expertly finding their way into the exact position. “I know all about this one.” You watch his fingers glide up and down the inside of the bowl, your hand on top of his, steadying his wrist. You bite at your lip, fingers shaking slightly on top of his. Your chest was pressed against his back and you could feel your nipples hardening. You were annoyingly turned on. This wasn’t normal for you, this wasn't something you do, get the hots for a client, but here you were. And with the way Joel's fingers were methodically moving over yours, you were begging that he felt the same way. “Wouldn’t mind showin’ ya all I know about it.” The want in his voice makes you clench subconsciously, your breath faltering for a second. 

I am SCREAMING

I’m sorry I meant to keep commenting but I read the rest like this

That was so HOT omg. Of course Joel is like no no, let me just get down here real quick first! A menace!! You wrote confident, knows-what-he-wants Joel Miller SO well. 🧡

Thank you so much!! I loved it. It was so hot and cute and lovely! I love these two together. 🥰 I can’t believe this was for me!!

Keep A Leftover Light Burning

Pairing: joel miller x Ceramicist! reader

MINORS DNI WITH MY WORKS PLEASE !!

A/N: howdy howdy and welcome all now this is a very special fic for @burntheedges for the @pedrostories secret santa event!! I hope you like it and find it as fun as i did. I think this isnt a trope that we see very often, but after a healthy dose of tiktoks (and watching the scene from ghost again) this came into being. As always thank you to my beloveeeeeeed @carlynkurin for beta reading, and peace and love on the planet earth from me, xoxo Remember that TLOU is created by a zionist so please look at the resources at the end of this fic and in my bio on ways to donate and educate yourself!! tags: Ceramicist reader, smut, porn with plot, oral (f! receiving), publicish sex, strangers to lovers, lots of wet clay, joels arms require their own tag Word count: 3.4k Summary: Sarah forces joel to go take a day to himself, pushing him in the direction of your pottery studio. Despite calling yourself professional and priding yourself on your morals, you can’t help but… fantasize about the man in front of you. 

Joel needs to take time for himself. He’s always on, always ready to go at the flip of a switch,  never taking time to sit and breathe. Everyone knows how hard he works, and despite what he says, Sarah knows that he needs to do something calming. Something that doesn’t involve carving wood or going to the shooting range with Tommy on the off chance that both of them are free for long enough. So being the perfect daughter that she is, she enrolls him in a ceramics workshop that she had gone to once. It was a small studio, tucked away next to the Palace Theatre in downtown Georgetown, soft and quaint in the suburbs, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Sarah managed to get a hold of you over the phone and explain the situation, a smile threatening to creep onto your cheeks at the sheer amount of care she had for her father. You tell her not to worry about the price and that you would stay open for an extra hour next weekend just to get him in, a squeal on the other side is all the confirmation you need as you pencil it into your schedule. 

Sunday rolls around and Joel… Well, he was being Joel. Stubborn and groaning as Sarah essentially pushes him out the door to make the drive up IH-35, complaining about “I build things for a living,” and “it’ll be a waste of time.” but Sarah is hearing none of it and one look from her has Joel slipping on his boots. In any other circumstance, he would have praised her for holding her ground, but right now he just sighs and gets into his truck realizing just how much of his stubbornness had rubbed off on her. 

He ends up at the studio just before 5, the sun starting to dip under the horizon, casting beautiful pinks and oranges around the sky. He’s still bitching and moaning as he makes his way to the building, taking a deep breath as he steps inside. You barely even hear the jingle of the little bell above your door, too busy fighting with your sink: now clogged with clay from your last class with 3 kids under ten who didn't understand that when you told them not to dump clay inside the sink. You had meant it. “Fucking thing!” you groan, poking a paintbrush into the drain, hoping to get enough clay out of it so that it would run again. 

Joel stares at you, half confused and half amused with the scene in front of him; your hair a mess, your apron covered in clay and paint, hacking into your sink in ways that he knows won't do you any good. He clears his throat after watching you struggle for about 30 seconds, stifling a smirk when you jump and look back at him. “Need some help? I’m s’possed to have a class now- my daughter-” he shakes his head at the idea of sharing the whole story again “Did I get the wrong time?” 

You look absolutely mortified, dropping the paintbrush in the basin and giving the man in front of you a weak smile “No! No, I just got a little... occupied… you’re on time” You wipe your hands on the front of your apron, not even bothering to attempt to fix your hair, before walking over to greet him. Properly this time. “You must be Joel. Your daughter was very persuasive on the phone.” 

Joel’s smirk shifts into a full-blown smile at the mention of Sarah, the pride he has for the girl shining through. “Yeah, she’s a good one.” he praises. Despite his reluctance to listen to her advice, he knows just how good her heart is, and how much she cares about him. I “Ain't sure what she told ya, and to be honest she hasn't told me what I'm s’possed to be doing here either”

You can't help but smile at his words, the pure adoration for his daughter combined with the slight nervousness in his voice was endearing in ways you weren’t sure how to describe. “No worries, I promise it isn’t anything scary.” You glance around the studio. Outside, the sky had begun to darken, the soft lighting of the different lamps inside the building casting the both of you in a warm glow. The glaze on the ceramics you had on display was a wide assortment of colors: intricately painted motifs, bright splashes of colors, silly cartoons, almost anything you could think of. You pick up a faded apron and hand it to him, watching him stretch as he puts it on. A brief flicker of guilt passes through you as you ogle him, but then you see the way his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt and the guilt gives way to something primitive. 

He turns back around and you look away with a cough, a slight warmth creeping up your cheeks when he raises his brows at you. “Right um-” you stumble over your words, more unrefined than you would have liked to be “Sorry, sorry. We’ll start with choosing what you’ll want to make. I always recommend something easy, like a bowl or a spoon rest..” you pick up a pencil cup that had been painted to look like a pencil and a spoon rest that was a simple blue color, to show him “I already have the clay prepped so we can get started straight on th-” 

Joel cuts you off as he glances around the studio, pointing at a lidded cookie jar “That one.” His words leave no room for argument but certainly bring questions up to the surface. “I'm gonna do that one.” You had been making ceramics for years, starting with air-dry clay in school, continuing to use the wheel throughout university, and eventually quitting your day job to start the studio. You knew the skill level it took to make a jar, the precision and technique to keep it balanced, and it just wasn’t a beginner project. 

“I'm sorry, the cookie jar?” You try not to let your voice betray your disbelief. It wasn't that you lacked faith in the man in front of you, you made sure to be confident in all of your clients, it was simply an issue of skill. “I don't know if that’s the one for you to start out with, it’s a little advanced-” 

But Joel was having none of it. If he was going to be forced to sit here and make something to “calm him down” then damn it it was going to be something that takes skill and effort. Something that he could bring home to Sarah and brag about slightly. Was it a little strange that he wanted to one-up his daughter and prove that he didn't need to be here? Maybe a little bit, but he didn't dwell on it. “Yes ma'am.” His voice is set in the decision. “I'm sure it can't be that bad, let me at it.” 

Never one to truly tell people no, you simply nod and get the prepared clay out. It was soft and slippery, staining your hands a taupe color as you brought it to the wheel, plopping it down on the wheel, and pressing down on the sides to make sure it stuck. “Alright, so with the jar..” you gesture for him to take a seat in front of the wheel, moving to stand behind him “It’ll be a little bit more involved than something simple, but you're in good hands I promise.” Your words are soft, and frankly, you were excited. You didn't throw fun projects with clients as much as you’d like to anymore, focusing more on teaching the basics, so this was honestly a welcomed surprise. “We’ll just start with getting the basic shape of it, you’ll take your hands like this, and we’ll work it up.” 

You sit on your stool behind him, usually, you’d be able to reach around and help with hand placement but good god was he broad. You adjust and readjust your position a few times, finding it oddly difficult to find the right mix between comfort and functionality, eventually ending up with your legs spread a little bit past their comfort level, so that you could lean over his shoulder and help him with the shaping. You squeeze some water onto his hands, moving them to cup the base of the clay and pop the wheel to life. His hands were big under your smaller ones, the roughness contrasting both the soft clay and your skin. You can't help but feel a twinge of something stirring inside you as you help him bring the clay up and down, your hands guiding his. Joel’s brows were knit together in concentration, both endearing and attractive as you watched him focus on the clay. The movements of his hands under yours were careful, almost hesitant, his eyes peeking back at you every so often for assurance. 

Once the clay was at an appropriate size you moved your hands off of his, the wheel slowing to a stop. You swear that you see his hands twitch to stay under yours, but your mind might be playing tricks on you. “Now call me unartistic but this ain't really lookin’ like a cookie jar yet.” Joel raises his brows, a slight hint of teasing hidden in his southern drawl, and you can’t help but snort at the comment.

“I will not call you unartistic, it isn't supposed to look like a jar yet.” You hum and wipe your hands on your apron “We’ll do the lid to it later, but you have to actually make it into a bowl first.” your thumbs gently press down onto the center of the clay to form a soft dent. The wheel starts back up again slowly and you start to open the center up a little bit. “Right so now you just gotta take your thumbs like I did and- perfect!” Joel manages to press his fingers slowly against the clay, working it open, and god you wished that was you more than anything at that moment. You press on the sponge, the water dripping down his hand and onto the clay, almost sensually. Your eyes are locked on the way his thumb dips into the clay, the way the clay comes up onto his skin. Your mouth is dry, and you cough as you stand up, needing to take a deep breath and try to compose yourself. 

“Everythin’ alright?” Joel's voice rings out from behind you as you move to take a drink of water, and you swear if his voice was just a tinge deeper, you would have choked right then and there. In the rush of getting up, your brain had ceased to realize that moving off the pedal would stop the wheel from turning.

You feel like an idiot. A stupid, hormonal, completely unprofessional idiot. You take a moment to scold yourself mentally before turning around to face him again. “Yeah, yes. Sorry I just realized how thirsty I was, I just needed water.” You move back to your stool behind him, halfway composed, and move to start the next step. If you'd been in front of him for one more second, you would have seen the knowing smile on his face. There was no denying the attraction between the two of you. Pressed up against each other, hands touching, dim light surrounding you both, it was inevitable. You move your hand to show him the right finger position “so you’ll want to take your middle and ring finger-” You press the two of yours inside of the bowl to give him an example and you swear he laughs a little bit. 

“Oh, believe me, darlin” his voice rings out, big fingers expertly finding their way into the exact position. “I know all about this one.” You watch his fingers glide up and down the inside of the bowl, your hand on top of his, steadying his wrist. You bite at your lip, fingers shaking slightly on top of his. Your chest was pressed against his back and you could feel your nipples hardening. You were annoyingly turned on. This wasn’t normal for you, this wasn't something you do, get the hots for a client, but here you were. And with the way Joel's fingers were methodically moving over yours, you were begging that he felt the same way. “Wouldn’t mind showin’ ya all I know about it.” The want in his voice makes you clench subconsciously, your breath faltering for a second. 

You hold your breath for a moment as if trying to make sure you hadn’t imagined his words in a haze of horniness, only to be broken out of that haze when he shifts and pushes his stool back, and turns around to face you. Both of your hands were covered in wet clay and your aprons were messy, neither of which stopped you from pressing your lips against his. You sigh against his mouth as your hand's fist in the fabric of his shirt, staining the fabric with readily drying clay. “I don't usually do this,” you murmur when you pull away for air, your lips swollen and red. 

Joel just grins at your words “S’alright, honey,” his lips find their way to your jaw and move down to your neck, his nose nudging at the fabric of your shirt. “Don't gotta explain anything to me.” His voice is like molasses, smooth and syrupy, keeping you stuck on his every word. You let him move you around, the small wooden stools were less than ideal for either of you. In the mess of standing up and finding a table to bend over your shirt comes off and he groans at the sight of you, his hands grabbing at your waist, staining your skin with water. “Good god… sight for sore eyes…” You can't help but flush slightly at his comment, feeling more exposed while you stare at his fully clothed figure.

 Joel picks up on it, his hands moving from your waist to his shirt and apron, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth when the knotted strings keep him from taking it off. “Let me,” you whisper, reaching around to undo the strings, the fabric of the apron sagging and then getting tossed to some other corner of the room. You stare at him. You couldn't not stare at him. At the hair covering his chest leading down to his belt, the soft yet strong features of his body, at his hand undoing his belt. Your own shorts had been removed, your hands moving to reach into his jeans until he stopped you, a pout and protest forming on your lips. 

Joel just shakes his head at you, picking you up and setting you on a relatively clean table, his body wedged between your legs. “My momma raised me to be a gentleman,” he hums against your skin, kissing the tops of your breasts, nudging your nipples with his nose before giving each of them their own kisses “I didn't take ya to dinner, at least let me get my fill yeah?” Your back fully arched into his mouth as his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles were white. The feeling of his tongue flicking against the hardened bud had you moaning out in ways you had never imagined you would, and you swear you could feel him smirk even as he licked a stripe down the soft skin of your tummy. 

His knees crack as he settles between your legs and the sight of him is so sinful you can't help but moan softly. He raises his brows at you, a warm chuckle leaving his mouth at the sound, his lips pressing against the inside of one of your thighs “Look that good?” His voice is laced with a gentle mocking as he presses another kiss, a hair's breadth away from your aching cunt “think I got the better view though.” You don't even have the time, nor the brainpower, to reply before his lips press against you, a groan vibrating against your skin as he tastes you. “Sweetest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had… could get damn addicted.” 

Your lips are parted as his tongue swirls around your clit, your whines and moans spurring him on even further. “F-fuck joel-” you manage at some point, his broad shoulders keeping your thighs spread apart, despite how much they’d like to clamp around him. He was good at this and he knows that, moaning at the sound of his name on your lips, the words giving him a newfound energy. You feel his warm palms against your thighs keeping you spread open for him, and you almost whine when his tongue leaves your clit, only to cry out in ecstasy when his tongue prods at your pulsing hole. His nose is pressed up against your clit, giving you just the right amount of friction as he gathers your slick on his tongue, cycling between fucking it into you and laying it flat over your cunt. “Joel- joel oh fuck-” Your moans are frantic as he continues to send you closer and closer to that edge, his motions only getting faster as your hand fists in his hair. “Oh my god- fuck fuck fuuuuck-” your legs shake around his head, his hands keeping them apart as he works you through your orgasm, not stopping until you were spent and hazy, laying back on the table with shuddering breaths. 

Your eyes were pressed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of your orgasm, only to peek open when you hear the clink of his belt. His mouth was covered in the sheen of your orgasm, a hungry look in his eyes as he spits into his hand and pulls his cock out. “Tasted like a damn dream,” he groans while he strokes himself. “Gonna remember this forever…” Your eyes are locked on the motions of his wrist, the steady pace, the pearly precum that was leaking from his tip. “Fuckin’ perfect… makin’ me feel like a damn teenager again.” You wait with bated breath as he continues to stroke himself, wiggling your hips in order to entice him. 

 “Joel,” your voice is soft, but so heavily full of need it was almost painful “Please… I want you.” If you were being honest, you thought that it would take more convincing, that you would have to ask more, but Joel was desperate, maybe more so than you were and so when he sinks his cock into your dripping cunt it was ecstasy for both of you. Your eyes fall shut again at the feel of him, the stretch so much but so good. “Oh my god…” you whine, pushing yourself onto him further, your breathing stuttering when one of his hands palms at your breast, the other one gripping your hip with so much strength you think it would leave a mark. 

“That’s it…” he groans, slipping into you all the way. “Fuckin’ perfect pussy, like she was made for me.” His words are punctuated with shallow thrusts that fill you up again and again. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. The feeling of his hips pressing against yours is something you would never be able to get out of your memory. 

You both lay there, bodies pressed against each other, his hips rocking into you slow and steadily, the dim lighting of the studio casting an ethereal glow over the scene. His hips move at a steady pace, keeping you full of him as the coarse hairs around him press against your clit with the right amount of friction. It doesn't take much time until he's panting on top of you, your lips pressed against each other's in a heated kiss as you feel him spill inside you. 

“That was…” you were breathless, his chest still against yours, the rhythm of your hearts syncing up. 

“Yeah…” He grins, pressing a kiss against your forehead gently. “I know I told ya I was a gentleman but, I really would like to see you again… of course no pressure if you don't want to or anything-” 

You cut him off with a small laugh before he can keep going, nudging your head against his. “I want to, Joel.” You smile gently at him “Plus, you didn't finish the jar.” You grin, looking in the direction of the unfinished work of art he had started. “And then I have to fire it, then glaze it, then fire it again, then… well you get the point, I think I’ll be seeing you quite a few more times, Joel.”

A/N: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free

READ: This account stands with Palestine unequivocally, and so— I require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE;  HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. Silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist.

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Thank you for reading, and free Palestine

[seethesunny]

Mother-daughter bonding activities such as terrorizing a city together ❤️

Go read this y'all it's gonna be a WILD ride.

amor caecus est

Surviving Abby's attack, Joel clings to life in Jackson. Setting out together, Tess and Ellie must mend their own broken relationship before they can tackle finding Abby and exacting their revenge. A TLOU Part 2 AU, centering around Tess & Ellie.

chapter one now posted!