#THIS WAS SO GOOD OMG | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kreblogaccount · 11 months ago

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this was the most perfect thing ive read in a while. THANK YOU SOMUCH FOR WRITING THOS. IT WAS BEYOND AMAZING AND I ADORE YOU

crimson and clover, honey

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

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

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

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

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

Naive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Finally something interesting to look at.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The staircase. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

—

“You should call him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he responds with a chuckle.

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

“Of course,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ilovefluffysmutsm #i love this #this was so good omg #this was so fucking hot

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chrlech16r · 1 year ago

Text

Oh my god.

best friend privilege 🏁 gr

summary; george takes you to as many races as he can, because you're his best friend. but that's not the only privilege you have.

warnings; so filthy i'm sorry. pining, masturbation, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, kinda praise kink, slooow burn,cocky george obviously, will probably have a part two i think

word count; 5926

You’ve been George’s best friend for a few years new, having met before he even got his seat at Williams. You were friends through it all—supporting him through the harder years, and celebrating with him when he won the F2 championship, when he got his first points for his team, and when he finally signed his contract to drive for Mercedes like you knew he deserved.

There was never any doubt in your mind that you and George would be best friends for as long as you two were on this earth, if you were being dramatic about it, and you had no doubt that George felt the same about your relationship.

You were friends, best friends, it has always been that way.

However, ever since he joined the top team, something changed about him. He was more serious, more determined than you’ve ever seen him (even more so than before his qualifying session in Spa) and that changed something in you, too.

His blue eyes were always filled with a fire, a hunger—one you were so so used to seeing, but now, that fire was burning against your skin every time he looked at you.

Perhaps, you had some sort of feelings for your best friend.

And that was absolutely fine, because feelings come and go—but you knew your friendship with George was forever. So this was just something that was going to pass, it was just because of how close you two were, it was just that stupid black suit.

It must’ve been—because you noticed something similar moving in your stomach that night in Sakhir. That black suit had powers, ‘sall.

And if anything, it was definitely only physical, considering you only noticed a longing for him when you were at the races with him. On those weekend when you couldn’t travel out with him, you felt normal things people feel for their friends; pride, joy, happiness, as you watched him on the podium, or sometimes disappointment when his weekend wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. And then he’d call you after, and the pair of you would discuss the race and his weekend and then your weekend and it was all normal.

It was just that suit—you swore—as you walked next to him all day on the Friday. You were in Barcelona, so the weather was intensely warm, and George pushed that black suit to his hips, as low as it could possibly go, and strutted to the media pen.

You were talking about something unimportant, George asked you to find out the details of your mutual friends’ birthday party, and you told him what your friends had planned, and he was trying to remember if he was free to join, and you were so not listening as he sucked on that stupidly long straw of his.

“Water is important,” you said when the conversation stopped midway as George drank half his bottle in one go.

“It’s so fucking hot,” he complained. As if on cue, his trainer appeared beside him with a towel. George wiped the sweat off his forehead as the four of you arrived to the media pen. His trainer handed him another bottle, and his press officer was telling him something and you were just standing there and, frankly, admiring the view.

“Can I take these fireproofs off?” He groaned, as he tried pulling them away from his skin—but they were clinging onto him for dear life. You remembered a race last year, god knows where in the world you were, with similar weather to today. His white fireproofs were so tight you could see the outline of his stomach and--

“You can’t do the interviews shirtless, George,” his press officer rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure people would love that, though,” he smirked down at her.

“I’m sure they will,” she indulged him with a roll of her eyes, “but you’re on national television.”

“We’ll keep that for the late night shows, then?” He asked with a glint in his eyes.

“George,” she chuckled, shoving him slightly.

George was such a fucking flirt.

“Can you talk some sense into him?” She turned to you with a sigh, the same way she did almost every weekend you were around.

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you shrugged. “I think it’s best to wait for a shower before you take anything off,” was the best you could come up with. In all honesty, you wouldn’t mind it if George needed to rid himself from some layers. Who would blame him in this heat?

“Shower!” George said, snapping his fingers and pointing at you as if you came up with the best idea he’s heard all day.

George turned to his trainer, grabbing the second bottle from him, and pouring half of it on his head. He took his towel, drying himself up, and running it over his short hair. Suddenly, you had an urge to tug on those locks, wanting to see them get that messy from your pulling as his face sat in between your---

“Right,” his press officer said, “now that you’ve cooled down, let’s go.”

George nodded, making sure he didn’t look too unpresentable and took his hat from his trainer, placing it neatly on his head as is expected of him.

“We’ll be about an hour,” she turned to you.

“I’ll be in your driver’s room?” You offered.

“Yeah, figure out where you want us to eat tonight,” George said, offering you a thumbs up before walking over to the nearest unoccupied microphone.

You easily made your way back to the Mercedes hospitality, the layout of the paddock staying more or less the same regardless of where you were in the world. It was easy enough to remember, considering it was the first one in the long row of buildings—definitely an upgrade from the thirty minutes it took you to get from the centre of activities back to the Williams hospitality every weekend in the last three years.

Once back inside, you grabbed a can of Monster from the mini fridge at the front and made your way into George’s room.

You settled down, scrolling through your phone and relaxing under the breeze of the AC in George’s room. Once you finished your drink, and you checked your social media, you let your mind wander to where it was a few minutes ago. Where it always went when you spent time with George.

The pair of you doing things that friends don’t usually do with each other. Him using that cocky tone with you, him using his mouth on you, his fingers.

As you let your imagination linger on the way his lips sucked on his straw, you pushed your Mercedes shirt (the one with 63 on the back) up enough for you to have access to your tits. You rolled your nipple in between your fingers, the coolness in the room helping the sensations you were feeling, as you imagined your best friend’s fingers working on you instead.

His lips working on you, wrapping around your nipples as you tug on his short brown locks. How his stubble would feel against your abdomen.

His blue eyes looking up at you as he slid down your body and onto his knees.

You brought your free hand into your skirt, gasping at how definitely wet you were from your imagination alone. And well, maybe it helped that you were sitting on the sofa in his driver’s room that always smelled so strongly of his shampoo.

Your fingers rubbed against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your thighs. You wondered to yourself, as you did many times before, just how cocky George would get when he had you gasping above him. He’d smirk at you constantly, wouldn’t he? And he probably loves hearing how good he is, he probably lets out that little chuckle of his every time you ask for more.

You sped up your fingers, pinching at your nipples as you tried to imagine just how big he was—if that’s what made him so unbearable cocky, so attractively cocky.

You could feel it building up and you went faster, urging yourself (or rather, the imaginary George in your head) to keep going, that you were so close, that please baby, that--

“He’s such a fucking prick sometimes, I swear to god!”

You jumped up, noticing the very real George in front of you and the stunned look on his face.

Holy fuck.

“Who, um, who’s a prick?” You asked quickly, tugging your shirt down and covering yourself up.

George took a moment, or maybe six, to look over you—to confirm he saw what he thinks he just saw. Although your heart was beating incredibly quick, and you could feel the blood rushing to your toes, and you made a very strong point of keeping your legs shut, you weren’t shy under his gaze.

He seemed like he was almost, unbothered at all, but what he saw.

“Will Buxton,” he answered finally. He took the hat off his head, ran a hand through his hair with a huff, and kept talking, “he was going on and on about how happy I must be to be beating Lewis.”

“Well, we both know what he was trying to get you to say,” you offered, and neither of you acknowledged the water George offered you, a very knowing look accompanying his actions.

You took a very large sip as you listened on to what George had to say, and the promise he made to one day mount Will’s head above his fireplace.

“Anyway,” George sighed as he plopped himself on the sofa next to you, “I’m starving.”

“There’s a place that looks nice about twenty minutes from here,” George nodded, “I reckon the traffic is more or less done at this point.”

“Yeah,” George nodded. “Are you gonna change first?”

You swallowed, thinking maybe now was finally the time he’ll talk about what he saw when he walked in and how you were so very clearly touching yourself and how your tits were just out but he just said, “You know I love that shirt on you but it makes us stand out.”

“Bro, I think the Formula One driver is what makes us stand out,” you retorted, grabbing one of the grey pillows beside you and throwing it at his chest.

George caught it with ease, chuckling at you as he flashed you that beautiful smile of his.

“I wanna wear my Georgie merch,” you pouted at him.

“Yeah, um, alright,” he stuttered slightly, before getting up and grabbing a change of clothes. “Shower and we’ll go.”

The dinner was no different than any other dinner you shared with George. Neither of you mentioned what George walked in on and by the time the race on Sunday was over all the pair of you could talk about was George’s phenomenal battle with the reigning world champion.

“Fuck, that felt so good,” he smiled in conclusion, and you reciprocated that smile as he rewatched the race highlights a few hours later. If you saved that soundbite for later that evening, that was between you and your trusted toy.

Canada was too long of a flight, and you only had two days off work that week anyway, and so you decided not to join George for that weekend. That didn’t stop the pair of you from texting each other through the day like you always did, and concluding your night with a FaceTime call. George was frustrating in the sense that whenever he called you before bed he was already shirtless under the covers.

And how the fuck were you supposed to deal with that like a normal person who was definitely not attracted to their best friend?

“So, Mr. Consistency,” you greeted him, trying your hardest to focus on his face or even your face and definitely not the dark curve of his pecs. “P4.”

“Got beat by my teammate though,” George shook his head, that determination you loved so much about him shining through your screen.

“This time, but it’s a close fight babes,” you assured him.

“I know,” he sighed, “just wanted another podium.”

“You’ll get that.”

“If we’re talking about things I want,” George said, licking his lips slowly. Your heart (and your pussy) skipped a beat, “I want that fucking win already.”

You chuckled, hoping your desire wasn’t written all over your face in capital letter.

“You’ll get that too, Georgie.”

George shifted slightly, his hand disappearing from behind his head to somewhere you couldn’t see as he coughed slightly.

“How was your day, though?”

And then the pair of you talked about your boss’ new obsession with performance reports and the new coffee place that opened up by your house and the conversation went on and on and on until you were starting to dose off.

“I think I need to sleep now, babe,” you mumbled, your phone tucked in front of you as you snuggled on your side. George smiled at you.

“Good night, beautiful,” he said, and that’s the last thing you remembered.

Silverstone wasn’t a good weekend. Seeing his teammate on the podium again when it could’ve been him broke George’s heart, and it upset him even more to be unable to even finish the first lap of his home race. Finally he had a chance to do something incredible on British soil, and that chance was taken away from him. It’s been a while since you last saw George crying, and it was your job (and honour) to rub his shoulders as he let his sobs out.

You listened to him ranting about how stupid the FIA is and how scared he was to see what happened and how Toto didn’t even have his back and all you could do was nod and listen.

“There’s next year,” you tried, and George knew that already. All he did was just shake his head.

“Is there something we can do to get your mind off it?”

George’s eyes gaped at you, taking in what you just said. You didn’t think too much of it, really, as you said it but then you realised how close the pair of you were. Your thighs were pressed against each others, and your hand around his shoulder was pulling him nearer to you, and you could see the little stubble on his cheek.

For a moment, you thought you saw George’s blue eyes flick towards your lips.

“How do you mean?” He all but whispered.

You swallowed, your throat dry and scratchy. You brought your free hand over his bicep, squeezing him. “Whatever you need to put today behind you, Georgie.”

George exhaled slowly, eyes focused on you, his breath hitting your skin. You felt warmth spread through your stomach.

“You’ll do whatever I need?” George tried to confirm, and this time you were sure George was looking at your lips. You hoped they didn’t look too dry—you licked them just to check.

You noticed his jaw got tighter for a moment.

You wanted to say something, to tell him that he could ask for anything and you’d give him that—but you didn’t know how to say it, and the more you considered it the warmer your stomach got and you were scared you might actually just stutter and it wouldn’t come out as cool as you thought it would and what were you even going to say that wouldn’t be extremely inappropriate in the very real chance that he didn’t think about you that way at all and what if you just leaned in and kissed him and--

“George!” A knock came from behind the door, pulling the pair of you away from each other. “It’s Seb!”

And then the pair had to go have a lengthy chat about the events of today, as the two heads of the GPDA, and George only came back three hours later. By that point, he had concluded watching a movie would make him forget about today.

You weren’t sure why you thought it would be anything else.

Austria was another weekend to forget, and although still scoring a top five finish—George was outraged. He was so upset he didn’t even want to say anything, repeating the mantra that at least it was good points for the team.

“You don’t have to say the media shit with me, babes,” you tried, but George just shook his head and said it again.

“Let me shower and then we can go check out that club you spotted?” You offered, thinking maybe a dance and some drinks will put him in a better mood. George nodded.

“Can I join you?”

“Yeah, I’m not going to the club alone,” you joked as you rummaged through your suitcase for something a little nicer than the baby blue shirt George gave you in Silverstone. It was a very nice shirt, the 63 on it your favourite part, but maybe it wasn’t exactly right for a night out.

“I meant in the shower,” George said, his jaw tightening for a moment.

“What?”

Silence took over the room as the pair of you just looked at each other—George’s eyes turned grey. He licked over his lips once, his teeth catching his lower lip for a moment and you could’ve sworn he looked you up and down. You’ve seen George give people this look before, but you were never on the receiving end of it.

Now—you realised that was a good thing, because seeing that look on your best friend’s face had rendered you speechless.

“I, um,” you helpfully said, after approximately twenty minutes. Seconds. One of the two.

George flashed that smile of his, then chuckled. It was empty.

“See you in a bit,” he said, walking away with his head down. You’ve never seen George look… insecure before.

That was different.

You met up with a few other drivers there, and the music was just alright, and so a bit after midnight you decided you were tired and wanted to go back to the hotel. George put his drink down in an instant and grabbed your hand, taking you outside to find a taxi.

“So,” he started, hands tucked into his pocket, “did you find anyone nice in there?”

You were a few shots in, and if you weren’t so concerned about the chance of losing George, you would’ve told him there’s no one you want other than him. You would’ve told him it’s his face you see as you touch yourself at night, you would’ve told him you’d do anything to be able to kiss him and suck him off and ride him.

But you weren’t drunk enough to say anything like that. Instead, “wasn’t looking for that tonight. Just wanted a dance. What about you, racing driver?”

George chuckled, his eyes finding a spot way above your head as his smile took over his face.

“No one I could have really,” he shrugged.

“You? Striking out?” You fake gasped at him, adding a hand to your chest for dramatic effect.

“I didn’t even try,” he confessed.

“What?” You grabbed his arm, shaking him slightly. “Since when do you chicken out?”

“What does that mean?” He asked, eyes gleaming, as you drunkly swayed next to him—his bicep acting as a form of anchor for your body.

“I’ve never met anyone as confident as you are, Georgie, it’s truly inspiring.”

He shook his head, the smile still stuck to his face. “Well, it’s a bit more complex.”

“Oooooh,” you let out loudly. “Tea?”

“Stop,” he laughed, rolling his eyes at you.

“Come on,” you gasped, “you’re not gonna tell your bestie all about it?”

“I will when you’re not this hammered,” he said, bringing a hand around your shoulder. You let him pull you into his chest, finding warmth in his body as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“I think you could get anyone you wanted,” you said, rubbing your hands up his back, “you’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks,” he said, lightly pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Plus you’re fit as fuck,” you said, speaking in the lower voice you used when you were mocking George and your other male friends.

“You’re fit as fuck, too,” he laughed, and escorted you into the taxi that had finally arrived.

France was good. France was really really good. Not only did George take his first pole position in F1, but he managed to convert it into a win—and the pair of you were out celebrating all night.

George hugged you first as he got out of the car and he gave you the comically large champagne bottle for safe keeping and he wouldn’t keep his arm off your shoulder as the four of you (press officer and trainer included) walked throughout the paddock so George could speak to absolutely everyone that wanted to hear from the new race winner.

The smile just wouldn’t leave his beautiful face all night, and honestly, you weren’t complaining. You’d pay good money to see that smile so vividly on his face—and you were lucky enough to be in pole position of that sight.

You even got a new lockscreen out of it; George’s arm around you as you held the champagne and he held the gorilla trophy, his pirelli hat soaked through from the podium showers.

It was the prettiest picture you’ve had of George, and the fact you looked oddly like a couple in it didn’t go unnoticed by your mutual friends.

But they didn’t comment on it to your face.

You weren’t able to attend another race after that, but George promised you it was alright. It was the summer break soon anyway—and he had planned to spend as much of it as he could with you and your friendship group.

You couldn’t take any time off until Amsterdam, and George was always understanding of that, so you made the most of the time he got to spend back in the UK. Nights out and picnics and beach days and sight seeing and anything the group of you wanted to do, and it was so refreshing to have George there with you guys.

It was three days before he was meant to fly out to Spa and one of your friends was having a house party at theirs.

There was beer pong and shots and Spotify’s Top 40 playing in the living room. Naturally, you and George teamed up together to become unbeatable at beer pong—although truly, it was mostly George that did the work. You just drank if someone scored into your cups.

The night went on and on and at one point a few of you went to sit on the huge trampoline in your friend’s garden.

Without thinking, you rested your head on George’s lap. His fingers found your hair in an instance.

“So George,” one of your friends prompted, “you’re gonna win another one this year?”

“Damn hope so,” he said, and even though you couldn’t see his face you knew his eyebrows jumped up at that.

“You better,” they offered back.

“Wait until Zandvoort though because I don’t wanna miss it,” you said. George soothingly rubbed circles into your scalp.

“You should come to all my races, I could win any of them,” he said. There’s a reason he’s called Mr. Consistency, you thought to yourself.

“Sadly, I have bills to pay, sir,” you huffed.

“If George makes you his trophy wife you’ll be sorted,” your friend pointed out. The fingers in your hair stopped moving.

“Ha ha, very funny,” you managed to say.

The conversation shifted when one of your friends came from inside the house to beg for a teammate in another round of beer pong, and the talks of a trophy wife were forgotten. But you very much noticed how stiff George became after that.

A few weeks (and one Monza podium) later, you were back with George. Maybe all your friends noticed you were attending a lot more races than you did last year—and a lot more than all of them combined. Most of your friends came to Monaco and Silverstone, and sometimes Abu Dhabi. But you already had half a dozen under your belt.

You weren’t complaining though, you loved going to the tracks, and your best friend wanted you there—so what was wrong with it?

You thought maybe you should encourage George to invite a few of your other friends out as often, too.

“Yeah, but your my best friend,” George pointed out once you brought up the subject. “I don’t want a bunch of people around me all weekend.”

“I’m around you all weekend,” you said.

“I want you around me all weekend.” And maybe you didn’t quite hear the end of that sentence, as a blush took over your face.

“But if you don’t want to come so much that’s fine, I know it’s exhausting to travel and you’re using all your time off work to be here--”

“—don’t be ridiculous, Russell,” you threw a hand around.

“Last naming me?” He gasped at you.

“That’s how ridiculous you’re being,” you said, and George accepted that with a meaningful nod.

At that, you got back to your phone, and so did George, and the pair of you sat on the sofa in his hotel room as you spent your Friday night relaxing before George’s big day tomorrow.

You perched your legs on his lap, and at one point or another George moved closer to you so his large hand rested on your thigh.

If he drew circles on your leggings, inching up and down your thigh, you definitely weren’t going to tell him to stop.

“Y/N,” he said, bringing your eyes away from the never ending scroll you were putting yourself through, “can I ask something?”

“Sure,” you locked your phone, bringing your attention over to your best friend.

“Remember Barcelona?”

You nodded slowly.

“Those moves on Max?” You tried confirming, thinking back to that weekend and not remembering much else of note.

“What happened in my driver’s room,” he corrected you. The hand on your thigh had stopped moving, George tucking it in between your legs like he usually did when his hands were cold.

It wasn’t cold in September.

As soon as George said it, you remembered exactly what happened. You must’ve blocked it out of your mind but now it was coming back to you in it’s full glory—reminding you of the terrifying moment your half naked body just sat there as George looked at you.

Why was he bringing this up?

“Um, George, I,”

“I’m sorry I interrupted you that day,” he said, looking at the hand tucked between your legs.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you chuckled lightly, “it would’ve been weird if I kept going, I think.”

“Would it?” George finally turned to look at you, his eyes showing you that same beautiful fire they had before George got in a car on a Saturday. Maybe it was just starting early this week.

“I was in your room, it’s not like I should’ve done that there…” you trailed off.

“I didn’t mind,” he said simply, “I don’t mind.”

“Sorry?”

“If you wanted to do that again in my room, you can,” he licked his lips. You realised his hand wasn’t as close to your knees as it was last time you checked. It sat much higher now.

“We’re in your room now,” you pointed out, your voice catching in your throat lightly.

“We are,” George agreed.

You locked eyes, his stare burning into you as he raised his eyebrows lightly. As if to ask if he can push you any more. You nodded.

George moved his hand down your inner thigh and grabbed it, pulling your leg upwards and disconnecting your thighs from each other. You wondered if there was a visible wet patch—but your leggings were black. You could feel the wetness either way.

“It was a really interesting sight, you know,” George said, watching as you slowly spread your legs in front of him, “you touching yourself in a Mercedes shirt.”

“Can’t recreate it for you,” you smiled apologetically at him, shrugging at your blue tank top.

Before you could even predict his next move, George pulled his own Mercedes shirt off and handed it to you.

You felt your breath hitch.

You nodded slightly, grabbing the shirt from him as you ripped off your tank top.

George was staring, his eyes raking over your skin like a lion after its prey.

It made you feel powerful, and his heavy gaze on your blue bra gave you the courage to reach behind your back and drop the bra to his floor.

“Fuck,” he let out as he looked at your exposed chest.

A twitch in his hand made it seem like he wanted to reach forward and grab your tits, but something stopped him from doing so—and all he did was watch as you pulled his shirt over your head, your nipples poking out against the white material.

“What now?” You asked him, as if to give him a way out of this. But George didn’t want one, and instead he smirked at you in that cocky way of his.

“Touch yourself.”

You never thought you’d hear George say those words, let alone to you, and so how could you deny him that request?

You brought one hand to your chest, glad you freed yourself from the constrict of your bra, and swirled your nipple in between your fingers. Your mouth hung open as you tried to control your breathing—the pleasure already running up and down your body.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” George suggested, leaning back as he took in the sight in front of him, “it’s not like you aren’t allowed to touch.”

As soon as he said those words, you let a moan escape your lips. Maybe it was the words themselves, the implications behind them, or his stupid cocky tone, but it turned you on even more.

“That’s my girl,” he smirked.

“Oh, fuck,” you let out, and George’s eyes sparkled at that reaction.

You scrunched the shirt up, getting a whiff of George’s perfume, and brought both your hands to your chest—the fabric no longer in the way as you pinched and twisted and pulled.

“There you go,” George encouraged, “make sure it feels good.”

“It feels really good, George,” you sighed, gasping as you pulled harder on your nipples.

“Do you wanna touch anywhere else?” He asked, looking you up and down with a glimmer of a lust on his features. It almost felt like he wanted to devour you.

You wanted that, too.

“Yeah,” you gasped.

“Where do you wanna touch, baby?”

“Wanna, fuck, wanna touch my pussy,” you said, your eyes glazing over slightly as you couldn’t quite comprehend you just said that word to George.

“You wanna touch your pussy?” He confirmed. You nodded desperately at him. “Was that what you were doing in my room?”

“Yes,”

“You were touching yourself when you knew I could walk in, huh?”

You knew where this was going now, and you knew how insufferably cocky he was going to get in two seconds, but you didn’t fucking care. You wanted to play whatever this game was—and if it was possible, you wanted to win it.

“I wanna show you how I touch myself, Georgie,” you let out.

It almost sounded like George growled at you, and he quickly nodded his head—leaning forward to get a closer look at your hands.

You brought them down towards your clothed pussy, gasping as you realised you soaked through your underwear and leggings. You felt your face heat up.

“What is it?” George asked, seeing the surprise on your features.

“It’s really wet,” you gasped, rubbing circles on your clit.

“Show me,” George demanded. You dipped a finger inside your underwear, gasping at the contact, making sure to coat it in your wetness before you showed it off for George to see.

He bit his lip at the sight, his hand running over his hair.

“That’s fucking hot,” he praised, palming himself for a moment before he brought his attention back to you.

You kept going, using your fingers on yourself in the ways you knew would send you over the edge, and having George’s tight gaze on you only made it feel better,

You took in his features, how tight his jaw looked, the way his eyebrows scrunched in the middle slightly, the way his chest stood so beautifully in front of you—just asking to be touched and kissed and marked.

Then, you noticed the tent in his sweats.

“Touch yourself, George,” you let out quickly, wanting nothing more than to see George in the exact position he put you in.

George didn’t need to be told twice, and he quickly moved his sweats down to his thighs, a small wet patch on his boxers.

He freed himself, the sight of him fully hard making your mouth water.

“I think I have some catching up to do,” he said when he noticed your breathing got a lot heavier, and your movements much quicker.

You nodded frantically at him, barely able to say anything, as you watched his fist pumping up and down his length.

He definitely had a reason to be as cocky as he was.

The pair of you locked eyes again, each focusing on the movements of your own hands, and the sinful sights in front of you, and before long George was shutting his eyes as he moaned into the room.

That was the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“I’m close,” you said desperately.

“I’m close, too,” he nodded.

“Together?”

“Fuck, yes,”

You sped up your movements even more, the noises coming out of your mouth even more desperate than they’ve been all night, and in a matter of seconds you felt something snap within you and that fantastic curl in your toes.

It wasn’t long after that George threw his head back, a hot white pleasure taking over his face as cum shot onto his exposed stomach.

“Fucking hell, George,” you let out in a chuckle.

All you wanted to do was lean forward and clean his stomach with your tongue, but instead you reached over for a few tissues on the side table by the sofa.

“Thanks,” he cleaned himself off quickly, taking a second to catch his breath. “Can I get you something?”

“Water, please,” George quickly got up and grabbed a drink from the mini fridge, opening the bottle for you and handing it over. You could barely sit up straight, the sensitivity in your core sending tingles up and down your body.

You were almost tempted to ask George if you could go again.

But instead, the pair of you just sank back to your previous position, George shifting your legs so they were back on his lap.

“Want some food?”

And that was that.

George got on the podium that Sunday, and Max invited everyone to go out to his favourite part of Amsterdam, and what happened on Friday night was all but forgotten.

Or at least that’s how you acted. But almost every night, when you couldn’t fall asleep, you replayed the events of that day in your head—your orgasm hitting you just as strongly as the night before.

But it was never as good as when George was right there in front of you.

#this was so good omg #thank you sm

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