#but the sweet moments are gonna make me smile and giggle

[dixons-sunshine]

I absolutely adore this fic! It was so hot and had me giggling like a schoolgirl.

You blinked up at him, mock-offended. “Wow. You really need to get laid, don’t you?”

I strive to have this level of confidence lmao. But I reckon she’s right tbh.

“Ya know, Mr. Miller,” you say, eyes dancing as you lean in a little closer, voice syrupy, “if you’re gonna make me beg, the least you could do is pull my hair while you’re at it.”

(Do)n’t tempt him. He just might 👀

Joel stands there, beer in one hand, jaw already clenched like you’d personally ruined his evening by breathing on his welcome mat. His eyes take their time sweeping over you—legs bare, cheeks flushed from the walk over, school jacket slung over your arm. By the time they land back on your face with that signature glare, there’s a smile on your lips.

I love how hard Joel pretends he hates the reader, when we all know he actually doesn’t.

“Drink,” she corrects, holding up a finger. “Singular. I promised one.”

Yeah...it never ends at just one drink bby.

You just grin over your shoulder. “I know. But I also know you. You’ll cave the second someone with a thick Texan accent says you have pretty eyes.”

I can’t blame her for that. I also love a good Texan accent, so I would also cave if that happened to me.

Then he kneels beside the bed and brushes the hair from her face. Just once. A soft tuck behind her ear. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. There’s so much love in that one motion, it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to exist in it with them.

THIS IS SO SWEET WTF 😭💜 He’s an amazing dad.

“So…” he mutters, voice low, approving, “she does know how to listen.”

I know, shocking lmao.

“I like you so much better when your mouth is full of me.”

SIR— 😳🫣👀

“Couldn’t help it, huh?” His voice softens, but not with mercy—with need. “S’that good? That what my cock does to you?”

Cocky bastard...I adore him.

Then, after a long pause, you hear him say, “You’re…you’re not drunk, are you?”

Probably should have asked that before y’all got down and dirty, but it’s okay. Heat of the moment.

This was a goddamn masterpiece. I love this with my whole heart! And I was honoured to be a beta reader for this 💜 Love ya!

Do It For Dale

I do it for my daddy and I do it for Dale I'm doing what I want and, damn, I'm doing it well

Summary: As Sarah’s best friend, you’re determined to give her the perfect 21st birthday—even if it means going behind her grumpy old dad’s back. But when the night spirals and you end up stranded, you’re forced to call the last person you want to face. And once Sarah is asleep, he shows you exactly what happens to girls who misbehave. || smut MDNI 18+, cheerleader!reader, bratty!reader, overprotective!joel, grumpy!joel, sarah's best friend!reader, sbf!reader, bfd!joel, wtf are these acronyms my god, college au, brattamer!joel, no outbreak, pinv, reader is on birth control, blowjob, f!receiving oral, no use of y/n, riding, dirty talk, tiny bit of degradation but also praise kink, spanking, big girthy age gap reader is 21+|| Inspired by Ethel Cain's American Teenager. "Do it for Dale" is a saying in memory of the nascar driver dale earnhardt who was known for his risky driving. basically 'take risks, make dale proud" the southern version of ‘you only live once’ >> thank you to my angels @dixonsdarkelf & @dixons-sunshine for looking this over / beta reading when it was just mere scraps on a page and giving me the confidence to keep going!!

“I don’t care what your dad says,” you snap, wedging your phone between your shoulder and ear as you bend to tie your pristine white sneakers. The laces cinch in your fingers with the kind of practiced precision that only comes from years of repetition—pure muscle memory.

The locker room is chaos. There are voices shouting across aisles, lockers slamming, pom poms rustling like restless birds. The low thump of stadium bass rattles up through the concrete floor, humming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s electric.

On the other end of the line, the voice is borderline panicked. “I’m serious—he said no going out. Just the two of us, nice dinner, low-key—”

“Sarah.” You switch the phone to your other ear, and tug a stray piece of hair back into place as you catch your reflection in the mirror screwed to your locker. “You’re turning twenty-one. Twenty. One. That’s the last birthday that matters until you hit, like, fifty and buy a boat.”

“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “You don’t have Joel Miller for a father.”

You grin. “No, but I know him. Man’s all bark and no fun. Somebody needs to shake the dust off him.”

“Oh god,” she groans, “he’s coming to the game, by the way. So whatever you’re planning? Don’t make it weird.”

“Please.” You dig through your duffel for your lipstick. “Give me two minutes, and he’ll be begging to let you out of the house.”

“That sounded disgusting. Never say my dad and ‘begging’ in the same sentence again.”

You laugh as you swipe the red across your lips, smooth and practiced. In the background, Coach Peña barrels through the locker room doors like a storm system, barking out the countdown to kickoff. The girls start filing out around you, all pep and nerves.

“I gotta go,” you say, “Coach is foaming at the mouth.”

“Fine. Just don’t get me grounded before the third quarter.”

“No promises. Love you, mean it, bye.”

You toss your phone into your bag, zip it shut like sealing a vault, and pause for one last look in the mirror. Bright smile, flushed cheeks, and candy-glossed red lips. The kind of lashes that get you out of tickets. The kind of uniform that falls somewhere between school pride and a pin-up calendar hanging in a mechanic’s break room.

You lean closer to fix a clump of mascara and rub a smudge of red off your tooth. That smile curls back again—not the sweet one from halftime routines, but the other one. The one that gets you into trouble.

Then you grab your pom poms, swing your locker shut, and strut out of the locker room with the confidence that gets you into bars for free and banned from Student Council meetings. 

Game on.

The air is electric—crisp with that first snap of fall, leaves crunching under boots in the parking lot, the smell of cheap beer and burnt hot dogs drifting in from the tailgaters who’ve been posted up since noon. The stadium’s packed, a blur of school colors and screaming faces, everyone high on spirit and spite and way too much booze and energy drinks. There’s nothing quite like the high of a homecoming game.

If this wasn’t American football, you’d swear the crowd was here for blood.

You kick your leg up high, pom poms shaking like fireworks in your hands, your grin sharp enough to slice through the October air. Your thighs burn with the repetition, but you don’t stop. You feed off of this: the roar, the stomping feet, the chanting, the band playing at volume in the field behind you. It’s chaos, it’s magic, it’s everything.

You spin into another high kick as the running back punches into the end zone, and the crowd erupts. Your ponytail bounces, your lipstick still flawless despite the sweat, the screaming, the adrenaline thundering through your veins like rocket fuel.

This is what you live for.

You cartwheel, hands and pom poms catching the ground before your squad forms into a pyramid with practiced ease, launching into a cheer that gets the whole section yelling along.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Sarah posted up in the stands—her dark hair pulled up with school-colored ribbons woven in, ends tied off in bows like she just walked out of a Pinterest board. And next to her, arms crossed and jaw set in his signature I hate fun expression, is the man you plan to convince to let his perfect Honor Society daughter get blackout drunk tonight: Mr. Miller.

Flannel. Scowl. Zero sense of humor.

As if he can feel your stare from the top of the pyramid formation, his eyes flick from the players taking a timeout on the field—to you.

Even from this far away, you can see the way his brow furrows just a little deeper, the lines on his face etching like fault lines, like he can read every debaucherous plan in your head about tonight.

And it only makes your grin widen.

After your halftime performance—which included you seeing your entire life flash before your eyes when Ryan, one of your catchers, stumbled as you came flying down from a basket toss—you found Sarah at the bottom of the bleachers, about to head back up with a charred hot dog in one hand and a Gatorade in the other.

One second, you were airborne under the stadium lights, all grace and clean lines, the crowd roaring like they’d never seen a cheer squad stick a toss before. The next, you were dropping way too fast, Ryan’s hands scrambling to catch your left leg as the whole formation wobbled.

You landed hard, your shoulder slamming into someone’s chest, your breath punching out in a sound that definitely wasn’t choreographed. Half the squad gasped. The other half kept smiling. Coach screamed something incoherent from the sideline.

But you popped right back up, beamed like you hadn’t just bruised half your spine, and finished the routine.

Showbiz, baby.

“Hey!” Sarah calls when she spots you weaving through the crowd. “I seriously thought you died when Ryan almost dropped you.”

Her face is twisted in a full-body cringe as she looks you over, like she’s checking for bruises.

You swipe some sweat off your brow with the back of your hand, catching your breath as you lean against the metal railing. “Tell me about it. If he thinks he’s copying my chem homework next week, he’s got another thing comin’.”

She snorts. “He hasn’t passed a test since freshman year.”

“Exactly. He’s one C-minus away from being kicked off the team,” you grimace, then lean in a little on the railing with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Though I heard he and a bunch of the guys are hitting up The Tipsy Bison later. I know it’s a dump, but the drinks are cheap and the bartenders don’t card if you tip them, like, a couple bucks and wink. We’d only need to wait it out til midnight anyway since–”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah says, but her eyes are already shifting—because someone else is approaching.

“Evenin’.” A low voice cuts in from your left, and the air instantly shifts. 

You look in the direction of the voice, and there he is. Joel Miller, in all his glory. Holding a hot dog and Miller Lite (ironic that the man likes his own namesake beer, no?), wearing that same dark green plaid he probably wore to every barbecue and grocery run. His expression is set in granite. The man looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Bush administration and he was damn proud of it.

“Enjoyin’ the game, Mr. Miller?” you smile sweet as can be up at him. The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of his cologne—all woodsy and dark. There’s something you can’t place but hate how much you like.

He grunts, then looks at his daughter, “You ready?”

“So–” you cut in quickly as she nods, ready to turn around and head back to their seats, “word on the street is Sarah’s got a very important birthday tonight. Twenty-one’s a big deal. Life-changing, even. Seems like something worth, I don’t know… celebrating?”

“She’s not going out to your Tipsy Bison bullshit,” he said flatly.

So he had heard everything.

“Not even for one little drink?” you asked, eyebrows raised in mock innocence, “C’mon. She’s practically a senior citizen in college years. You gonna keep her locked in the tower forever, or what?”

“She’s got class Monday.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to sound like a co-conspirator. “Good thing it’s Saturday.”

Still nothing. His silence is like a damn wall. An unreadable, infuriating, weirdly attractive wall.

You blinked up at him, mock-offended. “Wow. You really need to get laid, don’t you?”

That earned you a shift—a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, sharp and unreadable, his jaw tightening, but still not a word.

Joel Miller, the human embodiment of a steel door.

You smirked. “Ooh, that bad, huh?”

From a few steps above, moving out of the way like a storm was brewing between the two of you, Sarah groaned. “Dad, please don’t murder my friends!”

You took a step back, throwing both hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d ask. Y’know, on behalf of your adult daughter.”

Joel turned away, back up the bleachers, “Get back to your little song and dance, kid.”

And that was that. You watched his back for a second longer, half amused, half intrigued. Then you looked up at Sarah and surprised her with a grin as her dad began ascending the stairs.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You didn’t bother texting first. Sarah would’ve found some way to talk you out of it, knowing her.

Still in your uniform, though the pom poms had long ditched, lipstick a little faded but your confidence entirely intact, you march right up the Miller porch and rap your knuckles against the tall wooden door.

It only takes a few seconds before it swings open.

Joel stands there, beer in one hand, jaw already clenched like you’d personally ruined his evening by breathing on his welcome mat. His eyes take their time sweeping over you—legs bare, cheeks flushed from the walk over, school jacket slung over your arm. By the time they land back on your face with that signature glare, there’s a smile on your lips.

“The hell you doin’ here, kid?”

Your grin widens, sweet as sugar, “Evenin’ to you too, Mr. Miller.”

He barely even blinks.

You shift your weight onto one hip, the skirt of your uniform shifting across your thighs. “Thought I’d come talk to you again. Woman to man.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “’Bout what, exactly?”

“You know what,” you say, rolling your eyes, “It’s your daughter’s birthday. I just want to take her out for one drink!”

“She ain’t goin’.”

“Ya know, Mr. Miller,” you say, eyes dancing as you lean in a little closer, voice syrupy, “if you’re gonna make me beg, the least you could do is pull my hair while you’re at it.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, dark and dangerous as his lip curls up, his figure stepping close enough to cast a shadow over you. You hold your ground, grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, daring him to snap, to rise to it.

Just as he opens his mouth to retort, you hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh my god,” Sarah says, voice full of disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Joel‘s eyes are still on you, but as if remembering himself, he scoffs, stepping aside just enough for her to poke her head out from over his shoulder. As you pull yourself on your tip toes to look over him, you see Sarah— hair still tied up in those bows, though they’ve fallen since you last saw her. Her brown eyes are wide as she takes in both of you standing together.

You lift your hand in a casual wave. “Told you I’d try. But your dad’s playing medieval warden again.”

Sarah groans, coming down a few steps. “Daaad…”

You raise a hand, cutting her off before she can jump in too. “Don’t worry, I had a feelin’ he’d be like this.” You reach into the bag slung over your shoulder and pull out a DVD, holding it up like a peace offering. She’s The Man. “If we can’t go out, we’re celebrating in. I at least want my best friend to enjoy her goddamn birthday.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You’re stayin’?”

You shrug. “Unless you’re plannin’ to physically remove me—yeah.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop you, either. He just stands there, glaring, as Sarah appears beside him and grabs your hand to pull you inside. The two of you are already halfway up the stairs by the time he can manage to take a breath.

You glance back at him just before turning the corner. He’s still standing in the doorway, muttering something under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like you’ve given him a migraine in the span of two minutes.

“Don’t wait up, Mr. Miller,” you call with a grin.

He shuts the door with more force than necessary, and you swear you can hear him muttering as he takes a sip of his beer, something like, “Goddamn pain in my ass.”

You follow Sarah into her room, shutting the door behind you with a soft click as she drops onto her bed in a dramatic sprawl.

Your eyes scan the familiar space. The twin bed, with its purple-and-gray comforter, is pushed into the corner, the lineup of band posters curling at the corners on the walls. The old photo of her and her dad at a soccer match she won a trophy for with her team is still taped above the lamp.

“So,” you start, turning the lock.

Sarah immediately sits up, eyes narrowing. “No. Nope. What are you up to?”

“What?” you say, all wide-eyed innocence.

She points at you like she’s caught you red-handed. “That face. I know that face. You’re scheming.”

“Of course I’m scheming,” you say, manicured nails finding your hips once you drop your bag down. “Sarah, you’re twenty-one. You only turn twenty-one once, and you wanna spend it… what? Watching She’s the Man and ordering pizza?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say that.”

She groans. “I don’t know…”

“Look—we’ll watch the movie I brought, play it chill for now, and then once the old man crashes on the couch like he always does—boom. We’re out. You’re putting on your hottest jeans, I brought you Jason’s football jersey—”

“Why do I need a jersey?”

“Half-off beer for anyone wearing school colors,” you say, like it's obvious, “God, do you ever go out?”

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead, “you really planned this all out.”

“Correct,” you grin, “and that’s why you love me. Now—either those jeans that make your ass look phenomenal or that little skirt I gave you last year. We’ll do your makeup, fix those ribbons, and then you’re hauling your ass out that window whether you like it or not.”

As you ramble on, you catch the smile forming on her lips, her fingers rising to hide it, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You’re insane,” she says, laughing.

“I’m a genius,” you correct.

“He’s gonna kill you.”

Your red lips stretch into another grin. “I’d love to see him try.”

God, you were good. You’re a humble girl—really. Scout’s honor. But the things you can do with a makeup brush…Honestly? It deserves scientific documentation. Because by the time Mr. Miller’s snoring echoes through the walls and drifts up the stairs, you were already at work.

And now, only half an hour later, the birthday girl is glowing.

Her eyeliner is sharp enough to cut glass, her lips gleaming with that pink gloss you found buried at the bottom of her vanity drawer, and her cheeks are flushed that perfect rosy tone that makes her caramel skin look like it belongs in a beauty campaign.

“Oh. My. God,” you breathe, stepping back to admire your masterpiece. “You are so getting us free drinks tonight.”

“Drink,” she corrects, holding up a finger. “Singular. I promised one.”

You roll your eyes, already heading for the window. “Uh-huh. One drink. One shot. One phone number. I’m flexible.”

“I mean it!”

You just grin over your shoulder. “I know. But I also know you. You’ll cave the second someone with a thick Texan accent says you have pretty eyes.”

She lets out a groan—half exasperated, half excited—as you push the window open. The Austin night air drifts in, dry and cool against your skin, the quiet hum of cicadas in the distance. The sky is dark and clear, moonlight pooling across the shingles like it’s inviting you out.

You duck through first, your legs swinging over the sill as you balance on the edge. “Come on, birthday girl.”

“You're gonna get us killed before my dad even has the chance.”

You glance back with a grin. “Relax, it’s just a little jump.”

“Uh-huh.” She squeaks, but still climbs out behind you, barefoot and holding her heels, a whispered shit shit shit under her breath as the two of you crouch low and begin the careful climb down the old lattice nailed into the side of the porch. It isn’t exactly stable, but it holds—like it always does when you’re the one sneaking in.

You land with a soft thud in the grass, then looking up, you reach a hand toward her. “Easy. I got you.”

She drops down next to you, a little breathless, a little wild-eyed, already grinning.

Your phone buzzes with the alert of your driver arriving.

You slip your phone into your purse and nudg her with your elbow as the two of you start toward the street.

“One drink,” she reminds you.

You just smirk. “Sure, babe. One drink. And if we end up dancing on tables by midnight?”

“That’ll be on you.”

“Yeah. I can live with that.”

And off you go, pulling on your sneakers, the stars bright overhead as you climb into your Uber.

The night had gone from rowdy to regretful real fast.

And now, sitting on the curb outside the bar, shoes dangling from your fingers, the soles of your feet throbbing, you’re realizing just how deep in shit you are. The air has cooled just enough for goosebumps to rise along your arms, the sweat and heat from the crowded dance floor long gone. Your other hand clutches your phone, the blue glow of the screen casting shadows across your face.

The Uber app spins. And spins. And spins.

“No. No, no, no,” you whimper, voice tight as the screen flashes: No drivers available in your area.

No Uber. No Lyft. And no way in hell are you spending fifty bucks on a yellow cab. Yeah, you waitress at the diner, but that’s damn near an entire shift’s pay. Just to get home in one piece? No thank you.

You glance sideways.

Sarah is slumped beside you, her head cradled in her hands, the ribbons that once sat perfectly in her hair now unraveling in limp curls. One of her earrings is missing. Glitter streaks across her cheek like a tear. She lets out a soft, pitiful sound—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and you swallow hard.

“Hey,” you murmur, crouching down in front of her, trying to keep your voice calm, “drink some of this.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she mutters. She sips from your water bottle like it’s acid.

“Well,” you say, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder, “if not now, you definitely will be in a second.”

Your stomach churns. Not from the alcohol—from what you’re about to do.

You take a breath, swipe to your contacts, and tap the name you’ve been avoiding all night.

Joel Miller’s truck pulls up ten minutes later.

It rumbles into view like a warning—headlights sweeping across the sidewalk, engine growling low and loud in the silence of the early morning. You stand, heart in your throat, wiping your sweaty palms on your skirt.

He barely put it in park before he’s out the door and moving.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, soft as ever, sliding his arms under Sarah’s shoulders to lift her, “I got you. It’s alright.”

She whimpers something, an apology maybe, but he just hushes her gently and helps her into the back seat, tucking her in like a child and buckling her seatbelt.

And then he turns.

Gone is the soft-spoken dad. Gone is the cooing.

His face shifts in the dim streetlight—jaw locked, eyes hard, voice like gravel.

“Get in the truck.”

Your mouth opens. It closes again, then you say, “I can find my own—”

“I said.” He takes a step toward you, slow and sharp. “Get. In. The truck.”

He yanks the passenger door open.

You stare at him for a second too long, heart pounding, but you step up into the cab and slide into the seat without another word. Joel slams the door behind you, and the truck rattles as he gets back in, hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make the leather creak.

The house is quiet when you get back, the kind of silence that feels like it might shatter if you breathe too loud.

Joel doesn’t say a word as he parks the truck and gets out. He silently opens the back door and unbuckles Sarah, arms curling under her like second nature. She stirs with a small groan, burying her face in his chest, and he murmurs something you don’t catch—low and warm and so damn gentle it makes your throat tighten.

The whole drive, his jaw had been clenched, eyes fixed on the road, one fist pressed to his mouth like he was holding back something dangerous. But now all you see is the gentleness in him as he carries her inside.

He nudges open her bedroom door with his boot at the top of the stairs, and you linger in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, watching him move.

He settles her onto the mattress like he’s done it a hundred times, pulls back the blankets, and slips her shoes off. You watch as he tucks her in with practiced hands, slow and steady, smoothing the covers up over her chest.

Then he kneels beside the bed and brushes the hair from her face. Just once. A soft tuck behind her ear. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. There’s so much love in that one motion, it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to exist in it with them.

He stands, turning toward you only long enough to brush past you without a word. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge you. Just moves down the hall, shoulders stiff and set, and disappears into the bathroom.

You hear the cabinet open. The faucet runs, something rattles on the counter.

When he passes you again, it’s with a glass of water in one hand and two white pills in the other. Still no words. No glance. Like you aren’t even there.

Your jaw tightens as he ducks back into Sarah’s room.

A minute later, he’s back in the doorway, pulling it shut behind him until the soft click of it closing can be heard in the dim hallway. Then, he turns.

And finally looks at you.

His face is unreadable. Jaw set and eyes cold. His mouth is a hard line, and those eyes that were once holding warmth as he took care of Sarah are deep and dark as they look down at you.

“I shouldn’t have—” you start, your voice small.

“Don’t,” he says.

You blink.

“I mean it,” he adds, walking past you toward the stairs, “don’t start with some half-ass apology just ‘cause you feel guilty now.”

You follow him. “I do feel guilty.”

He stops short, turning back to face you before stepping down. His eyes catch yours, sharp and cutting.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You snuck out,” he snaps, the words cracking like a whip. “You took my kid into some shitty bar in your stupid little uniform and cheap perfume and thought that made you clever. Thought it made you cute.”

You feel the heat rise in your face—not from shame, but from something else entirely.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some little girl.”

“Then stop actin’ like one.”

You take a step toward him. Then another.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His arms stay locked at his sides, fists curled, shoulders tense. His jaw flexes once, twice, like he’s biting back something worse.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” Your voice softens, but only just. “You think I don’t catch the way you hover near the kitchen when I’m there, like you just happen to need something the second I bend over to grab something from the fridge?”

His eyes flash, but he still doesn’t speak.

So you keep going.

“The way you are at the games, pretending not to look. Pretending that you don’t think about me in this ‘stupid little uniform’?”

His breath comes a little heavier now, and his fists still haven’t unclenched, “You’re treadin’ on some mighty thin ice here, girl.” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You’re gonna wanna back up.”

You step in anyway, closing the last of the space. You lift your hand and press a finger to his chest, right over the line of buttons. You feel the heat of him through the cotton, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Just admit it,” you whisper. You tilt your chin up, just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t see me as some kid anymore, Joel.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, lingering like he wants to watch his name fall from your lips. Then you watch as his eyes climb their way back to yours, slower this time. Measured. He looks at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t happening, but all you can see is the heat in his eyes. 

And then his hands are on you.

Large, rough palms grabbing you with more force than you were ready for—dragging you forward, only to spin you and shove you. Your body hits the wall with a muted thud, breath catching as your palms splay flat against the cool surface. His chest is pressed to your back in the next second, pinning you there, the heat of him burning through your shirt.

You gasp, your cheek catching against the wall, breath fogging the paint. “What’re you—”

“You are such a goddamn brat,” he cuts you off, growling in your ear.

Your legs nearly buckle. You’re breathing hard already, the adrenaline and arousal twisting into something dizzying, but still—still—you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth.

His hands drop to your ass, gripping a handful through your skirt, his fingers digging in possessively. You arch slightly, instinctively, and he groans low in his throat, pressing harder into you like he’s trying to pin every inch of you still.

His forearm slides across your chest, then wraps around your throat—not quite choking, but holding. His bicep rests against your jawline, elbow snug beneath your chin, tilting your head just enough to keep you in place as his free hand drags your skirt up.

“Damn shorts,” he mutters when he finds the line of spandex in his way, annoyed. And then he’s yanking them down in one rough pull, not gentle or remotely slow. You let out a curse under your breath as the fabric drags down your thighs, baring you to him.

“Mr. Mill—”

“Need to show you.”

Your voice shakes when you answer. “Sh-show me?”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice like gravel and heat.

“What happens when brats disobey me.”

You try not to picture what it would look like if Sarah suddenly walked in—if she rounded the corner and saw you like this. Bare from the waist down, palms pressed to the wall, thighs trembling. Her dad standing behind you, his hands still on your hips, the hard press of him straining against his jeans.

But then your thoughts are shaken loose when you feel it. His palm, warm and broad, resting on your ass.

“Count,” he says, low and firm.

You barely have time to ask what he means before the first smack lands.

The sound cracks through the hallway, and you jolt, a gasp ripping from your throat. Not just from the sting, but from the way it shoots straight down your spine, heat blooming through your core.

“One,” you whisper.

His hand is back on you, soothing for a second, then gone.

Smack.

You bite your lip, hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Two.”

He hums behind you, like he’s pleased with himself. Or with you. Maybe both.

Another smack. Harder this time.

Your knees wobble.

“Three.”

“Mm,” Joel mutters, his voice deep, lazy, “thought you’d get louder than that.”

You grit your teeth, fingers flexing against the wall, breath starting to come faster.

The fourth one stings, sharp and hot.

“Four,” you moan. You can’t help it. Joel chuckles darkly behind you at the sound.

And then his hand slides down lower, to the slick waiting for him between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through your folds, slow and unhurried, and when he finds you soaked, he hisses through his teeth.

“Well, would you look at that.”

You squirm, a breathy whine escaping before you can catch it. His fingers stroke through your arousal a little firmer, a little more deliberate. You whimper at the contact of his calloused fingers, so thick and warm against you.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear again, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks.

“Bad girls don’t get to play,” he murmurs, “even if their pussy’s practically cryin’ for me.”

Joel tsks quietly. His hand cups your ass again, possessive. His fingers are still slippery with the feeling of you. “Spoiled little thing. Thinkin’ she gets a reward for sneakin’ outta my house.”

His hand falls from your ass, and you hear the low scrape of his boots on the hardwood as he steps back.

“Turn around.”

You obey instantly, cheeks hot, body still throbbing from the sting of his palm. You pivot slowly, heart hammering, eyes catching on the way he towers over you—jaw tight, eyes dark with something closer to hunger than anger.

“Down.” He says, nodding to the floor in front of him. “On your knees.”

You drop without hesitation, the wood floor hard beneath your skin, but you don’t care. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when the air between you is so thick it’s hard to breathe.

His eyes stay on yours as he lifts one hand, fingers twitching as they tilt your chin up.

“Show me your tongue.”

You blink up at him, heat rushing straight between your legs at the command.

“Now.”

You part your lips and slowly stick your tongue out, holding it there—wet, obedient, waiting. Joel’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his jaw ticks again.

“So…” he mutters, voice low, approving, “she does know how to listen.”

His hand under your chin turns your face from side to side, your spit beginning to gather at the sides of your mouth as you realize he’s…admiring the view.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl when you wanna be.”

You grin, just a little, tongue still out, but there’s mischief behind your eyes. You tilt your head the tiniest bit, eyes flicking down to the bulge in his jeans, then back up again—deliberate.

“I’m always good,” you say around your tongue, your voice smug, a little breathy. “You just can’t handle it.”

Joel’s jaw flexes. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying very, very hard not to lose it.

“Always gotta run that mouth,” he mutters.

Then his hands find his belt. You stay right where you are, tongue still out, eyes narrowed, but now there’s a smirk tugging at your lips, even as your breath hitches when the buckle comes undone. You watch him with that cocky little tilt to your chin, like you’re waiting to see what he’s working with. Like you know exactly what’s coming, and you’re not sure he deserves your awe just yet.

He unzips his jeans, pushing them down just far enough to pull himself free.

His cock springs out thick and flushed, already hard, already leaking for you. The head is a deep, angry red, and it twitches slightly in his hand as he wraps his fingers around the base. 

Your smirk falters. He’s huge. Bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, and your stomach flips at the idea of it going…anywhere.

“Think what you mean is can you handle it?” Joel asks, voice low, rough.

You blink slowly, playing it cool even as your thighs press together.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Joel chuckles as he strokes himself once, slow and firm, eyes on your mouth.

“Open wider,” he says.

You do—but not all the way. Just enough to be a little annoying. A little slow. You even raise your eyebrows like this what you wanted?

Joel’s smile fades as he guides himself to your mouth.

“God,” he mutters, sliding his cock along your outstretched tongue. He teases himself there, the thick, swollen head dragging slowly across the surface—coating your lips in precum, smearing it slow and slick.

You hate how intoxicating he smells. Hate how good he tastes. Hate how much you love this angle—kneeling between his thighs, watching him look down at you like this is where you belong.

“Gonna paint my cock with that pretty red lipstick, baby?” he asks, voice rough with amusement, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You smile up at him—defiant, even now—before closing your lips around the tip. The moment you suckle, your tongue flicking at the salty bead of arousal, he lets out a sharp, broken breath like you knocked it out of him.

He growls and suddenly backs you into the wall. Your head bumps against the hard surface, and your hands shoot out, grabbing at his thighs—nails digging into the worn denim for something to hold onto.

You glare up at him even as he presses deeper into your throat, taking control. His fingers slide into your hair, tightening, holding you there against the wall. He watches with dark, hungry eyes as your lips stretch wide around him, spit glossing the corners of your mouth.

“I like you so much better when your mouth is full of me.”

And then he starts to move.

He fucks your mouth with steady, brutal thrusts—your throat flexing around him, gagging as he pushes deeper, harder. You choke, sputtering when he thrusts all the way in, tears springing to your eyes as mascara streaks down your cheeks.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Gooood girl.” He drawls it out low and thick before pulling himself from your mouth, bending to hover in front of your face, eyes drinking you in—wrecked, ruined, perfect.

Your lipstick’s smudged across your chin. Mascara tears drag down your cheeks. Your mouth is red and wet and trembling.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s brutal and hungry. His tongue pushes past your lips with zero hesitation, and you open for him instantly, swallowing the kiss like you’re starving. He tastes like that stupid Miller Lite and something synthetic, waxy—and you realize it’s your lipstick on his mouth.

When he pulls back, it’s too soon, and you chase his mouth without thinking.

He grins down at you, wicked and wild, and pats your cheek. Not gentle, not quite a slap, but something in between. Like a good dog.

Then, standing tall again, he grabs the base of his cock, lines himself back up, and guides it back into your mouth. He’s slow at first, letting you feel the weight of it. The heat. The way it stretches your jaw until your lips ache, the base of him thick and veiny against your tongue.

“That's it,” he murmurs, his hand tightening in your hair, “all the way into your throat, baby.”

He starts to move again in controlled, steady thrusts that make your throat flutter and your eyes tear up all over again. You moan around him, and the vibration makes him grunt, hips stuttering forward like he wasn’t ready for how good it feels.

His other hand drops to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he watches the slick shine building around your lips.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You moan again, louder this time, and your thighs squeeze together.

Tightly.

The pressure spikes, your breath shallow and high, and your hand flutters down between your legs before you even think about it. Your fingers find your soaked folds—so warm, so wet you could cry—and you can’t help it. You have to touch. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off. You swirl two fingers over your clit, barely a brush, just enough to ease the pressure. 

Your throat tightens around Joel’s cock as you jerk against your fingers, and his eyes widen as he looks down at you.

“You touching yourself right now?” he asks, voice low. Disbelieving. His eyes drop to where your thighs are clenched together, to the subtle movement of your hand, and then back to your mouth wrapped around his cock. “Jesus fuck, baby.”

You moan around him again, your free hand bracing against his leg, nails digging into the muscle of his thigh.

“Couldn’t help it, huh?” His voice softens, but not with mercy—with need. “S’that good? That what my cock does to you?”

You nod as best you can, eyes fluttering, lips sucking harder, chasing that praise like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. Your hand moves faster between your thighs, the pressure building hot and tight, a slow coil of need that burns through you like fire.

Joel groans above you, his hips starting to move again—deep, steady thrusts, like he’s savoring every inch of your mouth. You can’t help but moan around him again and again, eyes glazed, desperate.

But then, to your dismay, he slows.

And then he stops.

You whine, brows knitting together as he pulls out of your mouth, his cock heavy and flushed, spit-slick and twitching just inches from your lips. You blink up at him, lips wet and trembling, throat aching and still wanting more.

He doesn’t let you whine or complain before his hand is pulling yours away from yourself, tugging you up from your knees. Your legs are unsteady, muscles cramped and shaky from the floor, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. In one swift movement, you’re off the ground, hauled up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“Hey!” you gasp, hands scrabbling at his back, your stomach squished against the hard plane of his shoulder.

He swats your ass—hard—the sound sharp in the hallway. You yelp again, and his voice drops to a low, lethal hiss.

“Quiet.”

He carries you past Sarah’s door, the floor creaking beneath his boots, his arm tight around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place. You bite your lip, breath catching in your throat as you pass the one room you’ve never dared to enter.

And then he opens it.

His door.

The space is dark and warm, and you only have a second to process it before you’re flung onto the bed.

You land with a soft grunt, arms propping you up as you sit up to look at the man before you. He takes off his shirt, shucking off his jeans with haste, and is on you in the next breath. 

“Ain’t about to let you come all by yourself on those fingers,” he says, reaching for your thighs and yanking them toward the edge of the bed with one rough pull.

His hands are already on you again, calloused palms spreading your thighs apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you gasp.

Joel groans in his throat, his eyes still on your glistening center, thighs shaking and slick with yourself. Your red cheer top is still on, bunched up slightly, your stomach showing and quivering under his touch. 

He grips your thighs harder and spreads them wider, dragging you to the edge of the bed until you can feel his breath against your skin. His eyes never leave your pussy—pupils blown wide, jaw slack and lips parted like in awe. 

And then he dives in, no hesitation, no slow teasing or light licking. No, Joel Miller devours you. Like a man possessed.

His tongue flattens against your folds and drags up, slow and deep, tasting everything. Your head is thrown back at the feeling, a moan escaping you before you have the wherewithal to keep yourself quiet.

“Christ,” he mutters, mouth slick with you, “tastes better than I ever coulda’ dreamed, baby,”

Your hips buck up, and he throws an arm over your stomach, pinning you down.

“Nuh-uh, you stay still,” he growls, nose nudging your clit before his mouth wraps around it, sucking. His tongue sends your vision white. 

“Oh my–oh my god,” you gasp, crying out, hands clawing for his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he eats you out like it’s the last fucking supper. He moans into you, beard soaked and eyes hooded, watching you squirm. But just as your thighs begin to shake, your moans getting high and choked and frantic–

He stops. Your hands fall from his thick hair, gripping the sheets instead as you whimper. You open your eyes to look down at him, nearly sobbing at the loss.

“What’d I say about bad girls?” he asks, voice gravel and sin. 

“I’ll–I’ll be good,” you stammer, breathless, “I’ll be good, Mr. Miller, I swear–”

He nips the side of your thigh, and your thighs still shake with the aching tension lost from them. “Come on now, baby,” he purrs, “call me Joel. Think we’re past the formalities when your pussy’s soakin’ my face.”

Your face burns red hot, stomach tightening and flipping on itself at the deepness of his sex drunk voice.

“Please,” you whisper, “please, Joel, let me come.”

But he’s already pushing himself up, stroking his pulsing cock in one hand, eyes on the slick mess between your legs.

“No,” he says, voice rough, “not yet.”

You let out a soft whine, your legs still twitching, your body begging.

He climbs over you, slow and deliberate, crowding your space. He nudges you up the bed with the weight of his body, palms guiding you like you’re something delicate. His knees cage your thighs, and his hand finds your ribs, broad and warm and steadying. His thumb curls under the hem of your uniform top.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?” he says, and you’re surprised when it’s said so gently, even if his eyes hold a hunger so deep they’re nearly black. You nod, lifting your arms up, and he pulls it over you swiftly, throwing it to the side of the bed. His eyes fall to your chest, and his hand is back on you, splayed wide against your skin.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers, breath ghosting over your pebbled breasts. You shiver, hips lifting unconsciously, and you feel the pulse of his hard cock against your thigh.

He leans in, taking your peaked nipple into his mouth, so warm and wet. Your back arches at the feeling of his tongue lapping over you, teeth grazing until he releases your breast with a soft pop, kissing between the valley until he finds the other nipple, treating it to the same gentle worship.

His lips move up to your throat then, slow, hot, the kind of open-mouth kiss that's more tongue than anything else. You gasp as he finds the crook in your neck, goosebumps rising as your back arches into him.

You feel his wide, open palms slide beneath you, one pressing into the small of your back, the other across your shoulders. You feel the shift in his body before he moves. His muscles tighten as he gathers his strength, and then he’s rolling you over. 

He turns smoothly, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of movement, his hands still wrapped around you. But as you find yourself on top of him, in his lap, you sit upright.

“You wanna come so badly, baby?” he murmurs. “Then take it.”

Your eyes go wide as you look down at him, palms splayed across his chest, feeling the heat and sweat slick over taut muscle. He’s burning beneath your hands, every breath you take ragged and shallow.

Whatever you had been expecting tonight, whatever you had thought would happen the more and more you goaded him, it wasn’t this. 

Joel Miller was filthy and delicious and feral. 

“Go on,” he says at your hesitation, “show me how much you like when your best friend’s daddy touches you.”

Your breath shudders out of you, his hands finding your hips and gently brushing his thumbs against your heated skin.

You reach down, moving your hips back to make space for your hand to wrap around the base of his cock. The moment your fingers make contact, his eyes flutter shut, his breath hissing out of him. You watch his face as you position yourself above him, teasing the head through your slick folds, dragging it up against your clit. 

You take a deep breath as his cock catches the notch of your entrance, his eyes flashing open at the sudden feeling of you sinking onto him. You roll your hips, adjusting to him, his hands tight against your hips. 

“Fuck,” he chokes.

The stretch of him as you glide down him slowly, gently, nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too much, way too much. But it’s so perfect, the sheer girth and stretch of him making your eyes roll back. Your mouth falls open as you inch your way down, down down, until you’re fully sheathed over him, your hips meeting his. 

You sit there for a moment, rolling your hips a bit back and forth, around, letting yourself feel every vein, every nook and crevice of him, and when you look up at your face, a breathless little smile grows on your lips.

“This got you all worked up, Joel?” you purr, “All that grumpy ass attitude, you just needed this, didn’t you?”

You move again, adding a little bounce, and his jaw slackens, his grip tightening on you.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, nearly wrecked.

“You’re so easy, Mr. Miller,” you hum, rocking over him again, “all that control, that stoicism, just…gone.” 

He narrows his eyes, something dangerous flickering there. He bares his teeth, voice tight and low.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, growls,  “Keep runnin’ that slutty mouth of yours, see where it gets ya.”

You lean in close, hands moving to his hair, lacing your fingers through his thick locks as your lips press to his ear, “Where, Joel?” you whisper, “What’re you gonna do? Punish me?”

His grip on you shifts, he moves his hands up your body, mirroring your hands and pushing his through your hair, wrapping tight at the nape of your neck. He yanks your head back, exposing your neck. Your breath catches, somewhere between surprise and delight. Your pussy clenches around him at the feeling, and he groans beneath you.

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you?” he hisses, “I give you a little control, let you ride my dick, and you already have shit to say, huh?”

His hips thrust up hard, and you choke on a moan. The new angle makes you jolt as he drives into you, deep and unrelenting, hitting places he hadn't before.

You cry out when he keeps moving, hips grinding in steady, punishing strokes, each one pushing deeper, like he’s chasing something inside you only he knows how to reach.

“Fuck, Joel!” 

“There she is,” he says, lips kissing and teeth nipping at your jaw as he holds you in place by your hair, “there’s my filthy little girl. Pussy is so tight, practically drippin’ all over my cock. Still doesn’t stop that little mouth of yours, does it?”

You try to grind down on him, and he chuckles darkly, “You like the way my cock fill’s you, huh baby?” he mutters, voice thick, groaning at the feeling of you, “Like the way I stretch you, fill you up? S’like you were made for me, huh?”

You nod, your voice completely wrecked as you moan.

“Tell me..” 

Your cheeks burn, “Y-yeah,”

He tuts, fingers clinging harder to your hair, “Try again.”

“Feels so fucking—so fucking good, Joel,” you whisper, “please, please–want more,”

He hums in satisfaction, loosening his grip on your hair. Your neck aches, sore and stretched, but the second your eyes drop to his, his mouth is on yours.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough. “Now ride me like you mean it.”

You sit back up, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles at first, testing what he likes, watching his eyes flicker with each shift and grind. Joel’s hands slide from your thighs to your waist, up your sides, palms rough as they settle there. 

“Look at you,” he says, “Ridin’ me so sweet now. Just needed a little direction, huh?”

You gasp as his hands drag up, thumbs brushing under your breasts before his palms cup them, fingers curling around your nipples. He rolls them slowly, tugging just enough to make your hips jolt, your mouth falling open in a broken moan.

“That’s it,” he groans, “Feel good?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Show me,”

You lift one hand from his chest, one still bracing against him for balance while the other slips between your legs. Your fingers trace around your lower lips, feeling them stretch around his cock until they slide up and find your clit. The little bundle of nerves is still slick and swollen from the edge he’d pulled you off, and you start to circle it, starting to slowly build up the pace as he watches.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hips pushing up into you, “Touchin’ yourself on my cock like a good girl.”

You whimper, the pressure building up again so easily as you watch his face. His dark hair is all mussed and sticking to his forehead with a wet sheen of sweat, eyes on you, barely blinking as he watches your fingers.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he pants, voice rough and strained. “Gonna soak me like that pretty pussy’s meant to?”

“Kiss me,” you blurt out.

His eyes flicker up to yours.

You slow your fingers, breath catching, heart pounding in your throat.

“Want you to kiss me again, Joel,” you whisper, trembling. “Please.”

Something shifts in his expression, his hand moving from your breast to your cheek, cradling your face so gently it nearly aches. You lean into him, nuzzling his wide, warm palm as he begins to sit up.

As he leans forward, his cock still buried inside you, he uses one hand to prop himself up while the other holds you, and he presses his lips to yours.

It’s not filthy this time. At least, not at first. At first, it’s just a gentle press of his lips, soft and tender against yours. But as you moan and rock against his cock, his hand moves into your hair, pulling you closer to him, and his tongue breaches the opening of your mouth. You kiss him back hungrily, his mouth tasting like something sweet and heady, like you. 

As your tongue slides against his, Joel groans softly. He shifts his hips, just slightly, enough for you to feel him inside you, a reminder, still hard and thick and pulsing.

You begin to move again, grinding yourself faster and faster, your walls beginning to tighten around him. You open your eyes when his lips fall from yours, his jaw slack and brows furrowed tight. You clench around him, and a guttural groan escapes from his throat.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he groans, then his eyes open, looking up at you, “come on now, baby. Can feel how badly she wants to come all over me. Let me feel it, please. Let me feel you come all over me.”

He meets every one of your thrusts now, cock reaching the deepest parts of your cervix, hands sliding down your back, guiding your movement, your hips, and you follow the rhythm instinctively. His cock hits an angle inside you that has you shrieking his name.

“There it is, baby, can feel it right there,” he chants, “come on now, give it to me.”

Your breath stutters, your hand holding onto his shoulder for dear life as your fingers work your clit faster and faster. 

Suddenly, your vision pops with stars, head tilting back, mouth held open in the perfect ‘o’ as you gush around him. Your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, your body clenching and shivering around him. 

He holds you through it, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your thigh as you twitch and shudder through the last pulses of your orgasm. His hips start to stutter—uncontrolled now, jerking deeper like his body’s no longer listening to him.

“F-Fuck—fuck, baby,” he pants, voice ragged and unraveling, “I’m—Jesus—I’m gonna—”

“Yes, Joel,” you breathe, voice wrecked and sweet in his ear, “come inside me.”

He falters, choking on a breath, still thrusting helplessly as your words wrap around him as he pulls back to look at you.

“Wh-What?”

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, voice low and urgent, “I have an IUD, come inside me, please,” 

His eyes widen, glassy, and stunned, but you keep going.

“Wanna feel you when I fall asleep,” you murmur, hips rocking gently into his, “when I wake up tomorrow. Want the reminder. Want it dripping out of me. Please, Joel.”

That’s it.

He lets go with a broken sound, the muscles in his abdomen tightening as he drives into you one last time—deep and hard and final. His cock throbs inside you, and he comes with a low, brutal groan into your neck, his whole body shaking against yours.

He stays buried deep, breath hitching in your ear as he presses his chest to yours, both of you slick and panting. His back finally hits the mattress, and he pulls you with him, your bodies still tangled, his arms never leaving your waist.

You collapse against his chest, cheek pressed over his racing heart, both of you trembling and silent for a long moment.

His hand finds the small of your back, tracing lazy circles against your damp skin as your breathing starts to settle. The room is quiet now, the storm of what just happened still buzzing faintly in the air between you. You shift slightly against his chest, and he pulls you closer.

Then, after a long pause, you hear him say, “You’re…you’re not drunk, are you?”

You huff a laugh against his collarbone “No.”

He waits, though, still uncertain.

“I had one drink,” you say, lifting your head to look at him. He lifts a brow at you.

“Okay, two.” You roll your eyes. “But I swear, not drunk. Not even tipsy.”

He nods, slow. His jaw’s tight again, but not in anger this time—more like restraint. Like he’s keeping something bigger from getting loose.

“Just didn’t wanna…” He clears his throat. “Didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow and…”

You blink at him, “Regret this?” you ask, and your hand moves up to cup his scruffy jaw, “how could I regret somethin’ that I’ve been thinking about every time you so much as look at me?”

Joel stares at you.

Like really stares.

And you just smile a little harder, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, covering his face with one hand, the other still cradling your hip. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin into his chest. “Might be a good way to go.”

And Joel—tired, wrecked, full of you—just laughs.

Really laughs.

And that’s how the night ends. Not in panic. Not in guilt.

But with your legs tangled up, and Joel Miller already falling for you.

[miiyoshi]

slurred

iwaizumi x reader -- cw: drinking, bar environment, iwa is quite drunk wc: 695// an: feeling cutsey today! wrote another fluff :)

iwaizumi takes another sip out of his drink as the atmosphere around him is the most vibrant it’s been all night. in the cracks of the city there sits a bar, not too big and not too small. it’s more of a shared secret between you and the seijoh four, a common meet up location when all five schedules finally align once in a full moon.

the lights are dim enough that you have to turn your screen brightness lower than before you entered, a general buzz of sound due to the ongoing conversations, and a very sweet tight knit staff who know you and your friends by name at this point.

oikawa’s taking photos with makki in the shared booth you’re all situated in, mattsun at the bar chatting with the bartender as he prepares your group with a new round of drinks, and you sitting at the edge with iwaizumi to your left.

“you doing okay?” you turn to iwa as you see him swish his beer in the bottle with his right hand

“mhm” he hums back “feelin’ good, s’a good time. you?” you know he’s far gone when he slurs his words like this

“i’m good as well! think i’m done drinking for the night though, i have an early day tomorrow”

“s’okay!” iwa insists loudly, throwing his arm over your shoulder and pulling you close. his voice little too loud that oikawa and makki turn to him for a moment and you miss a sly grin creeping up on oikawa’s face when he sees the scene in front of him

“let’s do one more round of drinks together,” iwazumi continues

“maybe another time iwa,” you return with a smile

you can see the gears turning in his head just by looking at his face deep in thought and you give iwaizumi a few moments to formulate his words.

he mumbles your name quiet enough so that the others don’t hear. “need to say something..need to tell you something but you can’t tell anyone, ok?” his face is so close to yours, you can’t help but hold your breath in anticipation. he’s close enough that you smell his refreshing cologne, you’re able to see the way his muscles stretch the sleeves of his shirt (he needs to size up), and the way his hair looks spikier than usual now that he’s been sweating throughout the evening.

“of course iwa, what is it?”

“but you cant tell, you promise? you have to promise”

“yes, i promise!” you giggle

“m’gonna make you mine one day.”

now the gears are turning in your head as you try to process his words

“i’m sorry? what was that?”

“shhh but don’t tell okay???” iwaizumi brings his index finger to your mouth, gesturing a shushing motion.

“i told oikawa this already, and i told him to not tell. he says i need to confess to you first, like obviously that dumbass, but yeah m’ gonna make you mine”

you try your best to hold back a laugh from oikawa’s name being brought up, “did oikawa encourage you to tell me this?” you tease him, but iwaizumi doesn’t quite pick up your tone in this state.

“exactly!” iwaizumi nods, once again dragging out his words, “how’d you know?”

of course he did. and you knew it had something to do with oikawa’s antics because that’s what he’s been telling you this entire time as well. oikawa was always one to tease you about your crush on iwaizumi, always encouraging you to just confess already! and it’s evident now that he’s been telling iwaizumi the exact same thing this entire time.

except for iwaizumi in his buzzed state, he actually does end up listening to his friend’s advice and exposes himself.

“lucky guess,” you tease iwa with a wink.

in the morning, you know iwaizumi will forget everything that he said to you, you know that the two of you will go back to friends who keep teetering the edge of friends and lovers, but what you don’t know is iwaizumi has already thought of a way to ask you out soon; sober, this time.