coquettepascal

[coquettepascal]

happy father's day to joel miller...🩷

texas sweet

summary: joel is your friendly neighborhood dad of the year, so why is his driveway empty on father's day? better yet, why do you feel the need to make up for everyone elses absence?

tags: 18+, smut, handjob, desc of joel mastubrating, a "massage", neighbor!joel x f!reader, massages, general cheesiness, soft!joel, pathetic!joel, almost(?) sub!joel, reader gets blueballed (sorry), biting, joel whimpering, joel being a proud girl dad, no-outbreak, ellie and sarah exist, tommy is mentioned(!!), joel is a southern gentleman, mention of reader having parents, no desc of reader but she can fit between joel and the couch, dilf!joel (yum)

-> part. ii here!

a/n: my first joel fic ever... i would like to thank every person who has written no-outbreak!joel or pre-outbreak!joel. i freaked it.

texas sweet masterlist and my masterlist

(4.9k, not beta read.)

Moving to Texas was not the plan, or even the “blessing” your mother claimed it would be. Being the one who took over your grandparents home after they moved to a seniors facility? Fantastic! Amazing, even. Leaving your job, friends, and boyfriend, back home? Horrible. Heart wrenching and annoying. 

Austin, for the most part, was lonely. Long distance didn’t end up working between you and your boyfriend, your friends just got busier with their jobs, and it wasn’t like your parents could just drive 14 hours to see you every weekend. Co-workers were nice, but honestly who really wants to hang out with people you already spend 40 hours a week with? Maybe you were jaded, or picky, which was what your mother also claimed, or maybe your whole life was uprooted for what felt like no reason.

What you weren’t picky about, was the view from your bedroom window. You’re not a peeping tom, or a perv, but it isn’t your fault that your dilf-y next door neighbor is so easy on the eyes.

No, moving to Austin was not a blessing, but Joel Miller was.

Joel was the neighborhood guy. Need an oil change? Joel. Need your fence fixed? Joel. Block party? Joel’s yard. It’s like he doesn’t know how to say no to anybody, that southern politeness deeper than the drawl that lies in his voice. When you had first moved here he had helped you move your couch through the door, all smiles and polite nods. He barely introduced himself before he was asking if you needed any help, and he had called you “young lady,” which made you giggle. Such a giving man, but of course he was. A single father to two daughters? “No” wasn't in his vocabulary.

Sometimes, you think if your dad was as good a father as Joel Miller was, maybe you wouldn’t be fiending after him with such ferocity. Watching him with his two girls, Sarah and Ellie, was something that tugged your heartstrings no matter what. Sarah wasn’t around a lot anymore, apparently she went away to a fancy college. You had helped her pack all her stuff into Joel’s truck, but quickly went inside when you saw him getting misty eyed, you didn't want to embarrass the poor guy. Ellie is younger than Sarah and still lives at home. Honestly, you didn’t know much about her apart from the fact that she was adopted and that she’s in high school. She’s always happy to chat, but she’s also always going somewhere, which leaves Joel lonely sometimes. 

Joel seems better suited for loneliness than you are though. His brother Tommy comes around pretty often, though they seem fairly opposite. Tommy truly is sweet, has always chatted with you during block parties (even if it may be for nefarious reasons when he’s had too many drinks,) but he looks like… a fuckboy. Without fail, every time he rolls up to Joel’s house, he’s blasting some shitty new country music and wearing Pit Viper sunglasses as he carefully parks his spotless truck. Despite their differences though, they get along just as well. Your summer evenings are often interrupted by the sound of their laughs and the crisp sound of the two cracking open some cold ones. 

So why is it that when Father’s day rolls around, Joel’s driveway is empty?

You aren’t watching on purpose, you just happen to glance over that way a lot. The only action you see from his house is Ellie leaving for her friend's house sometime after noon, like usual on a Sunday. No signs of Sarah or Tommy. Part of you figured that maybe Sarah would make the lengthy drive down from her school, or maybe that Tommy would show up at some point, but nobody does. 

‘Not creepy,’ you assure yourself as you go upstairs to peer through your bedroom window to see if anyone is there. You could totally look through the kitchen window that directly faces his backyard, but you fear the day he’s looking right back at you. 

Looking outside, you see nothing. Joel’s grey-blue truck sits unmoved in the driveway, his plants are watered though so you guess he came outside at some point. The thought makes you feel a bit sad, the image of Joel and his soft eyes watering the plants, whistling to himself and trying to tell himself it doesn’t matter that nobody came. He probably really doesn’t care at all, a lot of men aren’t very sentimental or emotional about days like this, but you care.

He’s a good man, a good father, and a good neighbor. Seeing him be underappreciated on what is basically his day is ticking you off for some stupid reason. When 3pm rolls around you decide that you have to do something for Joel, it feels wrong not to. 

Which is how you end up in line for the register at Home Depot. You sat in the parking lot for 10 minutes racking your brain, trying to think of things that guys like, but came up with nothing. Joel is a contractor, so he’ll probably find some use out of a 50 dollar Home Depot gift card, but it still feels too impersonal. Joel literally fixed your toilet when a date you took home broke the handle off the tank mid-vomit. He’s too nice to just hand a stupid gift card with “Happy Father’s day” scrawled across the mini paper envelope. He deserves something thoughtful, something gentler than a gift card for (probably) his job. 

…Which is how you end up waiting in line for the register at the supermarket. You have a bouquet of flowers in your hand, with a Home Depot gift card shoved in your jacket pocket. It feels utterly ridiculous to give Joel Miller flowers, to pick out which colours you think he’d like and get the florist to wrap them up neatly with a bow, but you have a good reason. At some point in the past week you had seen a post about how a lot of men never receive flowers. It resurfaced in your head as you picked your brain again, making you wonder if Joel had ever received flowers. You know that he was married once, but that was when Sarah was little, it’d probably been 10 or even 15 years since he had any gestures like that made for him.

Not that this was for romance reasons. It was for father’s-appreciation-day reasons. Of course.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so invested in your neighbors emotions and life, but it’s too late now. You carefully pack away the flowers in the back seat of your car, snuggling the gift card into the ribbon that holds the flowers together. 

—

And if you thought that standing in line at Home Depot, or at the supermarket was bad, it’s so much worse trying to work up the courage to knock on Joel’s front door. You can’t figure out how to hold this bouquet of flowers behind your back without dropping them, so you just awkwardly knock on his door with one hand, flowers in the other. At least the gift card is managing to stay in place where you tucked it, but you wish you told the florist not to write his name in cursive.

Your repeating thoughts of “Is this weird? Am I weird?” are interrupted when he opens the door.

Joel looks… normal. He doesn’t look sad like you thought he might, if anything he looks more confused at you being there. His brown hair is tousled slightly and he’s wearing pajama pants, even though he smells fresh. Joel’s eyes meet yours and he tilts his head quietly, as if waiting for you to go on, but what do you even say? Oh shit that’s right–

“Happy father’s day,” your voice comes out shyly. You shove the flowers at him a little abruptly and he blinks in surprise, accepting them. It’s awkward for a second, the way his eyebrows shoot up as he notices the cursive lettering of his name written on the envelope.

“These’re for me, darlin’?” He asks curiously, still looking over the flowers.

A stammering of “um” and “yeah” leave your mouth pretty quickly and he smiles. You’re pretty sure he says thank you, but you just kind of stare at him awkwardly. A beat passes between the two of you as he admires the gift. “You uh– You don’t think of me as your dad, do you?” Joel asks. Oh fuck. You hadn’t thought about the fact that maybe that was what he would take away from this. All of your thoughts had been consumed by worries that he’d think you were trying to hit on him, but here he was thinking that you thought of him as a father figure. Which you didn’t. Your dad is fine, no need to replace him, at least not at this point. 

“No, no. Oh my god– Sorry,” You choke out, half laughing. It’s a quiet moment on the porch for a second, just the two of you standing there. Maybe you should explain your thought process.

“It’s just that you’re a dad and like– not to sound like a weirdo freak but nobody’s been at your house all day and it made me sad for you. Not that I pity you but,” your voice trails off as you fear you’ve made this worse. Joel seems a bit surprised at this, mouth opening slightly but then transitioning to a soft smile.

“And what if I told you that I wanted everyone t’leave me alone today?” He asks you slyly. And oh god, that is so much worse than him mistaking this gesture for flirting or pity. You never would have thought that maybe the guy who does everything for everyone probably just wants to be left the hell alone for a gift. Your heart drops in your chest, taking all the blood in your face with it. Embarrassment floods you with a force you didn’t realize possible, stuttered apologies leaving your lips as fast as you can. Joel shakes his head, laughing quietly as you sputter “sorry” repeatedly, like a broken sprinkler.

“I’m jokin’, sweetheart. I appreciate this,” he says. The crows' feet by his eyes shouldn’t be as charming as they are, but combined with that rumbling laugh and smile… he could get away with anything. He plucks the Home Depot gift card from the ribbon and huffs a laugh, like he’s impressed.

Well that’s… something? It made him smile right? Maybe feeling bad for Joel was better than feeling stupid in front of him. You step back, towards the stairs of his porch, but he shakes his head. “You were really this worried?” He asks, admiring the flowers. That makes your heart bloom in your chest, seeing how much he really liked this. Joel didn’t seem much like a flower guy, but you saw the way he kept his yard neat, with tulips in the spring and his lawn trimmed squarely. Shyly, you nod in response to his question. It feels silly to worry for him like this, you don’t know if he considers you a friend the way he is in your head.

“S’awful sweet,” he tells you. Something about his presence is so big, a balance of hospitality and intimidation all at once. Maybe it’s his big stature, broad shoulders and thick arms, a body built for work. Or his voice, the strong timbre of it, humbled in southern twang. Joel is a force of warmth, a heat that can’t be contained. His heart shines through his golden skin, forcing whoever he looks at to have a spotlight. That’s where the intimidation lies, in how he makes you feel like there’s a halo over your head, all his attention right there. 

He’s so hot you don’t even want him to look at you.

But there he is anyways, smiling as he admires the gift again, dorkily leaning in to dramatically huff the flowers. His mouth is moving but you're deafened by the sensation of a blush on your face. You thought it was just a silly little crush, because who wouldn’t find Joel attractive. He’s handsome, hard working, and just an all around traditional man. But this attraction… It's like your crush on him has given you tinnitus. His lips are moving and you aren’t registering the words. Wait shit, he’s speaking–

“Darlin’?” Joel calls. He looks at you, head tilted, and still fucking smiling. The way his eyes glimmer, the crows feet that squeeze them into a smile… Why is it so hard to hear him?

“I asked if you wanted to come in,” he repeats. 

—

You’ve never been inside Joel’s house, but you’d never thought about it either. Being in it, now, it all makes sense. Photos of his daughters are framed everywhere, their achievements plastered on the walls in shines of silver and gold. It’s hard not to imagine Joel hunched over his kitchen counter, tediously cutting pictures out to place them in frames. He was only an idea before, an idea of a man, and now he has become one wordlessly. All it took was stepping inside his house, smelling him everywhere. Life dances in the jackets that are tossed over dining room chairs, the toolbelt dumped by the shoe rack at the door. The picture of Joel you held in your mind begins to come alive, the movements in the details of his life stealing your breath. He is more than a good man, he is a great one.

And now, you have to strike up a conversation with him.

Joel grunts as he sits down on the couch beside you, placing two glasses of water down. He places his glass in front of the can of beer sitting on a coaster, distorting the label to nothing but warped blue and red. Is he hiding that he was drinking? Why is that cute? 

A pause hushes both of you as Joel gets comfortable, sitting down. He’s paused a show, but it just looks like it was whatever movie was playing on the local TV channel. 

“You must be so proud of them,” you say, eyes glazing over the pictures of Sarah and Ellie. You can tell exactly which photos were taken with a camera and which were taken with his phone. One picture of Ellie, maybe when she was 13 or 14, is from her soccer tournament. She’s smiling, holding up a ribbon for MVP, and Joel’s thumb is in the bottom corner. It’s strange to realize that Joel has basically been a father twice over, but also admirable. 

He talks for a little while, rambling about Sarah and her time up at college, and also how Ellie has been doing better in school this year. You always had a feeling Ellie was a bit feistier than Sarah was, but to hear how proud Joel is of her anyways makes your heart flutter. His love for them was so unconditional, so why weren’t they here today? You ask him, a half smile crossing his lips as he hears your question.

“Sarah called me ‘round lunchtime, one of them video calls. Had lunch with my girl and got to catch up with her. She’s so damn busy, y’know that? Always studying and,” he catches his breath, realizing he’s blabbing again. A reddish tone creeps up his neck in embarrassment.

“Point is, she called. Was nice of her, I miss her lots,” He finishes quietly.

Your eyebrow raises. He didn’t mention Ellie. Joel huffs.

“I’m 99% sure she’s over at Dina’s making me a gift, but it’s fine that she forgot. I’ve been on her ass about homework, fair’s fair.”

He looks cute when he’s begrudging, one side of his mouth sliding to the side so part of his cheek puffs over it. You nod, making a comment in response. The conversation is so smooth you forget what you’re saying as soon as you’re laughing. 

This is easier than you thought it would be. Joel’s always been friendly, obviously, but you just assumed he would be more closed off than this. Even if it’s just rambling about his daughters, or Tommy, or the jobs he’s been managing and how annoying his clients are, it’s something more. Something more than the passing glances and small conversation you’ve had before.

You talk a bit about your own life, how tough the move to Texas was, how lonely it can be. Joel doesn’t seem as receptive to this, but there’s an understanding in his eyes that you can feel. He’s a tough clam to slide your knife into, and you doubt you’ll feel his tongue today. The eager blabber he has for his family and career doesn’t extend to himself, and it seems you’ve hit a wall with him. Or maybe you’ve hit too close to home. “Sorry,” you say, feeling a little weird. 

This whole day has felt like you’re pulling against a lead Joel wasn’t even holding in the first place, like you’re always doing too much. But just like the rest of the day, he isn’t holding the rope around your neck. He’s surging forward with reassurances blooming out of his mouth, Texas sweet to the bone. 

He shakes his head, telling you that it’s fine, he gets it. A joke about being a single father, a smile directed at you, consoling. Vaporub for your congested anxieties.

“I’m sorry darlin,” Joel starts, and fuck is he sending you home? Is that your cue to leave? You did too much, he was just being nice.

“-- I didn’t even offer you water when you came in. D’you need somethin’ to drink?” He asks.

God, doesn’t he get tired of being this nice? Your neighbors warned you that he was a grump when you first moved here, dirty liars. 

“Oh, sure, uh. Water would be good, thanks,” you reply.

You’re only half paying attention to the grunt he lets out when he gets up the first time, your eyes busying themselves with the way his cotton tee stretches across the muscled planes of his back. But, after he hands you the glass of water and groans when he sinks back into the couch, you notice. 

You down the glass like you’re parched, but really your mouth just needs to be full right now. The sound of his groans are bouncing in your ear canals as your neck flushes red with each gulp of water. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Bad back?” You ask after you catch your breath. 

He hums in response, talking about how it comes with the job he has. “All that lifting in my early years…” as if he’s a thousand years old. Joel mentions that he’s been to the chiropractor a few times, thanks to Sarah’s begging and pleading.

“I don’t know, I think it’s gimmicky. They get you on the table and the guy feelin’ you up acts like he’s Christ himself,” Joel says, rolling his eyes. 

The idea of Joel, shirtless and face down, grumbling as some guy works his hands over his skin. The idea of Joel groaning in relief as someone else works those knots out, God you wish you were a chiropractor, you wish you could put your hands all over him.

Greed hardens over your mind like a shell, and the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“I could– I could help, maybe. My dad used to have a pretty bad back and I kinda figured out how to work knots out.”

Joel’s eyes widen, looking over to you with mild interest. For the first time today, around Joel, you don’t feel like you’ve overstepped. In fact he looks interested in this offer. A beat passes between the two of you, hesitation caught in his throat it seems.

It’s probably super fucked up in his head, his younger neighbor coming over and offering to rub him down. But your mind is still greedy, coated in thoughts of his skin under your palms, and that southern rumble that’s given you dilf earworms.

He looks like he’s about to say no when you speak again.

“You don’t even have to lay down, or take your shirt off. Could just lift it up,” you offer. 

Joel still looks like he’s going to say no, the left side of his mouth raising to make up some reason. You can’t let him, not when you’ve been this ballsy. Walking out of here now would make this infinitely more awkward.

“It’s your day, Joel,” you supply him with a reason to say yes. The reason might be silly, might be a last minute add-on to his father’s day, but who cares.

Apparently not Joel, since he pulls his shirt up to his shoulders, the fabric scrunching around his broad frame.

—

You feel a little stupid, slotted behind Joel on the couch. The two of you are basically shoved up against one another, Joel wriggling to give you access to his lower back. He hasn’t said anything yet, no reassurance that this backrub is any good. You think you’re doing well, you feel the knots loosening. It might be better this way, him not making noise. The groan you heard earlier was more than enough to push you into a frenzy.

Your hands work further down, where his waist begins to pull in. Looking closer you can see where the softness of his tummy is, a fatherly badge of honor. Continuing your movements, you gently press your thumbs into the flesh there, and earn yourself Joel’s first noise.

Not a grunt, groan, complaint, or cuss. A whimper.

Your voice clashes with his, both of you talking over each other accidentally.

“Are you okay–” you ask as his voice flounders again, a “Darlin--” leaving him out of his own volition.

Pulling your hands away you begin to pull his shirt back down his back, mortified. How could you claim you were good at this and then hurt his back more? Joel’s been through enough today.

“Please don’t stop,” Joel’s voice grabs your brain again, forcing your focus.

He’s sliding his shirt up again, just by rolling his shoulders as he hunches over, waiting for you to continue. His face is in his hands, and his ears are pink. It’s the first time he’s asked you for anything tonight, you can’t refuse him. 

Placing your hands back where they were, you begin to massage again. It seems like his lower back is the main problem, with the way he’s grunting into his palms. As your hands work away the aches he begins to swear to himself. 

“Fuck,” he grunts as your thumbs dig deep, soothing a pain he hasn’t felt eased in years. 

This is good. Pride spreads in your chest, knowing he feels better. Your hands work away, and you get laser focused on untangling these massive knots in his back. Eventually you break your focus, switching to softer rubs and small scratches up and down his back.

Tearing your eyes away from his skin, you realize the throw pillow that was beside you earlier is gone. The yellow corner of the cushion peeks at you from where you saw Joel’s belly earlier, over his lap. A thick forearm is crushing it into himself there, the veins in his neck pulsing. 

Flames lick up your face, onto the tips of your ears and down your neck, heating your spine. Is he aroused right now? “Joel?” You ask quietly. 

He shakes his head, voice tight.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Just– it just feels nice,” he admits.

Your hands pause. Okay, so he’s admitted he’s hard. What do you do now? Keep rubbing his back and blueball the poor guy? On Father's day? That seems mean, and awkward. Everything about this is awkward though, so it couldn’t really get worse.

“I could… I could help it feel better,” you offer meekly.

You’re not scared of a dick. You aren’t. Your voice is quiet because it seems like he is horribly ashamed of this, probably feeling guilty.

Joel rubs a hand over his face.

“You don’t have to, you can just go,” he says, but his voice betrays him. Need is sewn in his tone, a desperation.

Part of you wonders how long it’s been since someone touched him like this as you reach around, palming the front of his jeans. The hiss he lets out tells you it’s been awhile. How wrong that is, an attractive man like Joel being forced to get his own rocks off.

Getting the button and fly of his jeans down is difficult when you can’t see, even worse when your brain is making up images of Joel masturbating. He’s so shy when he’s being touched, does he bite his sheets? Bite his other fist in the shower? Poor boy, he deserves this. 

His hips lift off the couch to help you shove his jeans and briefs down. Joel’s bare ass slides against you and he cringes. “Is it okay if you don’t look?” He asks. 

You hate that he seems so insecure, but you’re not going to push him. Nodding into his skin, you press your face to his back, resting your cheek near the blade of his shoulder. He’s heavy in your palm, warm skin with veins your fingers can trace over.

Telling him that he’s big feels redundant, you’re sure he knows that about himself. Neither of you seem very sure about what you’re doing, the shuddering breaths from his chest matching your hesitant grasp around his cock. 

“Are you okay?” You ask again.

Joel nods into his hand, asking you to please touch him. 

Admittedly, it’s a dry hand job, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind. The flick of your wrist is fluid, even if your arm is cramping from being wrapped around him. Joel lets out these little noises, grunts and whines. His hand is covering his eyes while the other one rests lightly on your forearm, like he wants to know that you’re still there.

Need is exuding from him, making his desperation take over his need to really give a shit about how submissive he might be appearing. He shudders particularly hard as you squeeze on the upstroke, voice choking.

“Shit– shit, please,” he gasps, “please can I spit in your hand?” 

It’s a little surprising, but again, you can’t refuse him. You say “yeah” into his skin, closing your eyes as you feel him spit into your hand. It’s filthy, his saliva on you as he guides your hand to jerk him off. Joel uses your palm to slick the head of his dick, teasing himself on your skin.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him be selfish all day. Part of you wants to call him a good boy, but part of you also knows this might not be normal for Joel. Hell, this isn’t normal for you either. 

Instead, you ask him if it’s good. A rasped “yes,” emanates from him between a low groan and a curse. Your head lifts from his back as he begins to shudder, his orgasm creeping closer. Listening to him is so good, you’re a mess between your legs, where your core nudges his ass.

Without a thought, you sink your teeth into the meat between his shoulder and his neck. Not enough pressure to bruise or hurt, just to let him know you’re there. There was no intention to push him over the edge, but your little bite does. A guttural groan is forced out of him as he comes into your hand, stringing sticky between your fingers. 

“Fuck– fuck I’m sorry, oh my god,” he pants, shivering. 

Your head is shaking again, reassuring him that it was okay, that he’s okay. 

“It’ll wash off,” you joke, feeling the stick of him on you. 

—

Joel does help you wash it off, once he’s done redressing. He’s clingy though, arms around your waist and chin hooked over your shoulder as you wash your hands in his kitchen sink. He’s definitely sleepy, eyes blinking slowly when you peek at him while you dry your hands.

You step close to him, your damp hands meeting his dry ones. The awkward spirit of the evening has been killed off, his shyness melted away.

“Usually I’d offer to return the favor but… I have to pick up Ellie from her friend’s house now. I’m really sorry, darlin’,” he admits.

Shaking your head, you push away the negative feeling that surfaces. How are you supposed to go back to being neighbors after that? But also, what did you really expect?

Joel leads you to the door, legs a bit shakey. A smug feeling joins the negative ones in your chest at that, but it’s not enough. 

“I really do apologize,” Joel says again, “but this just gives me an opportunity to see you again. If you’d like, obviously. I think I owe ya dinner.” 

And there he is, not holding your lead but reassuring your heart. He wants to see you again.

Your eyes meet his in the dim light of the hallway, catching those sweet eyes in your own. He looks so hopeful, so apologetic too.

“I’d like that, but you don’t owe me anything. It’s Father’s day,” you point out. 

Joel rolls his eyes. This Father’s day excuse is a little overused between the two of you now, but it’s still cute to him since you’re the one saying it. He opens the door for you, slipping his own boots on and grabbing his keys.

“Fine,” Joel says, “but when Pretty Neighbor day rolls around, you let me know.

[coquettepascal]

father's day coming up.... i should probably... write something

[coquettepascal]

i love this so much i love this so much i am going to chew my own arm off

strike the match

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader

you fuck joel miller, austin’s fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.

tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.

w/c: 9k

Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.

Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.

You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?

Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table and—

Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled “Pool for Dummies: First Steps,” just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.

“Another round?” she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. “Some guy just bought us drinks.”

Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.

Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.

But you’re only watching one of them.

Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.

His turn.

He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…

Suddenly, they’re on you.

Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.

His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.

“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”

“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”

“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”

You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.

“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”

“Old and stinky?”

“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”

Your table erupts in laughter.

It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.

And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.

You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.

Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.

The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.

“Shit,” says the wall.

Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.

“You alright?”

Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.

“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”

“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”

“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”

You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.

He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:

“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”

The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:

“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”

“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.

“Too damn bad.”

He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?

“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”

“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”

He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.

It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.

At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.

There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.

It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”

You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.

He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.

“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”

“They stayed.”

“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”

You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.

“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”

“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”

“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”

“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”

He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.

Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.

Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.

“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.

The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.

“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”

His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.

“What message?”

“You wanted me to follow you out.”

“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”

You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.

“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”

“Let me go!”

Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.

“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”

Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.

“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”

Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.

In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.

He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:

“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”

Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.

“You know that guy?”

“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”

“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”

He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.

You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:

“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.

“Are you kidnapping me?!”

His frustrated sigh fills the cab.

“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”

“I can call another Uber.”

“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”

Civilians? Swore an oath?

Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.

“Come with me.”

You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.

The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.

“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?

“We need you. We got a call on—”

“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”

You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:

“Come on.”

You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.

Miller shuts that down real fast:

“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”

You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!

With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.

Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.

Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”

Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.

“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”

Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.

Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.

You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.

Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?

The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.

Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.

You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.

“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”

That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.

He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.

“You’re back,” you mumble.

He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.

“Yeah. Didn’t die.”

“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”

He clicks his tongue, exasperated.

You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.

Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.

“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.

“No. He doesn’t want me.”

That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.

You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.

“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.

They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”

You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.

“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”

One of them steps forward. “Chief—”

“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”

Silence.

Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.

“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.

“You’re the fire chief.”

“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”

You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:

“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”

“What’s with your thing for older men?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”

“How old are you?”

“You gonna judge me?”

“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”

“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”

“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”

“See? That’s discrimination.”

“You still drunk?”

You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.

“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”

“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”

The light turns green. He drives.

“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”

He shakes his head. No to all.

“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”

“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”

“No. Not with you.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”

A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.

“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”

Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:

“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”

More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.

“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”

“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”

“Fishing for an ego boost?”

“Forget I asked.”

“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”

Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”

“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”

Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.

“So I went out with this guy.”

“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.

“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”

“I can already imagine why.”

“Mhm.”

“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”

You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.

“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”

The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.

“Have you always been a battalion chief?”

“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”

“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”

“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”

“Tommy from the bar?!”

“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.

Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.

“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”

“Mhm.”

“Joel Miller.”

“Yes.”

“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”

It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.

“Family’s family,” he replies simply.

You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,

“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”

You open the door to get out. Joel says,

“Close that door.”

Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.

The console light dims.

You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”

“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”

If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.

“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”

“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”

Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.

“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”

“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”

Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.

“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.

Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.

“Not even your friends.”

“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”

“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”

“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”

“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”

“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”

He squints, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”

You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.

You say what he needs to hear:

“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”

“Good. That stays between me and God.”

He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.

Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.

Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.

God. That kiss.

“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”

His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.

“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.

He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.

“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”

“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.

“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”

He swallows hard.

He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.

“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”

Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”

He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.

“Not here,” says again.

God. You could cry.

“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”

“Go on. Get inside.”

But before you do, you raise a finger.

“Can I suggest something?”

You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.

And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.

With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.

“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.

“You want me to do a four?”

He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.

“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”

“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”

The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.

One raised brow. A wordless well?

Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.

“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”

Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.

You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”

“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.

A smile curls his lips.

“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”

The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.

Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.

A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.

Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.

You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.

“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”

Joel’s no exception.

You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.

Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”

Another smile. He’s on a roll.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”

You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.

“Again,” you whisper.

He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.

He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—

It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.

You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.

“You need to fuck me. Now.”

“Urgent?”

“Mhm. So I can come again.”

“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”

You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.

Thank you, God. Uncut.

You look up at him.

“Come here.”

Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.

“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.

“I don’t mind.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”

The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.

You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.

“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.

You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.

Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.

“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”

“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”

You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.

“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.

“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Pull out.”

Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.

“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.

Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.

You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.

“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”

“Suck a soft dick?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”

Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.

You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”

“Yeah? You learn anything?”

You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.

“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”

Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.

“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”

“You’d never let me win.”

“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”

“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”

You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.

“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”

“No comment.”

“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”

“The divorcé,” he corrects.

Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”

He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.

And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.

“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”

Ah. Yes. But actually…

“Can I try something else?” you ask.

That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.

You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.

“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.

“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”

You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.

He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.

When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.

You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”

Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.

Your whole body shakes.

“Joel—”

“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”

You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.

“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”

“No. Just… stay off my clit.”

The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”

You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.

When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.

Goddamn.

Thanks for your service, Chief.

You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.

It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.

“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.

Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.

When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.

Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.

The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.

Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.

Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.

“Any pie here sweeter than you?”

You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.

Still, you smile back.

“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”

“Kidding.”

“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”

He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.

Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.

The Sweetest Bite.

That barely-there smile curves his lips.

You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.

Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.

Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”

“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”

Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.

“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”

“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”

“Right,” he says to both.

You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.

“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”

“I’m not going’ to your house.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”

“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”

“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.

A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.

And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.

[coquettepascal]

thank u @tofics for the tag! hiii. also for book recs i highly reccommend blueberries by ellena savage!

🧁 favorite color: pink (#ffbcd9)

🌷 last song: my bestie -- mama kay

💭 currently reading: queens peril by e.k. johnston (i love padme i love padme amidala)

🐹 currently watching: rewatching narcos with my boyfriend :Dd

🍌 currently craving: din djarin

🍵 coffee or tea: i like both! it really depends...

npt: @mochamadeleines @pascalssbabyy (imhigh sorry if i didnt tag you)

[coquettepascal]

aaaah thank you so much! and thank you for sharing your story as well 🩷 it makes me super happy to know that my awful!joel is resonating with people. you're right, he isn't a total villain, he's just a shitty old man. i'm glad we all agree LOL. thank you again 🩷🩷

his gutted rabbit

summary: you wanted this. have your cake and eat it too. 

tags: 18+, not smut just nsfw, no outbreak au, use of alcohol, irresponsible drinking, dubious consent (bordering on dddne,) reader is referenced to as a girl, reader has a vagina, severe age gap (reader is twenty, joel is somewhere in his fifties,) dark-ish!joel, bad morals basically, neighbor!joel, maybe dbf!joel, this is very subjective, ooc joel and idgaf, regrettable PiV, use of pullout method, angst.

a/n: i call this joel awful!joel because he’s just a man in this fic. also you are not obligated to read this if it makes you uncomfortable. this fic is supposed to be uncomfortable.

(1.4k, not beta read)

Joel was only a passing face and a name in your journal before tonight. 

You’ve had a crush on him for a little while now, you’re pretty sure any girl on your street does. He was Joel Miller, the handsome dad who anyone could depend on for a favor. Though he’d become more busy lately, you’ve been seeing him more often and the two of you have become friendlier. It isn’t like it’s weird, he’s talked to you in passing once or twice, but only really when your parents were around. They liked Joel and didn’t think of it twice when you said you were going to his place for dinner. 

You knew it wouldn’t just be dinner. The moment you stepped into his house you were bent on getting what you wanted, what you fantasized about. Nothing would live up to what you thought he could give you, no one would be able to make you feel small the way he would. Your proof was non-existent, maybe fantastical and overimaginative, but you were willing to test it all. 

Between the pages of your journal and in the folds of your brain lay your wishes to be chased by him, to seduce him and have him at your will. “I want to be like a tricky little rabbit that he can’t help but want to run after,” you had written mere nights ago. You would be so beautiful, maybe a giggly drunk, and he’d make love to you in a way that only a man would. Joel, in all his strength, would use his body to imprint you on his mattress and in the making of that, you’d imprint on his heart. He’d make your lackluster girlhood mean something, he’d make a woman out of you, yet not take advantage. 

It would take some convincing. It would be worth it. 

It doesn’t take long. (why didn’t it take long?)

The first thing Joel chases is the amount of shots you take. By the time the living room is painted in the shades of a summer sunset you’re both laughing at the sound of each other’s laughter and getting too close on the couch. More drinks lead to more touching, and then a kiss, and then you get what you want. Joel chases you up the stairs while your feet stumble, socked feet almost slipping on the shining hardwood in the dark. Laughter bounces louder in the hallway, so loud it vibrates the tiny glass panes in the framed pictures on the wall. Your hands fumble with the door handle when you reach his bedroom. He crowds behind you, heavy and warm with inebriation as he sloppily places his hand over your own and bursts into his bedroom.

Then his eyes chase you as you crawl backwards up his bed, rumpling his sheets. You don’t remember when your clothes came off, or who had taken them off, it wasn’t important. It’s happening, he wants you, and you’re getting what you wanted. Joel’s eyes trail from your hardening nipples down to your crotch, where your thighs are still pressed together. Here is where you begin to feel small. He seems so much bigger suddenly, and suddenly you are much too little. A shiver runs up your back, one that feels like tv static, and you try to convince yourself it isn’t fear as he crawls on top of you. 

He feels like an arrow in you. Sharp, aching, and fractured pains pulse in your vaginal walls as he tries not to move, a futile attempt at being gentle. Your eyes are swimming with alcohol, the same drunkenness that makes his words slur as they fall from his sloppy lips. You didn’t think it would hurt like this, you were so sure you wanted it.

Then, just as that feeling fades, and he thinks it’s okay to move, it starts to feel bad. Really, really bad. You watch as he shoves himself into you, his movements messy since he’s so fucked up, and you start to really see all that’s wrong with what the two of you are doing. Joel is only supposed to be Joel. He is supposed to be that friendly neighbor, the one who helps you and your parents with groceries, who fixes the garage door when it breaks, and he’s supposed to call you “kiddo,” and “sweetie.” He’s supposed to do all these things because he’s a grown man. You can see that he’s grown into the wiry greys that have started to grow into his beard and in the hair just above his ears, you can see it in the way his hands are softening with age, the skin thinning, and you can feel it in how the bones of his hips creak against the flesh of your legs that are wrapped around him. You, a girl, are having sex with a grown man, one who should have known better, one that is now inside you.

This needs to be over, it needs to be over and soon. You don’t feel small, you feel tiny and scared, and you are only a girl. You are not meant to be chased by a man this old and you know that now, but it’s too late. It’s too late, isn’t it? Your belly hurts all of a sudden, the pounding beat against your cervix feeling like it’s about to make that alcohol come right back up. He’s sweating on top of you, exerting too much energy, and that’s somehow making you feel more nauseous. You’re so inebriated you can barely understand whose limbs are whose. He has made you feel small, but in a way that makes you want to cry for your mama. Desperately you want this to be over. You know you’re drying up, and fast, and if he doesn’t finish soon then that’s only going to make you hurt more.

“Where should I–” he grunts, clearly close. 

As much as you want it to be over though, you want to tell him to come nowhere. Not inside you, and not on you, but what choice do you have? You’re already here, you wanted this. 

“On me,” you decide, trying to ignore how tight your voice is. There aren’t any tears in your eyes, but there’s a burning weight behind them. When he pulls out of you, you shut your eyes and try to pretend the warm splatters that hit your skin are raindrops, just raindrops. Not Joel, you’re outside, and it’s raining, and you’re okay, and you didn’t make this mistake. It’s just raining. 

You can still feel it on you even after he wipes your belly clean. The skin almost feels itchy, taut where the liquid had laid on you. Joel is laying beside you, still catching his breath, and he reaches out to touch your hip, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“Never thought we’d do somethin’ like this,” he jokes. Joel sounds more sober now. He’s more sober and he’s still lying there beside you, the two of you naked. Why is he still okay with this? Why does it seem like he wanted this all along?

“Did you think about it?” You ask. It’s a stupid question, one that will hurt you no matter what, but you already feel so betrayed. How could he give in to you? How could he let this happen? Isn’t he the adult here? 

“Tried not to,” Joel says. That almost feels okay, but then he keeps talking. “Couldn’t help it sometimes.” 

“Couldn’t help it.” Like you’re some irresistible thing, some off limits object. Bile stings the back of your throat but you swallow your vomit down. Maybe if you act okay with this then it will just end up being a funny story, a stupid mistake you both made. Maybe if you just pretend, then maybe you’ll be able to look him in the face again someday. 

Earlier you felt the excitement of taboo, the rush of playing a game. You felt in control when he was chasing you, when you led him up the stairs. Of course you didn’t think you were being hunted, you started this game with this man who you didn’t think was bad. You thought you were in control, that he was prey in your trap, but prey don’t chase. Prey don’t chase. 

Laying in his bed, nude, you are everything you thought you wanted to be. The fleeting dream of being his gutted rabbit, gently dissected, has become too real. You didn’t know what being gutted was until he was splitting you open, and though he was a kind man, you still bled. Small on the left side of the mattress, with your ears back and your cottontail between your legs, you wonder how long you will bleed for.

[coquettepascal]

evening reblog since this is still blocked 💔 i look so needy

his gutted rabbit

summary: you wanted this. have your cake and eat it too. 

tags: 18+, not smut just nsfw, no outbreak au, use of alcohol, irresponsible drinking, dubious consent (bordering on dddne,) reader is referenced to as a girl, reader has a vagina, severe age gap (reader is twenty, joel is somewhere in his fifties,) dark-ish!joel, bad morals basically, neighbor!joel, maybe dbf!joel, this is very subjective, ooc joel and idgaf, regrettable PiV, use of pullout method, angst.

a/n: i call this joel awful!joel because he’s just a man in this fic. also you are not obligated to read this if it makes you uncomfortable. this fic is supposed to be uncomfortable.

(1.4k, not beta read)

Joel was only a passing face and a name in your journal before tonight. 

You’ve had a crush on him for a little while now, you’re pretty sure any girl on your street does. He was Joel Miller, the handsome dad who anyone could depend on for a favor. Though he’d become more busy lately, you’ve been seeing him more often and the two of you have become friendlier. It isn’t like it’s weird, he’s talked to you in passing once or twice, but only really when your parents were around. They liked Joel and didn’t think of it twice when you said you were going to his place for dinner. 

You knew it wouldn’t just be dinner. The moment you stepped into his house you were bent on getting what you wanted, what you fantasized about. Nothing would live up to what you thought he could give you, no one would be able to make you feel small the way he would. Your proof was non-existent, maybe fantastical and overimaginative, but you were willing to test it all. 

Between the pages of your journal and in the folds of your brain lay your wishes to be chased by him, to seduce him and have him at your will. “I want to be like a tricky little rabbit that he can’t help but want to run after,” you had written mere nights ago. You would be so beautiful, maybe a giggly drunk, and he’d make love to you in a way that only a man would. Joel, in all his strength, would use his body to imprint you on his mattress and in the making of that, you’d imprint on his heart. He’d make your lackluster girlhood mean something, he’d make a woman out of you, yet not take advantage. 

It would take some convincing. It would be worth it. 

It doesn’t take long. (why didn’t it take long?)

The first thing Joel chases is the amount of shots you take. By the time the living room is painted in the shades of a summer sunset you’re both laughing at the sound of each other’s laughter and getting too close on the couch. More drinks lead to more touching, and then a kiss, and then you get what you want. Joel chases you up the stairs while your feet stumble, socked feet almost slipping on the shining hardwood in the dark. Laughter bounces louder in the hallway, so loud it vibrates the tiny glass panes in the framed pictures on the wall. Your hands fumble with the door handle when you reach his bedroom. He crowds behind you, heavy and warm with inebriation as he sloppily places his hand over your own and bursts into his bedroom.

Then his eyes chase you as you crawl backwards up his bed, rumpling his sheets. You don’t remember when your clothes came off, or who had taken them off, it wasn’t important. It’s happening, he wants you, and you’re getting what you wanted. Joel’s eyes trail from your hardening nipples down to your crotch, where your thighs are still pressed together. Here is where you begin to feel small. He seems so much bigger suddenly, and suddenly you are much too little. A shiver runs up your back, one that feels like tv static, and you try to convince yourself it isn’t fear as he crawls on top of you. 

He feels like an arrow in you. Sharp, aching, and fractured pains pulse in your vaginal walls as he tries not to move, a futile attempt at being gentle. Your eyes are swimming with alcohol, the same drunkenness that makes his words slur as they fall from his sloppy lips. You didn’t think it would hurt like this, you were so sure you wanted it.

Then, just as that feeling fades, and he thinks it’s okay to move, it starts to feel bad. Really, really bad. You watch as he shoves himself into you, his movements messy since he’s so fucked up, and you start to really see all that’s wrong with what the two of you are doing. Joel is only supposed to be Joel. He is supposed to be that friendly neighbor, the one who helps you and your parents with groceries, who fixes the garage door when it breaks, and he’s supposed to call you “kiddo,” and “sweetie.” He’s supposed to do all these things because he’s a grown man. You can see that he’s grown into the wiry greys that have started to grow into his beard and in the hair just above his ears, you can see it in the way his hands are softening with age, the skin thinning, and you can feel it in how the bones of his hips creak against the flesh of your legs that are wrapped around him. You, a girl, are having sex with a grown man, one who should have known better, one that is now inside you.

This needs to be over, it needs to be over and soon. You don’t feel small, you feel tiny and scared, and you are only a girl. You are not meant to be chased by a man this old and you know that now, but it’s too late. It’s too late, isn’t it? Your belly hurts all of a sudden, the pounding beat against your cervix feeling like it’s about to make that alcohol come right back up. He’s sweating on top of you, exerting too much energy, and that’s somehow making you feel more nauseous. You’re so inebriated you can barely understand whose limbs are whose. He has made you feel small, but in a way that makes you want to cry for your mama. Desperately you want this to be over. You know you’re drying up, and fast, and if he doesn’t finish soon then that’s only going to make you hurt more.

“Where should I–” he grunts, clearly close. 

As much as you want it to be over though, you want to tell him to come nowhere. Not inside you, and not on you, but what choice do you have? You’re already here, you wanted this. 

“On me,” you decide, trying to ignore how tight your voice is. There aren’t any tears in your eyes, but there’s a burning weight behind them. When he pulls out of you, you shut your eyes and try to pretend the warm splatters that hit your skin are raindrops, just raindrops. Not Joel, you’re outside, and it’s raining, and you’re okay, and you didn’t make this mistake. It’s just raining. 

You can still feel it on you even after he wipes your belly clean. The skin almost feels itchy, taut where the liquid had laid on you. Joel is laying beside you, still catching his breath, and he reaches out to touch your hip, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“Never thought we’d do somethin’ like this,” he jokes. Joel sounds more sober now. He’s more sober and he’s still lying there beside you, the two of you naked. Why is he still okay with this? Why does it seem like he wanted this all along?

“Did you think about it?” You ask. It’s a stupid question, one that will hurt you no matter what, but you already feel so betrayed. How could he give in to you? How could he let this happen? Isn’t he the adult here? 

“Tried not to,” Joel says. That almost feels okay, but then he keeps talking. “Couldn’t help it sometimes.” 

“Couldn’t help it.” Like you’re some irresistible thing, some off limits object. Bile stings the back of your throat but you swallow your vomit down. Maybe if you act okay with this then it will just end up being a funny story, a stupid mistake you both made. Maybe if you just pretend, then maybe you’ll be able to look him in the face again someday. 

Earlier you felt the excitement of taboo, the rush of playing a game. You felt in control when he was chasing you, when you led him up the stairs. Of course you didn’t think you were being hunted, you started this game with this man who you didn’t think was bad. You thought you were in control, that he was prey in your trap, but prey don’t chase. Prey don’t chase. 

Laying in his bed, nude, you are everything you thought you wanted to be. The fleeting dream of being his gutted rabbit, gently dissected, has become too real. You didn’t know what being gutted was until he was splitting you open, and though he was a kind man, you still bled. Small on the left side of the mattress, with your ears back and your cottontail between your legs, you wonder how long you will bleed for.

[coquettepascal]

fic has officially been labeled and hidden. super frustrating but I get it. (chewing chicken wire) No like I get it.

[coquettepascal]

i am so so so pleased this is one of the first responses to this fic. to hear that what i wanted to emulate was done so, not just successfully, but in a way where a reader can relate to it... it means so much. i am struggling to express my full gratitude for this reblog but it is so difficult </3 thank you so much for reading this and understanding what i wished to present 😭😭

his gutted rabbit

summary: you wanted this. have your cake and eat it too. 

tags: 18+, not smut just nsfw, no outbreak au, use of alcohol, irresponsible drinking, dubious consent (bordering on dddne,) reader is referenced to as a girl, reader has a vagina, severe age gap (reader is twenty, joel is somewhere in his fifties,) dark-ish!joel, bad morals basically, neighbor!joel, maybe dbf!joel, this is very subjective, ooc joel and idgaf, regrettable PiV, use of pullout method, angst.

a/n: i call this joel awful!joel because he’s just a man in this fic. also you are not obligated to read this if it makes you uncomfortable. this fic is supposed to be uncomfortable.

(1.4k, not beta read)

Joel was only a passing face and a name in your journal before tonight. 

You’ve had a crush on him for a little while now, you’re pretty sure any girl on your street does. He was Joel Miller, the handsome dad who anyone could depend on for a favor. Though he’d become more busy lately, you’ve been seeing him more often and the two of you have become friendlier. It isn’t like it’s weird, he’s talked to you in passing once or twice, but only really when your parents were around. They liked Joel and didn’t think of it twice when you said you were going to his place for dinner. 

You knew it wouldn’t just be dinner. The moment you stepped into his house you were bent on getting what you wanted, what you fantasized about. Nothing would live up to what you thought he could give you, no one would be able to make you feel small the way he would. Your proof was non-existent, maybe fantastical and overimaginative, but you were willing to test it all. 

Between the pages of your journal and in the folds of your brain lay your wishes to be chased by him, to seduce him and have him at your will. “I want to be like a tricky little rabbit that he can’t help but want to run after,” you had written mere nights ago. You would be so beautiful, maybe a giggly drunk, and he’d make love to you in a way that only a man would. Joel, in all his strength, would use his body to imprint you on his mattress and in the making of that, you’d imprint on his heart. He’d make your lackluster girlhood mean something, he’d make a woman out of you, yet not take advantage. 

It would take some convincing. It would be worth it. 

It doesn’t take long. (why didn’t it take long?)

The first thing Joel chases is the amount of shots you take. By the time the living room is painted in the shades of a summer sunset you’re both laughing at the sound of each other’s laughter and getting too close on the couch. More drinks lead to more touching, and then a kiss, and then you get what you want. Joel chases you up the stairs while your feet stumble, socked feet almost slipping on the shining hardwood in the dark. Laughter bounces louder in the hallway, so loud it vibrates the tiny glass panes in the framed pictures on the wall. Your hands fumble with the door handle when you reach his bedroom. He crowds behind you, heavy and warm with inebriation as he sloppily places his hand over your own and bursts into his bedroom.

Then his eyes chase you as you crawl backwards up his bed, rumpling his sheets. You don’t remember when your clothes came off, or who had taken them off, it wasn’t important. It’s happening, he wants you, and you’re getting what you wanted. Joel’s eyes trail from your hardening nipples down to your crotch, where your thighs are still pressed together. Here is where you begin to feel small. He seems so much bigger suddenly, and suddenly you are much too little. A shiver runs up your back, one that feels like tv static, and you try to convince yourself it isn’t fear as he crawls on top of you. 

He feels like an arrow in you. Sharp, aching, and fractured pains pulse in your vaginal walls as he tries not to move, a futile attempt at being gentle. Your eyes are swimming with alcohol, the same drunkenness that makes his words slur as they fall from his sloppy lips. You didn’t think it would hurt like this, you were so sure you wanted it.

Then, just as that feeling fades, and he thinks it’s okay to move, it starts to feel bad. Really, really bad. You watch as he shoves himself into you, his movements messy since he’s so fucked up, and you start to really see all that’s wrong with what the two of you are doing. Joel is only supposed to be Joel. He is supposed to be that friendly neighbor, the one who helps you and your parents with groceries, who fixes the garage door when it breaks, and he’s supposed to call you “kiddo,” and “sweetie.” He’s supposed to do all these things because he’s a grown man. You can see that he’s grown into the wiry greys that have started to grow into his beard and in the hair just above his ears, you can see it in the way his hands are softening with age, the skin thinning, and you can feel it in how the bones of his hips creak against the flesh of your legs that are wrapped around him. You, a girl, are having sex with a grown man, one who should have known better, one that is now inside you.

This needs to be over, it needs to be over and soon. You don’t feel small, you feel tiny and scared, and you are only a girl. You are not meant to be chased by a man this old and you know that now, but it’s too late. It’s too late, isn’t it? Your belly hurts all of a sudden, the pounding beat against your cervix feeling like it’s about to make that alcohol come right back up. He’s sweating on top of you, exerting too much energy, and that’s somehow making you feel more nauseous. You’re so inebriated you can barely understand whose limbs are whose. He has made you feel small, but in a way that makes you want to cry for your mama. Desperately you want this to be over. You know you’re drying up, and fast, and if he doesn’t finish soon then that’s only going to make you hurt more.

“Where should I–” he grunts, clearly close. 

As much as you want it to be over though, you want to tell him to come nowhere. Not inside you, and not on you, but what choice do you have? You’re already here, you wanted this. 

“On me,” you decide, trying to ignore how tight your voice is. There aren’t any tears in your eyes, but there’s a burning weight behind them. When he pulls out of you, you shut your eyes and try to pretend the warm splatters that hit your skin are raindrops, just raindrops. Not Joel, you’re outside, and it’s raining, and you’re okay, and you didn’t make this mistake. It’s just raining. 

You can still feel it on you even after he wipes your belly clean. The skin almost feels itchy, taut where the liquid had laid on you. Joel is laying beside you, still catching his breath, and he reaches out to touch your hip, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“Never thought we’d do somethin’ like this,” he jokes. Joel sounds more sober now. He’s more sober and he’s still lying there beside you, the two of you naked. Why is he still okay with this? Why does it seem like he wanted this all along?

“Did you think about it?” You ask. It’s a stupid question, one that will hurt you no matter what, but you already feel so betrayed. How could he give in to you? How could he let this happen? Isn’t he the adult here? 

“Tried not to,” Joel says. That almost feels okay, but then he keeps talking. “Couldn’t help it sometimes.” 

“Couldn’t help it.” Like you’re some irresistible thing, some off limits object. Bile stings the back of your throat but you swallow your vomit down. Maybe if you act okay with this then it will just end up being a funny story, a stupid mistake you both made. Maybe if you just pretend, then maybe you’ll be able to look him in the face again someday. 

Earlier you felt the excitement of taboo, the rush of playing a game. You felt in control when he was chasing you, when you led him up the stairs. Of course you didn’t think you were being hunted, you started this game with this man who you didn’t think was bad. You thought you were in control, that he was prey in your trap, but prey don’t chase. Prey don’t chase. 

Laying in his bed, nude, you are everything you thought you wanted to be. The fleeting dream of being his gutted rabbit, gently dissected, has become too real. You didn’t know what being gutted was until he was splitting you open, and though he was a kind man, you still bled. Small on the left side of the mattress, with your ears back and your cottontail between your legs, you wonder how long you will bleed for.

[coquettepascal]

i am SO sad that my fic immediately got labeled and hidden. super frustrating :( everyday i get closer to being ao3 exclusive.

[coquettepascal]

ahhh this is getting content labeled :(( I hope this shows up on some people's feeds !! in the meantime I'll tag some people who I know were interested ♡♡

@mochamadeleines @pascalssbabyy @evolnoomym

his gutted rabbit

summary: you wanted this. have your cake and eat it too. 

tags: 18+, not smut just nsfw, no outbreak au, use of alcohol, irresponsible drinking, dubious consent (bordering on dddne,) reader is referenced to as a girl, reader has a vagina, severe age gap (reader is twenty, joel is somewhere in his fifties,) dark-ish!joel, bad morals basically, neighbor!joel, maybe dbf!joel, this is very subjective, ooc joel and idgaf, regrettable PiV, use of pullout method, angst.

a/n: i call this joel awful!joel because he’s just a man in this fic. also you are not obligated to read this if it makes you uncomfortable. this fic is supposed to be uncomfortable.

(1.4k, not beta read)

Joel was only a passing face and a name in your journal before tonight. 

You’ve had a crush on him for a little while now, you’re pretty sure any girl on your street does. He was Joel Miller, the handsome dad who anyone could depend on for a favor. Though he’d become more busy lately, you’ve been seeing him more often and the two of you have become friendlier. It isn’t like it’s weird, he’s talked to you in passing once or twice, but only really when your parents were around. They liked Joel and didn’t think of it twice when you said you were going to his place for dinner. 

You knew it wouldn’t just be dinner. The moment you stepped into his house you were bent on getting what you wanted, what you fantasized about. Nothing would live up to what you thought he could give you, no one would be able to make you feel small the way he would. Your proof was non-existent, maybe fantastical and overimaginative, but you were willing to test it all. 

Between the pages of your journal and in the folds of your brain lay your wishes to be chased by him, to seduce him and have him at your will. “I want to be like a tricky little rabbit that he can’t help but want to run after,” you had written mere nights ago. You would be so beautiful, maybe a giggly drunk, and he’d make love to you in a way that only a man would. Joel, in all his strength, would use his body to imprint you on his mattress and in the making of that, you’d imprint on his heart. He’d make your lackluster girlhood mean something, he’d make a woman out of you, yet not take advantage. 

It would take some convincing. It would be worth it. 

It doesn’t take long. (why didn’t it take long?)

The first thing Joel chases is the amount of shots you take. By the time the living room is painted in the shades of a summer sunset you’re both laughing at the sound of each other’s laughter and getting too close on the couch. More drinks lead to more touching, and then a kiss, and then you get what you want. Joel chases you up the stairs while your feet stumble, socked feet almost slipping on the shining hardwood in the dark. Laughter bounces louder in the hallway, so loud it vibrates the tiny glass panes in the framed pictures on the wall. Your hands fumble with the door handle when you reach his bedroom. He crowds behind you, heavy and warm with inebriation as he sloppily places his hand over your own and bursts into his bedroom.

Then his eyes chase you as you crawl backwards up his bed, rumpling his sheets. You don’t remember when your clothes came off, or who had taken them off, it wasn’t important. It’s happening, he wants you, and you’re getting what you wanted. Joel’s eyes trail from your hardening nipples down to your crotch, where your thighs are still pressed together. Here is where you begin to feel small. He seems so much bigger suddenly, and suddenly you are much too little. A shiver runs up your back, one that feels like tv static, and you try to convince yourself it isn’t fear as he crawls on top of you. 

He feels like an arrow in you. Sharp, aching, and fractured pains pulse in your vaginal walls as he tries not to move, a futile attempt at being gentle. Your eyes are swimming with alcohol, the same drunkenness that makes his words slur as they fall from his sloppy lips. You didn’t think it would hurt like this, you were so sure you wanted it.

Then, just as that feeling fades, and he thinks it’s okay to move, it starts to feel bad. Really, really bad. You watch as he shoves himself into you, his movements messy since he’s so fucked up, and you start to really see all that’s wrong with what the two of you are doing. Joel is only supposed to be Joel. He is supposed to be that friendly neighbor, the one who helps you and your parents with groceries, who fixes the garage door when it breaks, and he’s supposed to call you “kiddo,” and “sweetie.” He’s supposed to do all these things because he’s a grown man. You can see that he’s grown into the wiry greys that have started to grow into his beard and in the hair just above his ears, you can see it in the way his hands are softening with age, the skin thinning, and you can feel it in how the bones of his hips creak against the flesh of your legs that are wrapped around him. You, a girl, are having sex with a grown man, one who should have known better, one that is now inside you.

This needs to be over, it needs to be over and soon. You don’t feel small, you feel tiny and scared, and you are only a girl. You are not meant to be chased by a man this old and you know that now, but it’s too late. It’s too late, isn’t it? Your belly hurts all of a sudden, the pounding beat against your cervix feeling like it’s about to make that alcohol come right back up. He’s sweating on top of you, exerting too much energy, and that’s somehow making you feel more nauseous. You’re so inebriated you can barely understand whose limbs are whose. He has made you feel small, but in a way that makes you want to cry for your mama. Desperately you want this to be over. You know you’re drying up, and fast, and if he doesn’t finish soon then that’s only going to make you hurt more.

“Where should I–” he grunts, clearly close. 

As much as you want it to be over though, you want to tell him to come nowhere. Not inside you, and not on you, but what choice do you have? You’re already here, you wanted this. 

“On me,” you decide, trying to ignore how tight your voice is. There aren’t any tears in your eyes, but there’s a burning weight behind them. When he pulls out of you, you shut your eyes and try to pretend the warm splatters that hit your skin are raindrops, just raindrops. Not Joel, you’re outside, and it’s raining, and you’re okay, and you didn’t make this mistake. It’s just raining. 

You can still feel it on you even after he wipes your belly clean. The skin almost feels itchy, taut where the liquid had laid on you. Joel is laying beside you, still catching his breath, and he reaches out to touch your hip, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“Never thought we’d do somethin’ like this,” he jokes. Joel sounds more sober now. He’s more sober and he’s still lying there beside you, the two of you naked. Why is he still okay with this? Why does it seem like he wanted this all along?

“Did you think about it?” You ask. It’s a stupid question, one that will hurt you no matter what, but you already feel so betrayed. How could he give in to you? How could he let this happen? Isn’t he the adult here? 

“Tried not to,” Joel says. That almost feels okay, but then he keeps talking. “Couldn’t help it sometimes.” 

“Couldn’t help it.” Like you’re some irresistible thing, some off limits object. Bile stings the back of your throat but you swallow your vomit down. Maybe if you act okay with this then it will just end up being a funny story, a stupid mistake you both made. Maybe if you just pretend, then maybe you’ll be able to look him in the face again someday. 

Earlier you felt the excitement of taboo, the rush of playing a game. You felt in control when he was chasing you, when you led him up the stairs. Of course you didn’t think you were being hunted, you started this game with this man who you didn’t think was bad. You thought you were in control, that he was prey in your trap, but prey don’t chase. Prey don’t chase. 

Laying in his bed, nude, you are everything you thought you wanted to be. The fleeting dream of being his gutted rabbit, gently dissected, has become too real. You didn’t know what being gutted was until he was splitting you open, and though he was a kind man, you still bled. Small on the left side of the mattress, with your ears back and your cottontail between your legs, you wonder how long you will bleed for.

[coquettepascal]

his gutted rabbit

summary: you wanted this. have your cake and eat it too. 

tags: 18+, not smut just nsfw, no outbreak au, use of alcohol, irresponsible drinking, dubious consent (bordering on dddne,) reader is referenced to as a girl, reader has a vagina, severe age gap (reader is twenty, joel is somewhere in his fifties,) dark-ish!joel, bad morals basically, neighbor!joel, maybe dbf!joel, this is very subjective, ooc joel and idgaf, regrettable PiV, use of pullout method, angst.

a/n: i call this joel awful!joel because he’s just a man in this fic. also you are not obligated to read this if it makes you uncomfortable. this fic is supposed to be uncomfortable.

(1.4k, not beta read)

Joel was only a passing face and a name in your journal before tonight. 

You’ve had a crush on him for a little while now, you’re pretty sure any girl on your street does. He was Joel Miller, the handsome dad who anyone could depend on for a favor. Though he’d become more busy lately, you’ve been seeing him more often and the two of you have become friendlier. It isn’t like it’s weird, he’s talked to you in passing once or twice, but only really when your parents were around. They liked Joel and didn’t think of it twice when you said you were going to his place for dinner. 

You knew it wouldn’t just be dinner. The moment you stepped into his house you were bent on getting what you wanted, what you fantasized about. Nothing would live up to what you thought he could give you, no one would be able to make you feel small the way he would. Your proof was non-existent, maybe fantastical and overimaginative, but you were willing to test it all. 

Between the pages of your journal and in the folds of your brain lay your wishes to be chased by him, to seduce him and have him at your will. “I want to be like a tricky little rabbit that he can’t help but want to run after,” you had written mere nights ago. You would be so beautiful, maybe a giggly drunk, and he’d make love to you in a way that only a man would. Joel, in all his strength, would use his body to imprint you on his mattress and in the making of that, you’d imprint on his heart. He’d make your lackluster girlhood mean something, he’d make a woman out of you, yet not take advantage. 

It would take some convincing. It would be worth it. 

It doesn’t take long. (why didn’t it take long?)

The first thing Joel chases is the amount of shots you take. By the time the living room is painted in the shades of a summer sunset you’re both laughing at the sound of each other’s laughter and getting too close on the couch. More drinks lead to more touching, and then a kiss, and then you get what you want. Joel chases you up the stairs while your feet stumble, socked feet almost slipping on the shining hardwood in the dark. Laughter bounces louder in the hallway, so loud it vibrates the tiny glass panes in the framed pictures on the wall. Your hands fumble with the door handle when you reach his bedroom. He crowds behind you, heavy and warm with inebriation as he sloppily places his hand over your own and bursts into his bedroom.

Then his eyes chase you as you crawl backwards up his bed, rumpling his sheets. You don’t remember when your clothes came off, or who had taken them off, it wasn’t important. It’s happening, he wants you, and you’re getting what you wanted. Joel’s eyes trail from your hardening nipples down to your crotch, where your thighs are still pressed together. Here is where you begin to feel small. He seems so much bigger suddenly, and suddenly you are much too little. A shiver runs up your back, one that feels like tv static, and you try to convince yourself it isn’t fear as he crawls on top of you. 

He feels like an arrow in you. Sharp, aching, and fractured pains pulse in your vaginal walls as he tries not to move, a futile attempt at being gentle. Your eyes are swimming with alcohol, the same drunkenness that makes his words slur as they fall from his sloppy lips. You didn’t think it would hurt like this, you were so sure you wanted it.

Then, just as that feeling fades, and he thinks it’s okay to move, it starts to feel bad. Really, really bad. You watch as he shoves himself into you, his movements messy since he’s so fucked up, and you start to really see all that’s wrong with what the two of you are doing. Joel is only supposed to be Joel. He is supposed to be that friendly neighbor, the one who helps you and your parents with groceries, who fixes the garage door when it breaks, and he’s supposed to call you “kiddo,” and “sweetie.” He’s supposed to do all these things because he’s a grown man. You can see that he’s grown into the wiry greys that have started to grow into his beard and in the hair just above his ears, you can see it in the way his hands are softening with age, the skin thinning, and you can feel it in how the bones of his hips creak against the flesh of your legs that are wrapped around him. You, a girl, are having sex with a grown man, one who should have known better, one that is now inside you.

This needs to be over, it needs to be over and soon. You don’t feel small, you feel tiny and scared, and you are only a girl. You are not meant to be chased by a man this old and you know that now, but it’s too late. It’s too late, isn’t it? Your belly hurts all of a sudden, the pounding beat against your cervix feeling like it’s about to make that alcohol come right back up. He’s sweating on top of you, exerting too much energy, and that’s somehow making you feel more nauseous. You’re so inebriated you can barely understand whose limbs are whose. He has made you feel small, but in a way that makes you want to cry for your mama. Desperately you want this to be over. You know you’re drying up, and fast, and if he doesn’t finish soon then that’s only going to make you hurt more.

“Where should I–” he grunts, clearly close. 

As much as you want it to be over though, you want to tell him to come nowhere. Not inside you, and not on you, but what choice do you have? You’re already here, you wanted this. 

“On me,” you decide, trying to ignore how tight your voice is. There aren’t any tears in your eyes, but there’s a burning weight behind them. When he pulls out of you, you shut your eyes and try to pretend the warm splatters that hit your skin are raindrops, just raindrops. Not Joel, you’re outside, and it’s raining, and you’re okay, and you didn’t make this mistake. It’s just raining. 

You can still feel it on you even after he wipes your belly clean. The skin almost feels itchy, taut where the liquid had laid on you. Joel is laying beside you, still catching his breath, and he reaches out to touch your hip, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“Never thought we’d do somethin’ like this,” he jokes. Joel sounds more sober now. He’s more sober and he’s still lying there beside you, the two of you naked. Why is he still okay with this? Why does it seem like he wanted this all along?

“Did you think about it?” You ask. It’s a stupid question, one that will hurt you no matter what, but you already feel so betrayed. How could he give in to you? How could he let this happen? Isn’t he the adult here? 

“Tried not to,” Joel says. That almost feels okay, but then he keeps talking. “Couldn’t help it sometimes.” 

“Couldn’t help it.” Like you’re some irresistible thing, some off limits object. Bile stings the back of your throat but you swallow your vomit down. Maybe if you act okay with this then it will just end up being a funny story, a stupid mistake you both made. Maybe if you just pretend, then maybe you’ll be able to look him in the face again someday. 

Earlier you felt the excitement of taboo, the rush of playing a game. You felt in control when he was chasing you, when you led him up the stairs. Of course you didn’t think you were being hunted, you started this game with this man who you didn’t think was bad. You thought you were in control, that he was prey in your trap, but prey don’t chase. Prey don’t chase. 

Laying in his bed, nude, you are everything you thought you wanted to be. The fleeting dream of being his gutted rabbit, gently dissected, has become too real. You didn’t know what being gutted was until he was splitting you open, and though he was a kind man, you still bled. Small on the left side of the mattress, with your ears back and your cottontail between your legs, you wonder how long you will bleed for.

[coquettepascal]

really sorry about the fic being posted later. the characterization of joel in s2 (from the clips ive seen) turned him into the kind of man i hate. i really wanted to write something sweet and healing but i am mad at him.

[coquettepascal]

tomorrow at 12:30pm pst

first fic in a bit... a little different than what i usually write.

[coquettepascal]

posting joel fic tomorrow.... ooouuu posting angsty dubcon joelfic tomorrow oouuuh you wanna read it so bad i'll post a teaser soon ouuhhhh

[coquettepascal]

i wanna write another marcus acacius fic... i miss that man

[coquettepascal]

dream bed rotation lol

[coquettepascal]

sorry for being so gone i do not open this app because theres a weird amount of drama in this fandom. i will write again but know that the way you act pushes creators out of fandom spaces so dont be surprised when you have nothing to jerk your tiny hater dick to.