gothicmisty

[gothicmisty]

Joel Miller 48/??

[gothicmisty]

Morticia and Gomez Addams 06/??

[gothicmisty]

wip wednesday

lowkey i'm such a sucker for fake dating.

[gothicmisty]

Better Distractions | QZ!Joel x F!Reader

Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Unable to sneak back into the QZ, you and Joel spend a night together in the city.

Tags: No use of y/n, implied age gap (pretty nondescript but I imagined the reader is in her 20s, Joel is in his mid-50s), reader is afab, some physical descriptions (reader has hair that can be pulled, has a bush because #bushnation, and is curvy if you squint), drinking but no one is really inebriated, bratty reader and sort of mean!Joel, verbal degradation, spit, pussy pronouns, spanking, Joel is uncut, pussy slapping, face slapping (like once or twice), use of good girl and other pet names, choking, oral (m!receiving), face fucking, light dacryphilia, hair pulling, unprotected piv, creampie. If I missed any tags, please let me know!

Word count: ~5.8K

Read on AO3

A/N: I wasn't planning on writing a follow up to Playin' Games, but here we are! This fic can be read as a standalone, but it does reference the previous installment, so I do recommend reading that first. As always, any and all feedback is welcome! Please like, reblog, or comment if you enjoyed. Thank you for reading! Divider by @/saradika-graphics

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

“They’ve got fucking spotlights,” you mutter with a huff, pulling the binoculars from your eyes and letting them fall to the ground. It’s not like you need them, you can practically see the light from a mile away. This much light in the dead of night is never a good sign, but especially when you’re trying to sneak back into the QZ. 

Joel shifts beside you, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He stands up and looks down at you. “Well,” he begins with a sigh, “let’s go, then.” 

“Go? Where the fuck are we gonna go, Joel?” you ask incredulously. 

“Not towards FEDRA and their automatics, that’s for fuckin’ sure,” he snaps, pulling his 9mm pistol from its holster. “And for fuck’s sake, lower your damn voice.”

You know he’s right, but panic is starting to rise in your chest at the thought of having to spend a night in the city and likely the whole next day, too. There’s no way you’d be able to sneak back into the QZ in broad daylight, forcing you to wait until tomorrow’s dusk. It isn’t safe. You know it, Joel knows it. No point in dwelling on it or even saying it out loud. You get up and shove the binoculars in your pack, grabbing your gun from your ankle holster. There’s a slight shake to your hands and you do your best to still yourself. Yes, you’re dreading a night of having to think about the very real possibility of infected running around, but you’re also worried about what will happen once you return late with the supply.

Joel stares at you, his eyes trained on the line creasing between your brows. For a moment, you wonder if the look in his eyes carries any hint of concern, but he turns away before you can figure it out, going back the way you came. You trail behind him in silence. 

“I reckon they tightened up security ‘cause of the Fireflies’ bombings,” Joel grumbles, scattering broken glass near the door of the apartment that the two of you are holing up in. It seems unnecessary since you won’t be getting any sleep so you’ll be up to keep guard, but you let him do it anyway, knowing it’ll give him some peace of mind. “Y’shoulda considered that.”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back into the faded, worn armchair. He’s right and you know it; you should’ve thought of that and planned accordingly, but you took the job last minute out of desperation. Your elderly neighbor, the woman who cared for you in your teen years after your father died, is running low on pain medication, the only thing getting her through the day as arthritis riddles her withering body. You know you can’t make it all better, but you can at least try to make it bearable for her. You need to finish the job. Plain and simple.

“Probably should have,” you begrudgingly admit, looking over at Joel who is now settling on the couch, pulling his jacket off. You try not to stare at the way his denim button up barely contains his muscles and you try even harder not to think about how badly you want to sink your teeth into them. Blinking and looking away, you bite the inside of your cheek. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know.”

“No,” he says, leaning back and clasping his fingers behind his head, “but ya made a good offer.” 

It hadn’t felt great asking Joel for help earlier in the week. Actually, it was pretty fucking embarrassing considering the last time you saw him before that you were begging him to let you come and subsequently soaking his lap. You had put on a good act, though. Very nonchalant, very matter-of-fact. You needed help and Joel is good at what he does—strong, reliable, experienced. You had told yourself that going forward, anything you’d need from Joel Miller was strictly business. No more games, no more tricks to get him to fuck you. If he initiates having sex after a few drinks or a near death experience, that’s fine. That doesn’t count, or so you tell yourself.

Heat creeps across your face when you think about how his hands had gripped your throat, but that blissful memory is quickly soured by the thought of someone else’s hands around your neck when you actually make it back into the QZ. 

“If we even get our end of the deal,” you sigh, picking at the frayed edge of the armchair, “because Wade is going to wring my fucking neck for being late.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” you let out a dry laugh that’s more akin to a scoff, “because Wade’s known for being super understanding and patient.”

Joel shakes his head, glancing over at you. “I’ll break his jaw if he tries anything. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you.”

Your brows pull together as you look over at him, lips parted as confusion and lust simmer in your belly. Joel has saved your ass plenty of times on jobs and you’ve done the same for him, but this…this comment felt different, it felt protective. 

“Are you flirting with me, Miller?”

Jaw shifting slightly, Joel exhales in amusement. “Jesus, fuck…no. You’re just more useful to me alive.”

That earns a smile from you. Pulling any reaction laced with annoyance from Joel is always satisfying to you and, for some reason, also always turns you on. In the soft glow of the lamp, Joel’s hardened features appear softer. You follow the curve of his nose with your eyes, sweeping your gaze across his jaw. He looks damn good and for a second, you forget about the beating you’ll probably endure in the coming days. Something to take your mind off of it. That’s what you need.

“And how can I be useful, Joel?” you lilt, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

Dark eyes flicker over to meet yours and you feel your stomach flutter, pure want bubbling within you. The pause, the silence, seems to stretch on forever as you wait for him to take the bait. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he says, “Now who’s flirting? Y’could keep quiet and watch guard so I can get some shut eye. Been a long day, gonna be a longer night ya keep runnin’ your mouth.”

Either he’s actually tired enough to reject you or he’s playing hard to get. You figure it’s the latter. Joel always likes to hear you beg for it, but you’re not nearly desperate enough to give him that. Not yet, anyway. 

“I’m sure we could figure out a way to pass the time,” you purr. 

“That right?” he asks, completely unamused. 

“Mhm, but I’ll give you a second to think about it. You know, really consider your options,” you reply with a small nod. Reaching forward, you grab a flask from your pack. “In the meantime”—you extend the container to him—“have a drink.”

Joel scoffs, but accepts your offer. “You tryna get me drunk to get in my pants?”

“I don’t have to get you drunk to get you to fuck me, Joel.”

“No, just need to piss me the fuck off.”

“Am I doing a good job?” you ask, biting back a smile.

Joel huffs and takes a generous swig from the flask without even so much as a grimace, shooting you an annoyed look before passing the flask back to you. Nodding, he mumbles, “Still talkin’, so yeah…a real good job, sweetheart.”

Taking a sip, your eyes never leave his. The bootleg whiskey burns going down and you nearly recoil, doing everything you can so it doesn’t come back up. As it pools in your belly, that delicious warm feeling washes over you.

“Christ, this shit could blind someone,” you choke out, shaking your head and taking another gag-worthy gulp. “Did it taste this awful before the outbreak?”

“You gonna ask me?” 

“I just did,” you say, furrowing your brow. 

Joel snags the flask from your hands and takes a sip. You shamelessly watch the way his Adam's apple bobs, your face getting hot with arousal or maybe it’s the effect of the painfully potent alcohol. That’s the thing about drinking with Joel, feelings all start to blend together—anger, annoyance, arousal. That cocktail is what’s truly intoxicating. 

Throwing one hand up before it comes to rest on his knee, he leans forward and you can hear his hips crack with the movement. “No, are ya going to quit wasting our time and ask me to fuck you?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly. “Ya know, since you seem t’need it so bad.”

Your mouth is slightly agape and your eyes flicker away, trying to focus on anything except your embarrassment and his dark eyes. With a sharp inhale, you shift in your seat. 

“I don’t need anything from you,” you mumble. A blatant lie. You both know this.

Joel laughs at you. He fucking laughs and you think about throwing the lantern at him, but you’re also enraptured by the sound. Even if he’s mocking you, even if it’s cruel, it carries through the air in a way that has you clenching your thighs to quell the feeling between your legs.

“Maybe I need to shove my cock in that mouth a’yours,” he states matter-of-factly. Your stomach burns at the thought that Joel might want you as bad as you want him. “Shut ya up so I can get some damn sleep,” he finishes. 

Okay, maybe not, you think and try to swallow the feeling of disappointment that’s lodged in your throat. You can’t face him, your eyes glued to the light in front of you. It’s hard to pinpoint when it shifted—when alcohol induced late night fucks turned into this. This need to have Joel when sober, when you just want touch, even if it's one-sided. Even if it's just something that you can disguise as connection.

You must’ve been quiet for too long because Joel breaks the silence by saying, “Will that work? Trade a dick in your mouth for some peace and quiet?” 

A transaction. You can tell yourself that it’s a transaction. Nothing more. A better distraction than alcohol. But also…the alcohol. Drinks are involved. You’re not breaking any of the arbitrary rules you made up in your head.

Finally, your eyes meet his. You blink away any hint of contemplation that might be lingering on your face.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” you say softly, nearly just a whisper. 

Joel seems to accept this with a low sound from the back of his throat, passing you the flask and standing up. The flask has about a third left, and you down it in one go. The clink of his belt cuts through the room and anticipation bubbles low in your stomach. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. You watch him through hooded eyes as he pulls his leather belt from the loops on his jeans swiftly, letting it drop to the floor.

Taking a step toward you, Joel grazes your lower lip with his calloused thumb and you feel your breath catch in your throat. It’s gentle, soft, but only for a moment. His hand grips your chin, looking down at you.

“Open,” he commands. 

You hesitate, clenching your jaw and your thighs together at the same time. Joel looks so big looming above you, his shoulders broad and still covered by his t-shirt, and you think about ripping it off of him so you can drag your nails down his chest. For a second, you forget that he asked you to do something.

“I said,” he growls and shakes your head so you have no choice but to look up at him, “open.” 

Your lips part slightly and you feel your arousal begin to wet your underwear as his bulge hardens under his jeans. 

“More,” he demands, but doesn’t really give you a chance to open wider on your own. He hooks his thumb in your mouth and pries it open. Leaning forward, Joel spits into your expecting mouth and it pools on your tongue. He nods in approval, something dark brewing behind his eyes. “Good girl. Now, get on your knees and hold it.” 

It takes a certain level of caution to get down without his spit sloshing out of your mouth or going down your throat, but you manage, sinking to your knees on the filthy hardwood. At some point, this was probably a nice apartment. The furniture in the living room matches almost too well, but you can tell it was well made. After all, it’s held up pretty well considering the world ended. You imagine what it would be like to be sitting in the kitchen when Joel comes home from work, bending you over the marble counter and railing you. Get a fucking grip, you think. 

At some point during your domestic daydream, Joel took his shirt off and pulled his pants and boxers down just enough to expose his hard length. Even if you had accidentally swallowed his spit, you doubt he’d notice considering you’re salivating at the sight of him. He strokes himself once, exposing the red head of his dick and the pre-cum beading from his slit. 

“Christ, baby,” he laughs, “ya look so fuckin’ dumb sittin’ there with your mouth open like that.” 

Heat spreads across your face and a small whine escapes your throat, doing your best not to lose his spit. You know you look stupid, you never doubted that. Only he could get you in a position like this and you, honestly, kind of hate him for it.

“Y’let all the boys see ya like this? All cock drunk and stupid?” he mocks you from above, grabbing your cheeks with his thumb and pointer finger. His grip almost makes his spit dribble out of your mouth. “Or am I just that fuckin’ special?” 

Before you even get the chance to process what he’s said, Joel’s threading his fingers in your hair and his cock slams into your waiting, wet mouth. The head of his dick punches the back of your throat and you gag. Tears form in your eyes in an instant. He pulls out suddenly and a string of spit connects his cock to your lips. 

“God—fuck you, Joel,” you hiss, trying to catch your breath and blinking away your tears.

“Don’t you worry now. We’ll get there, sweetheart,” he lets out a small laugh. You ignore the wetness between your legs and the thought of Joel giving you more than just his cock down your throat. “Take this off. Show me those pretty tits.”

Fingers finding the hem of your shirt, you take it off slowly so as to not give Joel any further indication of how badly you want him. Not that it makes a difference—you know your eyes give you away, pupils blown and lustful. Your nipples harden in the drafty apartment. He wets his bottom lip and palms his cock. It drives you fucking insane.

So you decide…fuck it. He already knows you want him and he absolutely knows what he’s doing to you. What game are you trying to win? 

You peer up at Joel and give him a coy yet lascivious smile as you give one of your nipples a slight tug, letting out a breathy moan. Joel’s jaw goes slack and he shakes his head, dropping his cock to grab your wrist and replacing his hand with yours. You grip the base of his shaft firmly and lick a long stripe along the vein that runs up the underside of it, eliciting a groan from somewhere deep in his chest. Holding back a smile, you take the tip into your mouth, the taste of his heady pre-cum makes your clit throb. Joel’s hand comes up to cradle your jaw as you swirl your tongue around the head of his dick. The contrast between this moment and the way he made you choke on his cock just a few minutes ago is stark, and frankly, confusing. You try not to think about it too much, try to just enjoy the moment.

As you begin to bob your head and take more of his length in your mouth, your hand moving in tandem, Joel moans your fucking name. Looking up at him from behind your lashes, you have to, again, stop yourself from smiling. You can’t remember the last time you heard Joel say your name outside of barking orders at you on a run and his low, gravelly voice shoots straight to your core.

A sharp smack to your cheek brings you back to reality. You must have stopped moving altogether because Joel grumbles, “Didn’t tell ya to stop. Keep goin’.”

If he’d given you the chance, you would’ve kept going, but the hand cupping your jaw moves to the back of your head and tangles tightly in your hair. Joel begins to rock his hips in a steady motion, enough to pull any and all control from you, but not enough to gag you like before. 

You find yourself fisting his jeans to ground yourself, hanging onto a thread of control. Truth is though, you love when Joel is in control, when you don’t have to think about anything except feeling him. It’s safe, letting Joel do whatever he pleases with you. Sure, he’s an asshole, but he’s never gone too far. Never really crossed any lines. You haven’t ever set any clear boundaries with him and that’s the thing, Joel just knows. 

His thrusts become sloppy, his hold on your hair tightens, and his groans fill the room. You can feel his impending orgasm, and you begin to move your hips ever so slightly as not to draw attention to yourself, but also, you fucking need some relief. If being turned on could kill you, you’d be dead. 

“Fuck,” Joel hisses through grit teeth. 

You do your best to hum in approval as he fucks your mouth, like you’re begging him to come down your throat, but he stops and tugs you away by your hair. Spit dribbles out of your mouth as you look up at him, trying not to wince from the sting of your hair being pulled. When his eyes meet yours, you can’t help but smile. Joel looks fucked out, absolutely wrecked just from your mouth, and you fucking love it.

He pulls you up to your feet by your hair and you realize then how much your knees hurt from kneeling on the hardwood. You know you’ll feel it tomorrow, a reminder of Joel. Letting go of your hair, Joel’s large palm cups your breast, rubbing circles with his thumb before squeezing hard. His other hand is on your waist, kneading the flesh. You lean into his touch, pressing your bare chest against his. 

“Joel,” you whisper, looking up at him with shameless desire. The pout of his lips looks delicious and you want nothing more than to kiss him. 

Furrowing his brows, he nods and spins you around, bending you over the armrest of the worn chair. You yank a throw pillow toward you, resting your elbows on it so that you can prop yourself up a bit. It smells like mildew and has some questionable stains on it, but you try to focus on the smell of Joel—sweat and cedar. Joel reaches around you, his fingers move deftly to unbutton your pants, sliding them down so they pool at your ankles.

“I know, darlin’,” he coos, although it’s laced with condescension. Joel spreads your folds with his thumbs, taking in the way your pussy glistens in the soft light of the lamp. “Saw you rockin’ back and forth…real fuckin’ pathetic.” 

“You know what, Joel? I think you want this as badly as I do.”

The sound of his hand coming down on your ass registers before the sting. A small yelp escapes from your lips and you choke back the moan that threatens to follow it. With a smile toying on your lips, you look back at him and you spread your legs further apart. 

Joel scoffs and shakes his head, sporting a twisted smirk that doesn’t meet his dark eyes. 

“Oh, I want it baby,”—he spits on the tight ring of muscle and watches it drip down to your already soaking pussy—”but you…you fuckin’ need it.” 

With that, Joel bottoms out inside of you, his hips flush with your ass. Your moan is obscene as he catches you off guard. Sure, you’ve been wet for the last hour, but Joel didn’t stretch you out at all and he’s big. The sheer size of him burns and you fight back the urge to squirm away from him. Joel doesn’t move, though, like he’s giving you a second to adjust. Pushing your hips back into him, you clench around him as the burn melts into warm pleasure. 

“I fucking hate you,” you say, breathy and borderline whiny. 

Digging his hands into the curves of your ass, Joel drags his cock out slowly, leaving just the tip in. He lets  out a low chuckle. “Maybe, but this pussy sure doesn’t, huh? She’s a greedy little thing.” 

You begin to say something snarky, but Joel cuts you off with a sharp thrust, the head of his cock smashing into your cervix with force. A series of expletives tumble out of you as you grip onto the throw pillow in front of you. He picks up his pace, pistoning his cock in and out relentlessly. 

Between moans, you manage to get out, “Y-You were—fuck—hard just from…spitting in my m-mouth.”

“What was that, darlin’? Couldn’t hear ya over the sound of your wet cunt.”

Heat rushes to your face and you give up, succumbing to the pleasure as he hits the spot inside of you that makes your legs feel weak. If it weren’t for Joel’s hands digging into your sides, you would be completely slumped over. Joel’s grunts combined with the slapping of skin and your moans sound like music to your ears. It almost makes you forget about the way the armrest is cutting into your tummy and, in some way, it applies just the right amount of pressure. 

Joel’s pace falters and he drags his dick against your walls, drawing a shuddering breath from you. He can be gentle when he wants to be, precise and attentive to the way your body responds to him. Clenching around his length as he moves in and out of you languidly, Joel moans and leans forward to lift your hips. He reaches around, his hand grazing the hair on your mound before finding your clit. You whimper once he circles your swollen, slick clit with his index finger. 

“Goddamn, s’fucking wet for me,” he says between groans.

Joel’s touch is particularly light compared to the way his other hand squeezes the curve of your hip like you’ll float away if he lets go. You didn’t realize before how badly you needed to come or how close you were, but now, with his thick finger stroking your clit, you feel like you’re going to burst. 

With your breathing becoming ragged and your pussy squeezing the hell out of Joel, he rocks his hips faster, hitting the spongy spot in you and your vision blurs. You moan his name repeatedly as if it’s a prayer, like if you worship him enough he’ll let you come. When he pulls out of you slowly and his hand leaves you clit, your arousal leaks out, wetting your thighs. You whine at the sudden emptiness and your head drops forward, mourning the loss of the orgasm he almost drew out of you.

“C’mere,” Joel mumbles, wrapping his hand around your throat firmly to pull you up. 

Pressed against him, the sweat from his chest mingles with the sweat from your back. You realize, now that you’re close to him, how uneven his breathing is as it’s hot against your neck. Knowing that Joel is unraveling just like you are makes your chest tighten. He brushes your hair away with his free hand and nips lightly at the soft skin of your pulse point. Melting into him, you tip your head back against his shoulder.

“Joel—”

“You wanna come,” he says, cutting you off. Licking the sweat off of your neck, starting from the base of to just under your ear, Joel laughs quietly and places a featherlight kiss on your jaw. “You gonna soak my cock like last time, baby? Tell me why I should let ya.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Joel’s hand snakes down the front of you, pulling at your nipple before landing on your clit. You turn to bury your face in his neck, moaning softly when he draws lazy circles on your swollen bud. 

“Fuck, Joel…I-I’ve been—fuck…” 

“I-I-I—what? Spit it out,” he teases, voice low, lips pressing to the shell of your ear. 

You want to punch him in the face for being such a prick, but you also can’t deny how wet you get from his taunting. It’s humiliating and you fucking love it. His fingers are still working your clit with practiced ease and you can feel your climax building in the lower part of your tummy.

“God, fuck—I-I’ve been good, J-Joel,” you choke out between gasps and moans. 

He laughs cruelly, tightening his grip on your throat. The restriction only increases your pleasure, pushing you closer to the edge. Your brows furrow and you bite down on your lip to hold back your moans, drawing blood, hoping that he won’t realize how close you are. Maybe you can come without him noticing. It’s futile, though—Joel knows your body, the way you tense up before you let go.

Joel’s hand leaves your clit to notch himself at your entrance, your breath hitching in anticipation. You wiggle in an attempt to push him into your pussy, desperate to feel him fill you again. The way Joel fits inside you is perfect, like you were tailored especially for him. Just thinking about it, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, makes you wet. There’s been an occasion, okay…maybe two, where you’ve had to find somewhere private to touch yourself after the feeling of him merely crosses your mind. 

“Good, huh? Ain’t sure about that,” he whispers in your ear. Finally, he pushes into you, coming to a hilt but staying completely still. Your moan comes out mangled as he still has your throat in a vice grip. “Been real mouthy tonight.” 

Loosening his grip, Joel grabs your jaw and forces you to look at him. You’re taken aback by how fucked he looks. Curls falling onto his forehead, wet with his sweat. Pupils wide and eyes dark. Lips parted. Veins prominent in his neck as he strains. He’s beautiful and you’re awestruck. 

Breath hot on your face, he leans in, his lips nearly touching yours. Joel’s voice is low, almost threatening, when he says, “Tell me you’re sorry.”

“What?” you ask, but your voice is barely audible. 

Joel smacks your clit, shooting pleasure to your core and you whine. “If ya tell me you’re sorry,” he says, striking your sensitive cunt again, “I’ll let you come.”

“Fuck, okay. Fine.” You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

Another slap from Joel. Another moan from you.

“That the best you can do? C’mon, sweetheart. Like you mean it.”  

Moving his hand to your hair, he takes a fistful and makes sure you’re looking at him. The whole time, his cock is buried deep in you, but he’s devastatingly still.

Sighing, you look at him with the most pathetic pout on your face. Your face is hot and you can’t believe you’re apologizing to Joel Miller while his cock is inside you. But fuck, you want it. Bad. Bad enough to beg. Bad enough to say you’re sorry when you’re most certainly not.

“Joel,” you whisper, “please. Please just—let me come. I-I’m sorry, I promise. Please.” 

“Good girl,” he hums, letting go of your hair and beginning to thrust into you. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.” 

Setting a punishing pace, Joel fucks into you and rubs your clit in earnest now. Your wanton moans fill the room and before you know it, tears are welling in your eyes as you approach your release. The orgasm you literally begged for. Joel’s smirking behind you, beyond pleased with himself. He steadies you with a hand, kneading the soft flesh of your hip, because he knows that any second now you’re going to go limp. 

“That’s it, baby,” he groans in your ear before peppering light kisses on your neck. Your head falls forward as you desperately grip his forearm for more support. “Let go f’me. God—so fuckin’ pretty when you’re comin’ for me.”

The syrupy drawl, pressure on your clit, and the relentless pounding into your weeping cunt sends you over the edge. With your eyes closed and your face buried in Joel’s neck, you clench around his cock and sweet bliss courses through your body. Fucking you through your climax, Joel’s strong arms are the only thing tethering you to reality, holding your entire frame upright, and it’s impossible to tell if your cries are from pleasure or pure overstimulation.

Humming in your ear, Joel kisses your temple before pulling out of your used cunt and spinning you around. You’re boneless at this point, completely at his whim. Your ass rests on the side of the armchair and his hand meets the small of your back, holding you to him. 

“Did so good, sugar,” Joel mumbles into your neck before leaving a trail of kisses, landing on your collarbone and sucking lightly on the skin there. “Ready f’me to fill ya up?”

He notches his cock at your entrance, pushing in hard and fast. You put your arms around Joel’s neck, still letting him hold most of your weight. At this point, you’re overwhelmed with the sensation of his thrusts, sensitive from your orgasm, but you don’t want it to stop. You could handle Joel inside of you forever, as long as he’s touching you. As long as you don’t have to think.

“You come in all the girls…or am I just that fucking special?” you say, recalling the way he fucked with you earlier. Resting your forehead against his, you bite your lower lip and hold his gaze, finally regaining some sense. 

Joel’s hips rock into you forcefully as he chases his release. With a scoff, he pulls his face away from yours and wraps his fingers around your throat. The hold he has on you is loose, but you’re very aware that it could all change in an instant. You’d be okay with it, you think. Whenever he constricts your breathing, you get to stop thinking for a second. It all melts away. But this…this light touch is unsettling, taunting.

“You’re—fuck…” he curses, “…nothing…you’re nothing to me. Basically a damn pocket pussy.”

He’s bullshit. You know it and you think, deep down, he knows it, too. You bite your bottom lip to stifle your laughter until you break skin, sweet metallic melting onto your tongue. 

“I’m nothing, huh? Then it wouldn’t mean anything if you kissed me right now?”

“Nice try, darlin’,” he says, fucking into you erratically now, your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts. “Don’t ya remember our rules? Or did I really fuck your brains out?”

Honestly, Joel does fuck you until you’re senseless. It takes everything in you to think of something to say back to him when he’s got you like this, but getting him worked up means he’ll fuck you harder, faster. When he’s being callous, he fucks you just right. 

Now, the way he pounds into you is too much. While you regained composure for a second there, it’s all lost. You’re mewling in his ear, doing nothing but proving his point and he knows it. Joel’s hand moves from your lower back to your hip, squeezing ruthlessly, ensuring that you’ll feel it tomorrow. His grip tightens on your throat, stealing your breath away entirely and your moans fade. Silent cries try to escape from your open mouth. 

Lips nearly brushing yours, he growls, “S’what I thought, baby. Really did fuck you stupid, huh?” 

You don’t get a second to even think of a response before Joel’s eyes squeeze shut and he groans as he fills you up, his warm release fills your exhausted, spent cunt. During his come down, his hand drops from your throat and cups your breast like he needs to hold onto you to ground himself. You do your best to catch your breath, but you’re panting. 

“Fuck,” he moans as he slows, cock nuzzling deep inside of you. 

The two of you sit like that for a moment—foreheads pressing together, sweat clinging to bare skin, raggedly breathing in time with each other. You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, to remember where you are and why you’re there, and you do your best to stay in the haze for as long as possible.

Eventually, Joel pulls away and helps you up. Both of you are still partially dressed, pants bunched at your ankles, and you smile softly to yourself at how ridiculous it all is. You’re both stuck in a dilapidated apartment in the open city all because of your shit planning, and there he is…Joel Miller with his pants down. Men think with their dicks, sure, but you still feel like it’s an accomplishment.  

It’s silent as the two of you get dressed, completely avoiding eye contact with each other. It’s the first time that you’ll ever be forced to spend the night together after fucking. It’s not like it means anything. No, it’s out of necessity. You’re literally stuck together, but there’s something about it that makes your stomach turn. You wonder if Joel is feeling the same way. If he is, he doesn’t show it at all. 

Once you’re completely dressed, you sit on the couch and curl your legs underneath you. Your panties are wet from Joel’s cum slowly dripping out of you, but you’re content and, frankly, fucking exhausted. You can only imagine how tired he is from standing up and fucking you the whole time. Joel sits next to you and sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Y’should get some sleep,” he grumbles, settling more into the couch.

“I thought the whole point of that was—”

“Just shut your damn eyes.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, but you chew the inside of your lip in an attempt to wipe it off of your face. Your head rests on the back of the couch and within minutes, your eyelids are heavy. At some point, you drift off.

When you wake up, you feel denim against your cheek and an arm draped over your shoulder. You keep your eyes shut, hoping that if you don’t stir, nothing has to change.

[gothicmisty]

Misty ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ 28 𔘓 she/her ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

╰┈➤ about me: i'm misty, some people call me bunnie, a goth girl from the south just tryin' to find a place in this world. i love video games, tattoos, any sort of music. i have fictional crushes on men old enough to be my dad. i read a lot, write a lot. i've been a writer for a long time, mostly for stranger things. this year, i told myself i'd branch out and decided to write for the last of us. I have two ao3 accounts: ao3

if you like my writing, please consider rebloggin' or likin'.

LAST OF US: too sweet - sugardaddy! joel x f!reader tumblr|ao3

[gothicmisty]

Joel Miller 28/??

[gothicmisty]

── .✦ too sweet

Chapter 2

18+ no outbreak! joel x f!reader

masterlist | ao3 previous chapter ⋆⭒˚.⋆ next chapter

── .✦ Story summary: “Joel—are you su—” “Let’s go.” A few hours ago, you were sitting in a freezing police station with no phone, no money, and a record waiting to happen. Then Joel Miller—your daddy's long time friend—walked in, spoke six words to the cop, and took you home like you already belonged to him. Now you’re in his house. Wearing his shirts. Sleeping in his spare room. He buys you a brand new phone, stocks the fridge with things he knows you like, leaves cash on the counter like it’s nothing. In which Joel Miller ends up being your sugar daddy who absolutely ruins you.

Chapter summary: the return, the bracelet, and the bath.

word count: 4.8k status: ongoing.

authors note: so, this is mostly just continued story building. the gift joel gives reader, it's one of the three really big ones he does. please remember, both are terrible at feelings. i tried to capture the longing, the guilt, the feelings in ways that aren't words. plus, i'm sorry for leaving off on a smutty cliff hanger again. the next few chapters will be leading to like a ton of angst. reader has no description, it's just for moodboard purposes. (i don't know how many chapters this going to be, i change my mind more than my clothes. but, i upped it to eight for now.)

tags: 18+, female orgasm, fingering, eating out, dbf!joel, joel miller x f!reader, lots of smut, slowburn on romance, dom joel, alternative universe - no outbreak, !light sugar daddy, sugar daddy/sugar baby, joel is bad at feelings, age gap, joel is 50s x reader is 26-27, (honestly you could make her a little older.)

chapter 2: you don't have to say it, i just want to see it.

you don't have to say it, i just want to see it, see how beautiful it can be, when you feel something for me.

Talking about feelings?

That ain’t exactly your thing.

Maybe it’s easier for you to just say it ain’t your thing. Pretend it’s not you. But really–you just never really learned how. Never had someone worth trying to learn for. 

And Joel?

Fuck, he ain’t built for that kinda talk either. He’s worse than you are. He keeps everything locked up tight. Like if he lets one word out, all the walls he’s built might come down. 

It’s been over a week. A week of, long, fuckin’ drawn-out days since you were on your knees in front of him. Since he came in your mouth and walked off like nothin’ happened. 

To make it worse? Joel’s been gone.

Left a note on the counter–

Gone. Takin’ care of some business stuff. 

He left you with his credit card.  Didn’t even say bye when he left.

You pulled up his contact more times than you could even count. Typed out messages you’d never bother to send. 

I want you. Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. 

Deleted every fuckin’ one. 

You even hovered over the camera once. Thought about sendin’ a picture. Thought about makin’ a video of you cumming for him. Moaning his name loud–just for him. 

You didn’t. But, God, you wanted to. 

You felt like you were spiralin’ and desperate as hell. 

This shouldn’t be something you’re feeling. You know that. 

This ain’t exactly the kind of thing that should be happenin’. Not with him. Not like this. 

You spent three days tellin’ yourself you’ll only want him if he wants you first. As if that lie’s gonna keep him outta of your head.

It was too late. He lives in your head now. Doesn’t leave. And it ain’t just about the blowjob. It’s the way he’s looking at you wearin’ his shirt. The feeling of his hand on your thigh like it belonged there, like you belonged to him. The way he’d sit beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat off his skin–but it also never seemed close enough.

The silence was never awkward with Joel like it was with other people. It meant something. Like there was always so much more beneath it. Just waitin’, always. 

Even the fuckin’ simple stuff–watchin’ old movies, drinkin’ beer that you didn’t even like, sittin’ quietly in the morning as you ate breakfast together.

You can’t seem to let it go.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you sigh, eyes tracing the lines on the ceiling. 

This room still isn’t yours. Not really. Tall, plain walls. Nothin’ on ‘em. Nothing that feels like it belongs to you. Most of your clothes still don’t even feel like yours yet.

Joel gave you his credit card and told you to go shopping. He just did it.

And this black nightie you’ve got on? Yeah. He bought that too. 

It was late, you’d been layin’ there for an hour, possibly more. Starin’ at the ceiling, thumb hoverin’ over his contact once more, like you just can’t help yourself.

And then–you heard the door. Footsteps on the stairs. His shadow passing by your door. Maybe tonight…maybe you could get something out of him. More than just, “Not now, darlin’.”

You ease your door open, steppin’ out slow, walking to his room. there he is–Joel. 

Standing in the bathroom of his bedroom, shoulders hunched, back to you. The overhead light flickerin’ a little bit. You lean against the door, arms crossed. 

“Hey,” you say, voice low, testing the waters.

He doesn’t say anything. Just unzips his bag, starts pullin’ things out one by one. Toothbrush, deodorant, his extra clothes. It says more than his silence, like he knew you’d show up. But he just didn’t know what to say when you did. 

“Didn’t know you were home,” you mutter, watching him close.

Joel doesn’t look at you, just looks down at the sink. You try again. “How was your trip?’ 

He shakes his head.

“Stayed in some cheap-ass motel,” he murmurs. “Sheets smelled like mildew. Tommy fuckin’ snored like a fuckin’ freight train all night, keepin–” 

 He turns and stops. His eyes drag down your body slowly, that black lace nightie, those thin straps, the way the slit rides high up your thighs. 

The left strap has slipped off your shoulder a bit. You think ‘bout fixin’ it. You don’t. 

You watch him–watch the way his jaw works, the way he swallows hard like he’s tryin’ not to say what’s going on in his head right now. 

“Jesus Christ.” he whispers under his breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out-loud. 

Didn’t mean for you to hear it.

Then he clears his throat, “Forget ‘bout it.” 

There is silence after. One of those long ones that he was so perfect at.

You can see it–him fightin’ whatever’s goin’ on in his head. He licks his lips. Looks down. Doesn’t say a word.

You step in closer, hand finding his arm–just enough to lightly touch him. God, this is the closest you’ve been to him in over a week.

“Did ya end up gettin’ that new job lined up?” you ask, keeping your voice low. 

“Mmhm,” Joel mutters, noddin’ just once. “We got it.” 

You rub his arm slow, slow. He looks at you, that look that sticks–full of what he won’t let himself say.

“Y’know—” 

“Got ya somethin’.” 

You both say at the same time. Then you blink, head tiltin’ a little.

“Ya got me somethin’?” you question, quieter now. “Ya went off on some business trip and came back with...somethin’ for me?” 

Joel just lifts his hand–fingers under your chin, gently tilting you up to look at him. Right in those eyes that already had you ready to melt.

“S’waitin’ for you in the kitchen. Tomorrow mornin’.” 

“You didn’t have to—”

His fingers press soft against your lips before you can even finish. Not rough. Not sharp. Just done hearin’ you argue back. 

Your breath catches. You should say somethin’. Do somethin’. But all you can do is look at him. And for a second, that’s all you want–to stay in this moment. Right in it with him. 

“I need sleep, sweetheart,” Joel mutters. “Been drivin’ most of the damn night.” 

You lift a brow, mouth pullin’ into a huge smile. 

“This you kickin’ me outta your room?” 

There is a small smile on his lips, one maybe he doesn’t even know he has.

“For tonight,” he says. “Yeah.”

You stand there for a second longer, eyes on him. Hand squeezin’ his arm once, like maybe that’s all you can say without sayin’ it. Then you turn, leavin’ him in the bathroom. 

But his voice catches you. 

“Darlin’.”

You glance back, he’s lookin’ at you. “All that lace…” Joel’s voice is low. “You–you look so fuckin’ pretty in it.” 

“Joel,” you say, softly.

He lifts a brow, waiting. 

“I missed you,” you murmur. “When you were gone.” 

“Yeah?”

“Still thinkin’ about the way you sounded…that night on the couch.” 

Joel doesn’t say a word. Just watches you. You turn, headin’ back to your room. Heart feeling like it was going to leap out of your chest. 

Ain’t exactly a heart-to-heart. But you told him you missed him. And that’s more than either of you’s managed in days.

First thing that woke you was the sunlight. 

It came right through those thin-ass curtains and landed straight on your face. Blinding and no real way to sleep through it. 

The second thing? Some asshole’s truck. 

Loud as hell, sputterin’ through the neighborhood like it was tryin’ to wake the entire block.

You’d think you’d be used to it by now–grew up in the same shitty suburbs of Texas. Same irritating noises almost every morning.

You open the bedroom door–it’s quiet. Too quiet. You slip in his bathroom. The one you’ve ended up sharin’. Not officially, not out loud really. But it’s his, and you’re in it more than the one next to Sarah’s room. He leaves things for you sometimes. Little stuff. A clean towel for you to shower. 

Sometimes he steals your lotion. Never admits it.

By the time you make it down the stairs, you figure he’s already gone. He’s almost always gone by now. But you hear it. Low clang of metal. Truck is out front. Which means…he must be workin’ on somethin’. 

You ease the door open just enough to peek through. He’s out there–head down, sleeves pushed up, workin’ like he always does. Joel’s always been good with his hands. Always fixin’ somethin’. Back when Sarah was little, he’d build her the cutest things. Once he built her an entire swing set, she was so excited to tell the whole neighborhood. Another time he built her a dollhouse, when her other one broke Never made a huge deal out of it. Just did it. 

You lean in a little too much, tryin’ to watch him without bein’ caught. The door lets out a squeak. 

Fuck. 

He turns at the sound and looks your way. 

“Figured you’d still be passed out,” he teases. “Ain’t exactly know for bein’ up with the sun, sunshine.” 

You shrug, lips curvin’ into a little smile.

Sunshine. 

“Got work,” you reply. “Don’t you?” 

Joel just shakes his head. “Took the mornin’,” he says. “Wanted to talk to Sarah. Time’s all fucked up with her bein’ over there.”  London. She was a smart girl, got a full scholarship. 

There was a strange part of you that was jealous, you’d never even traveled away from Texas before. She was across the world learning, livin’ a full life outside of Texas. 

“Bet that’s hard,” you murmur. “I know you miss her.” 

“She got some boyfriend now,” Joel mutters. “Real…irritatin’. Talks like he’s got a damn encyclopedia crammed up his ass.”

He pauses, crossing his arms. 

“Keeps callin’ me Mr. Miller, too. Over fuckin’ video. Like he’s scared of me or somethin’.” 

You can’t help it–you laugh. It’s a bit louder than you wanted it to be.

The image of that nervous british kid from Sarah’s instagram callin’ Joel–Mr.Miller. While Joel just sits there starin’ at the screen wanting him to go away. It’s way funnier in your head, though.

“Next time you talk to her,” you say, “Tell her I said hey…It’s been a while. I forget she’s a college student sometimes.” 

Joel’s quiet for a second. 

“Yeah. I do too.”

Joel pulls off his gloves slowly, sets ‘em down on the workbench. Then he stands, wiping his hands with a rag. “Close your eyes.” “Okay, Mr. Miller,” you tease. 

“Don’t start.”

The way he said it was so soft, so steady. Like he already knew you were going to listen to him. You hear the door shut behind you and open back up. Then the scrape of a chair bein’ dragged out. 

“Can I look?” 

He puts his hand on your back, guiding you over. 

“Sit,” he says, “Go on. Open ‘em.”

You do. Eyes falling onto two blue boxes–each one tired with a white bow. It’s too much. You feel it already. You wanna argue, wanna say he shouldn’t’ve. 

You untie the bows–Tiffany’s logo under it. Spelled out clearly under the ribbon. 

He drove an hour away for business–maybe more—outta town. Walked into some place with fancy fuckin’ glass cases and strange music and walked out with something for you. 

Not because you asked. Not because he had to. 

Just…because. 

You open the first box. Inside’s a bracelet, thin, little white diamonds shaped like pansies, glintin’ in the light. By the clasp, there’s a charm. One side’s got your initials, carved clean. You turn it over with your thumb. 

From, JM.

It ain’t the kind of thing you’d ever buy yourself. Hell, it ain’t the kind of thing anyone’s ever bought for you. But it’s beautiful. God, it’s so beautiful. 

“Joel–I—,” you start. 

“Didn’t know if ya’d like it,” Joel says.

He doesn’t say anything else, just reaches over and nudges the second box toward you. You unwrap it. Inside it–diamond earrings. Tiny pansies, same as the bracelet. Set in silver. Just enough for it to make your heart ache. 

“They match,” you whisper.

“Yeah.” 

“You picked ‘em?” you ask, real soft. 

Joel just reaches in the box, pulls out the bracelet.

 Takes your wrist, fits it around you gently, adjust the clasp so it lays just right. He rubs his thumb across the top of your hand after. Slow.  Doesn’t even look at you while he’s doin’ it. His fingers stay there longer than they should. 

“Didn’t let the sales girl pick it out,” he mutters. “S’what you’re askin’.”

You stare down at the bracelet. Stunned. It’s beautiful. Too much. 

And you don’t understand it–this–why he’s doin’ this, what he’s gettin’ out of any of it. 

“It’s…beautiful,” you murmur, your eyes still on the diamonds. 

“Saw the flowers,” he says after a minute. “Made me think of that day on the couch. That movie ya liked so much.”

The night you told him– “Told me once,” Joel says. “Said lilies and pansies were your favorite.” 

Like it was nothin’. But it wasn’t.

To you. Most people would’ve let that slip away–not remembering it, forgetting it by the next day. Not Joel. He remembered. 

You’re quiet. Don’t got the words. Not even fuckin’ close. How the hell do you thank someone for this?

Aint ever been anyone in your life who’d spend god knows how much on somethin’ just to see you happy. Joel didn’t have to let you in. Into his house. Into his life. But he did…now he’s buying you things. Spending time with you. Thinkin’ about you. 

What the hell do you even say to a man who’s giving you all of this?

He lets go on your hand, starts movin’ a few things around on the bench like nothin’ just happened. You sit there, still. Too still. Then stand, just to do somethin’. 

“I got work,” you say. “Don’t wanna be late.”

Joel doesn’t look at you when he answers. “Work too damn much,” he says. “Oughta be focusin’ on school.” 

That ain’t a conversation you’re ready to have. Not now. You don’t wanna say it out loud–but college? It’s startin’ to feel further and further away.

He just moves some stuff on the bench. 

“You don’t have to,” Joel says quietly. “I can help.” 

You wanna say somethin’, anything. Push back the same way you always do when someone tries to do too much. But you just stand there–stunned. 

“Like the bracelet,” he mutters. “Ain’t a big deal, sweetheart.” 

Your mouth is open, but nothin’ wants to come out. And you hate that—how quiet you go around him sometimes. You don’t even know why it happens. You even hate how easy it feels like you can cry at the moment when all he’s done is buy you somethin’. 

“Thank you, Joel,” you murmur. 

It’s the only thing you know what to say. Words won’t come out. Because the truth is—there aren't words for this. Not for what he’s done. 

You start to back away. Joel’s putting his gloves back on, already settlin’ back into whatever he was workin’ on before you walked in. Your hand stops on the door when you stop, turning back to him. 

“Joel?” you say. “Nobody’s ever done somethin’ like this for me.” 

He doesn’t look your way. “Yeah. I know.”

a week later

Calls from your mama don’t come often. 

You can’t even remember the last time one lasted more than ten minutes. And they never end good. 

This one ended worse. She fought with you about stayin’ here. Didn’t like the idea of you stayin’ in a place she walked away from, still. Told you to come to California. Pack up, start over. Like it was just that fuckin’ easy. 

Like leavin’ was the same thing as fixin’. 

“You’re takin’ up space in someone’s life who don’t want you there.” 

Her words. Cold and cruel. 

But they stick. They always do. 

You’ve fought that thought more times than you can even count. That Joel’s just…doin’ this outta guilt. Outta habit. 

Maybe he really don’t want you here. 

He’s bought you a bracelet, earrings, a phone, clothes you didn’t ask for, fixed that necklace when it broke, like it was nothin’. And it’s a strange feeling–someone takin’ care of you like this. Not wanting anythin’ back. It’s a lot. Too much, somedays. 

You just need a minute to breathe. 

So you go upstairs. To his bathroom. The master one–the one he still lets you use like it’s nothin’. And now? Your stuff is everywhere. Hair ties, makeup scattered on your side of the sink. Some of it is new. Some of it barely touched. 

He aint said a word about it, not yet, anyway. 

You crunch down, open the cabinet under the sink. Find a bottle of lavender bubble bath–probably Sarah’s from before she left. 

You’ll replace it before Sarah comes home. Make a note of it, mentally. 

The tub’s old–deep enough, porcelain. Hasn’t been updated since he bought the house. Joel’s not one to fix what ain’t broken. You twist the faucet all the way. Let the water run hot–too hot, really. 

The steam fills up the bathroom fast, fogging up the mirror. Lavender fills the air. You start undressin’, slow. One piece at a time, lettin’ each layer fall into a small pile on the floor. 

You step into the tub. Water scaldin–just how you like it. You sink in til the bubbles are at your shoulders. 

Then you hear it. Boots. Heavy on the floorboards, walkin’ down the hall. Joel. 

You’ve learned the sound now, could pick it out in a huge crowd of people. 

You close your eyes. The door creaks open, you don’t flinch. Don’t move to cover yourself up, just breathe. Joel leans against the door frame, arms crossed. When you open your eyes, his are already on you.

Doesn’t move. Just looks. 

His eyes drag from your face, down the slope of your neck, to where your chest rises just above the bubbles. Then lower, to where your legs stretch beneath the water. 

The bubbles hide enough, but not everything. 

“Hot enough in here for you, sweetheart?” he drawls, low. 

You look up at him. “Not quite,” you reply. “Come sit. Please.” 

You don’t know if it was the please or if he’d already made up his mind. But he steps in. Closes the door behind him–keeps the heat in. Then he sinks down beside the tub, slow, wincin’ a bit before resting on his knees. He just looks at you and you give him the smallest smile. 

“How was Tommy’s?” 

Joel shrugs, his eyes on the water. 

“Same old shit,” he mutters. “S’nothin’ worth talkin’ about.” 

Then, quietly– “What’s got you wound up?” 

You’re surprised he can tell. But you shouldn’t be. You’ve been here for over two months. Seen each other nearly every damn day. He notices things, even the small things.  You don’t know why you hesitate–but your eyes drop toward the edge of the tub. Fingers trail through the water.

“It’s nothin’,” you say. 

And it’s a lie. 

“Ya don’t gotta tell me,” Joel says. “Not if ya ain’t ready.” 

That was the thing about him. He doesn’t push, don’t pry. Just waits. Quiet. Patient. And somehow, that’s so much worse. ‘Cause it makes you wanna talk. Makes you wanna spill things you’ve kept to yourself for so long. Say shit you probably shouldn’t. 

“My mama called.” 

Your eyes stay on the water. Joel doesn’t say nothin’. Just sit there, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. Like you ain’t sittin’ naked in his tub. Like there ain’t a hundred different things hangin’ between you two. 

He rolls up his sleeves, slowly. Like he’s got nowhere else to be. Then his hand dips into the water. 

He doesn’t press. Just waits. Let’s you talk when you’re ready. 

“She, uh…she wants me to come out to California,” you say. “Says I’m wastin’ my time here.” 

He still doesn’t say anythin’. His hands finds your ankle–wraps around it. Slides his hand up slowly over your calf, then down again. Same pressure. Same drag. 

“Feel good?” he asks. 

You just nod.  Can’t speak.  He’s tryin’ to help you relax. 

His thumb presses in deeper. Slow circles, right against the muscle. He shifts–just a little. Closer to the tub. Legs stretched out, elbow restin’ on the edge now. “She say anythin’ else?” 

“No,” you say. “But…y’know maybe she’s right.” 

Joel’s hand don’t stop. Just keeps movin’. The water shifts with him. Bubbles break up around his knuckles. His fingers slide higher–settle just under your knee. “I’ve just…been here.”  you sigh. “Not payin’ rent. Not in school. Not doin’ much of anything.” 

You pause. 

“You’re takin’ care of me and I’m…I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’.” 

Joel leans in a little more. Sleeve soaked near his elbow now. “Haven’t told you to go, have I?” 

Simple. Just like him. And he hasn’t. Not once. Not since that first day–Just til ya get settled. And he hasn’t brought it up since. 

“No,” you whisper. 

You think back to the garage. The way he told you were workin’ too damn much. “Ya don’t gotta go,” Joel says. “Not unless you’re wantin’ to.” 

It’s hard–lettin’ someone help. Hard lettin’ them stay in your life. Letting someone take care of you without feelin’ like you owe them the world back. 

Joel’s still beside the tub. Lookin’ at you like there’s somethin’ he wants to say. But he doesn’t. Just slides his hand up your thigh–slow. Then back down. Up again. Most of the bubbles are gone now, just a few left, clingin’ to the side of the tub. There is a silence between the two of you for a while. His hand on your thigh, helpin’ you relax. You forgettin’ anythin’ to do with that shitty phone call. 

He leans in, voice rough. “Stand up.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“I said–stand up, princess.” 

And that’s all it takes. You don’t ask again. Don’t think. When he says it like that—it’s like your brain shuts off. There is no room to question. No room to second guess anythin’. 

You stand up from the bath and step out. Water runnin’ down your skin, your hair wet. 

He’s looking at you. God, is he fuckin’ lookin’. But he doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t reach for a towel. Doesn’t touch you. Just sits there, lookin’ at you, wet, naked, standin’ in his bathroom. 

Not until you whisper, “Joel.” 

He stands slowly, towerin’ over you. His big hands find your hips, pullin’ you against him. You’re still drippin–water soaking the front of his jeans, his flannels soaked through where it touches your skin. 

Then he backs you up until your back hits the sink. 

Joel’s hands slide down to the back of your thighs, grippin’ firm, then he lifts you–fuckin’ effortlessly. Like you don’t weigh nothin’ at all. Sets you down on the edge of the cool counter.

The mirror behind you’s still fogged up. You don’t look at it. Just grip the edge of the sink with one hand–tight. Tryin’ to keep still. 

Joel stands between your thigh, his flannel is clinging to him. Breath ragged. Hands gripping your thighs. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “We shouldn’t keep doin’ this, darlin’.” 

You look up at him.

“Then stop.” 

“Don’t fuckin’ wanna.” 

He leans in. Not enough to kiss you–just close. His breath brushes your jaw, but his mouth never lands on yours. It drives you fuckin’ mad as his hands move along your thighs.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day,” Joel admits. “Can’t get you outta my head.” 

Your hands fist his shirt, and that low sound he makes is all it takes. He drops to his knees. 

His big hands shove your thighs open. The counter digs into the backs of them, sharp, but all you feel is his hands on you. He groans when he finally looks at you. 

“Fuckin’ drippin’,” he growls. “All this for me, princess?” 

You nod. But it’s not enough for him. 

“Use your words. Now.” 

“Yes,” you breathe. “Joel–please.”  He takes his time despite your begging. Kiss the inside of your thighs. Soft kisses, rough beard–just enough to make you feel like you’re meltin’. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Joel—”

His mouth is on you. You bite your lip hard, tryin’ not to make a sound–but honestly, it’s no use. He circles your clit slowly, then flicks it with his tongue–just right. Your whole body jerks. 

He moans against you, low, like he’s gettin’ off by it. He flattens his tongue, licks you slow. Dips down to your entrance, takes his time there like he’s savorin’ every fuckin’ drop. “Goddamn,” he groans. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”  You don’t know what’s wreckin’ you more–his mouth or his words. Maybe both. Maybe it’s the way he’s so fuckin’ into it, like he could stay between your legs forever. His tongue finds your clit again, slow at first. Then circles it with maddenin’ precision before he sucks–hard. 

“Oh–” you moan, fingers white knuckled on the counter. 

Your hips twitch, lifting up slightly. And he growls–tightens his grip on your thighs. “Stay,” he says between licks. “Fuckin’ still.”  You try. Goddamn, you try. 

But he’s eatin’ your pussy like he’s starvin’. Like he’s takin’ his time with it–long, slow strokes of his tongue, little circles on your clit that make your thighs shake. His beard is rough against your skin–scratching in the best way. You’re already panting, one hand grippin’ the counter like it’s the only thing keepin’ you upright. The other’s tangled in his hair, tight. 

You tug his hair, just a little and he groans. 

His mouth works faster now. Tongue movin’ quick, lips sealed around your slit—suckin’ just right. Your moans spill out. He groans again when you grip his hair harder. 

Your thighs start to close around his head. Reflex. Desperation. But Joel doesn’t budge. He plants one hand on your belly–holds you down firm. You can’t move. Can’t back away from it. “Fuck–Fuck—Fuck, i’m gonna—” you gasp, back archin’ off the counter. 

He doesn’t let up. His mouth stays locked on your clit. Draggin’ you to the edge like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Then–you cum. Hard. Your thighs shake, whole body tight, and the sound you make is near a cry. But Joel keeps goin’. Doesn’t flinch as your thighs clamped around his head. Eatin’ you through it like he wants the mess. 

When he finally is done, he kisses your inner thigh once. 

“One more,” he murmurs against your skin. “C’mon now….I know ya got it in ya.” 

You whine. “No–Joel, I can’t–” 

He slides two thick fingers inside you. The stretch makes you gasp, hips movin’, but god, it feels good. 

“Joel–” you whimper. “Please–” 

“Ya can take it,” he says. “Be a good girl and come for me again, baby.”  Then his mouth’s back on you. Ain’t soft this time. Ain't teasin’. 

His tongue moves in circles while his fingers pump soft and deep. Curlin’ just right, hittin’ that spot over and over like he knows exactly what you need. 

You sob. 

You can’t help it. 

His fingers move faster, fuckin’ deep into you. His mouth seals over your clit, suckin’ hard–no mercy now. Your hips buck up. Your head hits the mirror behind you with a soft thud, barely even registers. 

You’re burnin’. Floatin’. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “Joel–” 

His tongue moves faster, fingers drivin’ deep–wet, slick, filthy sounds fill the room. 

You’re soaked. Drippin’ all over his hand, his face, and when your hips roll up–grindin’ down on his mouth like you need it. 

He fuckin’ growls, like he likes how desperate you are for him. 

He sucks hard on your clit. And you cum hard. Your hands clamp down on the counter, whole body lockin’ up. Joel just keeps lickin’ you through it, slow and steady. Fingers still deep, still curlin-draggin’ it out until your thighs are twitching and you’re tryin’ to pull away. 

It’s too much. You’re too sensitive. 

“No–no,” you gasp. “No more. Please.” 

He finally looks up at you. He eases his fingers out, gently, and presses a kiss to your thigh. His beards wet, covered in you. He stands, slow, bringin’ them same fingers to his mouth–sucks ‘em clean without lookin’ away. 

You’re still in another world when he lifts you off the counter. Your legs give out, and you fall straight into him.

“Easy,” he mutters, arm firm around your waist. He keeps you upright while your legs remember how to work. You lean into him–still tryin’ to calm down. He kisses your shoulder once–gently. 

“C’mon. Get dressed, darlin’.” 

He pauses. 

“You’re stayin’.”

You’re still catchin’ your breath. Don’t even hear what he just said. Standin’ there–naked, knees weak, while he opens the door and walks out of the bathroom. Like he didn’t just make you come on the bathroom sink. 

It’s the second time he’s left like you like this–so fuckin’ turned on you don’t know what to do.

tag list: (please comment if you wanna be added.) @chompwoman , @datgirl-audrey , @mewantpeepaw , @whisperingcherub , @ilovetoomanymen , @cliffs-of-insanity-climber , @stormseyer , @ivoryandflame , @javierpenaismyhusband, @mewantpeepaw , @thischarmingmandalorian , @vixorell

[gothicmisty]

Your writing is CHEFS KISS... <3 omg.. I'm sat

omg thank you so much!!!

this is my first fic for tlou fandom. i'm planning on updating tomorrow or the day after 💕

[gothicmisty]

me reading a smut fic trying to figure out what position they’re in

[gothicmisty]

PEDRO PASCAL as JOEL MILLER The Last of Us, Season 2 Episode 1: Future Days

[gothicmisty]

── .✦ too sweet masterlist * ao3 ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆(no outbreak!joel x f!reader)

── .✦ story summary: “Joel—are you su—” “Let’s go.” A few hours ago, you were sitting in a freezing police station with no phone, no money, and a record waiting to happen. Then Joel Miller—your daddy's long time friend—walked in, spoke six words to the cop, and took you home like you already belonged to him. Now you’re in his house. Wearing his shirts. Sleeping in his spare room. He buys you a brand new phone, stocks the fridge with things he knows you like, leaves cash on the counter like it’s nothing. In which Joel Miller ends up being your sugar daddy who absolutely ruins you.

── .✦ warnings: 18+, age gap, possessiveness, some angst, !light sugar daddy, lots of smut, oral(both m and f), p/v sex, creampies, breeding kink, dbf! joel, slowburn on the romance, sugardaddy/sugar baby dynamic, possible freeuse, choking, alternate universe - no outbreak, jealousy, practical sugar daddy vs like expensive one. (i will update tags as I go.)

chapter one: i'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin' chapter two: you don't have to say it, i just want to see it. chapter three: tbd. chapter four: chapter five: chapter six: chapter seven: chapter eight:

[gothicmisty]

── .✦ too sweet

masterlist | ao3

18+ !no outbreak joel x f!reader

── .✦ story summary: “Joel—are you su—” “Let’s go.” A few hours ago, you were sitting in a freezing police station with no phone, no money, and a record waiting to happen. Then Joel Miller—your daddy's long time friend—walked in, spoke six words to the cop, and took you home like you already belonged to him. Now you’re in his house. Wearing his shirts. Sleeping in his spare room. He buys you a brand new phone, stocks the fridge with things he knows you like, leaves cash on the counter like it’s nothing. In which Joel Miller ends up being your sugar daddy who absolutely ruins you.

author's note: hi, this is my first time publishing fanfiction to tumblr. (please tell me if i'm not doing something right.) i've only been an ao3 author(bridgerton/stranger things). so here is sugar daddy joel. now, it's not full on. it's not he's buyin' her expensive stuff — think practical sugar daddy? i'd like to thank my bff karina for encouraging me to try another fandom out.

tags: content warning!! blowjob, male orgasm, dbf!joel, joel miller x f!reader, lots of smut, slowburn on romance, dom joel, alternative universe - no outbreak, !light sugar daddy, sugar daddy/sugar baby, joel is bad at feelings, age gap, joel is 50s x reader is 26-27, (honestly you could make her a little older.)

word count: 4.2k status: ongoing.

chapter 1: i'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin' next chapter

I think I'll take my whiskey neat My coffee black and my bed at three you're too sweet for me

The police station ain’t exactly the best place to be on a Thursday night. 

It’s cold. The bright lights are flickerin’ on and off giving you a headache that rings in your skull. You sit there, arms crossed, eyes on the dirty tile like it might somehow make the time pass a little faster. 

How the hell did you end up here?

Well, that’s easy. Your dad. 

Fraud. Money Laundering. Stolen Cars. 

Stealing cars? Yeah. That included the one you were driving home. 

Figures. 

The lobby’s dead. Cold air blowing in from the doors, buzzing lights, and the smell of someone’s dinner filled the air. Nobody wants to sit at a police station unless they have to. Fuck, you just wanna go home. 

To make matters fuckin’ worse, you lost your phone. 

You had the cop call Tommy—your dad’s friend, well sort of. The only one who might answer and not make a huge scene out of all of this. 

That was over an hour ago. 

Were you going to be stuck here forever?

The officer walks over, bored expression and a small note pad in his hand. “Tommy answered,” he says. “Said his brother’s on his way.” 

He looks down at the paper in his notebook. “Joel, I think his name was.” 

Fuck. Joel.

Joel was your dad’s best friend. Well…before all this.

Told him not to get involved in all that messy shit. Warned him somethin’ bad was going to happen. Said it to him straight, like he always did. But your dad…he didn’t listen. He never really did.

You grew up around Joel around. He was there–almost every barbecue, every holiday. Always showing up with a six pack and that quiet look that always said so much more than your dad’s drunk yelling ever did. After your mom left, he stuck around. Checked in every once in a while. Fixed your car when your dad was too drunk to. Made sure your dad didn’t drink himself stupid. You’d watch his daughter, Sarah, she was younger, always tagging along like a little shadow. 

He was always around. 

That’s what made this worse. 

You sigh and stare down at the checkered tile, the kind that somehow looks dirty even when it’s scrubbed clean. You’re just waiting now. For this mess to be over. For a way out. 

The front door creaks open. Heavy boots echo across the lobby floor.  You don’t even have to really look up to know who it is. 

It’s Joel. Rugged. Grey streaks in his hair. Worn denim and that damn tan jacket he’d had for years. Jeans. Boots scruffed. That look on his face—the one he wore when someone around him did something stupid. Like this wasn’t the first time he had to clean up someone else’s mess. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, casually, like you’re not sitting in a fucking police station. 

“Hey,” you mutter back, quietly. 

“Y’they lettin’ you go?” Joel asks. 

You shrug. Been there for hours at this point and honestly, no one’s told you shit. 

“They won’t say much,” you say. “Talkin’ to me like I’m five.” 

Joel doesn’t say much. Just walks over to the cops, starts talking in that low voice that somehow makes people listen. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. Between work and part-time classes, life just… got in the way. 

But Joel?

He hasn’t really changed. He’s always had this way of making you feel—calm. Safe, maybe. Even now. Joel handles shit the way men are supposed too. Not like other people who’d just talk too loud and make things a thousand times worse. 

You find yourself staring. Too long. Watching him as he talks to the cop, his voice low, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. Like he’s got everything handled. 

Joel walks back over, his expression unreadable. 

“Get your stuff,” he says. 

“–Joel—are you su–” 

“Let’s go.” 

You grab your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and follow him out. 

He’s already at the truck, passenger door open, just waiting. It’s newer, bigger, and cleaner. You can smell the leather and sawdust as you climb in. 

Your dad had mentioned the construction business was doing well. Said Joel had a crew now. Jobs lined up for months. You’d seen it too; last year at the neighborhood barbecue, when he showed up in a clean shirt and boots that didn’t look like he’d been wearing them for a decade. 

He shuts the door and doesn’t look at you. Just rounds the truck, climbs in, and starts the engine. He doesn’t say a word as he drives. Neither do you. 

Feels like Joel don’t even know what to say. Truth is, you don’t either. He just picked you up from a goddamn police station. You were so fucking close to being tangled up in your dad’s mess. 

“Where ya stayin’?” he asks finally. “Dorm?” 

You shake your head. “No…I–uh.” 

School wasn’t something you could afford anymore. Had to drop to part-time. Scrape by. Make payments late and hope the university didn’t send you notices. Your dad was paying for it. 

Until he wasn’t. 

“I’m crashin’ at a friends,” you mutter. “Just ‘til I find somewhere.” 

“Your dad said you were livin’ in the dorms,” Joel says. “Or was he payin’ for that?” 

“He was.” 

Joel just nods. Doesn’t say nothin’ else for a while. His eyes fixated on the road. 

“You’re comin’ home with me,” he says. 

“Joel…” you sigh. “It’s fine. I’m good, really, I promi–”

“You’re stayin’,” he says, sharper now. “Got the space. You don’t gotta figure this shit out on ya own.” 

You nod, slow. “Ain’t forever,” he says, looking over. “Just ‘til ya get settled.” 

And you can’t help but wonder— Is he just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re his friend's kid? His only kid. “Ya eaten anythin’?” Joel asks. 

You shake your head. “No.”

Before you know it, Joel’s pulling into your favorite fast food place. Doesn’t ask. Just knows. 

Maybe–just maybe–this won’t be so bad.

Stayin’ with your dad’s best friend? Can’t be the end of the world. Right?

You wake up to the smell of bacon. Don’t know what time it is. Don’t even remember falling asleep, really. First night in a new place–well, not new. Just unfamiliar. Same floors, same creaky hall, different energy. 

You slept in a baggy T-shirt Joel gave you last night. Soft, worn with a hole in the bottom of it, it smelled like fabric softener. You stretch, muscles feeling stiff, hair a fuckin’ mess, then slip out of bed. The house is quiet as you wander downstairs, walkin' across the cold hardwood floors. The clock in the living room blinks:12:30. 

Fuck. 

You step into the kitchen, Joel’s at the stove, back to you, flipping something in a pan. He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head at you. 

“It’s past noon,” he says. “Whole damn mornin’ gone, sunshine.” 

“I don’t ‘member what time I fell asleep,” you mumble through a yawn. “Hard to sleep.” 

Joel doesn’t say anything. Just keeps working at the stove, like he hears you, like he understands what you mean. You sit down at the table. The chair creaks loudly under you. It’s strange being here. Still not yours.  But it’s quiet. Feels like something solid after years of nothing but mess. 

It was quiet for a while. Just the sound of the pan and the clock on the wall ticking. Then he moves, walks over, grabs something from his bag. A small box. Black Bow. 

He sets it down in front of you. 

“Ain’t like not bein’ able to reach you,” he says, firmly. “Use it. Set it up how you want.” 

You look down. It’s a phone, a brand new one. You’re speechless. You’re not even sure what to say to him. Joel doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t ask what color,” he mutters. “Don’t bitch.” 

“Joel–you—” you start. 

He cuts you a look, a look that was sharp. You know better than to argue with him. 

“Thank you,” you say, quietly. 

He sets a plate of breakfast down in front of you, still hot. He writes something quickly on a different piece of paper, then he grabs a scrap of paper and a pen from the counter. 

“I’ll grab your stuff later,” he says. “Write the address.” 

That’s it. No offer for you to go with. No questions. You just do it. 

Used to bite people’s heads off who told you what to do. Your parents, they constantly told you what to do. Exhausted you with it.  But with Joel? You don’t. You just listen. 

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” You ask, quietly. 

“Quicker if I do it myself,” he mutters. 

You write the address. Slide it over and he grabs the paper, grabs his work bag. Doesn’t say nothin’ else. Just leaves. 

Now you’re alone. In Joel’s house. 

You look down at the box, phone still laying neatly inside.

He bought you a phone. Just like that. No big talk about it, no strings attached. You’re sleepin’ in his spare room. Eating his food. Staying here “until you figure shit out.” 

And he’s not asking for a damn thing. Why does that feel so fuckin’ strange?

That he’d just do this. No questions. No rules. Just–here. 

You finish up your breakfast, scrape the plate, head to the sink.  There is a note. 

Home late. 

Order Pizza. 

–Joel. 

Twenty dollars sitting on top of it. That’s it.

It’s been almost two weeks at Joel’s. 

Feels longer. Feels like nothing. He’s barely home. Out before you wake up, back late. 

You get rides to work. Keep your head down mostly. Classes are on break ‘til spring, not that you’ve paid your tuition bill at all. You’re not even sure if you can. 

Joel doesn’t say much. But he does things. 

Keeps the fridge stocked. Leaves a clean towel on the counter for you to shower. Bought you face wash last week–just left it by the sink. No note. No comment. Just there. 

You never asked for any of it. You keep wondering what he gets out of this. 

It’s not like you’re doing anything. Not helping. Not giving him a reason to keep getting you things. You just exist in this house. Taking up space. Most likely annoying him.  You’ve started thinkin’ maybe you should cook dinner.

Something simple. Just…something. Feels like the least you could do. Joel’s never been picky. Not that you know. But cooking feels like a way to give a little back.  It’s been quiet though. He works all the time. But not the bad kind. 

The kind that makes you feel safe, but drives you mad. Still, you’ve found yourself lying awake more than once, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing just down the hall. If you knocked on the door; if you asked to just sit with him. Would he let you?

You don’t. 

There’s a line. 

Should you cross it? No. Yes.  No. 

Today, you got home later than usual. Picked up a shift at the restaurant  for a friend. Didn’t mind it–kept yourself busy to keep out of your head. You take a quick shower when you get in. Let the water rinse the entire day off your skin. Let yourself feel clean again. 

You head downstairs, barefoot. Hair still damp, dripping down your back. Thin tank top. Shorts. Should be fuckin’ freezin’, it’s winter. But Joel kept the house warm for you. 

You round the corner and see him. 

Feet kicked up on the coffee table. One hand wrapped around a half-empty beer. TV playing some old black-and-white western, the kind he’s probably seen a hundred times. He doesn’t look away from the screen. 

Just says–

“C’mere.” 

You do. No hesitation. 

You walk over, eyes landing on the screen. “What’s on?” 

Joel doesn’t look over at you.

“Nothin’ good,” he mutters. 

You sit beside him. Close, but not too close. His arm draped around the back of the couch. Casual. Calm. But it’s there. 

He smells like cedar soap. The kind you saw in the shower earlier. And underneath that–sawdust and a little bit of sweat after a long day. 

After a while, he speaks. “Work was a bitch.” 

You look over at him. His head leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. Then his hand drags down his face, slowly. He looked tired, completely worn out. 

“Delivery truck didn’t show,” Joel mutters. “Big job. Had me on the damn phone all day with some fuckin’ kid who didn’t know shit.” 

He shakes his head and takes a slow slip of his beer. 

“Bein’ in charge just means cleanin’ up everybody else’s fuckups.” 

It’s the first time he’s ever opened up and said anything about work. Or when you think about it, his day. 

You reach out to him, slowly. Hand resting on his arm–just above the elbow, your touch so light and careful. Your thumb moves softly over the fabric of his shirt. You’re nervous. You shouldn’t be. 

But you are. 

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. 

You look up at him. “You do a lot,” you say. “You…deserve to relax.” 

He tenses, shoulders shift, like he’s a little caught off guard. You freeze–should you stop? But…he isn’t pulling away. Doesn’t move at all. So, you leave your hand there. Fingers moving along his arm. You’re not trying to push, just trying to be there. A quiet way of showing that you care. 

He continues to watch the movie, keeping his eyes on it like nothing’s changed. You feel the change in him, the tension, the stillness. Like he’s holding his breath and doesn’t even realize it. 

The movie keeps playing, slow, pointless background now. You’re used to the quiet now, used to him. Joel’s never been a man who needed to fill the space with words.  You don’t even realize how much time’s passed. Not ‘til Joel shifts. Subtle, just barely. Then his hand finds your knee. He still doesn’t say anything, just leaves it there.

A minute later, it moves. Slow. Steady. 

Fingers drifting up, stopping just shy of the hem of your shorts. He squeezes your thigh lightly. Then his fingers slip higher, pushing your shorts up a little, settling on the bareskin. Like it’s nothing, like he’s just mindlessly doing it. 

Your breathin’ practically stops. He just keeps watching tv, and doesn't flinch. Doesn't look over at you. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe, he did. He just keeps watching the screen like nothing’s changed. 

But…something has changed. 

Joel’s been on your mind for weeks. 

Won’t leave your head. Not when you’re awake, not when you’re dreaming. You know it’s wrong–thinking about him like that. Wanting him so fuckin’ bad it keeps you awake. 

Imagining what it would feel like for your lips to be on his, him on top of you. Imagining what it would be like to knock on his door in the middle of the night. But you don’t. You stop yourself…every time. 

After that night on the couch, movies became your routine. Evenings where he wasn’t workin’ late, you’d sit together on the couch, watching whatever you’d bicker about puttin’ on.

Somehow it was just…easy. 

Money left on the counter without a word. A new pair of headphones when you complained that yours stopped workin’. Always buyin’ your favorite snacks. One afternoon, last thursday, he dropped you off at the mall–handed you his credit card. 

Said, “Get what you want.” 

Still, somehow, didn’t ask for anything back. 

But no matter what, you settled nicely into this routine. Nights with Joel. He’d sit beside you on the couch, he’d rub your leg with that hand of his, like he didn’t even realize he was doin’ it. You’d lay against him sometimes, feel his chest through that old flannel, watchin’ whatever movie he picked–usually some western, sometimes an action flick that had low ratings. 

One night, you talked him into Friday the 13th. 

He just grumbled about it being total nonsense. 

But he still watched it all the way through. 

You wanted to cross that line, needed to. Every night, it got so much harder not to. But you held back. 

Until now…

You woke up late. House was quiet already. Joel was gone… at work. 

But when you walk into the kitchen, there’s a box on the counter. Wrapped, a bow on top of it. Joel’s thing he did with his gifts for you. 

You recognize it before you even open it—the necklace. The one your mom gave you. The one that snapped last week when it got caught on your sweater. He fixed it. Didn’t say a word. Just left a little note folded under the ribbon. 

For you, Darlin’. 

—Joel. 

You’ve been tryin’ to get used to the gifts. 

To the way Joel leaves things for you without a word. Pays for what you need. Asks for nothin’ back. You don’t know if it’s guilt over your dad bein’ locked away—or if he just likes takin’ care of you. 

There’s a part of you that wrestles with it. That still wants to earn it somehow.

But there is another part. One that secretly loves the idea of being taken care of. 

You made him dinner tonight, even he was a little shocked. He ate in silence, like he asked. You left him there while you showered. Now you’re headin’ back downstairs. Back to him. 

Back to this new routine. 

You’re wearin’ one of his shirts–big, warm right out of the dryer. You took it from his drawer a few weeks ago, he didn’t notice. 

But he’s seen it on you. 

“We ain’t watchin’ another one of them damn horror movies,” Joel grumbled, settling back on the couch. “Last one was fuckin’ terrible.” 

You roll your eyes as you sit down next to him. “Fine,” you mutter. “You pick, then. Since I’m so awful at it.” 

He picks some older movies. Lettin’ it play in the background, more noise than anything else. You take a small sip of beer he put out for you. 

“How was work?” you ask softly. Joel just huffs. Doesn’t look over. “Long,” he says. “Tired of dealin’ with people who don’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”

He seemed a little better when he walked through the door. A little less stressed out. You wonder if it’s the movies. The silence. Just sittin’ together. 

You lean into him, slow, like you always do. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift away from you. He’s gotten used to it.

You watch him. Not sayin’ a word—just takin’ in the way his jaw stays tighty, the way he grips his beer a little too firm. Eyes on the TV, but not really watchin’. He’s so wound up. You can see it. The movie drags on, just background noise between the two of you now.  You debate it. Talk yourself out of it. Then back into it. Then out again. 

And then his hand moves. To your thigh, fingers slowly grazing your skin. Like he means it this time. 

Fuck it.  You slide off the couch and down to your knees. Settle between his legs–spread wide and lazy where he sits. 

He looks down at you. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. 

“What’re y’doin’, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low. 

You don’t answer at first, just reach for his belt; your fingers trembling, eyes locked on his. “Helpin’ you relax.” 

Joel doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales through his nose.  You tug the belt free quickly. Pop the button, fingers slippin’ to the zipper–but he gets there first. Reaches down before you, grabbing it. 

Drags it down himself. The sound cuts through the room. Then he pushes his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, stopping just under the muscle. Hard. Already waiting for you. Joel leans back into the couch. One arm thrown over the back like he’s settlin’ in. His eyes are on you, just watching. 

You pause. Just for a second. Because he’s there–thick, swollen, and the tip of his cock is glistening with pre-cum. 

You swallow hard. 

“Go on, princess,” he mutters. “Ain’t the time to get shy on me now.”

You reach out, wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock. A low groan comes from his throat when you start stroking him.

“Fuck,” he says, jaw tight. “This’ a bad fuckin’ idea.” 

 But he’s not pulling away. Just lets you keep going. 

You stroke him, feel him twitch in your hand, just a little. Then again. You do it just to tease him, you hear him moan, strained, quiet, fighting that need to thrust into your palm. Leaning in, you lick a slow line from the base of his cock to the tip. Draggin’ your tongue over the thick vein. The taste of him–salty–spreads across your lips. Then your mouth wraps around the head of his cock, tongue swirling. 

Joel’s hand moves fast–right to the back of your head and his fingers knot in your hair, firmly. Holding you. 

You open your mouth wider, taking him in slowly. Let him guide across your tongue, inch by inch, until your lips are nearly at the base and your throat tightens around him.

“God—fuck,” he breaths. “That mouth... Been thinkin’ about this. Thinkin’ how good it’d feel.” 

You set a rhythm, steady, wet and he lets you for a minute. Just watches. His cock disappears into your mouth over and over, until your chin’s slick and his cock’s shining with spit. 

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” Joel mutters. He grips your hair tighter, it hurts a little. 

“You hear me?” 

You moan around him. You’re drooling now, a filthy fuckin’ mess and he’s lovin’ it. 

His hands lock in your hair now, fingers twisting deep as he starts to move. Not sloppy. Not rushed. 

Controlled. 

He knows what he’s doin’. Knows how to use your mouth…how long to keep you right there on the edge. Just enough to drive you crazy. Just enough to make you fuckin’ need it. 

“Just like that, baby,” he groans. “Goddamn–y’know what you’re doing, don’t you?” 

You gag, just a little, when he pushes deeper and he grunts, breathless. “Easy,” he says, even as his hips roll forward. 

“Don’t choke, sweetheart,” he breaths. “Ain’t done with you yet.” 

Your spit is all over his cock, your throat is raw, eyes glassy, tears threatenin’ to spill. Joel watches, doesn’t miss a thing. 

“Look at that mess,” he groans. “Drippin’ down your chin. So fuckin’ pretty like this.” 

He holds your head steady and starts to thrust harder into your mouth. Your hands dig into his thighs, bracing. Your jaw burns–but you don’t stop. You take it, like you’re supposed to. 

“Shit,” Joel growls, voice cracking. “The way you suck my cock–princess, fuck.” 

A deep moan.

“Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.” 

He’s breathing is ragged now. Not gone…not yet…but close. Right on the edge. 

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he asks. “Wanted me usin’ that mouth like this.” 

You moan around him and his cock twitches on your tongue. 

“Baby,” he breaths. “You keep doin’ that–I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.” 

But you don’t stop. You moan again–on purpose. Throat tight, lips wrapped, tongue draggin’ slow along every thick inch as he fucks your mouth. 

Joel moans, louder this time. 

“Jesus–fuck—you’re takin’ me so good,” he pants. “So. Fuckin’. Good.” 

You can feel it. The way his thighs tense up. The sharp jerk of his hips, the rough sound of his breathing. “I’m gon’ cum,” he growls. “You ready for it? Gonna swallow for me, huh?” 

You nod–best you can, mouth full, eyes up. He pushes you down deeper onto his cock. 

“That’s it,” Joel groans. “That’s it–God—don’t—”  Then he spills into your mouth. Thick, hot, endless. You try to swallow every drop, but he’s still twitching, still pulsing, and it leaks past your lip.

His chest heaves, breath ragged. 

And then—

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

The phone on the coffee table goes off.

Joel exhales hard, like the wind just got knocked out of him. Then carefully, he pulls out of your mouth, stands up, pulls up his pants and grabs the phone off the table. You’re still on your knees. Panting. Lips swollen. His cum at the corner of your lips. “Yeah?” he answers. 

A pause. 

“I’m home.” 

His eyes drop down to you. He reaches out and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. Smears the cum away with one slow drag. “Tommy,” he sighs. “Was workin’ on somethin’.” 

Walks into the kitchen like nothin’s changed. Pulls his zipper up, belt clicks as he threads it back through. Phone still pressed to his ear. 

He leaves you there. Kneeling. Swollen-lipped. Messy. Wet. 

And you don’t know what’s worse. That he walked off like nothin’ happened–like everything’s still the same. Or that you’re just kneelin’ there–cunt throbbing, soaked, mouth wrecked from takin’ him. Wanting more.