hellcaster901 - Tumblr blog

hellcaster901 · 22 days ago

Text

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it.

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom.

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust.

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over.

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?”

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that.

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager.

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work.

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails.

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night.

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway.

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it.

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.”

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing.

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup.

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants.

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges.

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you.

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light.

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that.

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside.

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all.

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning.

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone.

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall.

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding.

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine.

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door.

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him.

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes.

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight.

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv.

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines.

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn.

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together.

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo.

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is.

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four.

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders.

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again.

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.”

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly.

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk.

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to.

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?”

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension.

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches.

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim.

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes.

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

4K notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 22 days ago

Text

HELL OF A VISION…

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 2.6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, post-outbreak, established relationship, jackson joel mmmh, domestic joel mmmh, both tags that are good for the soul, set in a sweet and lovely place where nothing bad happens, old man joel RAAHHH, the readers stay on, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, dry humping, finger sucking (still on this bullshit), lots of come and come talk…like verging on hyperspermia, yeah ik he’s old but he comes like a fire hose because i just can’t help myself y’all, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i love fucking men who should be on AARP. thank god for them. this fic was actually meant to be the one i posted for rylea and i’s challenge, but i fucked up and accidentally made it over a thousand words…oops. of course i’m all about that reduce, reuse, recycle life sooo here we are. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics!

you and joel spend a night reading in bed, amongst other things…

It's rare that you get to see Joel like this.

Relaxed, completely.

Propped up against the headboard of your bed, a pillow behind his back and his legs stretched under the quilt you finally finished up last year.

The copy of Lonesome Dove Ellie found a few weeks before his birthday rests open in one hand, the other slipped up under the hem of an old shirt you stole from him to absently stroke over the skin of your back.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled with his as you count the beats of his heart against your cheek. It soothes you in a way nothing else can, listening to the slow turn of the pages and the occasional rumbling hum in his throat when he comes across a line he likes.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been curled up next to him, quietly watching the tiny shifts in his expression.

Letting your eyes glide along the side of his face bathed in the warm orange glow of his bedside lamp, the messy silver curls of his hair catching the light enough to almost shine. You’re tempted to reach out and run your fingers through the strands, even more than you did earlier tonight, to feel just how soft it is.

Your gaze traces down the slope of his forehead, the caress of his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and all the way back up to do it over again.

However long it’s been still isn’t enough. You could watch Joel for hours without getting bored, just a silent spectator drifting in the warmth of his presence.

There’s always something. A new project, patrol shifts, repairs. New everyday things you get to experience with him here in Jackson that you do love, but that keep him just out of your reach for longer than you like.

That’s why moments like these feel so special. There’s no crisis, no issues or problems to keep him out of your bed.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You just…you have him tonight. And that’s enough.

Well, it's almost enough.

You’re in his t-shirt for Christ’s sake, wearing it like a brand. In his t-shirt and just your panties. And he’s so warm beneath you, big and solid, the kind of comfort you ache for. In more ways than you could even think of naming.

You shift your hips slowly. One tiny move that has his thigh pressing between your legs a little more firmly than before. Testing.

Joel’s hand pauses on your back. The subtle drag of his thumb stutters where it was gliding just beneath the hem of your shirt before it starts up again, slower than before. He doesn’t look at you right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just flicks his eyes further down the page and keeps reading.

You try not to smile.

You do it again. Another slow drag of your hips—like it’s an accident. Like you’re just getting comfortable.

But Joel knows you too well. He knows every part of you now—the tiniest hitch of your breath, the way you go quiet when you want something, the shift in your touch dragging over his chest. Knows that the heat blooming between your legs has nothing to do with the cozy warmth of the blanket.

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Joel drawls without looking up from his book, but his hand slides a bit lower, the tips of his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties.

You hum noncommittally, shift again, letting your hips roll forward with a little more intent. You feel the twitch of his thigh, the stutter of his exhale. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

The flick of a page, his fingers drag a little lower. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, all mock innocence as you press in closer, lifting your leg just enough to drape it over his hips. You’re practically straddling him now, your bare thigh flush to the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

“Doesn’t look it.” Joel’s tone is bland, uninterested. You know it’s just for show, part of the game. It’s always better when he fights you for it. “Looks like you’re tryin’ to take advantage of me.”

You muffle a laugh in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and skin and musk. Your hand trails down his chest, down his stomach until you can toy with the drawstrings of his bottoms. “Maybe…are you offering?”

Joel peers at you over the edge of his readers, skeptical. It’s the first time he’s looked at you since he opened up his book. You try not to preen under his gaze. “I’m too old to be grindin’ like a damn teenager.”

“It’ll be good, promise. Just let me…” You sit up, swinging your leg over him to straddle his hips properly. “Let me rub on it a little, Joel. Please? I just wanna feel it.”

Your voice is all sugar, and Joel’s a sucker for it.

His cock softly jerks to life in his bottoms, lazily hardening under you. It tattles on him, gives away how he really feels seeing you perched on top of him. Your hips are moving before you can even think, rocking down against the rigid plane of heat.

You fit together perfectly, and Joel’s cock slipping between your soaked cunt has your mouth going slack, a soft moan passing through your lips.

"Jesus." His book snaps shut and lands somewhere by the lamp. His hands find your hips, not to stop you, not really—just to hold. You meet his heavy gaze, the blown pupils of his eyes shine like an oil slick under the dim light. He squeezes you hard, holding you in place as he huffs a dry laugh. “I ain’t dry humped since high school.”

You grind down again, fighting his grip. “Then I’d say you’re due.”

You roll your hips again and again. Back and forth in slow and deliberate motions, dragging that damp cotton across the length of him. You know he feels it—feels the heat of you, the slick mess you're making. You're working your clit right along the swell of him, jaw slack as your rhythm picks up.

And Joel is just watching, head tipped back against the headboard. Letting you use him. Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

There’s been days where it’s harder for him to really roll around in the sheets with you, especially in the last couple months. Joel’s age catching up with him, hitting fast and slow all at once.

Joel hates it, not that he'd ever tell you that. He doesn’t have too, you know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. You knew how old he was when you met him, and it never made you second guess that you wanted anyone else in your bed.

You’d never let Joel’s recent struggle to get it up ruin all that you have. You were more than content to find other ways to be intimate with someone you love, maybe a little excited even.

That’s not the case tonight.

Joel’s cock is fat and hard under you, twitching up through the soft cotton of his pants like it’s straining to get to you. The thick ridge of it bumps perfectly against your clit every time you roll your hips, dragging against the soaked crotch of your panties. The fabric clings to you, flimsy and so drenched with arousal that it’s barely even there.

“You’re soaked through, pumpkin.” Joel’s grip on your hips tightens until his fingers dimple your skin. His thumbs run over the edge of your panties, pressing hard enough that you know it’ll leave behind lacy imprints in your skin when this is all over. “Gettin’ my pants all wet and I ain’t laid a finger on you.”

Your brow arches, lips tugged into a smug grin that you can’t hide. “Is that a complaint?”

Joel squeezes your hips once, hard. A light warning, don’t be a smartass. “Don’t sound like I’m complainin’, do I?”

“I don’t know.” You hum, coy as your fingers dance over the hem of your shirt—his shirt—bunching it up around your hips, the dip of your waist visible in the lamplight. “You sure were talking a whole lot of smack earlier.”

You sneak your hand down the front of his pants before he can respond. His cock jerks when your fingers brush against it, his hips twitching up off the mattress and into your loose grip. You tsk softly, shaking your head as you lay it flat over his stomach, trapping him between the waistband and the coarse gray hair of his happy trail.

Joel hisses through his teeth, hands tightening around your hips. “Shit–”

“Don’t get too excited, Miller.” Your tone is teasing, even when your cunt clenches weakly at the sight. The rosy tip of his cock oozes pre-come onto his shirt, wetting the fabric enough that a dark patch blooms across the thin blue cotton. You want to press your lips to it, to trace the ridge with your tongue so you can taste him—salty, musky, and heady. “I just wanted a better view.”

Joel grunts like he doesn’t believe you, like he knows you’re full of shit, but his hips are shifting under you anyway. His cock nudging up into the hot mess between your thighs, seeking friction, contact—you.

His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you down harder against the heavy bulge in his pants. He’s soaked through too now, the front of his sleep pants dark with it, sticky and wet where you’ve been grinding down.

And his cock—god, his cock is leaking. Fat beads of precome drool out from the tip, smearing slick over the dark hair of his happy trail and dripping down between your folds. You can feel it every time your hips circle down.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You look so pretty like this, baby. Just like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut on a breathy moan, your hands falling to rest on his chest as your hips rock and rock.

There’s a spot, right where his cock curves, that keeps catching against your clit every time you rock forward. You keep grinding into it, chasing that pressure, whimpering with every pass of it.

Joel notices. Of course he fucking notices.

“There,” he grunts, holding you in place and angling his hips up. “Right there, huh? That’s it, baby? That’s the spot.”

You whimper, nodding so fast it’s dizzying. “Feels so good, Joel. I can’t—I can’t stop, you feel so good—”

Your hands drag up his chest, lingering on the tan column of his throat. You run your nails over the thin skin, stretching over the coarse hair he must’ve missed cleaning up his beard. Your thumb rests just over his pulse, right where you can feel the beat of his heart pounding like a hammer on a nail.

Your hand slides up before you can stop yourself, cupping the side of his face like you’ve got the whole world cradled in your palm. Your thumb glides along his bottom lip now, wet with spit. Your nail presses into the fat of it, firm enough to drain the color before you lift up and do it again.

Joel can’t swallow down his noises like this, with the way you’re forcing his lips to part. Deep grunts and groans ring out from around your finger. His eyes never stray from yours as he closes his lips around the tip of your thumb, watching you through the steamy glass of his readers.

You let out a pathetically broken moan, pushing your thumb deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Joel…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just parts his lips and sucks it into the heat of his mouth, deep and greedy. His tongue curls around your thumb, wet and filthy, moaning low in his throat like he’s starved. His brows pinch like he’s feeling it somewhere deep, deeper than he’s letting on.

You rock your hips while he sucks your fingers like he’d suck your clit—like it’s nothing to him, just muscle memory now. Your cunt clenches weakly with every pass of his tongue, fire shooting up your spine as your rhythm starts to falter.

Joel feels it, the shift. The way you start to get messy with it, desperate. He knows you’re close.

He groans around your thumb and lets it go with a slick pop. “Go on, girly. Mess up those pretty panties. Rub that sweet cunt all over me—fuck yourself on it. That’s it.”

Your nails dig back into his chest as your stomach clenches with the first signs of your orgasm sneaking up on you. You rock faster, chasing it, slick soaking through the thin cotton. The shape of his cock is so perfect under you—thick and wide and right—even through your clothes.

You whimper something broken, grinding down hard, over and over, as pleasure builds sharp in your belly.

Joel grits his teeth. “You gonna come for me like this?”

“Yes.” You nod again, frantic. “Joel—I’m gonna—god, I’m gonna—”

Your thighs seize and your body jolts against him as you come, trembling in his lap, cunt spasming against soaked fabric.

Joel groans like it’s killing him, watching you fall apart. His voice breaks as he groans your name, “Keep goin’, baby, just like that—fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

Your eyes are locked on the drooling tip of his cock, you don’t think anything could tear your attention away from it. Not even gunfire. Your hips don’t stop moving, even when your clit pulses with overstimulation each time it bumps up against him.

But you can’t stop. You won’t stop, not when Joel asks you so nicely.

His grip on you tightens, his hips twitch up off the bed. Once, twice, three times. “Fuck–”

You watch as he comes, mesmerized. His cock jerks against his stomach, painting the front of his shirt with rope after rope of thick come.

Joel groans, loud, from deep in the chest. An intoxicating, raw sound, like it’s being pulled out of him with a tight fist. His head knocks against the headboard, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurts.

“Jesus—shit, baby,” he grits out to the ceiling, voice wrecked. His hands are basically doing all the work now, shifting your hips back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it, ride it out of me—goddamn.”

He just keeps coming, shooting up high, nearly hitting his chest with it. A slow, filthy mess oozing out of the flushed head of his cock. The shirt’s a lost cause, but you could care less when his come drips down the sides of his stomach as it clenches deliciously.

You stare, panting as the last sparks of your high fizzle out. You want to taste it, to smear it around and dirty him up even more.

By the time he slumps back against the pillows, he’s panting like he just ran ten miles. His chest is heaving, the front of his pants an absolute wreck, and he’s still twitching under you like he hasn’t fully come down.

You lean down, nose brushing his. “Still think you’re too old for dry humping?”

Joel gives a weak chuckle, hands smoothing up and down your sides. “You’re laughin’ now, bet you’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’re the one nursin’ my bad back tomorrow.”

You grin, pressing a kiss on his chin. “Worth it.”

And then you rock your hips once more, dragging your soaked cunt over his softening, come slicked cock.

He groans, his hands twitching over your hips. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Probably not. Guess you better read faster next time,” you murmur, mouth against his ear. “Because at this rate? You’re never finishing up that chapter.”

The swat on your ass stings, but you knew it was coming. It’s not enough to hide the low rumble of laughter ringing out over your head, and that’s all that really matters anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this got waaay fluffier than i thought it would when i started it. it’s probably the fluffiest thing i've written in a while. this isn't what i planned on posting, but it's hot and my knee hurts and i can't sleep...and this was basically done so i finished it up as a distraction from my chronic pain :))) and insomnia :))) yay me! yes the title is a lonesome dove quote because i’m texas trash and so is joel miller.

to the anon who sent me an actual banger of an ask, i am working on it! don’t worry babe, i almost cried tears of joy when i saw it in my notifs…i’m just on the struggle bus rn and the ideas are suffering…

thank you so much for reading, love you!

2K notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 25 days ago

Text

PEDRO PASCAL 'Evita' opening night, London July 1, 2025

312 notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 29 days ago

Text

PEDRO PASCAL photographed for The Clinic Online

804 notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 1 month ago

Text

☆Kinktober 2024☆

Day 19: Sex tape

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) fingering, oral sex (m & f receiving), spanking, p in v sex, dirty talk, implied pre/no breakout, if I missed anything please let me know!

You looked directly into the camera when Joel pushed into you.

It wasn’t about putting on a show; it was about creating a show with your naturally occurring responses to his actions.

And based on how easy it was for Joel to pull a reaction from you, it would be quite the display when all was said and done.

“Li’l old for that…” He had hesitated when you brought the idea to him. “Bad for business.”

“No press is bad press, Joel,” you waved off his reluctance with a laugh. “And it wouldn’t be—we wouldn’t put it anywhere. It’s just…a nice thing, for us. To look back at all the ways we make each other feel good.”

You’d never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and if he truly put his foot down, said it was a bad idea and that he wasn’t happy with the concept, you would have let the conversation end there and never brought it up again.

But maybe it was the cool summer air, the waning heat and the beer in his hand; maybe it was because he liked the idea of being able to pull up a clip of you moaning for him whenever he liked; maybe it was just because he loved you—in any event, he smirked, rubbing a calloused hand over his face.

“Alright, sweetheart. Convinced me,” he turned to you, holding eye contact as he sipped his beer. “But I get to decide what, uh—the positionin’.”

You had smiled up at him, cheeks warm.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Joel propped the camera up on the dresser so that it filmed everything that happened on the bed.

And it did film everything.

His fingers had explored every inch of your skin, groping and squeezing you in his characteristic, gently merciless way.

He’d eaten you out for half an hour, pulling whines from you and soaking his face in your slick.

He made sure to pick the camera up when he used his hands, pointing the lens at your cunt when he slid two fingers into your soaked hole before panning up to your face—the way your eyes rolled back when he hit your tender spot was something he wanted to be able to replay as often as he pleased.

When you went down on him, he put the camera on the edge of the bed, making sure the video captured your lips wrapped around his cock as you knelt between his legs, and the way your tits looked when you let your drool dripped down your chin and over the pillowy flesh.

Joel couldn’t believe he had ever had doubts about this. The fact that he would be able to rewatch himself fucking your face could’ve been enough to make him cum down your throat right then and there.

But he held back until he had you on all fours, facing the camera that he had placed so purposefully back on the dresser.

You moaned lowly when he thrust into you, your body still reeling from the way he’d used his mouth and hands.

Joel tugged at your hips, pulling you onto his cock in slow, deep drags. The tip nestled against your cervix, and the dull pain blossomed into something irresistibly sinful.

You let your head drop, arms all but giving out beneath you as you pressed your face into the mattress.

“C’mon, princess—” Joel rumbled behind you, reaching down to tug you up by your hair, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart.”

You let him manipulate your body, bringing your head back up to force your face into the camera. The pace of his hips increased, and you whimpered through a lazy, desperate smile.

“’At’s it. Tell ‘em how much you love gettin’ fucked,” He tightened his grip on your hair, wrapping it around his fist and pulling. “Tell the camera how much you love this cock, princess.”

“Fuck,” you breathed, his words going straight to your core and working to emphasize the pressure of his thrusts. “It’s—I love it. I love getting fucked, I love it.”

“I said tell ‘em how much you love this cock,” his hand left your hips for a moment, coming down on your ass with a snap before he regained his grip on your side. “How much you love my cock—go’head and say it.”

“I love your cock, Joel, I fucking love it—feels so fucking good. Stretches me so good, I love your cock.” You were whining, rolling your hips in an attempt to match the way he rocked into you.

He laughed, squeezing your side and plunging his cock in and out of you at a ruthless pace.

“Yeah, you do,” he groaned behind you, “You fuckin’ love this cock, ain’t that right? Do anythin’ for a chance to have me fuck you real good.”

“Y—es,” your whimpers were broken, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his cock to form coherent sentences.

Joel let go of your hair, and you whined as your face fell forward onto the bed.

“Keep lookin’ at the camera, sweetheart,” he growled out, “Show the camera how pretty you look cummin’ f’me.” With his newly free hand, Joel wrapped his arm around you to knead your clit in quick circles.

You complied with an eager moan, craning your neck to press your cheek into the mattress, eyes gazing up towards the camera lens. Your pupils rolled back, the pressure from his fingers and the stretch of his cock as he continued to pound into you becoming too much for you to handle.

You came with a cry of his name, arching your back as you clenched around his cock.

“Shit—fuck, yeah,” Joel’s hips stuttered when you squeezed around him, so tight it was almost too much for him. “Show me how much you love my cock, princess, fuckin’—Christ, good girl.”

When you’d stopped trembling, your breath returning in small puffs rather than hectic gasps that carried his name, he pulled out of you.

He moved off the bed to grab the camera, and it was then you realized his depraved intentions.

“C’mere, on your knees,” he fisted his cock with his other hand, “Keep your mouth shut.”

With heavy limbs, you tried desperately to scramble to your knees. It was unceremonious, you looked as though you’d forgotten how to move your body, still hazy with lust, but you managed to position yourself on your knees in front of him.

Joel zoomed in on your face as he continued to fist his cock.

“Show me that smile, baby,” he groaned, gritting his teeth as he tried to stave off release for just a moment longer. “Ask nicely for my load.”

“Please, Joel,” you batted your lashes at the camera, adding showmanship to your degeneracy. “Want your cum. Want you to cum on my pretty face, please.”

Joel grunted, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut before spilling onto your face. He looked down at you to see his spend drip down your cheeks in thick trails, taking his cock and rubbing the tip against your stained skin.

You poked your tongue out, licking at whatever fell near your mouth, and Joel groaned at the sight.

“Pretty.” He breathed, giving the camera one last glimpse before he stopped the video. He threw it onto the bed, quickly returning his attention to you.

He put his hands beneath your arms, hauling you up until he could help you tilt yourself back onto the bed.

You laughed softly, reaching up to explore the gluey mess on your face. You swiped your finger through his spend, skin sticking to skin, and pushed it into your mouth.

Joel ogled you, watching as you played with his cum and eagerly lapped it up. He leaned over you, pressing a kiss to your sticky cheek and licking a stripe up your face to collect anything you missed.

“Told you,” you sighed, “Told you it would be fun.”

“Mmh,” he grunted against your jaw. “Never said it wouldn’t be.”

You hummed in response, letting his tongue trace over your skin.

“Gimme the camera,” he murmured into you, “Watch it with me.”

You reached for the device, placing it onto your stomach where he could grab it.

“Right now?” You asked, intrigued by his impatience and urge to watch the video just as you had stopped filming.

“Right now,” he kissed your temple, grabbing the camera. “Then we’ll make another.”

638 notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 1 month ago

Text

"Do you re read your own fics--"

Of course I do. Who do you think I wrote them for?

641 notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 1 month ago

Text

First Date? Chapter 9

previous chapters here -> ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

i hope you enjoy as always my angels - warnings - this chapter contains themes of blood/violence/death, please read with caution!

Maria and Tommy stood near the front of the hall, heads bowed together in low conversation—half debrief, half strategy—voices laced with fatigue and the grim edge of planning for a war they weren’t sure they could win. The room had long since emptied, the last of the patrol teams filtering out one by one, the echo of their boots fading into silence. But Joel stayed.

He hadn’t moved.

He sat like stone, hunched forward at the edge of the table, elbows planted on his knees, fingers knotted tightly together like he was holding something fragile—something that might fall apart if he dared to let go.

His eyes were fixed on the scuffed floorboards, unmoving, unseeing, as if the ghosts of something lost had taken shape in the woodgrain and he couldn’t look away.

He looked... older, here. Not in the lines of his face or the silver at his temples—though those were there—but in the weight of his stillness. Like time itself had settled across his shoulders and he was too tired to keep shrugging it off.

Maria’s voice was low and measured, threading through the silence as she spoke to Tommy in that clipped, tactical cadence—formations, fallback points, terrain shifts, how to retreat if the headcount dropped too fast.

Neither of them looked back at Joel. Maybe they thought he’d already left. Or maybe they knew he hadn’t, and just chose to let him sit there in the quiet ruin of himself.

But then, without warning, he spoke.

“Take her name off the list.”

It took a moment for the words to register, for either of them to realize he’d spoken at all. Tommy’s head turned first, his brow furrowed with a flicker of confusion. Maria stilled beside him, her spine straightening, the numbers and maps and contingencies pausing mid-air.

Joel didn’t lift his head. Didn’t look at them. Just sat there, unmoving.

Maria’s voice cut softly through the quiet. “What was that?”

Joel’s voice didn’t change. “I said take her name off the list,” he repeated, slower this time. “She doesn’t go out there.”

Maria crossed her arms. “Joel, we’ve got limited—”

“I don’t care.”

He looked up now. His expression was carved from something immovable—brow low, jaw set tight, eyes dark and steady.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t need to. The words landed heavy anyway—like a blade drawn slow across the room, not to wound, but to warn.

“Find someone else. Split the damn groups again. She’s not goin’.”

Maria turned her head, her eyes flicking to Tommy in a silent question, her brows drawn tight. Tommy shifted beside her, discomfort settling in his posture like a weight.

Tommy sighed, a long breath laced with weariness. “Joel…”

“Tommy,” Joel warned, not loud, not sharp, but final. The kind of voice that didn’t leave room for argument.

Tommy met his brother’s eyes anyway, trying to stay steady. “You know I can’t pull her from the roster,” he said, voice low. “She’s one of the only ones who knows the whole perimeter, and she’s solid on the trail—fast, steady, smart. Karl’s still out sick, Lucy just had her baby, and we’re already short.”

Joel shook his head once, sharply, like the words didn’t matter. His breath hitched in his chest, and when he spoke again, it came out hoarse, like it was dragging itself out of him without permission. “It’s too dangerous, Tommy.”

His voice broke just enough for it to show. Not much. Not loudly. But Tommy heard it. Maria did too.

Maria exchanged another glance with Tommy—one that said let him have this, let him feel it out. Then she turned, silent as always when she knew better than to interrupt a storm that wasn’t hers to manage, and stepped quietly out of the room.

Joel’s shoulders slumped just slightly, just enough to show the weight sitting heavy in his chest, the way his body betrayed him when he thought no one else was watching.

“Please,” he murmured then. Not to Tommy. Not really. The word barely made it past his lips—quiet, frayed, like something sacred. “Please don’t make her go out there.”

Tommy watched him for a long moment, his expression softening. Then, slowly, he pulled out the chair opposite Joel and lowered himself into it with a sigh.

“What if I put her with you?” Tommy offered gently. “That way, you can keep an eye on her. That way she’s not out there without you.”

But Joel was already shaking his head. “No,” he said, voice catching. “She won’t—she won’t want to.”

He looked up then, eyes glassy, his jaw locked hard like he was holding something in. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, like he could stop the ache from rising if he just held on tight enough.

“She doesn't wanna be near me. You should’ve seen her face, Tommy.” His voice cracked—just enough to make Tommy’s heart sink. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“You don’t gotta fix it all at once, Joel.” Tommy’s voice was quiet now, soft in a way he rarely let it be, especially with his brother.

“I gave her the letter,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Slid it under her door.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, he didn’t speak—just nodded slowly, letting the words sink between them.

“Good,” Tommy said eventually, not like it solved anything, not like it made everything better—but like it mattered. Like it was enough for now. “That’s all you can do. You gave her the truth. You let her know what’s real.”

Joel’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze still locked on his hands like he was afraid to look up and see something already gone. “And now?” he asked, rough and low, not really wanting the answer.

Tommy shrugged gently, his voice soft but steady. “Now you give her time.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The air near the gates was thick with a kind of tension that didn’t need to be named—tight and humming, quiet but unmistakable.

You could feel it in the way no one spoke louder than necessary, in the clipped tones and furrowed brows, in the way gloved hands checked and re-checked weapons like prayer. Even the horses were restless, hooves shifting over packed dirt, tails flicking at dust that clung to the morning light.

You stood beside Winnie, her flank warm beneath your palm, your hand brushing along her side in slow, absent strokes. Not to calm her—though it helped—but to anchor yourself. Your fingers moved without thinking, without rhythm, just something to do while you listened, trying to keep your face unreadable.

There were ten of you total, gathered in a loose semi-circle inside the gates, just beyond the safety of Jackson’s walls. The perimeter fencing loomed at your back, tall and unforgiving, the gates themselves cracked slightly open—just enough to show the road stretching into the trees beyond. The unknown. The threat.

Tommy stood at the front, his voice steady, but firmer than usual, sharp around the edges like he was trying to cut through the weight pressing down on the group.

“Alright,” he said, eyes scanning across the faces before him, “we’re splitting into two teams. Group A cuts east—checks the southern ridge, sets eyes on the treeline near Old River Pass. Group B loops west along the perimeter fence, all the way down to station eight. We don’t stop. We don’t linger. If you see movement, you fall back. No heroics.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Even the birds had quieted. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.

“This ain’t like before,” Tommy continued, his voice carrying across the tension-thick clearing with a firm edge that left little room for misinterpretation.

“There’s been signs. Tracks, disturbed brush, maybe even a camp. We don’t think it’s infected. We think it’s people—raiders, maybe. Scavengers with nothin’ to lose. Probably armed”

You swallowed hard, the familiar heat of unease curling at the base of your spine.

“So listen,” he went on, pacing slowly in front of the line of patrol members. “Gear’s gotta be tight. Radios on and checked. Keep your eyes open, keep your goddamn mouth shut unless you see somethin’. We ain’t splittin’ up unless I say so. You see anything off, you speak. No guessin’. Got it?”

There was a soft murmur of agreement—tired voices, restless boots shuffling, the low creak of saddle leather and tightening belts.

Maria stood off to his side, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over the group like she was already calculating casualties she didn’t want to have.

“Alright,” Tommy said, flipping a page in his worn little notepad. “Group A—Maria, me, Mark, Riley, and Luca.”

There were nods, a few steps back as the first group began drifting toward their horses.

“Group B,” he went on, slower this time, glancing down before saying it out loud, “Joel. Toby. Oscar. Kev. And—” his eyes lifted to you just briefly, barely a pause—“you.”

You froze.

Your brows pulled together sharply, and your heart dropped like a stone in your chest. Before you could stop yourself, your head was already shaking—just once, instinctive and tight—and the words slipped out fast.

“Tommy,” you said, your voice cutting through the morning air. “That’s not the group you said this morning.”

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just turned a page, like you hadn’t spoken at all. Then, without looking up, he said flatly, “Change of plans.”

You blinked, lips parting, but the words wouldn’t come. Your pulse hammered. You felt the heat creeping up your neck, that horrible blend of confusion and panic, the sense that something was happening to you and you weren’t allowed to stop it.

Maria met your gaze across the space between you. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes said enough—don’t fight it.

Behind you, near the farthest edge of the group, Joel stood still as stone. His rifle was slung over one shoulder, the other hand curled around the reins of his horse, but his grip had gone tight—too tight. His knuckles had turned white. The leather creaked in his palm. His body didn’t shift, but his eyes were locked on you, tracing the outline of your silhouette with the kind of brutal quiet that said everything he couldn’t say out loud.

And when he heard your name fall into his group—fall into his orbit again—he didn’t let it show. Not much. But his breath caught. Just once. And something in him broke the way it always did when you were near and hurting and he wasn’t allowed to touch you.

He hadn’t seen your face from where he stood—hadn’t dared look—but he imagined it anyway, because that was worse: the not knowing, the endless guessing. He pictured the way your brows must’ve drawn together, soft and hurt and surprised, the way your mouth might’ve tightened to keep from showing too much, that faint flicker of disbelief you were never quite able to hide. And God—it gutted him. Tore through his chest like something feral, something sharp and old and aching.

Because he remembered.

Once, you would’ve turned toward him immediately—soft and curious and just a little bashful, like you hadn’t yet figured out how obvious it was that you adored him. Maybe you’d lift your hand in a small wave you always made seem accidental. Maybe you’d tilt your head, biting the inside of your cheek to hide how flustered you got when his eyes lingered too long.

Maybe you’d mumble, “So… what’re you cookin’ tonight, Joel?” like it wasn’t the fifth time that week you’d asked just to hear him grumble, “Whatever you want.”

Once, you would’ve asked if he needed help with the feed or if he remembered to bring your favorite muffins from the dining hall, always fussing in your quiet, tender way. Once, you would’ve lingered just a second longer when brushing past him, fingers brushing against his arm like a secret.

But not today.

Today there was nothing—no glance, no silly wink, no shy laugh thrown over your shoulder—and Joel felt the loss of it like a phantom limb.

Now, your hands were clenched. Your shoulders were rigid.

And Joel just stood there in the shadows, his heart splintering all over again, clutching the only thing left he could still hold onto—his silence.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The groups divided quickly, bodies shifting with the ease of practiced movement, but your feet stayed rooted to the dirt, your gaze fixed low, refusing to lift from the space just ahead of your boots.

You watched dust swirl with each step, let the murmur of names and orders buzz past your ears like background static. You didn’t look at Joel. Couldn’t. But you felt him—felt the weight of him behind you like a shadow you’d been carrying for weeks.

Oscar and Kev moved to your right—older, more experienced, their presence steady in that unshakeable way men grow into when they’ve seen too much. Oscar was already checking the walkie strapped to his vest, lips pressed in a firm line, his buzzed hair catching the low sun. He had the look of someone who didn’t speak unless he needed to, and when he did, it was with authority earned the hard way.

Kev was different—softer around the edges, though no less capable. Broad-shouldered and quiet, he carried himself with the calm of someone who’d seen the worst and still chose to be gentle. His dark beard was streaked with early grey, his eyes warm but worn, the kind that held stories he’d never tell unless asked the right way. You remembered him from the dining hall once, handing out trays and cracking a quiet joke to ease the tension in the line. The kind of man who made you feel safe without ever needing to say it out loud.

You half-expected Joel to speak—to take charge like he always did, not out of arrogance, but because people naturally deferred to him, because that calm, unspoken command lived in the way he held himself, in the way he moved like he’d already calculated every threat twice. But today, he said nothing. His eyes stayed low, his mouth tight, his body tense and unreadable.

Without realizing it, you mirrored him. Your shoulders pulled in, your arms folded across your chest, and your eyes dropped further, trying to ignore the pulse that thrummed painfully beneath your ribs.

“Same team,” Toby said beside you, nudging your elbow like it was a joke only the two of you shared. “Can’t stay away, huh?”

You nearly recoiled. The bile rose in your throat so quickly it almost surprised you, and it took everything in you not to visibly flinch, not to let it show on your face. You forced your jaw to stay shut, your expression neutral, but your stomach turned violently at the sound of his voice, at the sheer smugness of it.

Oscar’s voice broke through the tension like a dull blade through thick rope. “Group B’s takin’ the west trail,” he said, his tone brisk, no-nonsense. “We follow the outer perimeter, keep eyes on the ridge and fence lines all the way to station eight. No stops unless you see something. You got somethin’ to say, use your radio. Otherwise, we move clean.”

There were nods. No one questioned it.

You could feel Joel behind you—close but not close enough—and the space between you felt like it had teeth.

And still, he hadn’t looked at you.

And you hadn’t looked at him.

But your whole body was aching with the effort not to.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The team rode out in a staggered line, Oscar at the front with his posture stiff and upright, every movement economical, precise—the mark of a man who’d done this too many times to romanticize it anymore.

The rhythm of hooves against the trail was steady, muted by the dampness in the air and the moss-softened ground. The forest loomed on either side, branches arching overhead like the crooked ribs of something ancient and watchful. The morning light struggled to cut through the thick canopy, casting everything in a pale, haunted hue.

No one spoke much.

Even the horses moved differently that morning—quieter, more deliberate, like the world around them had taken one deep breath and held it. Their snorts were low and infrequent, the usual idle clatter of hooves against earth strangely absent. Ears twitched and turned like satellite dishes, catching sounds that hadn’t yet reached you. And beneath you, Winnie shifted restlessly, her gait uneven, tail flicking with agitation. You knew her too well not to notice. Her breaths were shorter, sharper, her chest rising just a bit quicker than usual.

She was alert—uneasy—and so were you. You leaned forward slightly, hand brushing gently along her neck in slow, familiar strokes, the way you always did when she was spooked. “It’s alright, girl,” you murmured, though your own voice sounded hollow in the stillness, a lie you wished you believed. Because something was wrong. You didn’t know what—but Winnie felt it. And so did you.

Toby sidled up beside you after a few miles, his saddle creaking with every sway of movement. He leaned slightly toward you with that too-easy grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “This trail’s quieter than Maria after two glasses of wine,” he joked, voice low, as if trying to get a laugh out of you like old times. “What, you think we’ll see any action today or just—”

Oscar didn’t even turn his head.

“Will you shut your damn mouth for five minutes?” he barked from the front, his voice sharp as cracked ice.

Toby blinked, startled, and pulled back slightly in the saddle. His jaw twitched like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. He muttered a quiet “sorry” and dropped behind you without another word.

Joel hadn’t spoken once. He trailed a few paces behind, close enough to hear if you said something but far enough to feel like a wall was wedged between your horses, between your breaths.

You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. But you felt him—like gravity tugging at your spine, like a storm stirring just behind your shoulder blades. Your hair was pulled back, and he could see the slope of your neck, bare and delicate in the late afternoon light. The breeze didn't touch you the way his gaze did—hot, unrelenting, reverent.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The further you rode, the heavier the air seemed to grow.

It was subtle at first. The way the wind shifted. The way the usual birdsong dulled into absence. The way even the trees seemed to lean in just slightly, their branches crowding the trail like they knew something you didn’t. It pressed in against your skin, prickling along your arms beneath your clothing, crawling up the back of your neck. That deep, instinctive kind of wrongness you couldn’t name—only feel.

You swallowed hard, trying to will the sensation away, to chalk it up to nerves or sleep deprivation, but it clung to you like smoke—insistent, sour, and rooted too deep to ignore.

Your fingers hovered over the radio clipped to your belt, brushing the button with just enough pressure to feel the texture beneath your skin—not to speak, not yet, but to steady yourself. The air had shifted around you, gone heavy and strange, and even the trees felt unnaturally still, as if the world was holding its breath.

You didn’t hear Joel speak behind you—he hadn’t. But somehow, you knew he felt it too.

Your head turned before you could stop it, drawn by instinct, and there he was—already watching you. His face mirrored your own, brows drawn, mouth tight, eyes fixed on yours like they were searching for something unsaid. He didn’t need to ask. He could read it in your breathing, the tension in your jaw, the way your hand hovered just a little too close to your saddlebag. You could see the silent question in his eyes, carved beneath the worry: What is it?

You didn’t answer. Just turned back, your gaze narrowing as it swept across the trail ahead.

That’s when you saw it.

The brush near the fence line had been disturbed—not by hoofprints or boot tracks, but by something dragged. The earth was torn in messy patterns, uneven and careless. A smear of weight where it didn’t belong.

And half-buried in the dirt—just barely catching the light—was the glint of metal. Not rusted. Not weathered by time. It was clean. Sharp. New.

Your fingers curled slowly at your side, tension crawling beneath your skin. “I think we should stop,” you said quietly, your voice carried off too easily by the breeze. It landed softly, unheard—lost before it ever had the chance to reach anyone.

Oscar didn’t respond. He stayed ahead of you, focused and composed, his posture unbothered as he scanned the horizon with the easy precision of someone who’d done this too many times to doubt his instincts.

Your breath was beginning to pick up, light and uneven. You looked down again, and something in your chest tightened. The ground had been disturbed. Not trampled. Dragged. A long, uneven impression, the kind that comes from something heavy being pulled where it shouldn't be. And there, almost buried in the mud, was the broken shaft of an arrow—splintered at the tip, freshly snapped.

You sat up straighter, eyes sweeping the treeline now, and you didn’t try to hide the urgency in your voice when you said, louder this time, “I think we should turn around.”

Oscar finally reined in his horse and twisted around to glance at you, irritation flickering in his expression. “Unless you give me a damn good rea—”

He never finished.

There was a sharp sound—thin, sudden, slicing through the air. It wasn’t the snap of a branch or the crunch of a footstep. It was cleaner than that. Tighter. A wire. Stretched taut just above the trail, so fine it caught the light for a split second before it snapped.

And then the world vanished.

Not fire. Not bullets. Not yet.

Just smoke—thick, choking, immediate—rising all at once in a grey wall that swallowed the trail, the trees, the sky. It hit fast, a flood of movement and nothingness all at once, erasing every shape, every edge, every sound. The sting came next—chemical and sharp, flooding your nose, your throat, burning behind your eyes. You reached blindly, breath caught in your chest, coughing, choking, trying to make sense of anything through the sudden blur.

Horses screamed. Hooves thundered and skidded wildly on gravel, metal bits clinking in panic as saddles shifted and reins slipped. Winnie reared hard, her front legs kicking into the air as her ears pinned flat and her body twisted beneath you. You clung to the saddle for half a second too long before your grip gave out and your body hit the earth with a dull, punishing thud.

Pain bloomed hot in your shoulder as you hit the ground hard, your breath knocked clean out of your lungs. You rolled, instinct taking over, gravel and dirt biting at your palms as you dragged yourself toward the nearest thing that resembled cover—an old, gnarled tree just off the path, half-swallowed by overgrowth. You ducked low behind it, coughing, eyes burning, your heart a war drum in your chest.

Voices tore through the smoke, fractured and inhuman, slicing the air in sharp, panicked bursts. “Down! Down, down, down!” Oscar—his voice hard with command, already fading, scattered by the rolling haze.

Then came something else.

Your name.

Not shouted. Not barked like the others. But torn from a throat already fraying. A voice rough and low, cracked wide open by fear. Joel’s voice. It hit you like lightning splitting bark—sudden and shattering, tearing through the chaos in a way nothing else could.

He said it again—your name—hoarse, broken, pleading.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, your palm slipping in the damp earth, lungs seizing as you coughed through the chemical sting. Smoke curled thick around you, swallowing the forest, turning trees into ghosts. You blinked hard, gasping against the burn in your throat, eyes scanning for anything—any shape, any movement—but the world had dissolved into shadow.

“Joel!” you cried out, your voice catching on his name like it was the only thing tethering you to your body.

There was no answer. Only the distant groan of a horse, the sharp crack of gunfire muffled by smoke, and the sound of your own heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. The silence where his voice should have been hollowed something out in your chest.

You tried to move again—crawling this time, one hand clutched to your side, the other fumbling blindly for the radio clipped to your belt—but your fingers were trembling too hard to hold anything steady. You could feel your pulse in your teeth, in your spine, in the way your breath stuttered out in short, burning gasps.

The smoke had begun to thin, curling away from the trees in soft grey ribbons that left behind a trail of shattered breath and scattered noise, like the world was just now exhaling after holding itself still too long.

The air stung in your throat, and your ears still rang faintly from the blast, like the trees were humming with leftover tension. Everything looked smeared—muddy and surreal. The ground was torn in places where hooves had slipped, the trail churned up like something violent had passed through and left the earth gasping in its wake.

You were deep in the tree line, flung wide from the blast’s shock. It was impossible to know how far the others were—just silhouettes in the distance. But now, shapes began to reemerge.

Oscar came into focus first, crouched behind a split log with Kev beside him. Oscar’s face was tight, smeared with ash and blood, eyes narrowed in sharp assessment. Kev's jaw clenched so tightly it pulsed beneath his skin, hands trembling faintly around the grip of his rifle.

And then movement to your right.

A shadow cut through the haze. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The shape of someone who could never be anyone else.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The faint, urgent rhythm of boots brushing through gravel and pine needles, quick but measured, deliberate. Not running. Not reckless. Searching. Careful in a way that told you he was trying not to draw attention—trying to get to you without giving himself away.

Then Joel emerged—pushed out of the haze like a ghost made real again, breath ragged, eyes sharp and scanning until they landed on you. And the moment they did, you watched him shift entirely.

His shoulders, drawn tight with tension, dropped all at once. His jaw unclenched. His hands fell from where they'd hovered near his gun—ready for a fight, ready for blood—as though seeing you let the violence drain from him.

He crossed the distance fast, silent and sure, crouching low as he moved, his boots barely making a sound as he closed the space between you in three long strides. Then he was dropping to his knees beside you like gravity had yanked him down—like the second his eyes found yours, the world stopped needing anything else.

His hands found your face like a prayer—trembling slightly, calloused palms brushing over ash and sweat as if touch alone could convince him you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to protect.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice rough at the edges, hoarse from smoke and shouting, but quieter now. Lower. Like speaking any louder might shatter you both. “You hurt?”

You blinked up at him, still stunned, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, and without thinking, your hand lifted to curl around his forearm. Your fingers tightened in the thick fabric of his sleeve like it could tether you to something solid.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

But your voice cracked, just barely, and he didn’t believe you. Not yet. His eyes had already dropped again, scanning your body like a checklist—your limbs, your face, the tear in your jacket sleeve, the dirt smudged across your cheek. He shook his head once, fast, like he couldn’t take the way your voice had wavered.

“Jesus,” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re sure? You’re really—”

“I promise,” you cut in, firmer this time. Your fingers tightened around his arm, grounding yourself in the heat of him, the strength of him, the sheer realness of him crouched there in the smoke. “I’m okay.”

Joel’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, and in that breath of stillness, something unspoken passed between you—something hot and heavy, thrumming in the air like static before a storm. His eyes moved over your face like he was trying to etch you into memory, like part of him still didn’t believe you were really here, really safe. His mouth parted, like he might say something—something bigger, something that would shift the ground beneath you both—but then he blinked, jaw tightening as he turned. That look was gone.

Back to soldier. Back to survivor.

His shoulders straightened, and he scanned the treeline with sharp, practiced precision. You followed his line of sight, saw his eyes catch Oscar’s through the thinning haze. A single nod passed between them—silent, sure. A language forged in fire.

You turned with him, exhaling slowly. Your lungs still burned, but for a moment, your breath was steady. The smoke had thinned just enough to see a few feet ahead.

Then a voice cut through the clearing—uncertain, stumbling.

“Guys? Where are you? I can't see shit—”

Your heart stopped. Your whole body lurched forward before you even realized you were moving.

“Toby—”

But the word barely left your mouth before Joel’s hand was over it—swift, firm, covering you completely.

“Don’t,” he breathed, voice low and dangerous against your ear.

His other arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you flush against him, his body locking around yours like armor. He moved with the instinct of someone who’d lived through too many ambushes, who knew how fast the world could turn. But it wasn’t just training—it was you. It was you.

You felt the weight of his chest against your back, the press of his ribs as he breathed shallow through smoke, and underneath it all, the pounding of his heart—steady, relentless, like it was trying to shield yours with its rhythm. His head ducked low beside yours, close enough for his stubble to graze your temple, close enough that your entire body pulsed with the heat of him.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the base of your spine, as Toby stumbled into the clearing, arms raised in surrender, head turning side to side like he was still waiting for someone to call his name, still searching for a face he trusted in a place where there were none. His mouth opened—just a breath, just enough to form a sound that never came—and then the shot rang out.

One shot. Precise.

So clean, so fast, it barely made a sound at all.

His body jerked once—sharp and sudden—before crumpling forward, his face collapsing into the dirt first, the rest of him folding after like the earth had reached up and swallowed him whole. A single bullet. A single second. And he was gone.

You gasped—reflexive, panicked—but the sound never made it past Joel’s hand. His palm was already there, steady and warm, covering your mouth before the scream could tear its way free. You turned into his chest without thinking, your eyes squeezing shut, trying—failing—to erase the image already burned into your mind, one you knew you’d never be able to forget no matter how many times you blinked it away.

Joel didn’t speak.

He didn’t loosen his grip or let the moment pass.

He just held you—arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you closer like instinct, like devotion, like prayer. Your hands fisted into the thick fabric of his jacket, gripping hard, needing something to hold that wasn’t death or smoke or the sound of that shot echoing in your skull. And still, he didn’t let go. Didn’t flinch. His breath caught above you—just once, ragged—but his touch never faltered. One hand stayed firm across your back while the other rose to cradle your head, fingers weaving into your hair, guiding you gently into the warm crook of his neck like you belonged there—like you’d always belonged there.

You shifted, just barely—head lifting like you needed to see for yourself, to make sure this was real, to confirm that what had just happened wasn’t some nightmare you could blink away—but Joel stopped you with a gentle, anchoring pressure, his palm against the back of your head, guiding you back into the curve of his neck before your eyes could catch even a glimpse of the blood on the ground.

“Don’t look, baby,” he murmured, the words rasping out low and hoarse, tight with something broken and breathless, like saying them cost him something. “Don’t look. Just breathe, alright? C’mon now… breathe for me.”

You tried but your throat was a knot pulled too tight to loosen, your lungs full of smoke and fear and grief, and your heart wouldn’t stop its wild, stuttering rhythm.

There were no commands now, no gunfire, no screaming through the static of panic. Just you and him, wrapped in the slow, aching quiet that follows after everything’s gone wrong, your breathing sharp and unsteady until it wasn’t, until it started to slow, pulled down by the rhythm of his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles at the base of your skull—soothing, grounding, the only thing tethering you to the moment.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Maybe it was two minutes. Maybe twenty.

Every now and then, he would whisper something low against your ear—soft things, broken things, things he probably didn’t even realize he was saying, like “I’ve got you,” and “You’re safe,” and “I’m right here, baby, I aint goin’ nowhere”.

But even as he whispered those broken reassurances—soft things meant to calm, to soothe, to keep your panic from blooming again—his eyes never stopped moving. Sharp and precise, they flicked over your shoulder, past the sanctuary of your body pressed against his, toward the treeline where Oscar and Kev had taken cover just beyond the clearing.

There were no words. No gestures. Just a look—quiet, practiced, full of history. The kind of silent agreement shared between men who had seen too many exits covered in blood. The kind that didn’t need to say we can’t stay here because everyone already knew.

Oscar gave the slightest nod.

Kev was already moving, slipping westward into the trees, low and careful, boots silent over moss and soil.

And Joel—he exhaled then, slow and tight, like the breath was pulled from someplace deep inside him, from the part of him still trying to stay calm for your sake, still trying to keep it all stitched together.

His hands came up slowly, cupping your face with a kind of care that bordered on reverence, rough palms warm against your skin, thumbs brushing gently over the tear-tracks still drying along your cheeks. They were trembling—just enough for you to feel it, just enough to betray the wreckage underneath the calm. He tilted your face up to his, not forcefully, just enough to see you, to really see you, and his eyes searched yours like he was committing you to memory. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get to see you like this again.

And still, even with the fear knotting in his chest and the tension coiled so tightly in his spine he could barely breathe, Joel’s voice stayed quiet—tightly controlled, rasped raw from smoke and worry, but steady in that way only he could be when everything else was falling apart.

“Look at me,” he whispered, so close now that your noses almost brushed, so close you could feel the uneven cadence of his breath against your lips. “Right here. Eyes on me.”

And you looked.

God, you looked.

And the expression on your face just about undid him.

The sheer, unfiltered fear swimming in your eyes. The tears caught in your lashes. The way you leaned into his touch without even realizing it, pressing into his palms like they were the only place you’d ever felt safe.

“I need you to listen to me, alright?” he said, his voice firmer now, “This ain’t up for debate.”

You blinked, chest still rising too fast, breath shaky, adrenaline humming through every inch of your body like static—but you nodded. Small. Fragile. But you nodded.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, and he tilted your face gently, his hand still cradling your cheek like you were something breakable he couldn’t afford to lose. “Kev and Oscar are set up just behind that ridge, six o’clock,” he murmured, glancing only once over your shoulder before pointing—subtle, precise—to a narrow gap in the dense brush. “You see that break in the trees? That’s your opening.”

His eyes locked back on yours, steady, burning.

“When I say go, you run. Fast as you can. You don’t stop, you don’t look back, and you don’t wait for me. You hear me?”

“Joel—”

“No.” The word cracked through the air like a whip, hard and final, slicing through the space between you. “Don’t argue with me.”

You flinched, not from the volume—he hadn’t raised his voice much at all—but from the way it sounded like he was barely holding it together. Your hands fisted tighter in the front of his jacket, fingers trembling where they clung to him like you were afraid that if you let go, he’d disappear into the smoke. “I’m not leavin’ you here,” you said, voice breaking. “I can’t—”

“Yes,” he cut in, and this time, his voice wavered—not from doubt, but from the weight of his need. His eyes burned, not with anger, but something far more dangerous: desperation, tangled with fear. “Yes, you are. You are, ‘cause I need you safe. You understand me? We’ve had this talk too many times—you don’t get to be stubborn now.”

And you had. Too many times on patrol. Too many quiet warnings hissed through gritted teeth when things got bad. If it goes south, you run. If I go down, you keep movin’. But it had never come to this. Not like this.

“You go,” he said again, voice lower now, rough and raw like it had been dragged over gravel. “You run straight for ‘em. Kev’ll pull you behind cover. I’ll be right behind you, but I need you to move when I say it. If you freeze—if you hesitate—they’ll shoot. And I…” He stopped again, jaw clenching hard enough to tremble, his breath shaking like it hurt to let it out. “That ain’t gonna happen. You hear me?”

His thumb swept gently beneath your eye, catching a tear that hadn’t quite fallen, then hovered at your cheekbone, trembling—just slightly, just enough for you to feel the truth of it.

“Don’t make me lose you, sweetheart,” he murmured, and the words cracked at the edges, something old and raw stitched into every syllable. “Not here. Not like this.”

Then, almost too quietly to catch, he let out the softest huff of breath—half a laugh, but hollow, like it hurt. “We still got too much shit to sort out,” he added, and it almost sounded like a joke, except you could hear the grief in it. Like he already knew he wouldn’t get the time.

Your chest pulled tight.

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat, stuck between a sob and a plea, and even as your head shook, even as your hands curled tighter in the fabric of his jacket, you whispered, “I don’t wanna leave you.”

Joel leaned in—slow and careful—until his forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, like he was pouring everything into the small space between you. His fingers threaded through your hair, grounding you, steadying himself. For a moment, the world disappeared. There was only the soft scratch of his stubble, the rise and fall of his breath, and the ache that pulsed like a heartbeat beneath your skin.

“I know,” he whispered, and the words sounded like they cost him everything to say. Like they were carved from something deep and ancient inside him—something he hadn’t let anyone touch in years. “I know, baby. But I need you to do this anyway.”

And when he pulled back—just far enough to see your face again, to look into your eyes like he was memorizing them one last time—his voice dropped lower, softer, almost too fragile to carry.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded—barely, just the smallest tremble of movement—but it was enough.

“Then run when I say run,” he whispered, and as he spoke, his forehead pressed to yours again, anchoring you in place, his voice low and broken and so close it might’ve been your own heartbeat. “And don’t you dare stop ‘til someone’s got their hands on you. You hear me? Not until you’re safe.”

Your fingers curled tighter into the collar of his coat, clutching at the worn fabric like the ground itself was dissolving beneath you, like letting go of him would send you straight into the abyss.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice catching, panic starting to spill into the edges of your words. “Joel, I’m scared.” the reality of it crashed down mid-sentence, cutting off your breath, and the words tumbled out in a whisper, broken and scared.

Your gaze flicked toward the path he’d told you to run—no more than fifteen meters, but it looked like a mile through the smoke and chaos—and you could just barely see the tops of Kev and Oscar’s heads where they were crouched behind cover. You didn’t know where the others were, didn’t know how many were watching, or waiting, or aiming.

And neither did he.

Joel’s eyes slipped shut for a moment, just one, and when they opened again, you saw it—the tight clench of his jaw, the muscle twitching beneath two days’ worth of stubble, the way his breath dragged heavy through his nose like he was trying to keep something from breaking loose inside his chest. He was scared, too. You saw it. Felt it.

“I know you are,” Joel said softly, his voice just above a whisper, and then he leaned back just far enough to look you in the eye again, “But I’m watchin’ you,” he murmured, the words rough but steady, “You understand? I’m not takin’ my eyes off you—not for a damn second.”

He nodded toward the trees, toward the fractured silhouette of Oscar just visible through the smoke, crouched and waiting, already locked into place. “I’ll be coverin’ you. He’s already got position. You run like hell sweetheart and you don’t stop ‘til someone’s got their hands on you. You don’t look back. You don’t wait. You just go. You hear me?”

His gaze flicked back toward the ridge—sharp, trained, relentless—and then he moved, finally letting go, his hands steady as he guided you into a crouch, his body shielding yours as he turned you gently toward the open stretch of path ahead.

And then—so soft, so hesitant it barely formed a sound—you whispered, “Wait,” the word trembling on your lips as you turned back toward him, the breath you took catching in your throat like it wasn’t sure it was allowed.

He didn’t speak at first, but his hand moved gently to the back of your head again, fingers curling into your hair with the kind of care a man like him didn’t offer easily. He pulled you close, cradling you into his chest, and bent down just far enough to press his lips into your hair—just once. A soft kiss. A goodbye that didn’t want to be one.

“We’re outta time, baby,” he whispered into the crown of your head, the words warm and ragged and final. “You gotta go.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. Not just fear—no, it was everything.

Your throat burned, and suddenly, the need to speak, to say it, clawed its way up from your chest like a scream.

“Joel, I—” you choked out, the words cracking as they left your mouth, unraveling under the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you weren’t sure you’d ever get to say. Your hand found his face—your fingers trembling as they pressed against the scruff of his jaw, as if the warmth of his skin could tether you to this moment, this breath, this heartbeat that might be your last together.

Your body trembled, but it wasn’t just fear—it was love, feral and desperate, clawing its way up your throat like a prayer you couldn’t voice, like a confession you’d swallowed for far too long. You didn’t say it out loud. But it was everywhere. In the way you looked at him. In the way your hand shook on his face. In the way your eyes burned with everything you never meant to keep hidden.

I love you, your hand whispered.

I love you, your silence cried.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And Joel—Joel felt every syllable like a blade sliding beneath his ribs. His breath caught, his chest tightened, and for a second, the world went quiet. His hand came up slowly, reverently, covering yours where it cupped his cheek, holding it there like he didn’t trust the world to let him feel this again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles—once, twice—like he was memorizing you by touch.

“I know, babygirl,” he said, voice rough and ragged like he’d had to drag it out from somewhere deep in his chest, the place where he kept all the things he never said. “Me too. Always.” And then he turned his face, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his lips to the inside of your palm—slow, deliberate, aching. Like the kiss was a promise.

And for a heartbeat more, he let it live there between you.

But then, the world came rushing back.

His body stiffened, shoulders squaring, breath sharpening—not with fear, but resolve. The softness bled from his features, leaving only the man who had survived a lifetime of war and loss. He stepped back half a pace as his hand slipped from yours. His fingers found his rifle like muscle memory.

His voice changed. No less tender, but edged now—steel wrapped in honey.

“Now run,” he ordered, gaze locked to yours, unwavering. “Go.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

EEEEKKK HOW ARE WE FEEELINNGGG

@bbyanarchist @kanyewestest @locked-ness @bambisweethearts @pedritospunk @ickearmn @joeldjarin @disco-barbiexx @sherrye22 @vxrona @ashhlsstuff @dendulinka6 @ashhlsstuff @r4vens-cl4ws @divineangel222 @jasminedragoon @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @handsintheeaire @jaxmom66 @ashleyfilm @kateg88 @tigerlillyyy

@jethrojessie @eddiemunsonsbedroom @flowerydindjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @oscarpiasstri81 @tldix @grumpygrumperton

@dendulinka6 @agnus04 @tigerlillyyy @vampiredoggies-blog @julwar67 @kateg88 @martuxduckling @guessitwillallworkout @anoverwhelmingdin @thottiewinemom @keepspassinmeby @disco-barbiexx @emisprocrastinating @cuteanimalmama @moulinrougcs @lottieellz101 @laliceee @grumpygrumperton @meet-me-backstage @spacegirl-3 @nixpat-blog @martuxduckling

@materialgirl-97 @valkyreally @suzysface @ro-nahime-things @spacelatinos4life @churchofjoemiller @peepawispunk @materialgirl-97 @6w1sdomt33th @churchofjoemiller @ccmoonshine @missladym1981 @ro-nahime-things @deansimpalagirl @blackholegladiator @dendulinka6

297 notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 1 month ago

Text

My Masterlist!

SERIES

🌶️ - indicates smut !!!! (18+ only MDNI)

❀ Cupid of Wyoming (Ongoing)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4|

❀ First Date (Ongoing)

❀ Guns & Roses (Ongoing)

🌶️ Feels Right (Ongoing) (18+ MDNI - warnings stepdad!joel)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

🌶️ For the Hour (Ongoing) (18+ MDNI)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

❀ Castillo & Co (Ongoing)

Chapter 1

🌶️ Dark Matter (Ongoing) (18+ MDNI)

Chapter 1 |

🌶️ Tangled in Paradise (Ongoing) (18+ MDNI)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |

❀❀

Dividers credit !

❀❀

995 notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 1 month ago

Text

Okay, this is 18+ content.

2K notes · View notes

hellcaster901 · 1 month ago

Text

Feels Right (Part 3)

part 1, part 2

warnings: stepdad!joel, public groping??, small injury, fingering, oral, major daddy kink (duh), dirty-talk, lowkey baby-talk??, basically filth so pls read with caution!!! just to clarify reader is in her mid 20's!!

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

Beach day, as your mother so wisely declared at the dinner table the night before, came wrapped in wine-hazy excitement and that saccharine domestic enthusiasm she always mustered after two glasses of pinot, her voice laced with forced cheer as she reached across the table and placed her hand delicately on Joel’s forearm—his forearm, the same one you’d clung to hours earlier while he had his face buried between your thighs, moaning into your pussy like it was his goddamn religion.

“Oh, won’t it be nice, Joel?” she said, her voice all flutter and warmth, fingers trailing up toward his elbow in a way that made your stomach twist. “The sun’ll be shining. I’ll make those sandwiches—the ones you like, with the mustard and the little pickles.” She laughed, soft and dreamy, like it was a memory she was already holding, like this was something normal, something sweet. “How’s that sound, honey?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His beer bottle was resting in his hand, his thumb slowly dragging condensation down the side as his eyes shifted, casually, toward you. Not her. Not the lasagna. You.

Your gaze was fixed on your plate—on the half-eaten mess of dinner you could barely force down.

“Sweetheart?” Joel said, the word rolling off his tongue with that easy, Southern lilt that always managed to destroy you. “What d’ya say?”

You looked up slowly, lashes heavy, eyes glassy, heat blooming behind your cheeks as your gaze met his—those old, kind, tired eyes that had watched you break apart in his lap, that had looked through you when he said, "You were made to ride this face, baby."

“The beach?” you echoed, voice low, dazed, barely holding onto the thread of the conversation as the edges of the room seemed to blur, your fingers absently tracing the condensation on your glass while your mind remained hopelessly tangled in the afternoon—in the weight of his hands pinning you down, the grind of his tongue, the growl he made when you sobbed his name, the way he licked you like he was starving and you were his final, favorite meal.

You still felt the ache between your thighs, the ghost of his stubble scraping your skin, and now he wanted to talk about the beach?

“Yeah,” Joel hummed, not looking at your mother, not even pretending anymore, his gaze resting steady on you as he leaned back in his chair, his voice wrapped in quiet suggestion, laced with amusement, “sounds nice. Get ya outta the house for a bit.”

“Yeah, she needs that,” your mother added quickly, too quickly, her tone light but laced with that quiet edge she always carried when she was trying not to sound critical—which only made it worse. She didn’t mean anything by it, not really, but it still landed sharp and familiar, that gentle, backhanded concern. “You’ve been moping around here all week, sweetheart.”

You blinked once, twice, lashes fluttering slow as you sat straighter in your seat, forcing a breath in through your nose as your face flushed—not from her words, but from the way Joel was still watching you, eyes dark and steady like he knew you were reliving every second of earlier, like he wanted you to.

“Okay,” you murmured, sighing softly as you picked up your fork again, your appetite still gone, your mind still far, far away. “Sure.”

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

It was the perfect day for the beach—blue sky stretching wide and endless, the sunlight dripping gold over everything, the breeze warm but not cruel, salt-sweet and tousling your hair just enough to feel cinematic. Your mom had been right, as she often was about these sorts of things, and the part of you that wasn’t still emotionally limping from being eaten out like a dying prayer wanted to admit it—it was nice. You’d followed behind her and Joel as they made their way across the sand, your mother in a one-piece that had far too much cleavage for someone her age, the floral pattern pulling at all the wrong places, her voice chipper as she talked about beach towels and SPF while Joel walked beside her like he hadn’t had his mouth on your pussy twenty-four hours ago.

He carried everything with ease—cooler in one hand, umbrella under the other arm, your mom’s tote bag slung over his shoulder without complaint—and his white T-shirt clung to his back, sweat already blooming down the spine, catching where the fabric stuck and making your mouth dry. His hair moved with the wind, ruffled and wild, and you watched him in silence, that tight, hot ache returning low in your belly like muscle memory, like your body was already bracing for what it knew he could do to you.

“Alright,” your mom sighed contentedly, settling into one of the beach chairs with a groan, adjusting her sunglasses and cracking open a can of something too pink to be water. “This is heaven.”

You nodded absently, but your eyes never left Joel as he dropped the cooler beside her and then turned to face the water, squinting toward the waves with one hand shading his brow, the wind pressing his shirt tight against his chest, revealing the outline of his shoulders, his arms, the slope of his stomach, the veins in his forearms that made you dizzy.

And maybe it was the heat, or the breeze, or the fact that you were already damp between your thighs before you'd even sat down—but when he looked over his shoulder, found you watching, and gave you that crooked, knowing smirk, something in you clenched tight, sharp and secret.

Because this beach trip wasn’t going to be innocent.

He wasn’t going to let it be.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

Your mother had, of course, run into someone she knew—and was now standing further down the beach, arms animated, laughing too loud in that slightly performative way she always did when she wanted to be remembered fondly.

You could hear the hum of her voice over the breeze, a social little echo floating back toward where you lay on your towel, eyes closed, limbs stretched out, the sun making your skin feel warm and weightless. Joel sat beside you, quiet and still, sipping slowly from a bottle of water, his sunglasses low on his nose as he watched you like he wasn’t watching you at all.

“You need more sunscreen, baby,” he murmured suddenly, the words soft but firm, his voice curling low against the sound of the waves, thumb pressing gently into your arm as if testing the skin, watching it pale and bloom beneath the pressure. “You’re burnin’.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, voice loose and airy, caught in a mix of sun-induced haze and the deeper, headier daze that always settled over you when he was near, when his words brushed your skin like fingers and his hands always lingered a second too long.

Joel didn’t move. He didn’t laugh or tease or tug the corner of his mouth like he sometimes did. He just leaned down, voice dropping half an octave as he said, almost sweetly, “Not takin’ no for an answer. You know it’s my job to take care of you.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—my job—like he was your stepfather in a legal sense but your keeper in every other one, like it was ordained, like he’d earned the right to touch you, protect you, own you. Maybe that’s why you didn’t say anything when you felt him shift beside you, the rustle of his fingers near your spine, the soft pull of a knot being loosened.

Your eyes fluttered open just in time to feel the strings of your bikini top slip free—a gentle unraveling—and you gasped, sitting up halfway in alarm, your hand reaching to grab his forearm, sun-warmed and solid under your grip. “Joel!” you hissed, panic fluttering through your chest like birds in a cage.

He turned his head toward you, completely unbothered, eyes shaded behind his lenses, his hand still resting at the small of your back as he gave the faintest shrug.

“What?” he said, voice calm, patient, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little as he leaned in closer. “Gotta get this skin too. Can’t have you burnin’ where daddy likes to put his mouth.”

And then he smiled—so soft, so normal, like it wasn’t a filthy declaration disguised as fatherly concern, like he hadn’t just said it where anyone could hear if they wandered too close.

But you didn’t push his hand away. You didn’t retie the top. You laid back down, heart pounding, because you knew he wasn’t going to stop. And worse—you didn’t want him to.

He looked back once—just once—to make sure your mother was still deep in conversation down the beach, her laugh echoing faintly over the crash of the waves, too far to see, too far to hear, too far to save you from what he was about to do.

Then, with one hand braced beside your hip, Joel reached down, hooked two fingers beneath the loosened edge of your bikini top, and tugged it down, slow and shameless, until your breasts spilled free into the warm afternoon sun, the tan line stark and humiliating as it revealed just how much skin he was claiming as his.

You gasped—a sharp, startled sound—and tried to squirm away, but he was already reaching for the sunscreen bottle, uncapping it with one practiced flick of his thumb, eyes dark and hungry behind the shield of his sunglasses. You opened your mouth to protest, to say anything, but then he squirted a long line of cold lotion across your chest, thick and slick, and the only thing that came out of you was a whimper.

“Relax, sugar,” Joel murmured, rubbing his palms together once before settling them firmly on your bare chest, his fingers spreading wide as he began to massage the lotion into your skin in slow, maddening circles—thumbs sweeping over your nipples with no shame, no pause, no mercy. “Can’t have these pretty little tits gettin’ all pink and tender, now can we?”

You squirmed under his touch, your legs shifting uselessly against the towel, breath hitching with every slow, possessive glide of his fingers. He wasn’t just covering you—he was claiming you, kneading your breasts with a reverence that bordered on obscene, his hands both soothing and filthy, gentle and cruel in how they refused to stop.

“Goddamn,” he muttered under his breath, giving one breast a firm squeeze before his fingers circled the nipple and pinched, just hard enough to make your hips jerk. “I swear to God, baby, these’re the sweetest damn handfuls I ever touched. You know that? You got yourself the perfect pair of peaches, don’t you?”

You whined, cheeks flushed, back arching off the towel as his hands worked over your chest like he was trying to ruin you out here, in public, in daylight, with your mother one scream away.

“What’s that?” Joel teased, his voice low and syrup-smooth as he leaned closer, rubbing a little harder now, fingers tweaking and tugging as he spoke. “You squirmin’ ‘cause you like it? Huh, babygirl? You gettin’ all hot when daddy’s lotionin’ up his favorite girls?”

You made a choked sound—part gasp, part sob—as his fingers rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand sliding down to cup the underside of your tit with a groan.

“Shit, look at these,” he breathed. “Fit in my hands like they were made for me. God made these just for daddy, didn’t He? Little sun-kissed clouds, just beggin’ to be licked clean.”

You tried to pull the towel up—tried to hide—but he caught your wrist, gently, easily, and pressed it back down.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, shaking his head as he leaned down to press a slow, filthy kiss just above your nipple, barely resisting the urge to suck it into his mouth. “You’re gonna lay right here and let me take care of you, sunshine. Just like a good girl should.”

“Joel,” you whispered, voice tight and breathless, your hand clutched the edge of the towel like it could somehow shield you from what was happening—what had already happened, your bikini top still askew, your chest still flushed from his touch. “Anyone could see.”

“Yeah,” he murmured without looking away from you, voice low and casual, like he was talking about the weather, not the fact that he’d just been massaging sunscreen into your tits like they were his personal stress balls. “But you’re not gonna stop me, are you?”

And you weren’t. God help you—you weren’t. You stayed perfectly still, chest heaving under the warm air, your nipples still stiff, skin hot and sticky, pulse thudding behind your knees like a warning bell you’d long since chosen to ignore.

Then, as if time had always been on his side, like he lived for precision and sin, Joel tugged your bikini top back up, slow and measured, his thumb grazing the swell of your breast one last time before tying it tight, securing you like a secret he wasn’t done keeping. He reached for the sunscreen bottle with one hand, rubbed some over his shoulders like nothing had happened at all—just as your mother’s voice rang out behind you, louder than it needed to be, sharp and familiar.

“Oh my God,” she huffed, flopping back into her beach chair, sunglasses perched crookedly atop her head. “Susan talks for hours, I swear. We were only supposed to catch up.” She glanced at Joel, already slick and golden under the sun. “Joel, darlin’, can you get my back with some of that?”

“’Course, honey,” he said easily, his drawl thick and utterly unbothered, already rising to his feet and shaking the bottle in his hand as if he hadn’t just buried his hands in your tits like they were property. You watched him step behind her, the way his hands hovered just above her skin, the same hands that had squeezed you raw, his mouth now a straight line, his eyes flicking to yours like he knew.

You stood, quickly, too quickly. “I’m going in the water,” you muttered, your voice tight, brittle with something that hurt more than it should have.

Your mother turned just slightly, not even glancing up. “Alright,” she said lightly, tipping her head forward so Joel could rub the sunscreen across her shoulders. “Don’t be goin’ too far now.”

You nodded, throat dry, trying not to let the jealousy show in your walk—even though your chest was tight and your eyes burned, even though your skin still tingled from where his fingers had worked you over like you were something soft and sacred.

You moved across the hot sand without looking back, feet sinking into the grains, your hair sticking to your shoulders, your bikini clinging in all the wrong places—and you refused to imagine Joel's hands now on her, rubbing that same lotion into her back with that easy, practiced calm he used on everything.

But behind you, Joel’s gaze never left you. He watched the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass peeking out from your too-small bikini bottoms, his eyes catching on the line where the sun kissed skin he hadn’t touched yet—and he sighed, low and quiet to himself, like he genuinely regretted not rubbing sunscreen there too.

“Damn fool,” he thought. “She’s gonna burn. Shoulda done her thighs, her hips—’specially that sweet little ass. Gonna be red as a tomato come sundown.”

There was a flicker of genuine concern there, buried under the lust—a deranged, backward, unholy sort of protectiveness that made his jaw clench and his chest feel tight, the way only someone truly fucked in the head would feel about a girl he’d just groped under a towel while her mother passed out wine coolers ten feet away.

Your mother sighed dramatically from her chair, pulling her sunglasses down enough to squint after you, her tone casual but edged with disapproval. “Don’t you think that swimsuit’s a little small for her?” she muttered, mostly to herself but loud enough for Joel to hear as she passed him the bottle again.

Joel’s fingers squeezed around it just a little tighter, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say anything at first.

Because all he could think about was how that “too-small” swimsuit had fit like a dream under his palms, how good it would look bunched at your waist, how your ass would arch into his hand the second he slid it down just enough to see the line where tan met pale.

He rubbed the sunscreen over her shoulder slowly, his eyes still lingering on the water, on you. And then—softly, just low enough to pass—he said, “Fits her just fine, if you ask me.”

Your mother sighed, the kind of long-suffering exhale she always made when she wanted to seem wise and exhausted all at once, the sunscreen cool beneath Joel’s palm as she shook her head. “Girls these days,” she muttered, adjusting her sunglasses, eyes still squinting out at the water. “Seriously… all of them trying to look grown before they’ve even figured out who they are. It’s all ass and attitude now. No mystery anymore.”

She took a sip from her drink, ice clinking lazily against the glass, oblivious to the way Joel’s jaw ticked ever so slightly, his hand stilling just above her shoulder blade.

He could’ve said a lot of things—wanted to, maybe. Wanted to tell her that mystery had nothing to do with the way her daughter had tasted on his tongue, or how she cried so sweetly when she came, how she whimpered his name like a secret she didn’t know how to keep.

But instead, Joel just hummed under his breath and smoothed the lotion into her skin, his fingers moving slow, absent, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Because it was. It was on the water, on the shimmer of your wet shoulders, the line of your back, the way your thighs parted just a little when you dove under.

It was on your ass, now almost certainly burning, and how he’d make it up to you later—with cool lotion and warm hands and maybe his mouth, whispering, “Told you I shoulda covered it, babygirl. Let daddy take care of it now.”

Your mom was still talking, but Joel wasn’t listening.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

The rest of the day passed in a blur of saltwater and avoidance, the hours stretching long and golden as you spent most of them waist-deep in the ocean, drifting in and out of waves and thoughts, letting the sea do what Joel always did—pull you under, leave you breathless, then spit you out dazed and aching for more.

You swam until your legs burned and your fingers wrinkled, not daring to look back at shore, not wanting to see if he was watching—because you knew he was. You felt it, even with your eyes closed.

That heat across your back? That wasn't the sun.

When your mother finally called you back in, her arms waving dramatically like she was signaling a coast guard rescue, Joel was already back on shore, slipping his shirt over those broad, sun-warmed shoulders, muscles flexing as he folded towels and collapsed chairs like it was just another Sunday and not the aftermath of his hands on your bare chest, your bikini still damp with sunscreen and sin.

“Seriously, girl,” your mom huffed when you got closer, planting her hands on her hips like she was about to scold you for surviving the ocean. “I thought you’d drifted off to sea.”

You didn’t answer. Just reached for your towel, drying your legs in silence, your fingers moving too fast, too tight, then yanked your cover-up over your head in one quick motion—not looking at Joel, not even glancing, like that might undo the tiny shred of control you had left.

Your mother led the walk back toward the car, already rattling off half-finished thoughts about dinner, talking to herself as she always did. “Did I take the chicken out to thaw? I meant to take it out. Maybe we’ll do pasta—unless Joel wants steak. Do we have wine? God, I think we’re out of garlic…”

Joel drifted to your side with practiced ease, his steps in sync with yours, hands full of folded chairs, cooler dragging behind him in the sand, and yet his attention was all on you.

“How was the water?” he asked, his voice low, casual, almost innocent—but it made your stomach flip anyway.

“Fine,” you murmured, not turning to look, eyes fixed straight ahead, the sun catching on your lashes.

There was a pause. Long enough to feel it. Long enough to ache.

“You mad at me?” Joel asked softly, and it wasn’t teasing this time. It was gentle, the kind of quiet drawl that made you feel like the bad guy for trying to be mad at him.

You said nothing at first, your chest tightening with something unspoken. And then—barely audible, more breath than voice—you whispered, “You touched her.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, and glanced over at you, his voice dropping even lower, that familiar edge sliding in like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“Didn’t touch her like I touched you,” he said. “Don’t wanna touch her like I touch you.”

You clenched your jaw, throat thick, the sound of your mother still talking ahead of you—so close, so clueless.

Joel leaned just a little closer, walking slower now, his voice thick with promise, with hunger, with possession.

“You think I’m thinkin’ about her when I’ve still got your taste in my fuckin’ beard?” he murmured. “You think I’m gonna kiss her goodnight when my mouth still remembers how you sound when you cum?”

You stopped walking.

He didn’t.

He just smirked. And kept going. Like he knew you’d follow.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

You weren’t sure if it was because you’d been too in your head—still aching from Joel’s touch, still jealous, still clenching around the memory of his mouth on you—or if it was just your cheap-ass flip-flops finally giving up mid-stride, but one second you were walking behind your mother, and the next you were on the ground, palms scraped, ankle screaming, and breath lodged somewhere deep in your chest as the pain bloomed like fire.

Tears stung your eyes before you even realized they’d fallen, and then Joel was there—already crouched beside you, his big hands moving so gently, so carefully, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with worry, low and sugar-sweet, like he’d slipped fully into some deranged domestic caretaker mode. “You took a tumble, huh? My poor lil thing—can’t leave you alone a minute without somethin’ happenin’, can I?”

Your mother had kept walking ahead, halfway to the car by now, muttering about dinner and traffic —until Joel raised his voice just enough to cut through the air like a clean tear.

“Hey—stop a second!”

Your mom turned, gasping the moment she saw you on the ground, “Oh sweetheart!” she clucked, quickening her pace and hurrying over, placing a hand on her chest like she was genuinely startled. She crouched for barely a moment beside you, her eyes flicking to your ankle, her mouth opening like she might say something maternal—

But then her phone rang.

She looked at the screen. Her eyes lit up. “Oh—I gotta take this,” she said, already turning on her heel, her sandals crunching in the sand. “It’s the real estate agent—I’ve been waiting for this call all day.”

You blinked up at her, speechless, lips parted, watching her walk away, phone to her ear, already giggling as she answered.

Joel’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his palm warm, grounding, the pads of his fingers moving in slow, soothing circles.

You looked up at him, still stunned. “She—she just left?”

Joel’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t comment. He just stroked your hair, and said, soft, “You’re alright now, honey. I got you.” Then, after a moment, he leaned down, voice darker now, slower, like he’d flipped into full protector-mode. “Gonna have to take you to the ER, I think. Can’t let somethin’ this pretty limp around. Gotta make sure nothin’ nasty’s happened in there.”

He looked at your ankle again, gently pressing, watching the way you winced, his brows furrowed with concern that felt real, not like hers—his voice slipping into that quiet, dangerously sweet place.

“’M gonna carry you, alright? Gonna hold you real careful. Daddy’s not gonna let anyone else touch you till we get it looked at.”

Joel lifted you up with an ease that made you feel smaller than you were—soft, breakable, like something he was born to carry—and your arms draped helplessly around his neck, the side of your face pressing into the warm curve between his jaw and shoulder. One of his arms cradled beneath your thighs, the other braced firm along your back, hand spread wide across the space just above your ass like a claim he wasn’t bothering to hide. His scent wrapped around you—salt, sunscreen, sweat, him—and for a moment, the pain in your ankle dulled beneath the thudding heat in your chest.

He started walking toward the car, his pace slow, steady, almost intentional, every step like a reminder that you weren’t going anywhere without him now.

Your mother had just finished her call, still standing a few feet away, sunglasses propped in her hair, voice light and airy as she turned to see the two of you.

She laughed—actually laughed—like the whole thing was a joke. “Oh come on,” she said with a shake of her head, waving her hand like it was all theatrics. “Don’t you think this is a bit dramatic now?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your face deeper into Joel’s neck, burying your flushed cheeks against the warmth of his skin as his hand tightened slightly at your back. You felt the low rumble of his voice before he even spoke, his words aimed at her but meant for you.

“She’s hurt,” he said, calm but clipped, voice lined with something steel-rough. “I’m takin’ care of it.”

That made her blink—just for a second, just enough to register that Joel’s tone wasn’t playful—but then she waved it off with a breathy laugh, brushing a strand of wind-tossed hair from her cheek as she shrugged. “Alright, alright. Doctor Joel to the rescue, I suppose.”

Joel didn’t humor the joke. His jaw stayed tight, his arms still curled around you like a cradle, one hand braced under your thighs, the other steady at your spine. You felt the soft puff of his exhale against your temple as he adjusted his grip—not because you were heavy, but because he could, because you were so light in his arms, feather-soft, warm, clinging to his neck like some fragile thing he’d found washed up on shore. It made something deep and ancient flicker behind his eyes. Something protective. Something possessive.

“Gotta take her to the ER,” he said simply, voice low and even, but laced with enough quiet command that it didn’t leave room for argument.

Your mother sighed, like this was all happening to her, like your injury was a disruption to her neatly scheduled afternoon. “Shit,” she muttered, patting the back of her neck distractedly. “Well, I’ve got to meet with the real estate guy in twenty minutes. He just said that If I don’t show, I lose the slot.”

“You gotta do that now?” he asked, not rude, but pointed—his tone lined with disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite fathom that she was standing there debating appointments while her daughter was curled up against him in pain.

She scoffed, waving a hand toward her tote bag. “Come on, Joel,” she said, like he was being unreasonable. “You know how busy he is. He’s squeezing me in between showings. I’ve been trying to land this place for weeks.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just sighed through his nose, slow and steady, and adjusted you in his arms again, pressing you a little closer to his chest—not because you needed it, but because he did. The movement was gentle, but full of intention.

“Well, I gotta take the car,” he said at last, nodding toward the passenger side, then down at you, his gaze flicking to your face, softening for just a moment. Like a reminder. Like a pointed fact. Your daughter is hurt, that look said. And I’m the only one doing a damn thing about it.

Your mother made a face—tight, annoyed—but didn’t argue. She dug into her purse, pulled out her keys, and dropped them into Joel’s waiting palm with a dramatic huff. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll take an Uber.”

Joel didn’t thank her. Didn’t smile. He just turned toward the car, carrying you like something precious, already opening the door with one hand while keeping the other snug around your waist.

And you? You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.

Because the only thing louder than your heartbeat was the quiet way Joel muttered, “Daddy’s got you now.”

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

Joel helped you limp into the emergency room, only because you’d begged him not to carry you in bridal-style like you were five years old—or worse, like you were his five-year-old—and even then, he held your waist with one strong arm and your hand in the other, moving slow and steady beside you like he was afraid the wind might knock you over. Every few steps he’d glance down at you, brows furrowed with soft concern, thumb brushing over your knuckles as he murmured, “You alright, babygirl? Just lean on me. I got you.”

The waiting room was cold and too bright, the kind of sterile chill that seeped under your skin and made you shiver despite the warmth of the sun still clinging to your shoulders. Joel sat beside you, legs spread wide, one arm draped along the back of your chair, the other hand never leaving yours.

He held it like it was instinct, like the act of not touching you didn’t even register as an option. And you leaned into his side more than you meant to, your body aching, ankle throbbing, but comforted by the solid weight of him, the quiet way he kept his thumb moving over your pulse as if he could calm your whole nervous system with one simple motion.

When your name was finally called, Joel stood with you, guided you gently through the halls, and stayed just outside the room while they took your x-rays, pacing slowly like he couldn't quite relax without seeing you. The doctor, a kind-eyed woman who clearly saw through your brave face, told you it was nothing more than a bad sprain. A deep one, sure, but no fracture.

Back in the parking lot, warm dusk bleeding into the sky, you expected him to open the passenger door like always—maybe even buckle your seatbelt for you, like he’d done once after a grocery run—but instead, Joel rounded the car and opened the back door, his silhouette blocking the streetlight, gaze unreadable as he motioned with his chin.

You frowned, brow pinched in confusion as you hobbled toward the open door, your hand braced against the frame for balance. “Why the back?” you asked, your voice soft, suspicious, because Joel never did anything without a reason.

He looked at you with that same calm, steady warmth he always wore when he was about to say something that sounded harmless but meant everything else. His voice was low, rough from the sun and the sea and hours of silence he’d filled with tension you couldn’t name. “Just wanna sit with my girl for a bit,” he murmured, eyes dark and so soft it made your breath catch, “before we go home. That alright?”

Your heart twisted, the ache in your ankle somehow duller than the one that bloomed in your chest as you nodded and whispered, “Okay.”

Joel helped you up like you weighed nothing, one hand on your lower back, the other guiding your knee as you settled onto the wide backseat, the leather still warm from the heat of the day. The door shut with a soft thunk, and then he slid in beside you, stretching out long and loose, the car suddenly too quiet, the air thick with something heavier than heat.

Once you were down, reclined with your injured foot resting in his lap, he was all hands again—soothing, searching—palming your thigh with gentle sweeps of his broad hands, thumb brushing idle circles into your skin like he could erase the pain just by touching you. His voice was a murmur as he looked over your legs, the sun casting golden light over every inch of you.

“You feelin’ okay, baby?” he asked, eyes on your face even as his fingers trailed higher, just beneath the hem of your shorts. “Ankle’s not throbbin’ too bad, is it?”

You looked away, face warm, trying not to focus on the weight of his hand or the way his thumb dipped just slightly into the crease where your thigh met your hip. “It’s okay,” you breathed, almost shy. “The meds the doctor gave me helped.”

“Good,” he hummed, nodding slowly, the sound low and satisfied like he wanted you soft and drowsy, pliant in his lap, like he liked that you were dazed and dependent. His gaze roamed down the length of your legs again, his palm dragging slowly back up over your thigh, not quite teasing—not yet—but definitely lingering.

You hadn’t meant to say anything, hadn’t meant to let it spill out, but it was there before you could stop it, your voice cracking in the middle like a fault line splitting wide open.

“I can’t believe Mom didn’t come,” you whispered, eyes still on the window, watching the gold of the evening smear across the glass. “It’s like… it’s like she doesn’t even care.”

Beside you, Joel’s entire body stilled. His face dropped—not angry, not cold, but something else, something wounded on your behalf, like he felt it, too. Like it hurt him to see you hurt. He shifted closer without hesitation, his hand finding yours instantly, big and warm, calloused fingers curling around your trembling ones as he lifted them to his mouth and pressed slow, deliberate kisses over each knuckle, one after the other, like they were sacred, like you were.

“Awh, angel,” he murmured, voice soft and syrup-sweet, his breath brushing your skin with every kiss. “She just don’t get it, does she?”

You blinked fast, lashes damp, and a few tears slipped down your cheek—quiet, ashamed, like you didn’t want him to see. But he did. Of course he did. Joel always saw. Always knew.

“She thinks you’re all grown up,” he murmured, shifting closer, tucking your hand between both of his now, holding it against his chest like something breakable. “Thinks you don’t need nobody anymore. Doesn’t realise you still need takin’ care of.” He leaned in then, his voice softening to a coo, all low drawl and velvet comfort, and it cracked something open in you even more. “That’s why I’m here, hmm? That’s why daddy’s gotta take care of his girl.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and soothing, like he was tracing the sadness right out of your skin.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you’re safe. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re held, even when you don’t say it out loud. I see you, baby. Even when she don’t.”

And he meant it—you could feel that he meant it, every word weighted with something bigger than comfort, something deeper than lust. It was devotion, twisted and wrong and perfect in the way only he could make it feel.

So when he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there a little too long, you didn’t pull away.

You sniffled, trying to wipe your cheek with the sleeve of your shirt, but Joel was already there—his hand catching yours, stopping you, his thumb swiping that little tear before it could fall. And then his nose was brushing against yours, soft and slow, testing you, teasing, like he wanted to see just how much you’d let him get away with while your heart was still raw. His breath mingled with yours, warm and thick in the quiet of the car, and you could feel him watching your lips, feel the tension stringing tighter and tighter between your bodies.

“Let daddy kiss it better,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, dipped in sweetness but heavy with something else—something darker, something that made your belly twist.

And then he kissed you.

His mouth was soft but sure, warm and deep and claiming, his big hand coming up to cup your jaw like he couldn’t bear the thought of not touching you everywhere at once. He kissed you like he was trying to take something from you—your sadness, your breath, your name. The moment your lips parted, he groaned softly into your mouth and tilted your head with the pads of his fingers like you were his, like this was something earned, something long overdue.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far—just leaned back enough to look down at you, eyes hooded and full of something filthy and so loving it made you shiver.

“Aww, there’s my babygirl,” he cooed, voice dripping with praise and baby-talk so tender it made your eyes sting all over again. “M’sweet lil angel, all sad and bruised up. Poor thing. Want daddy to make you forget all about it? Hmm?” His hand was already moving, already dragging down the waistband of your shorts, his thumb dipping beneath the hem like he owned the right to touch you there. “Forget all about your mama and that achey lil ankle?”

You whimpered, breath catching, but he didn’t wait—he didn’t need your answer.

“Don’t worry, sugar,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers slipped lower, cupping you through your bikini with the softest pressure that made your hips twitch. “Daddy knows what his baby needs. Gotta take care of this precious pussy, don’t I? Gotta get her smilin’ again.”

You gasped as his fingers pressed down, slow and warm, teasing you through the fabric, and he groaned, like he could feel it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, the word rolling off his tongue thick and low, laced with something filthy but still reverent, like your body was a prayer he’d been saying for years and only just now got permission to answer. His gaze dropped between your legs, lingering with that signature mix of awe and ownership, and then he smiled—slow, crooked, warm in a way that made your toes curl even as your ankle throbbed.

“Alright, my sweet lil sugarplum,” he breathed, slipping into that Southern, old-man cadence like it was second nature, like he’d earned the right to call you names no one else ever had. “Just lay back now and let ol’ daddy take care of it, hmm? You don’t gotta do a thing but be soft for me. Let me spoil you a little.”

You blinked up at him, your lashes still damp, heart beating too fast in your chest, and you didn’t protest—not when his hands found the waistband of your shorts, not when he looked up at you for just a second to make sure you were still with him, still his—before tugging them down in one smooth, unhurried motion. You gasped softly, hips lifting instinctively, your thighs parting just enough to let him work them off with ease.

He made a low, pleased sound in his chest as your bikini bottoms came with them, both pieces sliding down your legs with a whisper of friction, leaving your skin bare and glistening in the dim car light, and he tossed them—your little pink bikini and cutoffs landing in a forgotten pile on the floor of the back seat, like they were nothing more than a wrapper he was done with.

He spread your legs as far as the cramped space would allow, slow and mindful, careful not to jostle your injured ankle, one hand bracing behind your knee while the other gently adjusted the angle of your leg with a tenderness that made your throat go tight.

His touch was reverent, almost clinical—almost—but laced with something darker, something so deeply possessive it made your skin burn. And the moment your thighs opened for him, the moment your cunt was bared and glistening and aching in the thick silence of the car, Joel exhaled slow and low, like the sight of you undone between the seats had physically knocked the air from his lungs.

“Aww, honey,” he cooed, leaning in close, his voice syrup-slow and soaked in that Southern drawl that always melted your brain to static. His hand moved down to stroke your trembling inner thigh, rubbing lazy, soothing circles with his thumb. “You’ve had a day, haven’t you, babygirl?”

You whimpered in response, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering half-shut as the pain in your ankle throbbed beneath the weight of his words, mixing with the other ache—the one that pulsed low and hot in your belly, the one only he could touch.

“Got all hurt,” Joel murmured, thumb dragging dangerously close to the place you needed him most, his voice soft as cotton, laced with real concern even as his fingers teased at your slick. “Been sittin’ in this all day, huh? Soakin’ your little bikini, just achin’ for someone to notice. Bet that pussy’s been beggin’ for me since we left the beach, huh? Poor thing—so sweet and needy, all swollen and sad and nobody takin’ care of her.”

You let out a high, helpless sound, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling for something to hold on to—his wrist, the seatbelt, your own sanity—but Joel just hushed you with a kiss to your knee, so tender it made you shake.

“Ssh, now,” he whispered, pressing the pad of his thumb flat over your clit, rubbing slow and steady, careful not to overwhelm, careful not to make you cry more than you already had. “Daddy’s here now. Gonna take real good care of you, sugar. Gonna make that ache disappear till all you can feel is me.”

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about this pretty little thing,” Joel murmured, voice thick with want as he used two fingers to spread you open, slow and reverent, dragging them through your folds with a groan so low it sounded like it had been buried in his chest all day, just waiting to escape. His touch was so gentle, so deliberate, like he was worried you might break again—but that didn’t stop him from slipping those same fingers down, coating them in your slick like he needed proof of how wet you were for him. “Been drivin’ me crazy, sugar. Tasted so fuckin’ sweet, babygirl. Like somethin’ made special, just for me.”

You whimpered, back arching slightly, the pain in your ankle still pulsing but overwhelmed now by the rush of heat flooding through you at the way he looked at you—like he worshipped the sight of you undone. Your lips parted, your voice barely above a whisper as you breathed, “Please…”

Joel paused—just for a heartbeat, just long enough to look at you, and when he did, his eyes softened even more, crinkling at the corners with something warm and dangerous, something that felt like love and tasted like sin.

“Aww, baby,” he chuckled, the sound low and fond, like you’d just said something adorable, like he wasn’t about to put his mouth on you and eat you until you forgot your own name. “You sound so damn cute when you beg. So sweet when you ask nice.”

He leaned down then, lips ghosting over your inner thigh as his hands spread your legs again—still careful of your ankle, always careful, but wide enough for him to settle between them, big palms sliding under your thighs to hook them just right. And then he was there again, tongue warm and wet and so slow as he licked a long, lazy stripe up your pussy, groaning like it hurt to be away from you even for a second.

“Gonna take my time this time, baby,” he mumbled against your cunt, already lapping at you like a man possessed. “Wanna make sure you forget all about that hurt little ankle, all about that mama who walked away, all about anything but this tongue right here.”

And you did—because the moment his mouth sealed over your clit, all you could do was sob and grip the edge of the seat, your body trembling under the weight of his mouth and his words, every broken moan swallowed whole between the filthy praise he kept murmuring into your skin.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Let daddy make it all better.”

Joel groaned into you like he was starving—like the smell of you, the taste of you, the feel of your thighs trembling against his cheeks had sunk into his bloodstream like a drug he couldn’t quit.

His tongue moved with greedy reverence, slow at first, then deeper, wetter, filthier, until you were clutching at his hair with both hands, your hips twitching despite the ache in your ankle, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. He didn’t just eat you—he worshipped you, groaning like he was drunk off your slick, like your pussy was his favorite fucking flavor, like he was proud to be messy for you.

You were already shaking when he finally pulled back, chin soaked, lips slick and pink and shining in the dim car light. His eyes met yours as he sat back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand, that smirk of his softened by something that looked dangerously close to affection.

“Aww, look atcha,” he murmured, voice like warm syrup, full of baby-talk and filthy promise. “M’poor baby, all wet and cryin’ for me. She’s so sensitive today, ain’t she? So fuckin’ sweet I could stay down there all night.”

You whimpered, legs spread and shaking, chest heaving, your fingers still tangled in his hair as he leaned in close again, kissing the inside of your thigh like a thank-you, like a promise, like a claim.

“Alright now,” he said softly, cooing the words as he ran his hand up your stomach, over your ribs, not stopping until he was cradling your cheek. “We gotta start openin’ you up, don’t we? Can’t just rush it, babydoll—gotta be gentle with this sweet lil’ cunt. She needs daddy’s help, huh?”

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He kissed your temple once, slow and soft, then looked down again, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers tracing your soaked folds with maddening patience. “You think you’re ready, baby?” he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Ready for Daddy to stretch this little pussy out real nice and slow?”

“Yes,” you gasped, already trembling. “Please, Joel—yes.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and then you felt it—just one finger, thick and warm, easing inside with devastating care. You gasped, hips jolting despite the ache in your ankle, the stretch already so much. It was only one, but he made it feel like everything—his knuckle brushing your entrance, his thumb circling your clit in soothing, lazy strokes.

“There she goes,” Joel murmured, eyes locked where he was buried in you. “Grippin’ me so tight, baby. Like this lil’ pussy doesn’t wanna let go.”

He worked the digit deeper, slow and deliberate, curling just enough to make you twitch, to make the ache bloom into something hotter. His thumb never stopped moving, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips, your thighs twitching under his grip.

“Gonna have to open you up real gentle,” he said, pressing kisses along your hip like he couldn’t help himself. “Gonna take my time, stretch you nice and wide for Daddy’s cock. You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded, breath hitching, and his expression softened—some of the tension in his jaw easing as his hand kept moving, steady and patient.

“Good,” he murmured. “My best girl.”

Joel watched your face, always your face, like every twitch of your brow and flicker of discomfort meant more to him than anything else in the world. He moved slow, careful—so careful—like you were something sacred he didn’t dare break.

And then he sighed, jaw flexing as he pushed in deeper, voice wrecked. “Fuck,” he breathed. “This sweet lil’ pussy—your mama could never squeeze me like this. Not even when she tried.”

The words hit like a slap and a kiss. Your eyes flew open, the heat of them searing through your gut, and Joel smiled—crooked, wicked, like he knew exactly what he’d done. Exactly how filthy you liked it.

“Think you can take another?” he asked, eyes dark, voice dipped in something soft and dangerous.

You hesitated, hips twitching toward him on instinct. You felt full already, stretched wide and aching—but the thought of him pushing deeper, of him needing more from you? You nodded.

“Y-Yes.”

Joel exhaled slow, like you’d given him oxygen, like your voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. “That’s my big girl,” he whispered. “So proud of you. Doin’ so good for Daddy.”

He kissed your thigh, hand spreading over your belly as he adjusted his grip. “Relax for me,” he coaxed. “Can’t rush a perfect little cunt like this.”

The second finger pushed in with careful pressure—hot, thick, overwhelming—and you cried out, legs trembling. The fullness stole your breath, your hands scrabbling against the seat for something to hold.

“There you go,” Joel murmured, voice velvet and honeyed sin. “That’s it. That’s my good, brave girl. Just like that. You let Daddy take care of you now, okay?”

He didn’t thrust, not yet. Just rocked his fingers the smallest bit, a shallow press that made your hips jerk and your jaw fall open. You whimpered, high and soft, your body trying to pull away even though every part of you wanted more.

And Joel? He just watched. Watched you fall apart with awe in his eyes and reverence in his hands.

He froze for half a beat, thumb stroking softly over your thigh, his eyes lifting to yours with that deep, furrowed concern that ached sharper than your ankle ever could.

“Hurts, baby?” he asked, voice low, tender, thick with so much care it made your eyes sting again.

“Yeah,” you breathed, cheeks burning, body clenching around him as your muscles fought the stretch, caught somewhere between craving and the overwhelming fullness of it.

“I know, babygirl,” he murmured, soothing, his fingers still warm and steady inside you. “You’re doin’ so good. Bein’ so brave.”

He kissed you again, higher this time, nuzzling the soft skin of your thigh before his voice dipped into that sweet, filthy lull that always made your body listen.

“Gotta get you used to it, angel,” he whispered, stroking his palm up your side, grounding you with his touch. “You feel full now? Just wait till Daddy’s cock is stretchin’ you wide on his lap, holdin’ you down while you whimper for more.”

You gasped, hips bucking on instinct, your breath stuttering as your body pulsed around him—and he felt it, knew exactly what that did to you.

“That’s why we gotta practice, huh?” he went on, pressing a kiss to your hipbone as his fingers began to move again, slow and careful. “Don’t wanna hurt you when I’m finally deep in you. Want you soft, open, drippin’—just beggin’ for it.”

You whimpered, thighs twitching against his shoulders, and Joel just whispered, “Shhh,” against your skin, like even your cries made him ache. He didn’t rush. Didn’t thrust. Just coaxed your body to yield to him, fingers curling and stroking with reverent precision, as if you were something blooming beneath his hands and he was the only one patient enough to tend you.

And then his mouth was on you—lips brushing your clit like it was something sacred, something too tender to take without reverence. His tongue moved slow, unhurried, licking you open with gentle, wet strokes, suckling like he was tasting you for the first time. His eyes fluttered closed, breath warm between your thighs like this was where he belonged—here, face buried in your cunt, fingers buried inside you, lips drinking you in like prayer.

“J-Joel,” you gasped, voice breaking apart in your throat, hips jerking forward before you pulled away instinctively from the sharp heat of sensation. “It—it feels good.”

And God, the sound he made.

A soft, low groan, proud and aching, like your pleasure fed something inside him that had gone without for too long.

“Yeah, baby,” he said between kisses, his voice hoarse and thick with warmth. “Knew it would. Knew you just needed some help, needed daddy to teach your sweet little body how to take it. You’re doin’ so good for me, angel.”

He curled his fingers just right, hitting the spot that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry, and then his tongue moved faster, lips closing tight around your clit, sucking just hard enough to make you shake. His fingers followed suit, easing deeper, moving in slow, rhythmic pulses that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.

“Mm, that’s it, sugar,” he mumbled, his voice muffled between your legs. “Let daddy have it. Let that tight little pussy give me what she’s been holdin’ all damn day.”

And in no time—no time at all—you came.

Hard. Shuddering. Messy.

You smiled—really smiled—lazy and blissed-out, the ache in your ankle now a distant hum compared to the throb still pulsing low in your belly, a warmth that spread through your limbs like honey in the sun. Your chest rose and fell in soft little waves, your lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, dazed and glowing, lips kiss-bruised and parted. It was the kind of smile that came from deep inside you, the kind that didn’t just stretch across your face, but bloomed in your chest and soaked into your skin—soft, sated, safe.

Joel smiled right back, and fuck, it did something to you—the way his whole face changed, the way his rough edges softened as he looked at you like you’d hung the goddamn moon. He moved up your body slow and sweet, kissing his way along your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast, until he reached the hollow of your throat, where he lingered—kissed you there, over your pulse, humming low against your skin like your heartbeat was the only thing worth listening to.

“Love seein’ my girl smile,” he murmured, voice thick with affection as his hands roamed again, broad and warm and so fucking handsy, squeezing at your hips, your waist, the curve of your ass like he couldn’t help it. “My sweet girl, lookin’ all happy and full and messy.”

Then he was kissing you again—messily, hungrily, his mouth slanting over yours with a groan, his lips sticky and wet, tongue slipping between your lips like he needed to taste the pleasure he’d just pulled out of you.

You gasped into his mouth, body arching up to meet his like instinct, like your skin missed his the second it wasn’t touching—and between kisses, breathless and stunned, you asked, “That’s what I taste like?”

Joel chuckled low, biting your bottom lip just barely before letting it go, his voice sweet and smug and absolutely ruined as he murmured, “Yeah, baby. That’s you. That’s how sweet you are—fuckin’ candy, darlin’. Sticky and soft and perfect on my tongue.”

You whined as he kissed you again, this time deeper, tongue sliding against yours in slow, filthy strokes, the kind that made your toes curl and your spine melt, your hands fisting weakly in his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He kissed you like he wanted to crawl inside you—like he needed to taste every part of you to survive. His tongue swept into your mouth, deep and hungry, making you taste yourself on him, like that was the prize he'd earned. He swallowed your moans like they belonged to him, like he’d branded them into his chest, and when he finally pulled back—just barely, just long enough to breathe—he rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and tangled with yours as he whispered,

“Gonna keep you like this, baby. All fucked-out and smilin’. Nothin’ else matters. Just you, me, and this sweet little mouth.”

You barely had time to blink, to gather the breath he’d stolen, before his lips were back on your neck, mouthing along the curve of your jaw, trailing down the place just beneath your ear where he knew you shivered. His voice was rough and quiet, like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop tasting.

And then his phone buzzed.

You felt it against the seat, the vibration dull but sharp in the quiet haze, cutting through the warmth like a blade. He didn’t flinch. Just kept kissing down your neck, teeth grazing lightly as his hand slid lazily over your ribs.

“Don’t you wanna get that?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, the words thick in your throat even though you already knew. It was probably your mother—calling to ask if he wanted steak or curry for dinner, or just wondering where the hell you two were.

“No,” Joel muttered, lips still on your skin, voice low and sweet and full of something that felt too big for the moment. “Just wanna love on my girl a little longer.”

You melted. Fully, completely. Nothing but warmth and ache and that quiet, golden feeling like your bones had turned to honey.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

TAG LIST - and yes a next part is coming out ..!

@caramelic3dlatte @thottiewinemom @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @vixorell @pastel-luna @pedroswife69 @lonelysoul504 @sweetlylcv

@wandasimp-69 @bitchydragonparadisee @thottiewinemom @jmg2631 @clever-dragon @beautifulhybrid01 @xcallmetaniax

1K notes · View notes