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jake-g-lockley · 1 month ago

Text

Me 👆🏾

v - you make loving fun

pairing: rockstar! joel x f! tour manager reader

part v of amplified

You’re not supposed to crave him like this. Not in the quiet hours. Not in the way he holds you after. But lines are beginning to blur.

amplified masterlist

amplified on ao3

word count - ~8k sorry guys

rating - E

chapter content - not gonna lie this is chapter is pure filth and feelings, age gap, insecurity, language, drinking, cigarette smoking, joel catching feels, you catching feels, vulnerability, explicit p in v sex, creampie, dirty talk, fingering

authors note - Happy 50th birthday to Pedro!!! Releasing a chapter of pure fluff and filth to celebrate. 🎂

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Not just the heat of the blankets, but the weight of it. Heavy and solid behind you, anchoring you to the mattress.

The hotel room is still and quiet, thick with early morning hush—the kind of silence that only exists before alarms buzz and crew members knock, before coffee starts percolating and the day becomes real. A soft line of sunlight cuts through the curtain, landing somewhere near the foot of the bed.

You blink. Stretch slightly. And then you feel it.

The arm wrapped around your waist.

The steady breath ghosting over your shoulder.

The unmistakable scent of soap, sleep, and skin.

Joel.

You shift, just enough to see him. He’s asleep, or close to it, lying on his side with one arm slung possessively across your middle. His face is relaxed, the constant furrow between his brows smoothed out. The shadows under his eyes are softer in this light, and with his mouth slack and his lashes resting against his cheeks, he looks—

You don’t want to say it. Not even in your head.

But he looks beautiful.

And peaceful. Younger, somehow.

It’s unfair, the way he looks like this. You think about all the times you’ve fought with him, all the ways he’s gotten under your skin. All the snide remarks and teasing jabs and how often you swore you’d never be able to stand being in the same room as him for one more second.

And now you’re in bed with him.

Wrapped up in him.

You don’t even try to pretend you’re not staring. Your eyes trace over every line of his face, drinking him in while you still can. His curls are a little wild, sticking up at the crown from your fingers running through them the night before. The scruff on his jaw is thick and rough-looking, but you know exactly how it feels when it drags against your skin.

God, you remember everything.

The way his mouth felt between your thighs. The way he said your name. The weight of his hands and how they didn’t stop touching you, even when you were shaking beneath him.

You should be pulling away. You should be panicking.

Instead, you’re hoping he doesn’t let go.

And then—he stirs.

A low, gravelly sound slips from his chest, and his hand tightens slightly on your stomach. His nose brushes your shoulder, and then he exhales.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.”

His voice is pure gravel—rough with sleep, warm and close to your ear.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just let the sound of it settle over you.

Then you shift slightly, enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

He’s watching you with one eye barely open, mouth tipped in a lazy smirk. “You been starin’ at me long?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You snore.”

That earns you a quiet laugh, deep and scratchy. His arm flexes around you, tugging you just a little closer.

His face burrows into the crook of your neck, his beard dragging gently across sensitive skin. You shiver.

He hums, lazy and amused. “Might be your fault I slept this good.”

Your chest squeezes.

It’s everything—his voice, the way his body fits against yours, how safe and steady he feels. How terrifying it is that you want this again. That you could get used to it.

Joel shifts again, and you feel his hand drift lower, fingertips tracing the dip of your waist. Not rushing. Not assuming. Just touching. And it undoes you.

Because he’s warm and here and yours—for now.

His hand roams lower, slow and teasing, his fingers brushing the curve of your hip. There’s no urgency to it, no pressure. Just an unspoken question lingering in the air between you.

You hum, pretending to consider it, though your thighs are already parting instinctively.

Joel chuckles softly behind you, voice still thick with sleep. “Guess I didn’t scare you off.”

It’s slow. Sleepy. The kind of sex that comes when everything is still soft and warm, when there’s nothing demanding your attention but the man behind you and the way he’s touching you like he’s got all the time in the world.

He rolls you onto your back, easing himself between your legs with a care that makes your chest ache. The morning light spills across the bed, golden and gentle, painting the lines of his body in amber. It gives away more than last night’s shadows ever could—the peppered silver in his curls, the soft lines beside his eyes, the curve of his lips when they twitch into something close to a smile.

You can see more of him now, too. The slight slope of his stomach. The broad stretch of his chest. The heft of his cock, flushed and heavy, resting against your thigh. It looks so fucking good in the light—thick and curved just enough, already hard and aching for you.

Joel catches your stare and quirks a brow. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, baby…” he murmurs, trailing off like he’s not quite ready to say what he’ll do about it.

You don’t respond with words. Just wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer.

His mouth finds yours, slower this time. Less hungry. More reverent. His tongue moves with aching patience, teasing at the seam of your lips until you open for him, letting him taste you all over again.

His hands roam. Down your sides, over your stomach, between your thighs. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. Just takes his time learning you, relearning you, touching like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

You watch him stroke himself once—slow and deliberate. And then he’s pressing into you, steady and careful. Stretching you open, filling you inch by inch until your breath hitches and your fingers clutch at his shoulders. A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest, and he doesn’t move right away—just holds there, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’s trying to keep it together.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing your jaw.

Then he starts to move. Long, dragging thrusts that make you feel every inch of him. The kind that make your breath catch, your back arch, your body melt beneath him.

There’s no rush. No urgency.

Just slow, aching need.

He kisses you through it all—your neck, your jaw, your lips—murmuring quiet, broken things into your skin. Nothing too sweet. Nothing over the top. Just your name. Just a quiet, breathless, “Goddamn.”

The pace builds slowly—still languid, still deep—but heavier now. His grip on your hips tightens. His thrusts turn more deliberate. More wanting.

Then he pulls back slightly, reaching down to guide you onto your stomach with gentle hands. His body follows close behind, lining up again as he pushes into you from behind. The new angle has your breath catching sharply, forehead pressed to the pillow as your body curves into him.

He groans low, like he’s been waiting for this, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your hip tight. His thrusts are deeper now. A little faster. The sleepiness burning into something darker.

You whimper, grounding yourself in the heat of his body, the feel of him splitting you open slow and sure.

He doesn’t say much—just the occasional curse, a low growl of your name—but you can feel it in the way he moves. How badly he wants it. How badly he wants you.

Your climax hits fast, harder than you expect, your body tightening around him as you cry out into the pillow. He hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering as he pulls out quickly, his hand wrapping around himself.

A groan rips from his chest as he spills across your lower back, hot and messy. His breath is ragged, his hand still wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he comes down from it, eyes locked on you the whole time.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Joel finally collapses beside you, brushing your hair off your face with one shaky hand.

You’re still catching your breath when he leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Pretty sure I’ve broken about six HR rules.”

You snort, voice hoarse. “Tommy taught Henry how to shotgun a beer last night. HR’s not exactly keeping tabs.”

Joel laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles between you, low and warm and easy.

Your phone buzzes from the nightstand, screen lighting up with a reminder.

You groan. “I’ve got a call with the venue rep in fifteen minutes. They’re having a meltdown over merch setup and load-in access.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, amused. “Sounds important.”

“Somebody’s gotta keep your damn show on the road,” you mutter, nudging at his chest. “Can’t have you endin’ up on TMZ again.”

He smirks. “After that bar fight? Might be too late.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches — you’re smiling anyway, even as you start to reach for the edge of the blankets.

Joel stands like he’s going to get dressed, like he’s going to do the normal thing and pull his jeans back on and slip out the door.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pauses. Just stands there for a second, bare chest rising and falling, curls mussed and shadowed in the golden morning light.

He looks at you — really looks at you — all tangled up in the sheets, flushed and blinking and very much still naked. And for a second, the cockiness falls away. There’s something quieter in his eyes.

He steps forward.

“C’mere.”

His voice is low, almost rough with hesitation.

You glance up.

He leans in, tilts your chin with two fingers, and kisses you.

It’s not demanding. Not greedy. Just soft, syrupy, slow. His hands frame your face, one thumb brushing your cheek, the other sliding through your hair like he doesn’t want to forget the feel of it.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are still parted, breath caught in your chest.

Joel watches you for a beat longer, like he’s trying to memorize every last bit of this. Then he gives a faint smile, something softer than the smirk he usually wears.

“I’ll see you later, alright?”

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”

He hesitates — just for a second — then turns, grabbing his shirt from the chair. You watch the muscles shift in his back as he tugs it on, as he reaches for his boots.

And then the door clicks shut behind him.

You let the silence settle.

Then, with a groan, you flop back against the mattress, limbs spread, sheets twisted around your legs.

Stare at the ceiling.

Exhale a dramatic sigh like you’re in the final act of a stage play.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, covering your face with your hands.

You’re still bare. Still flushed. Still faintly aching from the slow way he touched you, the warm weight of his body, the way he looked at you like maybe he wasn’t planning on running this time.

And you’ve still got ten minutes before that call.

Plenty of time to lie here and try — and fail — to think about anything else.

—--------------------------------------------------------

It’s been almost two weeks.

More cities. More shows. Same routine.

The days are a blur of call times and radio hits, back entrances and wristbands. The crew moves like a well-oiled machine. Setlists change. Weather shifts. Crowds swell.

But one thing stays the same.

Joel.

Every night, a different hotel — different sheets, different noise outside the window — but he’s always there. At first, he had the decency to knock. Just a soft rap on your door, a tentative look when you opened it. Like he was still asking. Still waiting for you to pull the rug out from under him.

But by the fifth night — maybe the sixth — he stopped asking. Just started showing up, slipping into the room with barely a sound, closing the door behind him like he’d been doing it for years.

And every night, you let him.

It was never rushed. Never frantic. It was slow. Intentional.

The way he’d settle beside you on the bed, fingertips tracing the hem of your shirt before he peeled it over your head. The quiet hum in his chest when he kissed your collarbone. The way he’d pull you into his lap and let you sink down onto him, his hands gripping your hips as you rocked together — quiet, steady, deep.

Some nights, he’d fuck you slow against the headboard, one hand tangled in your hair while the other kept you exactly where he wanted you. Other nights, he’d whisper, turn over, and press his palm to the small of your back, fucking you deep and silent while your face buried into the pillow to muffle the sounds.

And when it was over, when you were wrung out and shaking, he’d clean you up without a word. Pull you close. Tuck your head under his chin.

Neither of you talked about it.

You didn’t have to.

You’re already at the venue when Joel walks in.

Guitar slung over his shoulder, sunglasses on like the room isn’t half-lit and windowless. Like maybe hiding his eyes will somehow make the last week vanish.

He doesn’t head straight for you. Doesn’t say anything at all.

But you feel him.

The shift in the air, the quiet gravity of him slipping into the space. The way the silence stretches, just slightly, like the room’s holding its breath.

You don’t look up right away.

You’ve got the updated schedule in one hand, notes scribbled from a conversation with the production manager already circling your brain. Load-in times, soundcheck cues, press availability—things that matter. Things you should be focused on.

But he’s there.

Not at your side. Not quite.

Just hovering a little closer than usual. Talking low with Tommy near the edge of the risers. Close enough that when you finally glance up, you catch it—that flicker of a look. Not staring. Not smug. Just checking.

Like he’s making sure this is still okay.

Your brow lifts just slightly in return.

No smile. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Just a tilt of your head. A flick of acknowledgment.

We’re good.

His mouth twitches. That smirk starts to form—but it never quite lands. Instead, he lifts his brows, gives you the smallest nod.

And then he’s gone again, pulling his guitar strap over his shoulder, turning toward the stage like he didn’t spend last night with your name in his mouth.

But the tells are there.

The way he lingers behind the others as they spread out across the stage, just long enough to brush your hand in passing—casual, fleeting, but unmistakable.

The way he watches you during lighting tests, fingers absently strumming over his strings, not playing anything in particular. Just watching.

The way his gaze flickers to you and holds for a second too long before Frank murmurs something sideways and Joel finally looks away, rolling his eyes.

Everyone’s catching on.

Tommy shoots a knowing glance. Tess sips her coffee and raises a brow when your paths cross backstage, looking entirely too smug.

Even Frank clocks it—just smirks to himself and says nothing, which might be worse than if he’d said anything at all.

Still, Joel doesn’t say a word.

Not until you’re passing by again, head down over your clipboard, halfway through a note about the next city’s venue capacity.

His voice is low when it hits you. Barely audible.

“You sleep okay?”

You freeze for just a second. Not enough for anyone to notice.

It’s simple. Easy. Something anyone could say.

But you hear what’s underneath it.

His eyes are already on you when you look up.

And they say what he doesn’t.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it either.

Henry side-eyes the both of you constantly.

At first, it’s just narrowed glances. A little too observant. A little too frequent.

Then one morning—mid-breakfast, halfway through pouring milk into a plastic bowl of cereal—he blurts it out.

“You two are acting weird.”

Sam barely looks up from his seat beside him, drawing utensils in hand. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

Henry scoffs, nudging his shoulder. “Don’t say shit like that, Sam.”

But his gaze flicks right back to you, curious and far too knowing, like he’s putting together a puzzle and just missing the final piece. You don’t say anything, but your ears burn under the attention.

Frank’s more subtle. Supportive, in his own chaotic way.

He finds you during load-in, leaning against the frame of the greenroom door, arms crossed and sipping a can of something cold. He watches you check off something on your clipboard, then nods toward the stage where Joel is tuning up under the lights.

“So,” he starts casually, “are we getting a tour scandal this year or what?”

You pause mid-scribble, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “What? He’s hot, you’re hot, the sexual tension is suffocating, and honestly? This crew could use the distraction.”

You snort, shaking your head.

Frank holds up a hand. “I’m not judging. I’m rooting for you. I’m just saying—if you’re gonna sneak around, at least make it good. Give us something to talk about. And hey…” He sips again, grinning. “...makes catering a hell of a lot more fun when people are speculating who Joel Miller’s sneaking off with after soundcheck.”

You start to open your mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to deflect—but he cuts in smoothly.

“I don’t need the details. I don’t even want ’em. Just…” He gives a small shrug. “I’ve seen him on every tour since ‘96. I haven’t seen him look like this in years. So whatever you’re doing—keep doin’ it.”

His voice is softer at the end, genuine. He doesn’t push, doesn’t wait for a reply—just pats your shoulder on the way out and calls over his shoulder, “Don’t let the kids catch him sneakin’ out of your room again.”

Tommy, naturally, is the least graceful about it.

He plops down beside Joel at rehearsal, watching his brother tilt his mic stand a fraction of an inch to the left—then back again—then left.

After a few beats of silence, Tommy just sighs dramatically.

“Never thought I’d see the day my brother turned into a lovesick teenager.”

Joel grumbles something under his breath—probably a threat, definitely a curse—and doesn’t even look up. But you swear you catch the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Like maybe, just maybe… he doesn’t mind being caught.

He doesn’t mean to fall into it like this. Didn’t expect it, didn’t want it — not in the beginning.

It was just tension. Just heat and friction. Two people who butted heads too often and ended up tangled in hotel sheets, swearing it didn’t mean anything.

Except now, two weeks later, he’s sleeping in your bed every night.

Not just fucking. Not just sneaking in after shows for a quick release and slipping out before sunrise.

He stays.

Wakes up with your legs draped over his. Your face buried in his chest. His shirt on the floor, yours inside out at the foot of the bed.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — is how easy it’s become. Like he’s done it before. Like he belongs there.

You fall asleep fast, always do. The days are long, your phone never stops buzzing, and your brain’s always ten steps ahead of everything. But once the door closes and it’s just the two of you? You crash hard. Mouth soft and open, hair stuck to your cheek, one arm thrown over his stomach like you’re trying to tether yourself to something.

And Joel… he just lies there.

Hand on your back. Eyes on the ceiling.

Terrified.

Because you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you — other tours, bigger jobs, cities he probably won’t follow you to. And he’s already done all that. Already lost too many things by trying to hold onto something that didn’t belong to him.

And now here he is again. Falling.

Fuckin’ idiot.

He’s mid-soundcheck, tuning up when Tess corners him backstage. Leans in the doorway with a look on her face like she’s seen something coming from a mile away.

“You really think no one notices?” she says, all sly grin and raised eyebrows.

Joel sighs. “Don’t start.”

She sips her drink, unbothered. “You got that ‘I-slept-good-for-once’ look about you. Real suspicious.”

He gives her a look. Flat. “You done?”

She leans against the wall beside him, arms crossed. “Y’know… you weren’t like this with me.”

That lands harder than it should. Joel stiffens. “Tess…”

She holds up a hand, already shaking her head. “Relax. Been there, done that. I’m not mad. We were young. Dumb as hell, honestly. And now I’ve got a husband who grills on Sundays and leaves love notes in my guitar case.”

Joel huffs out a quiet breath, the knot in his chest easing.

Tess smiles again, more gently this time. “It’s different with her. I see it. In how you look at her. In how you don’t look at anyone else.”

“She’s smart. Driven. Has her shit together,” Tess continues, more serious now. “And yeah, she’s younger. Which is why I’m tellin’ you to be careful. Not just with her. With you.”

Joel’s brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you,” Tess says, softer now. “You don’t let yourself want things. Not really. So if you’re doing this—if you’re really doing this—you better mean it. And if you don’t… let her go before she gets in too deep.”

Joel leans against the wall, lets his head thump back with a sigh. “I don't know what I’m doin’, Tess.”

She shrugs. “You don’t have to know everything to want something.”

Then she leans in just a little, like she’s letting him in on a secret. “Take care of her, alright? Be careful. And don’t get her fired. I like her more than you.”

Joel manages a small smile.

Tess pats his chest, already stepping back. “See you out there, Romeo.” She disappears around the corner, leaving Joel in the quiet hallway with her words echoing in his chest.

He stays there for a minute, back pressed to the wall, Tess’s words still ringing in his ears. She’d always seen him too clearly—cutting through the deflection, the stubborn pride, right to the part of him he tried hardest to keep hidden. The part that didn’t believe he deserved something good. Something that stayed. He’d built a life around staying guarded, keeping his wants quiet, manageable. And now? Now he wanted you. In a way that felt reckless. In a way that made his chest ache.

He drags a hand down his face, exhales slow. He’s not young anymore. Not shiny or simple. His bones creak louder than his guitar some days, and the lines around his eyes don’t lie. And you—you’ve got fire under your skin and so much more life to live. He knows that. Knows you’re gonna wake up one day and realize you want something he can’t give. Something he already burned through years ago. And still, here he is—terrified he’ll ruin it. That you’ll see through the quiet and the hands and the songs and realize he’s just a tired man holding on too tight to something he doesn’t deserve.

—————————————————————————-

You wake to the sound of a low melody, soft and unfinished, seeping through the open balcony door.

The sheets are still warm beside you, but Joel’s gone.

You sit up slowly, the hotel room dim around you — just the faintest wash of moonlight casting long shadows across the floor. It’s nearly 3 AM in Raleigh, and the world outside is quiet. But he’s there, just beyond the glass, sitting shirtless with his guitar across his lap, a cigarette burning low in the ashtray beside him.

He doesn’t notice you right away.

You stay in the doorway, watching.

His head’s down, curls falling into his face, fingers moving lazily across the strings. He hums before the words come, voice low and raw — the kind of quiet that sounds too personal to hear.

"Never had much to offer, never knew what to say.

But you come around like thunder, and I stay anyway.

You laugh like summer rain, cry like the tide,

I can't help wantin’ every version of you — the gentle, the wild."

His voice fades into the hush of night, low and unsteady. The last note hangs in the air for a second too long before it dissolves into silence, and Joel just sits there—shoulders curved forward, head ducked, fingers stilled on the strings.

You don’t say anything at first.

You’re still standing barefoot in the doorway, arms wrapped loosely around your middle, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs. The breeze tugs at the ends of your hair, but you don’t move.

Because something about what you just heard feels... different.

You’ve watched him rehearse. Perform. Drown out chaos with chords. But this isn’t that. This is raw. Quiet. Like he’s singing to something only he can see—like you’re just lucky enough to be standing close enough to feel it.

And maybe that’s all it is. A late-night lull in a long week. Another song that won’t make the record. Another feeling strung out in chords instead of conversation.

But when you close your eyes, the words echo.

“Every version of you — the gentle, the wild.”

And a part of you wants to believe it’s about you..

Wants to believe he’s been carrying you in his head long enough to shape something like that. That he’s seen every version of you — the bossy, overworked tour manager, the shape of your mouth when you’re about to bite back a smile, the one who can’t sleep unless she feels his thigh pressed up against hers under the hotel covers.

But you don’t ask.

You don’t say anything.

Because the last thing you want is to name it too early. To make something fragile collapse under the weight of your own hope.

Still, you cross the balcony slowly, barefoot against the cool tile, and slide into his lap like it’s instinct. Like you were always supposed to fit there. Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make a sound. His arm just comes around your waist, holding you against him.

And sitting there, in the soft hum of the night with his hand warm at your hip and your cheek resting on his shoulder, you feel the most unexpected thing:

Calm.

It’s not the kind of comfort that comes from sex. Not the kind that fades after the high.

It’s heavier than that. Quieter.

It sneaks in, wraps around your ribs and stays.

And maybe that’s the part that scares you most.

Because if this were still just a fling—something casual and reckless—you wouldn’t be thinking about the way the moonlight hits his curls. Or how steady his heart feels beneath your palm.

You wouldn’t be thinking about how easy it is to rest your body against his like this.

You wouldn’t be thinking this could be more.

But you are.

And as Joel exhales, nudging his nose gently against your temple like he doesn’t want to break the moment either, you glance up—and find him already watching you.

His brown eyes are wide and quiet, lit with something tender and almost unsure, like he’s holding his breath. Like he doesn’t quite know what to say, but he doesn’t want to miss any of this. The look is gentle. Almost reverent.

And that’s when it hits you—he might be thinking it too.

“Come back to bed,” you murmur, thumb dragging gently through the hair at his temple.

Joel doesn’t answer at first, just watches you. The guitar still rests on his lap, forgotten now.

His mouth twitches, eyes dark and amused. “You keepin’ tabs on me, sweetheart?”

You don’t bite—you don’t need to.

“Yeah, but I don’t like waking up alone,” you say, too honest, too easy.

There’s a note of something domestic in your voice—like you’ve said it before. Like this is already a habit.

Joel shifts beneath you, eyes flicking up to meet yours. You can tell it lands, even if he doesn’t say anything. His hand strokes along your thigh, grounding himself in the weight of you.

Joel doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he leans forward, cupping the back of your head and pressing a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then just barely the corner of your mouth—slow and soft and certain, like he needed the permission to touch you again. Like he’s been waiting all night.

He exhales slowly, forehead still resting against yours. Then nods, just once.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

Back inside, you crawl into bed first, slipping beneath the cool sheets and watching him move around the room—slow, a little hesitant, like he’s still surprised he’s welcome here. He peels off his shirt and slips in beside you without saying much, but when he settles, he’s close. Closer than he needs to be.

You lie like that for a minute, facing each other, legs tangled, the hush of the room settling over you like another blanket.

Your hand finds his under the sheets, fingers lacing together.

“You gonna tell me what that song’s about?” you ask, voice soft, teasing but not really.

Joel huffs out a breath. “Work in progress.”

You smile. “So you say.”

A pause, and then his thumb starts to move against yours, slow and thoughtful.

Then he asks, “You always want to do this?”

You glance up. “Music?”

“Touring. Running the whole damn show.”

You glance up at the ceiling for a second, then back at him. “Started interning at a label when I was seventeen. Did everything I could to stay in the room—coffee, merch tables, spreadsheets. I liked the nonstop energy of it. And I liked feeling like I was a part of something.”

Joel hums. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

You nudge him lightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shifts onto his side a little more, propping his head up with his hand so he can really look at you. “Just… you care in a way that makes people want to do better. Like they don’t want to let you down.” His voice drops slightly. “I know I don’t.”

You blink, taken off guard by the softness of it. The honesty.

Then you laugh, quiet and a little dry. “Funny, considering you gave me hell at the start of this tour.”

Joel groans softly, running a hand down his face. “Yeah. I know. I was… not easy.”

“You were a dick,” you correct, but your voice is light, teasing.

He grimaces. “Alright, yeah. I was. I’m sorry, again.”

You tilt your head, lips twitching. “Again?”

Joel shrugs, the corner of his mouth curving. “I’ve been sayin’ it in my head for about three weeks now. Figured it was time to let one out.”

“Yeah, well… worth the headache.”

You grin, nudging his leg again. “Anyways, I was what—twenty-two? Managing a small showcase when one of the acts bailed, and suddenly I’m the person who has to fix everything. I was hooked after that. Started climbing. Different companies, different cities. Got real good at holding things together while everything around me fell apart.”

Joel watches you, quiet. Like he’s not just listening, but absorbing every word.

“You ever stop?” he asks, voice low. “Even for a second?”

You laugh softly. “Not really. I kind of love the chaos.”

He nods, like he gets that. Like maybe it’s the same for him.

“When I was your age,” Joel says after a pause, “I didn’t have any of that direction. I was a god damn mess.”

Joel’s quiet for a long moment. You don’t press him.

Then he shifts, his thumb brushing along the inside of your wrist like it grounds him. “I had Sarah when I was twenty-six. But I was still a kid, really.”

Your brows lift slightly. You don’t say anything—just stay with him.

“Her mom and I… we weren’t in it for the long haul. We cared about each other, but we knew it wasn’t gonna last. We were stubborn as hell, thought maybe having a kid would give it meaning.”

You nod gently, listening as he exhales.

“I was doin’ contractor work back then. Building decks, patchin’ drywall, fixin’ whatever needed fixin’. Played guitar on the side when I could—weddings, bar sets, session work for friends who needed filler.”

He huffs softly, almost a laugh. “Didn’t think anything would come of it. But somebody heard me one night at a bar in Austin. Asked me to lay down a few tracks. That turned into something else. And it just kept going.”

He pauses, thumb dragging along your skin again. “I thought once the money came in, once things started rollin’… it’d get easier.”

You know what’s coming before he even says it.

“But it didn’t.”

You give his hand a soft squeeze.

“I was still the one packing school lunches. Getting her up in the morning. Running home after meetings to make it to parent-teacher night. Trying to balance being on the road with makin’ sure she felt like she still had a dad who was there.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Success gave us a better place to live, but it didn’t give me more hours in the day.”

You shift closer, resting your forehead against his. “You did it though.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just closes his eyes, breathing you in.

“I tried,” he says quietly. “She turned out okay. So maybe I did somethin’ right.”

You shift closer, letting your fingers brush his.

“What about Ellie?” you ask softly.

“She was just a kid when her mom got sick,” Joel says, voice rough around the edges now. “Didn’t have anybody else. Marlene asked me to take her in. Said it’d be temporary.”

He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “But she’d been around before that. Her mom worked at the studio—admin stuff, scheduling, keepin’ everyone in line. Ellie’d tag along after school, runnin’ wild between soundchecks, pokin’ her head into every room she wasn’t supposed to be in. My band used to joke she was our unofficial manager—askin’ a million questions, takin’ notes like she was gonna give feedback.”

His mouth tips into the ghost of a smile. “She always found her way into my space. Sit in the corner of the studio with her chin on her knees, watchin’ me lay down takes like it was magic. Asked more about the gear than half the techs we hired.”

You picture her like that—small, curious, fearless. A stubborn streak and a soft center. It fits.

“She didn’t wanna leave when Marlene brought up foster care. Told me she wanted to stay.” He swallows thickly. “Said I felt like home.”

A pause stretches between you, and you feel the weight of it settle low in your chest. You can hear everything he’s not saying.

“She’s got no dad in the picture. I couldn’t just… hand her off. After all that time, after everything we’d already built…” He trails off, eyes fixed on some far-off memory. “She mattered. Still does.”

You reach for his hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He looks at you then—brown eyes soft, tired, full of a thousand unsaid things. “I know.”

And suddenly, it clicks. Why he’s so gentle with Sam. Why he watched Henry like a man waiting to be needed. Joel doesn’t just carry people—he keeps them. Protects them before they even ask for it. There’s something inside him that never stopped being a father, even when he had every reason to let go.

Your voice comes soft. “This is the part people don’t see.”

Joel glances at you, brow lifting slightly.

“You. Like this,” you continue, your thumb tracing the inside of his wrist. “Before the tour, all I heard were the stories. The chaos. The temper. Like I was walking into a fire I’d have to put out. I thought you were going to be this wild, impossible thing—something I’d have to tame.”

He snorts under his breath, not quite amused.

“But then I watched you. Watched how you look out for your team, even if you don’t say it out loud. The way you check if they’ve eaten. The way you keep people close without making a show of it. The way you are with Henry and Sam. That’s not something you fake. That’s just... who you are.”

His mouth twitches—just a little. Not quite a smile. “Don’t think they’d care to see all that.”

You shake your head. “They would. If they saw what I’m seeing.”

His eyes flick over your face, and there’s a shift in them—something quiet and unsure, like he’s not used to hearing that. Like part of him wants to believe you, but the rest still doesn’t quite know how.

You watch him for a beat longer, then add, voice even softer now, “You’re still a little wild. Just… not in the way they said.”

That gets the smallest huff of breath from him—something close to a laugh, rough around the edges.

“You’ve got fire, yeah. You’re stubborn. You push people away when you get scared.” Your thumb moves slowly across the bend of his wrist. “But you’re not reckless. Not cruel. You don’t burn things down for the hell of it. You fight for what matters. For who matters.”

He looks down at where you’re touching him like he’s not sure he deserves it. Like the weight of being seen this clearly sits heavy on his skin.

“And that’s the part no one prepared me for,” you whisper. “That under the noise and the name and the history… you’re good.”

Joel swallows hard. Doesn’t say anything. But his hand turns over beneath yours, palm up. An invitation.

And maybe that’s all the answer you need.

You feel it all the way down.

The way his mouth lingers against your skin like he doesn’t want to leave. The way his breath hitches when you turn your head, just enough for your lips to brush his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

You’re not trying to start anything.

It just happens that way.

The same way everything else has—slow, steady, inevitable.

Joel’s hand slides up your side, broad and warm, pulling you close. His lips find yours before you can say another word—slow, aching, almost tender. He kisses you like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time, like he’s still memorizing the way you taste.

His fingers slip into your hair, tilting your head back, tongue teasing at the seam of your lips. You open for him with a sigh, and he takes his time, kissing you deep and slow and lazy.

You crawl into his lap, straddling him where he sits at the edge of the bed, and his hands settle on your thighs, squeezing, grounding himself in the weight of you.

When you shift, rolling your hips slowly against his, you feel how hard he already is—thick and heavy beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

You drag your fingers down his chest, and he sucks in a breath when your nails graze his stomach.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You’ve got me all fucked up over you, y’know that?”

You pull back, grinning, eyes dark and knowing. You hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers and tug them down. He lifts his hips enough to let you strip them off, his cock springing free—thick, flushed, already slick at the tip.

You wrap your hand around him, stroking him once, slow and deliberate. Joel groans, hips twitching beneath you.

“You want me to stop?” you bite your lip, already shifting to line him up beneath you.

His hands grip your hips, tight enough to bruise. “Don’t you dare.”

You sink down on him slow, stretching around the wide head, inch by inch until he’s buried deep. Your breath catches—he fills you so completely it’s almost too much.

Joel’s head drops back, a low growl in his throat. “Christ, sweetheart, so fuckin’ tight.”

You pause, letting yourself adjust, your thighs trembling where they’re pressed to his. His hands stroke soothing lines along your waist, but his grip is shaking.

You start to move.

A slow grind, rolling your hips in lazy circles, the friction sending sparks up your spine. Joel’s eyes lock on yours, dark and hungry, his jaw clenched tight as he watches the way you take him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, breath hot. “Ride me. Just like that.”

You keep the rhythm steady, deliberate, dragging your cunt over him slow and deep, making sure he feels every inch of you.

His thumb brushes over your clit, just once—and your whole body clenches around him.

Joel moans, hand tightening in your hair as he pulls your mouth to his. The kiss is filthy—tongue, teeth, the kind that has you whimpering against him, grinding harder, chasing the heat already burning in your belly.

You feel yourself unraveling, pressure building sharp and fast.

His voice is raw. Wrecked.

"Want you to come for me, darlin'. Wanna feel you tighten around me, wanna watch you lose it on my cock. Can you do that for me? Show me how good I make you feel?"

You whine, the sound caught somewhere between a plea and his name.

"So fuckin' gorgeous like this," he murmurs, hand tightening in your hair. "Look at me. Look at me when you come."

Your eyes fly open, meeting his, and the second his thumb rubs a slow circle over your clit, you shatter.

Your orgasm hits hard—tight and shattering, your body pulsing around him. Joel holds you through it, groaning low when you clench down on him, his hands sliding to your ass to keep you moving.

He starts to thrust up into you, fucking you faster now. You cry out, bracing a hand on his shoulder as he fucks up into you, his cock hitting deeper now, harder, the angle sharp and perfect.

You’re still trembling when you feel him get closer—his thrusts losing rhythm, cock twitching inside you.

His voice is low and ragged.

"I'm not gonna last much longer, sweetheart."

His head’s tipped back against the pillows, throat exposed, sweat shining at his temple. He looks completely wrecked already, mouth parted, lashes low.

You can feel him getting close — the way his rhythm falters, the way his hands grip your waist a little tighter, the way his breath stutters every time you move your hips just right. He’s beneath you, broad and burning hot, his eyes locked on yours like he can’t look away.

You’re close too, but it’s more than that now.

It’s the way he looks at you like he wants to memorize this. The way he touches you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The way he hasn’t said a word about love, but you can feel it in every brush of his fingertips, every quiet groan when you kiss his throat, every time he whispers your name like it’s a prayer.

And maybe that’s what pushes it over the edge.

That ache in your chest. The way his walls have been lowering, piece by piece, only with you. The way you’ve seen more of him in the last few nights than the rest of the world ever will.

He’s given you so much — his quiet, his loyalty, his trust. And now you want to give him something back. Not just your body, not just this moment. Something real. Something intimate. Something that says: I see you. I feel this too.

So you lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth, and whisper it, soft but certain.

“Joel,” you whisper, breath brushing his jaw, “I want you to come inside me."

His whole body stills beneath you.

For a split second, Joel just stares up at you — like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then he breathes out your name, quiet and wrecked. “Jesus.”

His hands slide up your sides, slow, reverent, like he needs to feel you say it again.

“You sure?” he manages, voice hoarse, eyes searching yours like he’s terrified to believe it.

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want it all.”

Joel growls low in his throat, one hand gripping your thigh as he buries himself deep. “Then take it,” he pants. “Take it all, darlin’. Fuck, I can't—"

His grip tightens on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His pace gone messy, no rhythm left now, just instinct. Need. He pulls you flush against him, chest to chest, your fingers threading into his curls as he fucks up into you with a kind of desperate reverence.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” His voice is ragged. “Feels so fuckin’ good—can’t hold it, can’t—”

Joel lets out a broken sound and comes deep inside you hard, clutching your body to his like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath catches in his throat, mouth pressed to your collarbone as he rides it out with slow, jerking thrusts, filling you with all of him.

And you don’t let go. You stay wrapped around him, arms and legs tangled, your body still twitching in the aftermath, pulsing around him as he softens inside you.

Neither of you move.

The room is silent except for your breathing — heavy and slow, like your hearts are trying to find the same rhythm.

Joel cups the back of your head, bringing your forehead to his. “You—” he starts, then shakes his head like he can’t find the words. "God damn."

You smile, soft. Press a kiss to his temple, the curve of his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

And even though you don't say it, the truth hangs in the air, thick and unmistakable.

We can't go back from this.

Eventually, his hands slide down to your hips, fingers splayed wide, not pulling you off of him—just holding you there. You stay like that for a while, bodies still joined, your cheek pressed to his chest, his hand stroking slow circles along your spine.

But eventually, he shifts.

“Hey,” he murmurs, gentle. “C’mere.”

He helps you ease off him, slow and careful, like he’s worried you’ll break. You can feel it as he pulls out — the warmth of him spilling out between your thighs — and you instinctively press your legs together.

Joel watches, lips parted, eyes dark.

Then his fingers trail down, soft but certain. He touches you gently, fingers sweeping through the mess, and when some of it starts to drip down your thigh, he groans quietly — almost to himself — and brings his hand back up, pushing it back inside you with slow, careful pressure.

His eyes meet yours.

“Don’t want to waste a drop,” he says, quiet. Honest.

You tremble.

He presses a kiss to your knee, to the inside of your thigh, then crawls back up beside you, pulling the sheets over both of you.

And this time, when he wraps his arms around you — one hand at your waist, the other brushing your hair back — you finally let yourself believe it’s real.

You fall asleep with him still close, still inside you in the ways that matter. His heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His breath warm against your skin.

You don’t say it out loud—how safe this feels, how rare. But you let yourself rest in it anyway. And that feels like enough—for tonight, for tomorrow. For however long he’ll let you stay.

#I’m shook #joel miller x reader

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jake-g-lockley · 1 month ago

Text

I have two words

SIMP JAIL

👆🏾oho really? Hello Simp Miller

👆🏾sam was not out of pocket, i totally support this notion

iv - need you tonight

pairing: rockstar! joel x f! tour manager reader

part iv of amplified

You try to keep things where they belong—professional, distant, clean. But there’s nothing clean about the way Joel looks at you, nothing distant about the way he fights for you. When it all falls apart, you don’t hesitate. You fall with him.

amplified masterlist

amplified on ao3

word count - ~6.3k

rating - E

chapter content - here we fuckin go guys, age gap language, drinking, brief violence, possessive/jealous Joel, explicit smut, unprotected p in v, f! oral, fingering

author's note - thank you all so much for the love on this story. its been so much fun to write in a time that feels so dark, country wise. I had so much fun writing this chapter so I hope you enjoy it!

The soft sheets beneath you feel unfamiliar, too smooth, too crisp. The hotel room is bathed in early morning light, the heavy curtains cracked just enough to let in a sliver of gold. The air smells like detergent and something else—him. His scent lingers from the night before, clinging to your skin, woven into the fabric of your memory.

You blink up at the ceiling, your body still warm, still thrumming, still too aware of him.

Not just his kiss. Not just his hands.

All of him.

You let out a shaky breath, almost laughing at yourself.

God, you hated him at the start of this tour. Couldn’t stand the way he talked to you, the way he questioned everything, the way he knew exactly which buttons to push just to watch you snap. You swore if you had to butt heads with him one more time, you’d snap his guitar in half.

And now?

Now you’re lying here—warm, aching, wrecked—thinking about the way his mouth felt on yours. Thinking about how you let him touch you. How you wanted him to.

What the hell happened.

You roll onto your side, pressing your face into the pillow, trying to ground yourself. But the memory of last night is imprinted on your skin, in your bones, in the space between each breath. Joel—his mouth on yours, the scrape of his beard against your jaw, the way he touched you like he couldn’t help himself.

You could pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend it was a mistake, something fueled by exhaustion, proximity, the charged tension that’s always existed between you.

But you aren’t scared of how you feel.

What scares you is what happens next.

What if last night changes everything? What if it shifts the ground beneath you, turns something steady into something unsteady, something dangerous?

You don’t regret it. Not even close. But the uncertainty—the possibility—hangs in the air like a storm waiting to break.

You exhale slowly, pushing the covers back, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You have a job to do, a tour to run, a schedule to keep.

But as you stand, your fingers brush over your lips. Your skin is still warm where he touched you. And you already know—there’s no going back.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Breakfast is already in full swing when you step into the hotel dining area. The low murmur of voices, the clinking of silverware, the scent of fresh coffee—it should feel routine. Normal. But it doesn’t.

Because he’s here.

Joel sits at a corner table with Tommy and Tess, a half-empty mug of coffee in front of him, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He looks calm. Too calm. Like nothing happened. Like last night isn’t still humming between you, alive and unshaken.

Your stomach twists.

And then—he looks up.

The air shifts, crackling with something heavy, something unspoken. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your face, dipping lower. His lips twitch—just slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then, there it is.

That soft, syrupy, knowing smile—except this time, there’s something shy about it. Not cocky, not teasing, just… there. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Like it slipped out before he could stop it. His fingers tighten around his coffee mug, like he’s steadying himself.

Your breath catches. Because he isn’t looking away. He isn’t brushing this off. If anything—he looks like he’s feeling it, too.

And Tommy? Tommy notices immediately.

His eyebrows shoot up as he glances between the two of you, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s this close to saying something smart.

“Oh, this is new.”

Tess leans forward, intrigued, eyes flicking from you to Joel, smirking behind her coffee. “What the hell happened?”

The answer comes at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

Silence. Immediate regret.

Maria stirs her coffee, grinning into her cup. “Right. Sure.” Frank just shakes his head, watching the whole exchange with barely concealed amusement.

The tension is thick enough to cut. And Joel?

He still doesn’t look away.

His eyes stay locked on yours, steady, waiting. Like he’s seeing if you’ll run. Like he’s daring you to.

And you don’t.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the next few days, everything feels different.

Joel isn’t quite as much of a pain in your ass. The back-and-forth is still there, the bickering hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softer now. The insults don’t bite as hard. The teasing lingers just a little longer.

And he watches you.

At soundchecks, when you’re standing off to the side, scanning over the tour riders. During crew meetings, when you’re talking logistics, barely noticing the way his gaze flicks to your mouth as you speak. Whenever he thinks you aren’t paying attention, his eyes find you.

And you do the same.

You catch yourself watching him when he’s focused, fingers moving effortlessly over the strings of his guitar. When he laughs at something Tommy says, voice low and rich, warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. When his shoulders ease, just slightly, when he thinks no one is looking.

You shouldn’t be noticing these things, but you do. And it’s more than that now. It’s the smallest things—barely there, almost nothing. But they feel like everything.

Like the way his fingers brush against the small of your back when he walks past you. Just a ghost of a touch, but it lingers, burns.

Like the way your shoulder bumps against his when you’re standing too close, neither of you moving away.

Like the way he reaches for a setlist, and his fingers graze yours—too long, too deliberate, too much—before you both pull back, pretending it didn’t happen.

Like the way you sit beside him in the lounge, and his knee presses against yours under the table. He doesn’t shift away. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. Neither do you.

But it’s there.

The pull, the static, the unspoken thing that’s been growing between you for weeks.

And neither of you are stopping it.

And then it happens.

You’re in the middle of sorting out a change in the tour schedule, rattling off adjustments while he leans against the catering table, sipping his coffee, listening. It’s routine, something you’ve done a dozen times before.

“Looks like the venue’s pushing soundcheck back by an hour,” you tell him, flipping through your notes. “So you’ll need to be ready by three instead.”

Joel barely hesitates, nodding as he sets his cup down. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

The second the word leaves his lips, he freezes.

And so do you.

Sweetheart.

He’s said it before but never in this tone. Warm, nurturing. Comes out of his throat as smooth as whisky instead of condescending.

It sits there, thick in the air between you, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You know you should brush it off, let it slide, pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

So you roll your eyes, like it’s just another one of his usual remarks. “Sweetheart? Nicely? That’s new.”

Joel clears his throat, looking down at his coffee like it suddenly holds all the answers in the universe. “Slipped out.”

Frank and Maria exchange a look. Tommy huffs, shaking his head as he mutters under his breath. “Unbelievable.”

But the thing is—Joel doesn’t take it back.

And neither do you.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

And it’s not just you who notices.

Henry and Sam have been on the road long enough that they’ve settled into the rhythm of tour life. They move through the spaces like they belong, weaving between crew members, picking up odd jobs just to be part of things. Henry has a knack for fixing things, and right now, he’s tuning one of the spare guitars, twisting the pegs with practiced ease. Sam is at the table beside him, scribbling furiously in his battered notebook, completely immersed in whatever he’s working on.

You’re standing nearby, flipping through the guest list, when you feel it—Joel’s fingers brushing your arm, smoothing over the cuff of your sleeve, fixing it without thinking. His touch lingers, barely a second, but your breath still catches.

When you glance up, his eyes are already on you.

The moment stretches, thick and syrupy, something unspoken buzzing between you. You can feel the weight of it, the pull of it, the way his gaze dips, lingers, flicks back up.

Then he clears his throat, stepping back. The air shifts, cool rushing in where his warmth had been. And just like that, he’s gone, slipping out of the room without another word.

You exhale, forcing yourself to focus, willing your pulse to slow.

Sam, still hunched over his notebook, finally speaks—so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why do you look at Joel like that?”

You nearly drop your papers.

Henry’s head snaps up. “Sam,” he hisses, jabbing an elbow into Sam’s side. “You can’t just ask people stuff like that.”

Sam shrugs, unfazed. “Why not? It’s weird.”

Henry groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Because it’s rude.”

Sam just looks at you, waiting, expectant. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

And Henry, watching the way your fingers still hover near the sleeve Joel had fixed, narrows his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, slower this time. “But seriously. What’s going on?”

You shake your head, too fast. “Nothing.”

Henry doesn’t look convinced. “You’re such a liar.”

You make your escape before he can press for more details, slipping out of the room as quickly as Joel had.

But you know it’s too late. He’s watching you closely now. And so is everyone else.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tension doesn’t ease. If anything, it only builds. It’s getting harder to ignore, harder to pretend. And maybe that’s why, when someone suggests a night out, you don’t hesitate.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Maria says, nudging you. “We’ve got a night off, might as well make the most of it.”

Tommy grins, draping an arm over your shoulder as he leans in. “Think you can keep up, Boss Lady?”

You huff a laugh, shaking him off. “Try me.”

Joel doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t roll his eyes or tell you to be careful. He just stands off to the side, listening. Watching.

You feel it—his gaze, heavy and unreadable.

The kids, along with Henry and a few others from the crew, have their own night out planned—a movie, some arcade games, something fun to break up the routine of the tour.

Henry crosses his arms, trying to act cool. “Y’all go ahead and embarrass yourselves. We’re gonna do something fun.”

Sam grins up at you. “We’ll tell you if we need bail money.”

Joel scoffs, shaking his head. “Smartass.”

You watch them mess with Joel a little more before they disappear down the block, their laughter trailing behind them, and something in your chest pulls tight.

Henry and Sam shouldn’t even be here—not in the sense of the tour, but in the sense of this life, this world. They should be two kids on the outside, just fans in the crowd. But Joel saw them, really saw them, and now here they are, part of this messy, chaotic family, fitting in like they were always meant to be here.

It’s not something the tabloids ever talk about—the way Joel Miller really is. The way he doesn’t hesitate to include them, to make space for them, to take care of them. They write about his temper, his stubbornness, the fights he picks and the things he throws, but they don’t write about this. About the way he picks people out of the crowd and makes them his.

And you know better than anyone—not just anyone would do that.

The thought lingers as you step into the bar, the shift in atmosphere immediate. The place is dimly lit, buzzing with conversation, the smell of liquor and warm wood hanging thick in the air. It’s not a dive, but it’s not exactly high-end either—just the kind of place a touring band might stumble into, looking for a night to forget the road.

You lean against the bar, drink in hand, finally letting yourself breathe. It’s easy here. No setlists, no schedules, no expectations.

At the other end of the bar, Joel is nursing his whiskey, eyes flicking to you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Frank notices first. Because of course he does.

He leans into Bill, resting his chin on his shoulder, smirking as he watches Joel stew. “Oh, this is painful to watch.”

Tommy huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbearable.”

Bill, already halfway through his beer, exhales sharply. “Frank, don’t poke the bear. He’s wound tight enough already.”

Frank just grins wider, his fingers tracing lazy circles against Bill’s forearm. “What? I’m just saying, I didn’t expect Joel to be the slow burn type.”

Joel exhales sharply, glaring in their direction. “Y’all got too much time on your hands.”

Frank raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oh, sure, sure. You’re right. Absolutely nothing going on over there.”

Joel doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just takes a long sip of his drink, jaw tight.

But then you start talking to someone else. Some guy—not particularly impressive, but confident. The kind of guy who knows how to hold a conversation, who has the easy swagger of someone used to getting what he wants.

Your age.

He buys you a drink. You let him. You’re smiling. Laughing.

And Joel hates it.

Joel tells himself it’s fine. You’re just having fun and he has no right to be pissed off.

And yet.

His grip on his drink tightens, fingers curling too firmly around the glass. He forces himself to look away, to focus on the whiskey in his hand, the condensation dripping down the side, the warm burn waiting at the back of his throat.

But his eyes keep drifting back.

The guy leans in too close, talking too smoothly, his body angled toward yours like he already thinks he has you.

And then you laugh.

But it’s not the real kind.

Joel knows your real laugh. He knows what it sounds like when something actually gets to you, when it sneaks up and takes you with it, bright and unguarded, breaking open before you can catch it.

He’s had the luxury of it. The privilege of hearing it spill from your lips, catching in your throat, shaking your shoulders.

This isn’t that.

This is light. Polite. A laugh you don’t mean.

And Joel feels his stomach twist.

Tommy watches him, brows raised, before shaking his head. “Man, just go over there.”

Joel scoffs. “Ain’t my business.”

Bill mutters into his beer, unimpressed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Frank stirs his drink lazily, lips twitching around the rim of his glass. “He’s gonna snap. Give it five minutes.”

Joel grits his teeth, ignoring them, taking another slow sip of his whiskey. He’s not gonna snap. He’s not gonna do anything.

But then the guy touches you.

A hand on your waist—just a light touch, casual, easy.

Too familiar.

And Joel sees red. Because you don’t lean into it. You don’t welcome it.Your shoulders tense. The smile on your face tightens, faltering for half a second. Apprehension flickers across your face, so quick that someone else might miss it.

He’s already moving before he can stop himself.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s exactly the kind of guy you should be interested in.

Young, confident, attractive in that easy, effortless way. He slides up next to you at the bar like he’s done it a thousand times before, like he already assumes the conversation is his for the taking. He leans in close, just enough to make his intentions clear, grinning as he throws out some meaningless drabble about the tour, about the band, about you.

You nod along, half-listening, fake laughing, barely there. It’s not that he’s particularly annoying—he’s just unremarkable. A guy with nothing to say that you haven’t already heard a dozen times before.

And maybe, if things were different, you’d give him more of your attention. Maybe you’d let yourself enjoy the attention, let yourself lean into the easy flirtation, let yourself want something that makes sense.

But you don’t.

Because all you can think about is how you’d rather be at the other end of the bar, throwing sharp words at Joel, watching him bite back a smirk, watching the way his eyes linger when he thinks you don’t notice.

Instead, you’re standing here, entertaining a conversation you don’t care about, laughing at jokes that don’t land, sipping your drink to fill the silence between his empty words.

And when you finally do let your eyes flick over to Joel, he’s exactly where you left him—nursing his whiskey at the bar, gaze fixed on his glass, shoulders tense but unreadable.

He’s not looking at you.

And that shouldn’t bother you as much as it does.

But then—you feel it.

The guy’s hand on your waist.

Casual. Easy. Like he thinks he has a right to touch you.

You stiffen immediately, the polite smile freezing on your lips as you instinctively shift back, shaking your head.

“Hey, I—”

And then Joel is there.

Moving before you can fully process it, stepping in close, his presence solid and immediate. The guy startles, dropping his hand, blinking up at Joel like he wasn’t expecting to be interrupted.

And Joel—he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

Just stands there, broad and imposing, the weight of him cutting through the space between you like a blade.

The guy’s smirk doesn’t waver, even as Joel steps closer, broad and unyielding, his presence alone a warning. If anything, the guy seems to enjoy it, like he likes pushing buttons just to see what happens.

“You her dad or something?” he taunts, cocking his head. “Because she doesn’t look like she needs a chaperone.”

Joel exhales sharply, but there’s a dangerous edge to it. He shifts just slightly, his body angling between you and the guy.

“She doesn’t need anything from you,” Joel says, voice low, even.

The guy laughs, shaking his head. “Man, what is this? You her bodyguard?” His gaze flicks to you, sizing you up. “Or is it more of a sugar daddy situation?”

Your patience snaps. You step forward, putting a hand lightly on Joel’s forearm, your voice tight. “Joel, let’s go.”

He doesn’t move.

Something shifts in the guy’s face then, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he really looks at Joel.

“…Wait a minute,” he mutters, brows pulling together. “Yeah… you’re Joel Miller.”

Joel doesn’t say a word.

The guy grins like he’s won something. “Didn’t think I’d run into a washed-up rockstar tonight,” he drawls.

Then his smirk sharpens, eyes flicking to you. “What is it? Daddy issues? Or do you just like playing groupie for a washed-up has-been?”

And that’s it.

Joel moves fast—faster than you expect.

His fist collides with the guy’s jaw, a sharp crack cutting through the noise of the bar. The guy stumbles back, knocking into a barstool, swearing as he clutches his face.

Everything erupts.

The guy barely stumbles before he straightens, anger flashing in his eyes. He swings, reckless and sloppy, but Joel is faster—always is. He dodges with ease, catching the guy by the collar and slamming him against the edge of the bar.

A glass topples, shatters on the floor. Someone yells. Chairs scrape against the wood as people push back, watching the chaos unfold.

"Joel!" You call his name, but he doesn't hear you—doesn’t care. His fist tightens in the guy’s shirt, pressing him harder into the bar.

Tommy and Bill move in fast. Tommy shoves a hand against Joel’s shoulder, voice sharp. “Alright, enough!”

Bill, ever the enforcer, steps between them and the guy, practically lifting him off his feet as he shoves him backward. "Get the hell outta here," he growls.

The guy stumbles, holding his jaw, his expression twisted with pain and anger, but he doesn’t try to fight again. He just spits on the ground, mutters something under his breath, and slinks off into the crowd.

The whole bar is still buzzing, voices overlapping, tension thick in the air. A few people scramble to clean up the mess—wiping down the bar, sweeping up glass—but no one throws Joel out. No bouncers intervene. Just a lot of murmuring, knowing glances, and barely concealed amusement from the ones who saw the whole thing.

Joel is still standing there, breathing hard, jaw locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack. His hands are still fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from going after the guy again.

And you?

You’re fucking furious.

You storm up to him, grab his wrist, and drag him toward the door before he can protest. The second the cool night air hits your skin, you shove him back, anger burning through your veins.

“What the hell was that?” you snap, voice sharp, breath uneven.

Joel exhales heavily, running a frustrated hand through his dark, tousled hair. “That guy was a piece of shit.”

“That’s not the point, Joel!”

His jaw tightens beneath the scruff of his beard, dark eyes narrowing stubbornly as he squares his broad shoulders. “Ain’t the first fight I’ve been in, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, heart still pounding, frustration coiling tight in your chest. “Oh, and that makes it okay? What if something had happened?”

Joel scoffs quietly, shaking his head, lips pressing into a tight line beneath his mustache. “Yeah, well. Pretty sure me punchin’ some asshole in a bar ain’t exactly good for the tour.”

Your breath stumbles, chest tightening. “You think I care about that right now?”

He hesitates, eyes searching your face, just long enough for you to see the flicker of uncertainty beneath the hardness of his expression.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter, rougher. “Ain’t that usually your first priority?”

Your patience shatters. The heat in your chest twists into something else—something raw, something impossible to hold back.

“Fuck the tour, Joel.”

His brows draw together, lips parting slightly, eyes dark and searching.

“I was mad because it was you,” you continue, voice sharp and breaking. “Because I don’t want something happening to you.”

Silence. Immediate. Tension crackles in the air, electric, undeniable.

Joel stares at you, stunned, the hardness of his features softening just slightly, confusion and surprise clear in the depths of his eyes. Like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Like no one’s ever said those words to him and meant them—not without some agenda, not without some kind of expectation.

He steps closer, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. His voice is lower now, rougher, edged with something uncertain. “Say that again.”

Your throat bobs. Your voice is quieter this time, but steadier. “I don’t want you getting into trouble. I don’t want something happening to you.”

Joel watches you carefully, his dark gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, the lines on his forehead deepening slightly as he searches your face for answers. “Why?”

You swallow hard, pulse hammering, breath coming short and uneven. But you don’t hesitate this time.

“You know why, you asshole.”

And then—he moves.

His hands are on your face, warm and rough, fingertips pressing against your jaw like you might slip away if he doesn’t hold tight enough, and then his mouth crashes against yours.

It’s not soft. Not careful. It’s desperate. Consuming. Like he’s been holding this back for too long and something inside him has finally snapped.

His lips are firm, urgent, parting yours with ease, his sturdy frame pressing against you, solid and warm. A low, rough groan rumbles deep in his chest when your fingers twist into the worn fabric of his jacket, pulling him impossibly closer.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, letting go of every last ounce of hesitation, tilting your head to deepen it, drinking in the taste of whiskey and want and him. Your body is burning, heat pooling deep, unbearable, impossible to ignore.

His hands slide down your sides, broad palms pressing possessively against your waist, gripping, pulling, like he needs more, needs all of you, like he doesn’t want to stop.

Neither do you.

But then—he pulls back.

Not far. Just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek.

"Ain't nothin' gonna happen to me, sweetheart. I promise."

The words are steady, solid, meant to reassure, but there’s something deeper there. Something that feels like a promise he’s making just as much to himself as he is to you.

His voice is lower, raspier than before, edged with quiet determination. “Lemme walk you back to your room.”

Your breath hitches. “Joel—”

He sighs softly, the corner of his mouth quirking up just barely, dark eyes shining with reluctant humor as he steps back slightly. “Just humor me. Ain’t lettin’ you walk back alone after that mess.”

Your lips twitch into a faint smile, pulse still racing. “That you bein’ a gentleman?”

Joel huffs a low, amused sound, shaking his head, eyes softening as they linger on you. “Somethin’ like that.”

And this time—you don’t argue.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator ride up is suffocating.

Neither of you speaks, the tension crackling between you, thick as the heat still lingering on your skin.

Joel stands beside you, broad and solid, his hands shoved into his pockets, his jaw tight. The numbers above the elevator doors tick up too slow, stretching the moment out, making it last.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to focus on something else, anything else, but your body still hums from the press of his hands, the taste of whiskey and heat still lingering on your lips.

The ding of the elevator makes you jump. The doors slide open, spilling you into the quiet, dimly lit hallway.

You walk side by side, his boots heavy against the plush carpet, your heart thudding harder with each step.

The hotel is nicer than some of the others you’ve stayed in—tall ceilings, soft lighting, the scent of something clean and expensive clinging to the air. A far cry from the cramped tour buses, the dingy green rooms, the sticky bars you’ve spent too many nights in.

But none of that registers right now.

Not when you can still feel him.

You reach your door first, stopping in front of it, your keycard cool against your palm.

Joel stops beside you, shifting his weight. His hands stay in his pockets, his thumb rubbing at the worn denim, his mouth pressed in a firm line, like he’s thinking—debating something.

Your pulse hammers as you watch him, trying to read his face.

He’s nervous. Hesitant.

And it hits you—he’s thinking the same thing you are.

He wants you. He just doesn’t know if he should act on it. You should walk inside. Say goodnight. Keep this professional.

You’ve worked too hard for this career. You don’t get involved with artists. You don’t let yourself fall. You’ve never had a reason to before.

But your body? Your heart? They’re screaming for something else.

The warmth of his palm against your waist is still burning on your skin. You still feel the weight of his mouth against yours from the alley. And right now, looking at him, none of it—your rules, your carefully built walls—matter.

And then you realize—Joel is making the same decision.

You can see it in the way his jaw tenses. The way his fingers twitch like he’s holding himself back. The way his eyes flicker to your lips, just once, just quick enough for you to notice.

The air between you pulls tight.

“Ain’t supposed to be out here,” he mutters, voice rough, like he’s scolding himself more than you.

Your lips twitch, breath still unsteady. “Not proper?”

That gets you a smirk, small but there, like he can’t help himself. “Somethin’ like that.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

Joel glances at your hotel door, then back at you, the hesitation flickering over his face again.

“G’night, sweetheart.” His voice is softer now, rasping around the edges, but there’s a weight behind it.

But neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.

Joel exhales slowly, eyes flickering to your lips once more. His jaw clenches like he’s fighting it—like he’s trying to be good, trying to walk away. But then he shifts, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper.

"You want quiet, I’ll give you quiet… but I ain’t leavin’ unless you say so."

Your breath catches. The words hit somewhere deep—low and heavy, settling between your ribs. Because it’s not just teasing. It’s him laying it all out, plain and simple.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you.

One second, you’re standing still. The next, you’re crashing into each other.

Joel’s hands are on your face—big, rough, calloused—his touch somehow both careful and possessive as he presses you back against the door. The wood is cool against your spine, but all you can feel is him.

He kisses you like he’s starved for it—like he’s been holding himself back for too long. His mouth claims yours, hot and desperate, his scruff scratching your skin, making you shiver. You taste whiskey on his tongue when it slides against yours—slow, deliberate, making your knees damn near buckle.

His nose brushes yours as he deepens the kiss, and you feel the shape of him—broad shoulders straining against the worn denim jacket, the hard lines of his chest pressed flush against you. There’s nothing soft about Joel Miller, not really. He’s solid, all muscle and heat.

Your fingers fist into his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. He groans low in his throat, hips instinctively pressing forward like he can’t help himself, like his body��s been waiting for this just as long as his heart has.

His hands slide down, rough palms gripping your waist, thumbs digging into your hips, holding you in place like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers.

For a moment, it’s just heat. Raw, aching need.

But then it slows—just barely.

The second Joel realizes he has you, something shifts. He softens, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. His lips brush slower, deeper now, tasting you, savoring every second like he knows he won’t get enough of this—not tonight, not ever.

You break apart just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, his chest heaving against yours.

His thumbs trace gentle lines over your cheekbones, a contradiction to the roughness of his hands. You feel him watching you—dark eyes blown wide, jaw tight, like he’s barely hanging on.

His breath hitches. His eyes flick between yours, heavy and unreadable. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to. It’s all there in the way he looks at you, like he’s waiting for you to tell him no… and praying you won’t.

Your hand fumbles for the door handle, breath caught in your throat. The click of the lock feels deafening in the quiet.

Joel follows as you step back, crowding into your space, his body all heat and muscle and coiled restraint. He backs you through the door without a word, his eyes never leaving yours.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

Joel stands close, breathing unevenly, jaw clenched tight as his gaze searches your face. He’s holding back, hesitation flickering across his features, but the need burning in his eyes is unmistakable.

His voice comes out rough, strained. “If this ain’t what you want…tell me now. Before I cross a line.”

Your only response is to close the gap, fingers threading into his thick, messy hair as your mouth finds his again. This kiss isn’t careful—it’s desperate, deep, laced with weeks of pent-up longing. Joel groans softly against your lips, hands gripping the globes of your ass, pressing you flush against him until you feel the heat radiating off his body. You pull him toward the bed, stumbling back until your knees hit the mattress and you both fall onto it, tangled together.

“Joel, please,” you breathe, and it’s enough to urge him lower.

He moves slowly downward, planting rough kisses along your stomach, hips, inner thighs, his hands gripping your legs, spreading you wide. When his mouth finally closes over your pussy, you moan sharply, thighs trembling around his shoulders. His tongue moves with deep, slow strokes against you—then faster, hungrier. Two thick fingers slide inside you, curling, stroking, finding that perfect spot until you’re writhing, your fingers digging into the sheets.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Joel rasps, his breath hot on your skin, his voice wrecked. He presses tighter against you, driving you closer until your hips buck, your climax washing over you hard. He groans into your clit, savoring every shudder, every breathless cry of his name. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, oversensitive, gently pushing at his head. Only then does he rise, eyes dark and heavy, his mouth wet, jaw tense with barely restrained desire.

He braces himself above you, mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth—deep, messy, and hungry. You moan into it, fumbling to push his jeans down, desperate to feel him. Joel helps, huffing out a rough breath as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, slick with precum, bobbing against his stomach.

Your fingers wrap around him, stroking slow and deliberate, thumb dragging over the leaking tip.

“Shit,” Joel hisses, his hips jerking toward your touch.

Joel nudges your thighs apart with his knee, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly pushes in. You gasp, breath catching as he stretches you, filling you until there’s no space left between your bodies. He groans, low and wrecked, dropping his head to your shoulder as he stays there, deep, catching his breath.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whisper, nails dragging along his back. “Move.”

And he does—slow at first, hips rolling deep and steady. But it doesn’t last. The control slips fast, his grip tightening on your hips as he sets a brutal rhythm, dragging you into every thrust. You wrap your legs around him, urging him closer, marking his back as you cling to him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasps, almost wrecked, hips snapping harder as he chases it. “Fuck—you feel so good, I can’t—”

He drives into you harder, each snap of his hips pulling a breathless moan from your lips. The tension builds sharp and fast, your orgasm crashing over you as you pulse around him, clenching tight.

Joel pulls out at the last second, groaning ragged as he spills hot across your stomach, chest heaving. His arm trembles where he braces himself above you, blinking down like he can’t quite believe what just happened.

But you’re not done.

Your hand wraps around him, slick and sure, guiding him back between your legs. His eyes go wide—“Fuck, baby—”—but you’re already there, sinking down onto him, gasping as you take him back in deep.

You rock against him, grinding desperately until your second orgasm overtakes you, pulsing around him, dragging one last broken moan from his throat.

When you finally collapse together, tangled and trembling, Joel's hand gently strokes your back, steadying you both as your breathing slows. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low, rough-edged with exhaustion, yet tinged with gentle amusement.

“Christ… remind me to stretch next time.”

Joel’s breathing hard, hands smoothing down your back. After a beat, you smile against his skin. “Stretch, huh? Not sure you’re the one who needs it.”

He huffs a low laugh, kissing the top of your head. “Smartass.”

You both go quiet after that, his hand tracing slow circles over your back, anchoring you both there—tangled up and wrecked. But for the first time in a long time, it feels easy.

Neither of you talk again.

You don’t need to.

Eventually, your breathing evens out, the weight of everything settling heavy in your limbs as sleep drags you under. You’re soft against him, skin warm, lips parted, completely relaxed in a way that makes something twist deep in Joel’s chest.

But he stays awake.

He can’t stop looking at you. Can’t stop replaying every second—how you’d looked at him earlier, furious and scared in the same breath. How your hands had trembled when you grabbed him outside the bar. The way you’d kissed him like you couldn’t help yourself, like you’d wanted him just as bad.

And later—how you’d moved beneath him. The heat of your skin, the sound of your voice, the way your body took everything he gave like you were made for him. He can still feel the drag of your nails, the desperate way you’d clung to him, like you didn’t care about anything but him.

That smile—you’d given him that soft, breathless little smile right after, like he’d done something good. Like he could still be good.

It undoes him.

Joel’s hand keeps moving over your back, slow and steady, trying to burn the feeling of you into his memory. He knows this—whatever this is—might not last. But for tonight, it’s his.

And when he finally closes his eyes, it’s your smile he sees. Your body he feels. Your voice echoing in his head.

Sleep takes him slow, quiet, and easy—because tonight, there’s nothing left to run from.

#UGH THIS WAS HAWTT #LOVE LOVE #joel miller x reader #joel miller

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