mandoatsea

[mandoatsea]

Taking Care of You

Masterlist

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x Reader (no-outbreak au)

Summary:

A heatwave hits the week your dad went away with his girlfriend, leaving you (in his opinion) home alone and unable to take care of yourself, so who better to call to drop canned supplies over than his best friend, Joel? But you might be using that time to take care of yourself already...

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) talk of masturbation (brief act of it), fingering, handjob, brief attempt at a blowjob, minute amount of praise, age gap, dad's best friend trope (but Joel has only ever known you as an adult)

Word count: 5.7k

a/n: I read a fic like this MONTHS ago, and I cannot remember who wrote it, definitely a Joel Miller heatwave one but I'm begging if you know who it was lmk asap because I don't want to plagiarise or take without credit! This was just my take on the trope.

Also important to mention this is my first attempt at smut so it's a lot more low-key and mild compared to a lot of the stuff on here, I'm sorry! I'll figure it out soon!

You’d only known each other for two summers. But with the way Joel Miller consumed your mind, it felt longer. Much, much longer. 

Joel Miller wasn’t supposed to be anything more than your dad’s new bff from across the road. A divorcé who had moved into your little suburban cul-de-sac, two and a half years ago, after his wife ran off with some younger man, dragging half his assets and half the custody of his teenage daughter with her. It had been a whole scandal. One that was whispered over fences by the horny housewives of husbands who started balding and spending the weekends on a recliner watching whatever old men like to watch. Because yes, Joel Miller was absolutely divine in that Jack Dawson, 80s erotic romance novel, take-me-I’m-yours way. 

But your dad, Mark, didn’t buy into all that neighbourhood gossip. No, since you were a child he had always said that the strength of a person came from their ability to form opinions for themselves and stick with them. It was probably why he was the first one to show up on Joel’s driveway with a six-pack of cold beer and an easy: ‘welcome to the street’ and a ‘need help unloading those boxes?’ whilst the rest of the street theorised what a man that handsome must’ve done to lose a wife. Because seriously, who on God’s green earth would leave a man who looks like that??

Since then, they’d been the male equivalent of best friends forever. What’s the equivalent of those little bff forever necklaces that break in half? Sharing toolboxes? Giving the other their screwdriver whilst borrowing their hammer?

Either way, football games on Sundays. Joint barbecue duty every Fourth of July. Shared Christmas when both of their daughters were unable to make it (Sarah at her mother’s and you drowning under the weight of assignments and upcoming exams).

So naturally, when you came home from your first year at college for the summer, you met Joel. 

Joel, who did not have a receding hairline and beer belly like you were led to believe. Joel, who did not look down on you and call you variations of ‘sweetheart,’ ‘darling’ or ‘doll,’ like the gross, older customers did at your part-time waitressing job.  

No, Joel Miller had no right sounding the way he did. With that easy Southern drawl that was too arousing to be calming. Linguists or speech patternists (whoever the fuck with ears) should really study him.

And he certainly had no right looking the way he fucking did. 

He was tall, broad, and sun-touched in the way that made it obvious he worked hard every day of his life, in the way that made his salt-and-pepper beard look hot as fuck instead of old. If it wasn’t his shoulders that were stretching his shirt it was his damn biceps that looked like they were about to snap his sleeves clean through like Captain America. And his hands? His veiny hands looked like the ones you had seen on those twitter posts, yes, those twitter videos. 

He was older. Much older. Probably twenty years older. And still, when he said your name or paid you a fraction of attention it tugged low at your belly in a way that someone your age should not be feeling for anyone that’s a couple decades away from a senior citizen discount. 

And now, finally graduated from college and temporarily moved back into your childhood home, you had all the time in the world to stare at Joel fricking Miller. 

Your dad had left two days ago. Something about taking his girlfriend, Sandra? Shannon? Sharron? To the lakehouse for a few days for ‘peace and quiet’ or whatever that meant. They’d been dating for over half a year now, and to your relief and abundant gratitude your dad was still unwilling to introduce the two of you together. 

You might have had at least eight years to get over your parents’ divorce, but that didn’t mean you wanted to see your dad all ‘loved-up’ with some other woman. Sickening. Parents should just stop having lives the second they have kids. 

And a full house to yourself for a week?? Fantastic. Perfection. No father. No roommates blasting music at 3 AM and leaving dishes in the sink. Just you, a full fridge of leftovers, and the intoxicating freedom to walk around without a bra or pants on. 

Until the heatwave hit, which technically suited those last plans, sure. But it sure made life ten times more uncomfortable. It was hellfire. Blistering. Your clothes stuck to your skin. The hardwood floor seemed like the only place to be. And closing the curtains only did so much. 

But there was one saving grace. 

One thing that had had you buzzing since your dad brought up the idea of getting away in the first place (Pun not intended).

Private. Adult. Time. (To put it politely.) 

A large chunk of time spent between your thighs, to put it less so. 

Being a woman was hard in the first place, so many extra angles to work out. Being a woman on some strong antidepressants? A lot harder. It often meant needing a larger amount of stimulation that you had quickly learnt guys, or at least the ones you’d suffered through college with, just didn’t match up to. You could only blame them so much when your own hand sometimes took forty minutes on a good day and an hour and a half on a bad one. 

And as a well-adjusted adult, in the awkwardness of being in the same house you once held tea-parties in and ran around in princess dresses, or more importantly, the house your father lives in, you weren’t exactly comfortable pulling out your trusty vibrator. Naturally. Arguably, a reasonable discomfort. 

That’s why you went through the lengths of hiding it in your underwear bag when he helped you move out of your old dorm room.

But he was gone. 

You had the house to yourself, a new battery locked and loaded in. 

So there you were sprawled across your bed, shorts long since kicked off somewhere on the floor, one hand between your thighs. Your vibrator sitting on your bedside table, ready for use once you built yourself up enough. Most people would probably include audiovisual stimuli too, some overdramatic, loud porn video off some weird site that probably farms your data, but you always found it too distracting. Too easily forgetting what you’re supposed to be doing in favour of focusing on the actress’ fake moans and whether a woman could really come that many times whilst you’re just broken. It’s like it in books too. Consecutive chapters dedicated to the smut, where the big, rugged cowboy gets the object of his desires and the bane of his existence, off three times with his tongue and twice with his dick. Not necessarily in that order. 

You circled your clit, a firm pressure and a slow pace, that clockwise direction that you know your body will start to respond to, hips rocking to meet it. A soft moan. Fuck, has it really been this long? You count it in your head. Tuesday 27th… three weeks. Three long, fucking weeks. Made all the more torturous when you spotted Joel mowing his lawn a few days ago. Fuck–

Your fingers begin to glide more easily, the thought of Joel making you much wett– well, that was new. Most of the time, you try to focus on the sensation, the movement of your fingers, the different angles, creating scenarios in your head were also too distracting. But this– No, this was good. 

And suddenly, a picture comes to mind. Joel, with his rough hands pulling at your thighs and greying curls between your thighs, his tongue following the same trail your fingers were now.

Fuck.

You’d have plenty of time to feel sick and perverted about this later. 

And then the right spot. 

Fuck, that’s it.

You blindly reach for your vibrator, needing the heightened sensation, not for your body’s lack of response like usual but instead to keep up with it. Just as you turned it on to the second setting, and pressed it to your clit, you were interrupted by an incessant round of knocking. You were probably mistaken, you told yourself (or desperately wished), so you kept going. 

Thirty seconds later, another round of knocks. 

You groaned in irritation, mentally considering to just ignore whatever package your dad must’ve ordered from Amazon and keep going. 

Then the doorbell ringing repeatedly like someone was jabbing it with their finger. Fine. Fine. 

“Coming,” you shout, dropping your vibrator to your bed in search of your clothes. “Or not anymore,” you mumble to yourself. Your shorts were crumpled at the end of your bed and shirt by your bedside drawers. You yanked them on, not even bothering to delay whatever asshole thought it was imperative you get to the door by putting on a bra or underwear. 

You swung the front door open, face meeting the fist of said asshole, already poised to knock again. 

Except, not an asshole. 

Joel. 

What the fuck was Joel Miller doing banging on your door? 

Joel took one glance at you and froze. Skin glowing with a layer of sweat, hair sticking to your neck with only a thin, and very see-through tank-top on. He didn’t know what to try to avoid looking at first, the outline of your nipples in said tank-top or the ridiculously short shorts that had no business being so tempting. But perhaps the filthiest thing was your expression, flushed, chest rising with laboured breaths. Perhaps Mark wasn’t kidding about her overheating easily, good thing he got here in time. 

The power-cut hit suddenly, the blistering sun disguising it until everyone’s fans turned off and the heat hit them full force. And what do old people do when faced with an annoying situation? Complain on Facebook. That’s how your father learnt what was going on in the area, quickly pulling up his contacts to call the one person he trusted, Joel, to quote unquote: ‘check in on her, we’ve already been gone six hours. Make sure she’s got plenty of non-perishables and water– oo, if you can, make sure she’s got a fan too! She overheats easily.”

And that’s what Joel intended to do, drop off enough supplies to keep you fed, happy and comfortable, make an uncomfortable joke at his own expense and try not to stare at you like the perverted, old man he was increasingly feeling like. 

Because he noticed. Oh yeah, he noticed alright. The long-lasting stares across the room, the small blush that sprinkled your face when he greeted you, and the… not-so-subtle glances at his arms and jeans when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. 

But you were his new best friend’s daughter. The unspoken rule in big, neon lights declaring: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT YOU SAD SACK. Unspoken, because any normal 50-year-old-man wouldn’t even be thinking about you in that light. He certainly wouldn’t stare at your ass when you bent over, most likely wouldn’t wonder what you’d sound like with his cock stuffed deep inside you, and he definitely would not, under any circumstances, accidentally picture you when he had his hand fisting his throbbing cock in the middle of the night. 

“What–” You clear your throat, trying to act like you weren’t just thinking about the man in front of you with his hands down your– “What are you doing? Here? My dad’s out of town.”

He ducks his head, running a hand through his greying curls. And you can’t help but notice they’ve grown since the last time you saw him, the same length you had just imagine grasping– “I know, he sent me. Told me to make sure you weren’t roastin’ in the heat.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you. But I’m fine so–” 

“You don’t look fine.” His brown eyes trace over you again, cataloguing the way your clothes cling to your skin, the way your hair’s frizzing at the back and your face is flushed. “You look like you’re burning up.”

“I was just… exercising. So you can–”

He raises a thick eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway. “Exercisin’, huh?” He blinks, nods to himself, then pushes himself past with a large box of items. 

“Where d’ya want this stuff?” He calls out in front of you, not even looking back as he makes his way into the kitchen. 

You stand there frozen with shock. What the hell is going on? Your brows knit together. “What stuff?”

“Water. Battery-operated fans. Batteries. Non-Perishables.” He lists, unpacking each onto the countertop. “Nothin’ fancy, just enough to get you by until the power comes back on and you can use your fridge again. Make sure not to open it until then.” 

“The power’s out?”

His head tilts in confusion. “You didn’t notice. Been out ‘bout an hour.” 

“Oh.. anywhere’s fine.” You shrug, hoping to avoid him questioning why you hadn’t noticed a whole damn power outage. 

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead his focus is on stacking the canned goods and opening the battery pack so he can put them into the fans. 

“I can do that later–” You offer. Hurry up. Please.

He glances over his shoulder. “You’re sweating enough to hydrate a small town. Sit down, I’ll handle this.”

“Told you, I was just–”

“Just exercisin’, yeah, I heard ya.” 

He clears his throat, turning back to the meaningless task he gave himself to avoid ogling you like a creep. “You eat somethin’ today?”

“And drank lots of water, so if you don’t mind–”

He ignores your attempts to shoo him away, turning the handheld fan on, and holding it out to blow directly on you. Big mistake. Because the hair that had been covering the front of your tank-top, blows back, showing off your cleavage once more. He coughs. Your hands wrap around the fan to hold it yourself. “Should drink some more. ‘Specially if you were exercisin’. Where’s your room? I got another–”

“No–”

He rolls his eyes, already moving down the hallway with the larger fan. He needed to get the fuck out of here, like three minutes ago when he didn’t know what you looked like sweaty and half-naked. The heat is crawling down his back, his jeans starting to feel tighter than they were before he parked in the driveway. He’s a strong man, prides himself on his physical strength, sure, but also his restraint, his tenacity, his ability to not paw at some women two decades his junior just because she’s showing a little skin. But poor Joel isn’t a saint, he’s a goddamn man with eyes and the personification of temptation and torture at his heels. 

“Your dad said something about overheating easily, I’ll just set it up in your room.”

“Joel, don’t–” 

But it’s too late. 

His steps falter as he enters the room, eyes instantly dropping to the small, black device perched innocently on your bed. And then his mind starts playing this really sick, little game, picturing you using that exact thing, his blood burning from the inside out. His hand twitches with the knowledge that he’s going to be busy tonight, no matter how much he’ll try to not be a sick fuck and watch some gameshow instead of jerking himself off.

He clears his throat, dragging his free hand down the face. It’s a wonder his left hand is still clutching the fan. 

“Joel!” Your hand lands on his back, body halfway through the doorway where he’s still frozen. But he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move or laugh, or pretend like he hasn’t seen your toy. No, he just stands there. Frozen. From the obstructed angle of his face you can see a blush rising from his neck, spreading across his ears and cheeks. 

“Fucking Christ,” he mutters, hand covering his mouth.

“I told you not to–” You finally squeeze your way through the small gap between Joel and the doorway, standing in front of him to try to block his eyeline. But with the height difference you’re at a disadvantage. 

His eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that.” 

“I just–”

He opens his eyes and immediately regrets it. Because you’re right there, standing in front of him in those damn clingy clothes, a flushed face and eyes wide enough to make him think that’s what you might look like satiated and thoroughly fucked. He can practically taste you on his lips, a blend of whatever perfume you use and the sweat dripping down your neck. He takes a step back, another deep breath. “‘S’alright, you’re a grown woman… you can do whatever you like behind closed doors.”

“I know. But I wasn’t expecting you— I just when the doorbell went– I thought it’d be a package or something, definitely not you! And I didn’t expect you to stay so long. Or come in here. Obviously I would have put it away—” You gesticulate wildly with every defense, your cleavage bouncing with each and every movement. 

His eyes follow each bounce, and the line of sweat on your chest that has him wanting to lick it off you so bad his hands almost shake. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he grits out, eyes darting back to your face. 

“Didn’t interrupt much, I wasn’t even close–” The words tumble out of you without thought and you mentally consider smashing your head against the wall in reprimand. What was wrong with you? “Not important–"

Christ, the images of what you might have been doing when he got here invade his mind tenfold. There’s a beat, him trying to gather himself, you trying to figure out what to say after oversharing. When he finally turns back toward you, there’s something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. A look of pure, unfiltered hunger, his irises swallowed whole.

He gives a jerky nod. “S’pose you’re plannin’ on pickin’ up where ya left off.”

“Think it’s killed the mood, to be honest.”

His jaw clenches. “Right.” 

There’s another wave of silence. This time, heavy and tense. Joel can’t take his eyes off you, you’re so close, so hot and pretty it’s hell trying to navigate. 

You step back towards the bed, picking up the vibrator and keeping it clutched behind your back. Out of site, out of mind, you desperately pray. There’s not enough gaslighting in the world that could convince you the older man in front of you will forget this ever happening. Mortification rolls over you in waves, drowning you. Fuck, he’s supposed to be coming over for the barbeque next week too. 

To your surprise, he asks: “Where the hell did you even get somethin’ so small.” Judging by the wide eyes avoiding your gaze, he’s surprised too. 

“It’s a bullet.”

“Looks real damn convenient.”

“Discreet packaging too.” Has the world suddenly tilted on its axis? In what universe are you telling the man who has beers with your father every Sunday the beauty that comes with purchasing from Love Honey.

He hums. “Think it’s the kind of present you’re supposed to use on your birthday.” It’s been a while since he was last with someone, most of his experience coming from his ex-wife. It’s not like he’s completely virgin to the use of toys, even in the bedroom together, but it wasn’t exactly a conversation piece either. Not that they talked about much in those last years together. Between fighting about Jamie, the intern at her office who did turn out to be a threat, and talking about Sarah, communication broke down. 

“It’s all I can use–” You cut yourself off. Again. What was it about this man that had you confessing your sexual preferences like a songbird under duress. What next? Were you suddenly going to list the names of every guy you’ve been with? The hidden list of kinks you hadn’t been able to explore with anyone yet? The last piece of media that turned you on? “Again, really not important.” 

His eyebrow quirks, dark eyes full of curiosity. 

“Just, y’know…” Kill me now, you think. “My medication makes it hard for me to… y'know. So it’s just easier to use this otherwise it takes too long and I get distracted and by then I’m nowhere close,” you rant. 

Kill. 

Me. 

Now.

… 

Please. 

He blinks. “Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck.

You hum, fingers fidgeting with the small toy still hidden behind your back. 

“Must…be different. Than doing it yourself, I imagine.” What the hell is he saying? He’s already gone past his usual boundaries by even bringing up this subject. But apparently his mouth’s out of his control now.

“The end isn’t as intense with this. Kinda sucks. But doing it myself… haven’t got enough practice to ensure I’ll finish quick enough.”

“Practice?” His jeans are unbearably tight, your silence doing nothing to encourage his feet to get himself the fuck out of here. His eyes trail over you again, taking in the way your chest is rising and falling with your laboured breaths, the way you keep shifting on your feet like you’re restless. But it’s not boredom or discomfort he can see on your face. He’s been with enough women to know exactly what arousal looks like. 

He’s not thinking. He’s not even trying to stop the thoughts swimming around in his head. He’s just taking another step towards you, bringing his body closer. And before he can stop himself, before he can yell at himself to not cross into ‘creepy, old fuck’ territory, he’s reaching for the hand behind your back, the one with the vibrator, and bringing it between you. He clicks the button once before pushing the tip against your other palm, vibrations flooding it.

He turns it up with a click of the same button. It buzzes louder, the sound more intense. ”Which setting do you like?” He asks gruffly, eyes trained on the buzzing toy.

“The next one,” you breathe out, the act of clenching your thighs doing nothing to help with the growing dampness.

He turns it up again, the toy getting louder, more powerful, the vibrations powering through both of your hands. He lets it go on for what could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, you can’t tell. “This one?”

“It’s the highest.” 

And then his hand is enveloping the one holding the vibrator, directing it lower. And lower. “Can I?” 

A small whine is all that comes out when you try to nod. Then he’s lowering it over your shorts, getting a sick satisfaction from the way your breath hitches, and your free palm wraps around his spare wrist. His hand lowers to grip your hip, causing your palm to slide up to his bicep, fuck– Your hand squeezes it as he presses the vibrator closer, until you’re practically riding it. The muscle flexing against your palm is enough to have you hurtling over the age in ways you never have–

He draws rough circles over your clit with the point, and suddenly you’re completely off balance. Off-kilter. Entering the twilight zone. “That feel good?”

An embarrassingly loud moan. 

He’s breathing hard, watching with an intensity as you come apart in his own hands. He’s starting to feel a little dizzy, the room becoming too hot, his head spinning with all the things he wants to do to you, with how damn good you looks right now, how good you feel in his arms– His imagination was sorely lacking this past year, because nothing, nothing could even come closer to this. “You can say the word, and I’ll stop.” He rasps out, shifting closer until his erection is pressed against your leg.

The words barely register over the fluttering in your stomach, not quite the beginning of an orgasm, but close, so close to something near it. You can’t even find it in yourself to consider telling him to stop, to use your brain to recognise just how fucked up this situation is. “Need more,” you sigh. “Too– Too many layers.”

He swallows hard, and he’s somewhat convinced he’s died and gone to some very generous part of Heaven. He pulls the vibrator away, bringing his hands to the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down with a swift motion. His eyes run over you, taking in the lack of underwear, the mess accumulating between your thighs and the damp spot on the abandoned shorts. ”Fuck baby, you’re making a mess’a yourself,” he groans.

He’s laying you down on the bed in seconds, his arm cushioning your head, keeping his weight off your body beneath him. In a flash he’s lining the bullet up with your clit, this time only turning it up to the second setting. It took a herculean amount of control to stop himself from just throwing it across the room in favour of grinding his clothed cock against you. 

He holds it there, letting it buzz directly against your clit with no mercy. ”Like this?” He chokes out. His eyes never leave your face, taking in the way you’re biting your lip, the way your hands are clenching his shoulders. 

“Circles–”

“You’ll get what I fucking give you when I give it to you.”

You cry out, thighs shaking with the contradictory amount of not enough and too much.

“Look so pretty like this,” he rasps out, feeling the way they clench around his hand. 

Another moan escapes you as his hips unconsciously piston into your side. 

You don’t know how long passes before he begins to draw circles again, the movement only making you mew louder. “You’re taking it so well. Think you can handle more, can’t you?” He lets go of the toy, bringing your hand down to take over for him, before using his hand to pull your tank-top down, just enough to free one of your tits. He brushes his thumb over the sensitive bud, soaking in the pretty, little reactions he gets from you. 

He pinches, loving the sharp intake of breath and the way your thighs squeeze tighter around your own hand. Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come, he thinks to himself. But fuck, if this isn’t the best sight he’s seen. “Open your legs for me. Keep them open, I wanna see.” 

“Sorry,” you breathe out. 

“There you go. That’s a good girl.” He pinches again, the praise slipping out before he can stop  himself. His eyes dart from your pussy to your eyes, trying to garner your reaction. Joel knows he’s a man of intense interests, interests that a lot of people might shy away from or find disgusting. Light praise might be the least of them, but he knows if you let him open that can of worms, there’s only a short amount of time before it all comes out. He has to reel himself back, remind himself you’re a lot younger, probably a lot less experienced. He doesn’t want to push too much too soon, especially with how impulsive the past fifteen minutes have been. 

You force your legs apart, grinding against the vibrator still forced against your clit. “This good enough for you, Mr. Miller?”

His hand stutters over your nipple, his head dropping to your collarbone with a painful thump. “Don’t you dare call me that,” he groans. And as you’re about to apologise for suddenly making it weird, he says: “Not if you want me to not come in my pants like I’m a fucking teenager again.” 

Did you just hear what you think you heard? And then you feel it, the faster piston of his hips against your thigh. 

He nips at your neck, teeth pulling at the skin. You should probably warn him, tell him to not leave any marks, but the words escape your brain the second he starts flicking your nipple again. 

“Think you can take my fingers too?”

The despair of clenching around nothing has you nodding eagerly. He pushes himself back up on his elbow, hovering over you as one of his callused hands makes the descent, knocking into the vibrator and teasing your slit. 

“If I knew what a needy girl you are,” he slides a finger in, curling to find your spot. “I’d have taken care of you a lot sooner. Your lack of a reaction has him sliding in a second causing you to arch into him. Much better, he thinks. 

”You’d just take whatever I give you, wouldn’t you?” His voice is hoarse, and it’s taking every fiber of self control not to push his jeans down and bury himself inside you. “Fuck– squeezing me so tight. That’s it.” 

You clench around him again. 

“Can you take another?”

“Please–” Your focus wanes from the toy in your hand, taking more pleasure from his three fingers spreading your cunt and curling. You feel the heat start to spread in your abdomen, holy fuck. 

Your needy whines are going straight to his dick.  ”That’s it, baby. Take what you need.” 

“I’m gonna– I’m so–”

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re a needy mess.” His thumb pushes between your clit and the vibrator, rubbing firm circles over and over. You click the vibrator off, aiming for the bedside table but dropping it to the floor instead. 

“Fucking drooling all over me.” Joel’s cock throbs against his tight jeans, desperate for relief. “You been thinkin’ about me too?”

“Yes–” You moan out, pressure building as you push against his hand. So close. So close. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, sharp nails clawing at his shirt as the pressure shatters and you’re coming around his hand with a cry. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing smaller circles until your hips jump with the overstimulation. Your body goes limp when he pulls them out, body satiated and brain flatlining with the rush of dopamine. 

“That’s it. That’s it,” he cooes, leaning his head on one of your thighs. He’s still not ready to float back down to reality, the one where this is the shittiest thing he’s ever done to a friend. Still not ready for this to be over. 

And when you sit up, he expects you to curse him out, to look at him with pure disgust and hatred at what he’s just done. But instead, he feels your hand cup the large tent in his jeans, palming at it. His head snaps up, opening his mouth to ask what you’re doing, but one look at the pure, wrecked expression on your face and your glossed-over eyes has him pushing against your palm. 

“Takin’ what you need again?” He chokes out. Maybe it’s easier that way, if he pretends like he’s doing you the favour, instead of taking responsibility. Later, he thinks to himself, later he’ll take responsibility for this, feel the guilt he deserves but until then... 

You make quick work of getting his jeans open, hands pushing at them to try and get them to join your shorts on the floor. His hands meet yours, helping to get them over his legs before you push at his chest until the positions are reversed: his back against the bed, you hovering over him. Your hands trail over the buttons of his shirt, pulling at them individually and popping them open. 

His eyes slam shut the moment your hands worm their way down his stomach, rubbing at the greying hair. He grips the bottom of your tank-top, yanking it over your head with enough force that it makes a small ripping noise. He palms at your swollen breasts, praying to whatever divinity there is that he’ll be able to remember them.

“Just wanna see him,” you tease, palm rubbing over the prominent tent in his black boxers. 

“You gonna take good care of him?” 

“Promise.” You bring your mouth over him, pressing a kiss against the tip, over the damp patch darkening the material covering it. He groans, hips cantering up. You take pity, pulling them down until they join the rest of the pile. 

Despite your generous imagination, and man was it vivid, he’s bigger than you pictured. The head of his thick length, red and swollen, already leaking small beads of pre-cum.

You wrap your fingers around him, and he curses. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone that isn’t his own hand stroking him, and he’s suddenly a little worried he might end this too quickly. But fuck do you look too pretty, cock dripping between your fingers, tongue licking at your lips like you’re debating if he’d let you taste him. He’s just surprised he wouldn’t have to beg. ”Fuck, I’ll mess those pretty fingers up if I’m not careful.”

“Gonna make them glisten, Mr. Miller? I’d prefer my face but–” 

His eyes roll to the back of his head, ”You’re gonna make me come just talkin’ like that. Wish you brought that filthy mouth out sooner.”

Your hand strokes faster, twisting on the upstroke and one of his hands envelopes yours, helping to apply more pressure. “That’s it, pretty girl. Doin’ so good f’me.” The other lifts to your chin, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “You gonna let me put that dirty mouth to better use?” 

You nudge the hand covering yours away, lowering your mouth to his aching cock. It twitches against your lip, and you lift your eyes to his as you take him into your mouth inch by inch. His hand slides past your cheek, fingers gliding to the back of your head to grip your hair. “Look so pretty stuffed full of my co–”

He’s interrupted by your phone buzzing on your nightstand, screen lighting up. You ignore it, hollowing out your cheeks until you feel Joel freeze under you. He pulls your mouth off him with a wet pop. 

“What?” You ask, worried that you were doing something wrong. It’s been a long time since you last went down on a guy–

“Your dad’s calling.”    

“Oh.”

[mandoatsea]

R.I.P. Malik Ali, the falafel vendor 💔

[mandoatsea]

sorry I can’t be in a situationship. I want to eat each others souls

[mandoatsea]

Summary: Returning to your home town and reeling from the world’s worst breakup, you don’t expect to become entirely obsessed with your parents’ friend and contractor, Joel Miller, who is undoubtedly off limits. But when Joel offers to drive you across the country for a new job and you end up in a motel room with one bed and no aircon, things heat up.

There’s a sad-looking pair of end tables, a beat up TV, and the smallest double bed you’ve seen in your life. “Jesus, I’ve seen plane seats with more leg room.” You say, dumping your bag at the foot of the bed. “Shoulda flown then, darlin’,” Joel replies, one eyebrow raised, a half-smirk on his handsome face.

Tags/warnings: smut, MDNI, PIV, oral (f!receiving), DBF!Joel, dirty talk, one bed trope, age gap (reader is 20s, Joel is 40s), au!no outbreak

8k words

The worst thing about moving back in with your parents as an adult isn’t the lack of space, or the constant fussing, or even their inability to acknowledge that you’re not a kid anymore. Sure, the total absence of privacy and your mom’s constant chattering can be annoying, but that’s nothing to the misery that Joel Miller’s presence in the house brings.

It’s not that he’s horrible – quite the contrary. The problem is that he’s polite, and sweet, and so goddamn hot it almost drives you insane. He’s also two decades older than you, an old friend of your dad’s and totally off limits. You think the agony of it might just kill you.

The morning you arrive back in your parent’s driveway with a suitcase and a broken heart is the morning Joel arrives to start work on your parent’s driveway. That’s where you first see him, standing on the front lawn that hot July morning. Joel’s holding a tool box and a hard hat, and you’re clutching the worn-out suitcase that you took with you when you left for college ten years ago, eyes ringed red, head thumping with the beginnings of a migraine. You recognise him in a vague, distant sort of way, but you can’t immediately place him. He’s squinting in the bright early morning sun, dark eyes hidden by a strong brow, his face dusted with patchy stubble. He looks you over, takes in your tear-stained face, your shaking hands.

“You okay?” He asks, and it’s his voice that makes you realise who he is, that strong Texas twang just as effortlessly sexy as it was when you were eighteen.

You unstick your tongue from the top of your mouth and splutter out a reply, “I’m fine,” You clear your throat, wipe a hand across your throbbing forehead, “Been a long drive. It’s Joel, right?”

His eyebrows raise at the sound of his name and he peers at you a little harder, adjusting the hardhat in his grasp, laying it flat against his hip to get a better grip. The movement makes you glance down at his body, at the tight pull of his t-shirt across broad shoulders, the narrow cinch of his waist beneath a worn tool belt.

“Do I know you?” He asks, not unkindly, and you try to smile at him then despite the tugging, grating feeling in your chest.

“I’m Pete’s daughter.”

His eyes flick to your parent’s house then back to you. “Jesus,” he says, a half-grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, “you’ve grown up a lot.”

You have, of course. The last time you saw Joel was ten years ago, just as he and your father were getting friendly after you guys moved across the country from Maine. You left for college a few months later. It’s the reason you’ve never really felt like Texas is your home, exactly, but it’s the place you’ve come back to after the world’s messiest breakup.

And so begins a long month in which Joel builds your parents a new driveway, and you try to build a new life for yourself. Early on, you see little of each other. Your parents both work long hours, so for the most part it’s just you and Joel at the house. You spend most of your time up in your bedroom, applying for any job that will get you back out of Texas and into your own place, or stalking your ex on social media and trying not to spiral into a deep depression when you realise he’s already dating the girl he told you not to worry about.

Joel works outside, sometimes with his brother, but mostly on his own. It’s one of the days he’s alone that you cross paths in the kitchen, Joel coming in just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of lemonade.

“Do you want some?” you ask him, and he shakes his head, holds up the empty water bottle he’s carrying.

“Just came in to fill up,” he says, eyes flicking quickly over the long lines of your legs beneath the tiny shorts you’re wearing. He pulls his gaze up quickly, asks, “How’s the job search going?”

You scoff, leaning back against the counter to face him. “Do you want the truth, or what I’ve been telling mom and dad?”

“Whatever you want to give me, darlin’,” He says, glancing at you over his shoulder, his expression unreadable despite the bright sunlight streaming in through the patio doors.

If you had to pinpoint the moment when your abstract, theoretical crush on Joel Miller turned into something insistent and broiling, something that would keep you up at night and seep into every waking thought, you’d probably have to say that that seven-word sentence – rounded off with a pet name that sounds downright sinful in his Texas drawl – was the turning point. It makes heat rush to your face, sends a bolt of something like molten lava through your core. You tell him something vague about the job market being a bit of a mess, explain briefly that you’d rather wait for something that you really want to come up, feeling hot and more than a little flustered under his gaze.

“Sounds like you’ve got your head screwed on. More’n can be said about a lot of kids your age.” Joel replies, and the heat of lust in your belly is replaced rapidly with a different kind of heat, something like annoyance.

“I’m hardly a kid,” you reply, crossing your arms across your chest as Joel screws the cap of his bottle back on, his large hand dwarfing the small lid, thick fingers distracting you despite your indignance.

“Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean you’re young. Y’got your whole life ahead of you.”

“As opposed to you,” you say, smirking at him, testing the water with the tease, “end-of-the-road old man, just waiting for the call of the nursing home.”

Joel huffs out a laugh at this, rolls his eyes as he leans back into the kitchen counter opposite you.

“Careful now,” he says, a mocking sternness in his voice, “you’re meant to respect your elders.”

He pushes himself away from the countertop, stretching his arms back and up so that the hem of his t-shirt rides up a few millimetres above the waistband of his jeans. The tiny slither of tan skin there is enough to set your heart racing. He groan as he stretches, and the sound is intoxicating, deep and rough and entirely indecent.

“Better get back to work,” Joel says, arms returning to his side, “good luck with the job search, darlin’.”

And then he’s gone from the kitchen, his broad back disappearing down the hallway and out of the front door. You sag back against the counter, heart still thumping, brain trying to process the firework display of hormones that seems to be bubbling through your veins.

Two days later, Joel thumps into the house, boots clunking against the expensive kitchen tiles your mom insisted on laying down. You’re in the lounge, laid out on the sofa, laptop perched on your stomach when he pokes his head round the door, his dark eyes finding yours.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little hoarse, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a first aid kit?”

You sit up and close your laptop as Joel shuffles into the room, one hand gripping the other, blood oozing out from between his fingertips.

“Jesus Christ,” you say, rushing to your feet.

“It’s fine, looks worse’n it is. Could do with a Band-Aid, though, if you’ve got one.”

You guide him back through to the kitchen and he leans against the dining room table as you search for the first aid kit.

“What happened?” You ask as you rifle through your parents’ well-organised kitchen drawers.

“Sliced my thumb on a paving slab,” He replies, “Bleeding more’n I thought it would.”

“I’ll say,” you say, finally holding the first aid kit and turning back to him, “you look like something out of a crime drama.”

You gesture to the white tee he’s wearing, and he looks down, sees the dark blood stains that have seeped into the cotton.

“Damn,” He mutters, holding his cradled hands further away from his body as though there’s a chance to save the shirt.

“Come on, let’s clean you up.”

He shifts from where he’s leaning against the table and steps over to the kitchen island, laying his entwined hands on the white marble countertop. When he moves his fingers from where they’re wrapped around his thumb you see that the cut isn’t particularly deep – just a thin, half-inch gash at the root of his nail. The blood is already slowing, and you unwrap an antiseptic wipe. You reach out your own hand, take his into it, trying not to think about how warm his skin is, how much larger his hands are than yours, and that if you looked up, right now, you’d be face to face with him over the kitchen island, breath mingling in the bright afternoon sunlight.

“This might sting,” you say, and you do glance up at him then.

He’s watching your intertwined hands, but his eyes flick up as yours do. You’re barely a hair’s breadth from each other, foreheads almost touching, and there’s a moment of something –tension, perhaps, or awkwardness – you’re not sure exactly. It’s over in a split second, both of you looking down again. You wipe the antiseptic over the cut and he hisses out a breath from between his teeth.

“Sorry,” You say, cleaning the blood from his uninjured hand with the wipe and then moving away to throw it into the trash.

You put the Band-Aid on for him, wrapping it delicately around his thumb. He flexes the digit when you’ve finished, and you move your hand from his reluctantly.

“Good as new,” You tell him, and he smiles, a warm, genuine smile that makes the dark brown of his eyes glint in the sunlit kitchen.

“Guess I’d better get back to work,” He says, pushing himself away from the island.

“Looking like that?” You gesture to his blood-soaked t-shirt.

He looks down and frowns, lips pouting as he pulls the fabric away from his chest to examine the large, deep red bloodstain.

“I can wash it for you,” You say, “I’ll go and get you one of dad’s to wear while it dries. He won’t mind.”

“It’ll be fine, darlin’, don’t worry.”

“Joel, you look like you just killed somebody. C’mon, it’s no trouble. Take it off,” You reach out a hand and there’s that tension again, that delicious, toe-curling awkwardness that makes his moment of indecision go on for what feels like a decade. You stand there, looking at each other, neither of you moving.

Then he sighs, grips the bottom of the shirt and tugs it up over his head. Up, over his stomach, which is softer than the rest of him, a trail of dark hair leading down to his belt buckle, then up further to reveal his ribcage, solid and thick, his chest toned and tan, and those shoulders, ridiculously broad even when they’re bare, freckled from the Texas sun. He hands the t-shirt to you and you feel heat rising up your neck and into your face, eyes sliding away from his torso and to the shirt. It’s slightly damp in your hands – not from the blood, but from Joel’s sweat. Your heart is thumping in your chest, blood pooling in your belly and between your thighs. Swallowing thickly, you ball up the shirt and fill the sink with cold water, submerging it.

“I’ll go grab you something to wear,” You say to Joel, still not sure where to look when you turn back to him.

He’s got a hand on the back of his neck, fingers distractedly pulling at the hair there, and if you didn’t know him better you’d say he was embarrassed, shirtless in your parents’ kitchen, his tan skin hot against the cool white of the worktops.

Upstairs, you pull out one of your dad’s t-shirts, realising immediately that it’s got to be about two sizes smaller than the shirt Joel was wearing. Your dad, though tall, has always been slim and wiry, the opposite build to Joel’s thickset broadness.

“So about that shirt…” you say as you re-enter the kitchen, holding up your dad’s tee to Joel, “I think it might be a bit small.”

Joel takes it from you, holds it up against himself. It hardly stretches to cover the middle of his chest. You look at him, his eyes meeting yours and suddenly you’re both laughing hard.

“Just try it!” You say.

“Darlin’, if I put this on it ain’t coming off again,” Joel replies, but he starts tugging it on anyway, squeezing his thick biceps through the arm holes, seams almost bursting as he pulls it up and over his head. He gets it on, just, but it’s ridiculously tight, straining across his chest, cutting into his armpits to accommodate his broad shoulders.

“Been a long time since I fitted into a small, sweetheart,” he says, tugging at the bottom of the shirt, which sits just below his belly button, the solid vee of his hips visible above the waistband of his jeans. His eyes shift up at you with the last word, and there’s a flickering heat in them, something that turns the innocent sentence into an innuendo. Heat flushes up your face, cheeks burning as you grin at him.

“You look great,” you tell him, holding his eye contact.

“Jesus,” he says, finally looking away from you to glance down at his chest, “I can’t go out and work in this, can I?”

It’s a genuine question, his voice unsure. You try to shrug and tell him it looks fine but instead of words a giggle bursts from you, and you shake your head.

“You look like a stripper,” You tell him, and he lets out a huff of a laugh, pulling the shirt back off.

“Shirtless it is then,” He says, “Give the neighbours something to watch, won’t it?”

He winks at you with this last, and the laughter dies in your throat because his eyes are shining, face pitched with the tease and it sends a bolt of pure arousal through you.

You don’t know if the neighbours spend the rest of the afternoon watching him work on the driveway, but you certainly do. There’s an elegance to the way he moves – something effortlessly sexy in his posture, the ease with which he moves paving slabs and cement bags. His jeans ride low on his hips, dust-covered and torn at both knees, and his back, bare and gleaming with sweat in the heat of the day, distracts you from your job search. You bring him out fresh lemonade, just as an excuse to talk to him again. He takes it from you, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows it down, tongue chasing the moisture from his lips. His chest is heaving from the exertion of the work, and there’s something so intimate about it – about him standing a good four feet away from you, sweat beading at his brow – that you have to turn around and take yourself back inside.

Four days after the paving slab incident, its Joel’s turn to come to your aid.

You’re running late, as you always seem to be these days, getting ready to go out and meet a friend who’s in town for a week for dinner. Your parents are, as always, out somewhere, but Joel’s stayed late, still working outside laying the final paving slabs on the drive.

The problem is that the zip on your dress is stuck, right in that bit of your back that you can’t quite reach. It won’t go up and it won’t go back down either, and after fifteen minutes of wriggling and tugging and straining, you realise you have two choices: go out with it like this, or get Joel to help.

That’s how you find yourself in the kitchen, your back to him as he tries – and fails – to release the zip.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, and you can tell how gentle he’s being, using those strong, thick hands that you’ve seen lift forty kilogram paving slabs so softly on you.

“You can be a bit rougher,” you tell him, not noticing the insinuation until the words are already out of your mouth.

If you could see him then, you’d see the way his ears flush red; how his eyes flick nervously away from you, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. You hear this last, hear it alongside the slight wobble in his voice when he says, delicately:

“I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to get it down, darlin’. I think the zip’s broken.”

“Shit,” You say, trying to turn your head to see the problem, even though you know you won’t be able to. Instead, you find yourself looking at Joel, at the way his arms are pressed against you, face just above yours, his eyes focussed on the middle of your back. You see the patterns of hair growth in his stubble, the small flecks of grey there. He’s so beautiful up close like this, his attention still on the stuck zipper. You wonder what it would be like to run a hand over his strong jaw, to let your fingers find a home in the whorls of errant curls on his head. He’s stopped tugging at the zip now, and there’s a tiny frown line digging into the apex of his nose. His eyes are still fixed on your back, one hand at your waist to hold you steady. It’s like his fingers are leaching electricity into your skin, his palm hot despite the layer of cotton between it and your flesh.

“You might have to cut me out of it,” You say into the charged silence, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.

Concern is concentrated there, his brows furrowing, and he looks like he’s going to refuse. You have an image of him shaking his head, turning his back on you and leaving the house without another word.

“Please,” You say, and he clears his throat, gives a short nod as he lets his hands drop back to his sides.

You find the scissors in the drawer, hand them to him and watch, shakily, as he leans to place the blades against the side of the dress.

“Try to follow the stitching,” You say, “I can probably sew it back together and put a new zip in.”

“Right. Sure,” His voice is throaty, deeper even than usual as he moves the scissors over, his hand grazing the side of your bare thigh. “Are you… have you get anything on underneath?”

“I’m wearing underwear,” You reply, and almost giggle with the ridiculousness of the situation. Joel Miller, contractor extraordinaire and your dad’s best friend of ten years, stood with you in the kitchen of your parents’ house discussing what underwear you’re currently wearing.

The first slice of the scissors through the material brings you back to your senses. He keeps going, concentrating hard, his face a mask of attentiveness, eyes fixed on the dress or perhaps – you watch as his gaze creeps up the long expanse of your revealed thigh – your body. The last snip of the scissors severs the dress and it’s only by holding the material to you that you prevent it pooling at your feet on the tiled floor. Joel moves away, but just before he does you feel the tips of his fingers graze a delicate path up your side. The touch is so light you almost think you’ve imagined it, the blunt edges of his nails just barely there against you. Then he’s moving away, his face unreadable, eyes looking anywhere but at you as he hands the scissors back.

“Thanks,” You say into the heated silence.

“S’alright,” He replies, dark eyes finally finding your face. “you should go find something else to wear. I’ll, uh, be outside.”

He doesn’t look back as he leaves the kitchen, but his fists are clenched at his sides as he goes, fingers flexing out and then curling back in, and it’s this thought that keeps you up late that night, one hand buried in your pyjama pants as you make yourself come again and again to the thought of him.

All of this is just the prelude, of course. The entrée to the main event that starts on a stormy August evening and ends (begins again, perhaps) in a motel room some three hundred miles from Austin.

You find out you’ve finally landed a job – a good job, in the field you were desperate to get into – as thunder rattles the windows of your childhood bedroom. It’s been storming all day, bolts of lightning illuminating the dull Texan sky. It matches your mood, too, because the job is in Chicago and you start in two weeks. You look from the screen of your laptop to the chaos of boxes and furniture piled around you. Two weeks to get to Chicago, find a new place to live, and move all of the crap you brought with you from the shitty shared apartment you left a month ago.

It's Joel who saves the day, of course. Joel, with his ridiculous truck that he says can easily fit you and all of your worldly possessions for the thousand mile trip. You don’t need to be good at math to know that this means you and Joel will be spending days driving across the country, together, in very close proximity. And it should set alarm bells ringing, because you’re fairly sure you’ve already crossed some kind of line: that the easy, dad’s-old-friend relationship that might have been there at the start of the summer has been slowly chipped away by shared lemonade and awkward thumb cuts and dresses with broken zips.

The alarm bells are entirely absent, however, because the truth is there’s no one else you’d rather go on a three-day road trip with, desperate as you are to wring out every drop of his company before you start your new life. And God, if that doesn’t make you sound like the most desperate woman in Austin.

The morning of the move you wake early, head buzzing with a million things that you need to do before Joel picks you up at seven-thirty. All of your stuff is back in boxes – not that you ever really unpacked much anyway – and there are a few last things you need to pack. You work your way through these last bits – toiletries, make up, phone and device chargers and your laptop. You’ve just finished loading everything into a rucksack when you hear the doorbell, loud in the quiet of the early morning.

And there’s Joel in the doorway, a dark blue t-shirt pulling tight across his broad chest, one arm leaning against the frame, an easy smile on his face to greet you. You try to ignore the tugging, wriggling excitement that bubbles up in your stomach at the sight of him, tell yourself it’s excitement for the move, for your new job, your new apartment.

“Ready?” He asks, voice still a little hoarse with sleep, and you nod. His hair is ruffled, curls standing up at the back of his neck when he turns to indicate the truck. “Let’s get loaded up, then.”

Together, you load up all of the boxes into Joel’s truck. They fit easily, laid out in neat rows in the bed. Joel carries most of them, insisting that he doesn’t want you putting your back out. He makes the lifting look easy, picking up boxes you struggled to carry at all with an ease that speaks for the coiled strength in his thick arms and broad back. When you’re done he stands by as you say your goodbyes to your parents, shakes your dad’s hand and promises to make sure you get to Chicago safe.

“I’ll take care of her,” he tells him, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes flick to you as he says it, adding, “C’mon then, darlin’” and opening the passenger door open for you with a strong hand.

You climb in, wondering if he did really graze his fingertips up your side a couple of weeks ago in the kitchen as he helped you out of your dress. The memory is already a little hazy, overplayed in your mind every night since, trying so desperately to recall the heat of his body behind you, the almost-not-there trace of his fingertips against your skin. You want so desperately for him to do it again, to get close enough so that you can feel the warmth spilling from his skin. You want his hands splayed over your hips, the scruff of his beard rough on the back of your neck, breath harsh in your ears.

The cough of the truck’s engine shakes you from the daydream. Joel pulls off your parents’ driveway, his hand resting on the back of your headrest to look behind him as he does. You take a last look at your parents on the driveway, giving them a final wave as you and Joel round the corner towards the highway. And then it’s just you and Joel and hundreds of miles of open road.

“Get your feet off the dash.”

You’re thirty miles outside of Austin, the hot Texan sun beating down into the cab of the truck. You’ve taken your shoes off, propped your feet up onto the dashboard to try to stretch out, but Joel’s having none of it.

“Why?” You ask nonchalantly, not moving them.

“Cause if we crash you’ll break your legs.” Joel replies, face hard as he glances away from the road to look at you.

“You crash a lot? Because I feel like you should’ve told me that before I agreed to let you drive me halfway across the country.”

Joel huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a damn brat?” He says, and you gasp as he leans across the dash, wraps a hand around one of your ankles and pulls it off the dashboard. “I ain’t playing around, darlin’. No feet on the dash.”

The sternness of his voice coupled with the pet name is enough to have you pressing your thighs together, heat pooling like molten gold low in your belly. Even an hour later, as you fall into a comfortable conversation about Chicago, you can still feel the heat of his hand on your leg, like it’s been branded against your skin. You think about how it would feel further up your leg, in the crux of your knee, his fingers hot on your thigh and even higher still, creeping past the elastic of your panties. Joel clears his throat, hands massaging the worn leather of the truck’s steering wheel and it pulls you out of your reverie.

The Texas suburbs turn into highway, and then into the interstate: a long, straight haze of tarmac as far as you can see. It’s been almost four weeks since you made the drive to Texas after your breakup, all of your possessions behind you in a U-haul, and the open road is a welcome change from the claustrophobia of your parents’ street.

You sit in contented silence for the rest of the day’s journey, occasionally passing comment about something you see on the side of the road. Joel smiles at your poor attempts at humour, lets himself ease into the drive, mind undoubtedly wandering to whatever it is middle aged contractors think about (taxes and surcharges, mainly). You stop for gas somewhere in Oklahoma, grab a sandwich each and a couple of cans of soda and eat in the parking lot. By nightfall the open plains of the state are swallowed up by Tulsa’s distant but impending skyline, and Joel pulls the truck off the highway again.

“There’s a decent motel a few miles away,” he tells you, “S’nothing special but I’ve stayed there before and it’s pretty clean.”

“A stunning endorsement.”

“It’s also the only motel this side of the city,” he says, “beggars can’t be choosers, darlin’.”

Beggars certainly can’t, because it becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that almost no one has chosen anything about this motel for years, possibly decades. The parking lot is mostly empty, if you don’t count the beer cans and chip packets that litter the tarmac. Most of the lights are off, too. Joel pulls the truck into a space and kills the engine.

“One quick question before we go in,” you say, slipping your feet back into your trainers, “on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that we get murdered in our beds?”

Joel scoffs at this, a throaty noise that shouldn’t turn you on but somehow does.

“S’long as I’ve got a bed to sleep in before the murder, I’m happy,” he replies, “Back’s killin’ me after that drive.” 

To illustrate the point he opens the truck door and climbs out, large hand massaging the bottom of his back with well-practiced dexterity. You do the same, grabbing your overnight bag as you hop out and follow Joel towards the reception.

Inside, a bored-looking woman with a badly-dyed fringe eyes you from behind a desk and reluctantly lowers her magazine.

“Two singles,” Joel says, leaning his forearm against the desk. His shirt sleeve is rolled up, revealing several inches of deliciously tan skin. You pull your eyes away as the woman sighs.

“Due to current renovations, we’re operating at a limited capacity,” she says, her voice flat and disinterested. She runs a finger over the open book in front of her. “Only room I’ve got left is a double. $20 for one night.”

“Damn,” Joel sighs. “It got a pull-out?”

“Nope.”

“A couch?”

“Nope.”

“A floor?” His voice is straining on the side of annoyance, and it’d almost be funny, the way the girl rolls her eyes and huffs, if you weren’t so tired and desperate for a comfortable bed.

“You want the room or not?” She says, and Joel looks to you. You shrug, and he sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll take it.”

The woman pulls a key out from under the desk and hands it to him. In turn, Joel slides a $20 bill across the desk.

“Room 23,” she says, her voice flat and toneless again. “Enjoy your stay.”

Room 23 is certainly clean, but that’s about all it’s got going for it. The walls are a sickly mustard yellow and the curtains match. There’s a sad-looking pair of end tables, a beat up TV, and the smallest double bed you’ve seen in your life.

“Jesus, I’ve seen plane seats with more leg room.” You say, dumping your bag at the foot of the bed.

“Shoulda flown then, darlin’,” Joel replies, one eyebrow raised, a half-smirk on his handsome face.

You roll your eyes, wave a hand in the air. “Yes, yes, I’m very grateful to you for saving me $200 for a flight I can’t afford. Seriously, though, what’s the plan here?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says, “and you can take the bed.”

“Joel, you literally just spent ten minutes lamenting about how much your back hurts. You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“Well I ain’t letting you sleep there. Your dad’d never forgive me.”

“Guess we’ll have to share then.”

There’s a silence as your eyes meet, something unsaid and intoxicating dancing in the air between you, then Joel says, “I don’t know that that’s such a good idea.”

The strength of his gaze on you is almost palpable, his dark eyes burning into yours before they flick away quickly to glance at the bed.

“Scared I’ll steal all the covers?” You ask, voice teasing as something warm and distracting pools low in your belly.

“Something like that.” He replies, groaning as he stretches, left hand back in the small of his back.

“C’mon, it’ll be fine. You keep to your side, and I’ll keep to mine.”

He grunts at this, shakes his head without looking at you.

“Well, I’m going to brush my teeth,” you tell him, picking up your bag and side-stepping around the TV table to the small bathroom.

It’s cleaner than you expect, soap suds only a few millimetres thick on the avocado green sink. Through the thin wall you can hear Joel moving about, the ambient sting of the TV static electric as he flicks through channels. He settles on something that sounds like the ESPN, and sure enough, when you leave the bathroom a few minutes later, clad in loose fitting pyjama shorts and a tank top, he’s spawled out on the bed – still in his jeans, but you’re sure the bedspread is dirtier even than his faded denim Levis – watching baseball.

“Bathroom’s free,” You say, tucking your bag under the bed and flopping down next to him. The mattress is so narrow that even without meaning to you’re touching – his thick thigh pressed suddenly against you knee as you shuffle yourself over. It’s a fleeting touch, the heat of his body barely palpable before he moves off the bed towards the bathroom, ducking to pick up his bag as he goes. You watch the broad span of his back disappear behind the bathroom door and let out a long, slow breath. If this were a romance book, it would be a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding in, but around Joel, you notice every tiny movement of air.

The baseball is still on, and you let your focus drift to it. When Joel reemerges a few minutes later, he’s still in his jeans, t-shirt now untucked but otherwise unchanged.

“You always sleep in your jeans?” You ask.

“Not normally, but I usually don’t make a habit of sleeping with cheeky minxes like you.”

The words fall heavily into the tension of the room. He seems to realise immediately what he’s said, and he looks away quickly, clearing his throat. You swallow as arousal swoops low in your belly.

“I didn’t mean-” he starts to say, but you cut him off.

“I know what you meant.”

His eyes find yours again. You’re not sure if it’s the low light of the poorly fitted lamp, or something else, but his pupils are blown wide, irises swallowed up almost entirely. There’s a flush on his cheeks too, but that could just be the shitty air-conditioning; the tension in the room is almost as thick as the sticky-sweet humidity. A moment passes, and neither of you move, Joel still in the frame of the door, his broad shoulders almost swallowing up the view of the bathroom beyond, and you on the bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, finally looking away, “just pass me a pillow.” He holds out a hand.

“C’mon Joel, you’re not sleeping on the floor. You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just presses a hand into the small of his back, like he’s thinking about how much it’ll just about kill him to sleep a night on the motel’s hard, musky carpet.

“’lright,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed to toe off his boots.

They hit the floor with a dull thud, and then he’s lying back on top of the faded top sheet. You shuffle down and tuck yourself beneath the comforter, studying the sharp crease of Joel’s brow out of the corner of your eye, the sloping ridge of his nose.

It’s intoxicating being this close to him. All you can think about is that his arm is only a few inches from your own, his thigh almost pressed up against yours in the undersized bed. Despite the layers of fabric between you, you can feel the heat rolling off of him. You think about how he looked in the kitchen that morning so many weeks ago, blood soaked shirt clutched in his hands, chest bare and tan and altogether irresistible, and the way that his hand felt brushing your side after he’d cut your dress off of you. You wonder what it would be like to turn over now and fold yourself into his chest, press yourself into him and feel his body react to your presence. Would he be soft and gentle, teasing in his affection? Or would he hold you against the mattress, taste you with teeth and tongue and leave you shivering and yearning for more?

These delicious thoughts lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep. You stir hours later, the early morning light already filtering through the moth-eaten motel curtains. The first thing you’re aware of is that you’re hot, the top sheet and comforter tangled in a ball at your feet. There’s a heavy weight lying across your waist, warmth radiating out from an unseen source. Joel, you realise with a sudden jolt, is curled behind you, bracketing you with his arm, knees tucked up behind yours, hips pressing dangerously into your ass.

He’s still asleep –you can feel the gentle, steady rush of his breath against the back of your neck. You’re sure that as soon as he wakes he’ll move away, so you stay frozen in place, heart hammering, arousal pooling low and lurid in your belly. When he shifts, his hips pressing forward into the round apple of your ass you have to bite back a moan, and then his hand moves, fingers brushing a short path along the underside of one breast and you can’t help but let out a gasp. Joel moves his hips again, and you feel the unmistakable press of him against you, hard and hot beneath a layer of rough denim.

His breathing changes then, and you feel rather than see his eyelashes flutter open.

But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t push you from him. Several seconds pass, both of you still and quiet in the quiet morning light. Then, as slowly as you can bear, you press yourself back into him, drag the curve of your ass against the solid ridge of his cock. He inhales sharply, fingers twisting in the sheets by your stomach.

“Baby,” he says, voice raspy and delicious, like syrup poured over rough gravel, “this isn’t- we shouldn’t-”

But you roll your hips again, and his hand comes up to cup one of your breasts, fingertips brushing the sensitive whorl of your nipple.

“I don’t care,” you say, “please, Joel, I want this. I want you.”

He makes a noise that’s something between a moan and a curse, muffled by the way that he presses his mouth into the back of your neck, teeth gently grazing the point of your pulse. Then he’s trailing kisses along your throat, his hand mapping a blazing path down your side, fingers dipping beneath the fraying elastic of your sleep shorts.

“Fuck,” he curses when he finds you wet and wanting between your thighs, “this all for me, baby?”

You can only nod, arousal surging through you as he drags his fingers through your folds, gathering the wetness there and pressing a thick digit into the heat of you.

“All these weeks,” he says into the crease of your neck, “all these fucking weeks, you’ve been all I can think about. Off limits and driving me wild with those tiny shorts and that stupid broken dress. Jesus, baby, you don’t know what you do to me.”

He rolls his hips deliberately, pressing his clothed cock against you, moving his hand to grip your side and hold you there, flush against him.

“Joel,” you say, like it’s the only word you know, “please.”

“Please what, baby? Need to hear you say it.”

“Please,” you repeat, voice shaking with need, “touch me. I need you.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

He pushes himself up onto his knees, crawling down the bed to settle himself between your thighs. He pulls your shorts down slowly, eyes fixed on you, pupils blown wide, hair still scruffy with sleep. When he presses his mouth to you, tongue tracing the swollen bud of your clit with practiced proficiency, you have to bite your lip to stop yourself yelling out.

You thread your fingers through his hair, scratching nails against his scalp and he moans into you, eyes flickering open to look up at you. He’s a sight to behold, his strong arms holding your legs open, broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs. There’s a cocky glint in the shimmer of his eyes, a grin that spreads devilishly across his mouth when he pulls back momentarily to gather the slick heat of you. He presses a finger into you, curls it just so, and fires builds in your belly, licking hot and insistent, a coil that threatens to snap any moment. Joel flicks his tongue over the tight bud of your clit, closes his lips around it and sucks hard. He eases you open with practiced ease, points his tongue to flick deliciously at the small bundle of nerves, each press sending a jolt of pleasure through your canting hips. You’re ricochetting higher and higher, desire coiling tight in your belly. It takes only a few more careful flicks of his tongue to tip you over the edge, body shaking, muscles clenching as you come hard. You glance down and Joel’s watching you, eyes fixed on your quivering body, your sweat-soaked face. He looks like a man possessed, hair now wild from the grip of your fingers, cheeks flushed, stubble damp with you.

“You’re the prettiest thing I ever fuckin’ saw, darlin’,” he tells you as you come down from the high, thighs trembling where he holds them.

He presses a kiss to each one and then crawls back up towards you, covering your body with his. When he kisses you – finally – you can taste yourself on his lips, heady and sweet. You claw at the t-shirt he’s still wearing, fighting to pull it up over his head. He sits back on his haunches, hauls it off, and pulls yours off too. Then your hands are tugging at the buttons of his flies and he watches as you undo them, your hands still shaking with the intensity of your orgasm.

It’s a little awkward pulling his jeans off – they get caught around one ankle and he stands to kick them off, grinning when he sees the giggle caught in your throat. But then he’s back between your thighs, capturing you in a heated kiss, teeth pulling teasingly at your lower lip, tongue pressing into your mouth, the laughter is gone, replaced by a hot, aching need. His cock is a solid ridge of heat beneath his underwear when you reach for him, and he moans into your mouth when you slip your hand beneath the black fabric. He’s big – thick and curved, head already wet with pre-come. He pushes the shorts off, kicks them away. Then you’re pulling his hips to yours, watching as he lines himself up, drags his swollen head through your folds before pressing deliciously into the tight heat of your cunt.

“Christ, darlin’,” he hisses, stilling his hips as your slick cunt swallows the head of him. “you look so good taking my cock like this.” You can feel the rumble of his voice in your chest, dark and still gravelly with sleep.

“Joel,” you say, fingers clawing at his ass, desperate to pull him into you, have him take you fully.

He presses forward, dipping his head to capture your lips in a searing kiss, moaning into your mouth when he bottoms out. It’s better than you thought it would be. He’s thick, stretching you open, sending tendrils of pleasure through you. There’s a coiled strength in Joel, something you noticed over many hot summer days watching him lay paving slabs on your parents’ drive, and feeling him pressing that strength into you, the white hot delicious burn of his cock splitting you open is overwhelming, all encompassing.

“You okay?” he asks, peppering kisses along the side of your neck, his breathing laboured.

“Move, Joel, please,”

You feel like if he doesn’t move soon, if he doesn’t shift his hips and fuck you the way you’ve wanted him to for almost two months, you might go mad. When he shifts his hips, drawing up and out and then pressing back inside, you moan softly, pleasure blossoming between your thighs.

“I think, fuck, I think if I move any more I’m going to come,” he says, voice shaking with the effort of staying still, “just give me a minute, baby. Fuck, you feel so good.”

The curses are harsh in the soft morning light. You scrape you nails over the smooth skin of his back, feeling the sharp ridges of muscle, the way they shift beneath his skin when he moves, finally pressing his hips forward. He kisses you again, teeth sharp, tongue soothing. After a moment he sits up on his haunches, wraps his hands around your hips, pulls you to him like you weigh nothing. And then he’s fucking you, hard and raw and like nothing you’ve ever felt. Every press of his hips is like lightning, jolts of pleasure coursing through you. You can’t take your eyes off of him; the slight crease in his brow, the solid set of his lips, face twisted in desire, his own eyes fixed on where you’re joined.

“Taking me so well,” he says, “just like I knew you would.”

He reaches between your bodies, presses his thumb to your clit and strokes it carefully, each stroke precise and measured and altogether overwhelming.

“Need you to come on my cock, baby,” he says, “you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes, Joel, please, yes,” your voice is weak and shaking, dulled to your own ears by the thumping of blood.

Three more gentle caresses of his thumb and you’re coming again, cunt squeezing Joel’s cock. You can hardly see as the pleasure overtakes you, only vaguely register the way Joel’s cursing into your neck, bodies pressed together again. His hips falter, rhythm stuttering.

“Fuck, baby, where do you want me?”

“Inside, please, come inside me.”

“Jesus fuck,” he gasps, and you feel him twitching inside you, cock pulsing as he comes, flooding your walls.

He keeps fucking you through it, the muscles of his back shaking with the effort of holding himself up, and then he collapses on top of you, heavy and hot. The weight of him is delicious, his cock still half-hard inside you. He presses a series of kisses to the side of your neck, catching your lips in another.

The early morning light is brightening now, twists of sunshine breaking through the shabby curtains, lighting whorls of dust that glimmer in the room’s heat. You stay entwined with each other for several long moments, both breathing hard, unwilling to move, reluctant to part. When Joel shifts away from you its only to roll over, pulling you back against him to spoon you.

“We should get moving soon,” he says into the nape of your neck after what could have been a minute or an hour, “still three hundred miles to go.”

[mandoatsea]

PEDRO PASCAL after the premiere of ‘THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS’

[mandoatsea]

Pedro Pascal's message for the trans community ♥

[mandoatsea]

[mandoatsea]

PEDRO PASCAL and the cast of Fantastic Four: First Steps on Jimmy Kimmel LIVE

[mandoatsea]

im both

[mandoatsea]

PEDRO PASCAL during ‘The Fantastic Four: First Steps’ press junket in Los Angeles

[mandoatsea]

All of my kinks are rooted in wanting to feel wanted so intensely that someone cant stand it. Regardless of which side of the dynamic I'm on it's all about aggressive desire

[mandoatsea]

my summer plans consist of unclenching my jaw + forgiving myself

[mandoatsea]

I love Clark Kent because realistically both a nice 6'5 superhero with godlike powers AND a friendly 6'5 country boy reporter would be rolling in bitches, but Clark suffers from terminal Sweetiepie Syndrome and has zero game as a result

[mandoatsea]

Swept Away: Season Two

Chapter Eight: Adrift

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: After the mystery behind the letters is revealed, Joel is there to pick up all the pieces.

Chapter Warnings: language, lots of nasty arguments, some mild religious guilt, angst, fluff, soft!joel, alcohol consumption, hurt/comfort, soft smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, reader has long-ish hair, Joel can pick her up, pregnancy talk

WC: 6.3K

Series Masterlist

"How could you?"

The words flew past your lips like spitfire. About a hundred other things to say filled your mind, but those won because honestly — you needed to know. You needed to know the answer. Why? Why would they do something like that to you? The people you were meant to feel safest with in the whole world betrayed you so viscerally that you simply had to know... why?

Your mother was crying. She could see you slipping away, second by second. Maybe she felt regret, but you didn't care to find out because it didn't matter. Not to you. Not anymore.

Your father, on the other hand, was not taking you seriously at all. He rolled his eyes and laughed dryly at both you and your ever growing hysterical mother.

"Dad!" you yelled, face warming with anger. You stared daggers at him through tear filled eyes. "Answer me!"

"Alright, alright, both of you calm down for a second," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Your skin was practically on fire from the rage burning within you. The more casual he acted, the angrier you grew.

"Listen," he said, picking his glass of bourbon back up to take a sip. It took everything in you not to reach out and smack the glass out of his hand. "I know it seems drastic, and you won't understand right now, but we did this to help you."

"Help... me?"

Each word passed between tightly clenched teeth. Your fists shook at your sides as you waited for him to elaborate.

"You're brainwashed, honey," your dad said. His tone made you feel like he was talking to a child, like he was trying to water something down so you could understand. "He's got you all wrapped up and confused. He paid you to be with him, and he convinced you that he's in love with you, but men like that—" You father waved a hand in the air and scoffed. "Men like that only care about one thing, and it ain't you. It's money. It's greed. You're just another thing for him to own. And he's got you so twisted up, you're becoming just as bad as him."

"Greed and lust are sins," your mother blubbered behind him.

"Yeah? So is wrath," you spat, "go ahead and add it to the list because I am never going to forgive you for this!"

"Don't say that!" she wailed.

Your father collapsed into the couch with a grunt, still acting dismissive of your sniffling mother trembling next to him.

"You'll see. One day, you'll understand," he said quietly, staring into his nearly empty glass. "We're trying to save you."

"We— we hardly even recognize you anymore," your mother added in between whole body sobs.

You angrily spun to tower over them both, veins so hot with anger you were starting to sweat.

"How would you know? How would you possibly know what I'm like?" you all but screamed. "You don't even know me! You don't visit, you hardly ever call, you never cared about anything I was interested in!"

"Because the things you're interested in are silly!" your father shouted back, making you flinch. "Coming out to California to make it in the entertainment business, be serious! We wanted you to do something respectable and grow up! And instead, look what happened! You ran out of money and the first thing you do is—"

"Stop!" your mother screamed, cutting your father off before he could say something truly unforgivable. Your dad huffed, muttered under his breath, and stood. He pointed at you, glass in hand.

"When he leaves you for some younger model in five years, don't come crawling home to us."

"I would rather die than ask you for anything, don't worry," you snapped, hearing your mother gasp when the venom left your mouth. Years as a detective taught your father how to hide his emotions, but you knew him. You saw the twitch in his eye, saw the bourbon in his glass shake — you were getting under his skin.

"We j-just wanted him to leave you," your mom whimpered from the couch. Your gaze flickered to her tear soaked face. "We weren't going to do anything! We thought he'd— thought he wouldn't risk damaging his— his business—"

"Well, you were wrong." Your voice was steadier. Harder. You took a small step forward and with an icy glare, added, "Because he actually loves me. Which, I guess, is too wild of an idea for either of you to comprehend!"

Your mother began to ramble incoherently. She was trying to defend their actions and explain why they found it so difficult to understand Joel and his lifestyle, but you were hardly listening. What was the point? There was nothing they could say or do to make what they did any better. But to your mom's credit, she was still trying to make things right.

Your dad, on the other hand, knew when to call it quits. Being the man he was, he always had a terrible habit of shutting down whenever the possibility arose that he was wrong. You always chalked it up to being a detective — if it was possible he got something wrong on a case, he couldn't ever let it slip, or else it would ruin months of hard work. However, on that particular day when he ignored you and stood to refill his glass? At the minibar inside the room you and your future husband paid for?

Nah. He was just a fucking asshole.

Without even thinking it through, you crossed the room and snatched the bottle out of his hand before he could pour. He looked at you and the utter shock on his face had pride blooming in your chest.

You weren't a child anymore, and you got the feeling in that moment, he finally fucking got it.

"Get out."

Your mother's voice came to an abrupt stop behind you when the words left your mouth. Your father just looked confused. So, you said it again.

"Get out."

"The hell are you—"

"Joel paid for this room," you seethed, gesturing around the comfortable villa. "I helped pay for this room. Now I'm asking you to leave."

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "It's already paid for and our flight leaves tomorrow. Calm down."

"I don't give a shit! Go sleep at the airport!"

Your mother sobbed your name and you felt her hand on your shoulder, but you quickly twisted away and headed for the door, bottle still clutched angrily in your fist. It was more of a power play than anything. Really kicking them out would have been more effort than it was worth, and all you wanted to do was go back to Joel. You had wasted enough time and energy on them.

As you stormed through the kitchen, hellbent on putting the entire debacle far behind you, you breezed past an ornate wooden desk that housed a closed laptop, some chargers, and a few other odds and ends. But what made you pause were a few familiar looking white envelopes and stationary sitting right out in the open. But a small business card on top was what set your teeth on edge.

You turned back to them, your mother cowering and acting like a victim next to the couch while your father, still frozen in place behind the bar, stared at you with the card pinched between your fingers.

"You went through my things."

They didn't say anything at first. Then your dad sighed and shrugged.

"I was packing your office up when you moved," he said, "you had a mess on your desk. I was cleaning it all up and, yeah, I found her card. I thought to myself — now, why on earth would my daughter have a business card for a woman specializing in luxury matchmaking? I wasn't even sure what it meant, but I had an idea."

You were clenching your jaw so hard, you were beginning to get a headache. But you still ground out, "So you called them under a fake name."

Maybe it was the liquor, the late hour, or he was just tired, but your dad finally seemed to level with you.

"Yeah. I called and asked about you. So what? I was looking out for you."

You rolled your eyes but bit back the snide remark at the tip of your tongue. One thing you learned from your father was to stay silent when you wanted to find something out. People naturally feel the need to fill the silence, and the more they talk, the more you learn.

So that's exactly what you did.

"They run a tighter ship than I thought, so I had to do some digging of my own. Called up an old buddy of mine and got him to pull some info. After looking into some other clients, it became pretty clear what you got yourself sucked into. God forbid a father tries to save his little girl from a man who's willing to pay her for sex. But I can promise you this, honey—"

He took a step forward and pointed a lazy finger in your direction.

"—This will all set in and soon enough, you'll realize your mistake. You'll realize we were just looking out for you, and you'll thank me."

You shook your head slowly. Your molten hot rage dissolved into disgust and hardened over. With a calm, deep breath, you looked them both square in the eye, making sure they were truly paying attention when you said, "Never contact me or Joel again."

The journey back down to the lobby was a blur. You probably looked like a psycho with your puffy, tear-stained face clutching a half empty bottle of bourbon. You were too shaken up and forgot to text the driver to pull around to the front, but you didn't care. You figured you could use the short walk to clear your head, anyway.

The air was thick and muggy when you stepped outside. There were storm clouds rolling in off the ocean and in the distance, you saw a crack of lightning.

Fitting.

There weren't any guests loitering around, so at least you had some privacy to quietly cry as you wandered around the parking lot, searching for the town car.

Luckily, you didn't have to walk for very long. The driver was leaned up against the sleek black car, lit cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. When he heard your footsteps, he glanced up, then did a double take. He flicked the cigarette to the ground and pushed off the vehicle, concern etched across his face as he hurried over to you.

"Miss? Are you okay?"

You nodded and shook your head at the same time. Were you? You had no idea.

"C-Can you take m-me—"

You didn't need to finish your sentence. He ushered you into the backseat of the car and jumped into the driver's seat.

The entire ride back to The Parador, his eyes constantly flickered to the review mirror, checking on you while you sipped mindlessly from the bottle of alcohol and stared blankly out the window at the palm trees bending and dancing in the strong wind.

It was closer to midnight than you thought by the time you arrived, but you knew Joel would have stayed up waiting, probably wondering why you didn't call or text with any updates.

Just picturing the look on Joel's face when you broke the news to him was enough to make your stomach turn. It had you wishing you had just texted him instead, but he deserved to hear the truth from you directly, regardless of how you felt. You owed him that much after what your parents put him through.

Apparently he expected bad news because when you opened the door, you caught him pacing nervously around the villa with a palm rubbing the back of his neck.

When the door clicked shut, he quickly swiveled around, hand dropping down to his side. There was a brief flicker of relief when you returned, only to be replaced with anguish when he saw your face.

"Hey," he breathed, closing the distance between you in four long strides. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, and kissed the top of your head. He knew you so well that it broke your heart. He didn't know what happened, he just knew what you needed, and he never hesitated to give it to you.

The tears came back then, just in time with the rain outside. They streamed silently down your cheeks and soaked into his thin white tshirt while he just swayed you both back and forth, patiently waiting for you to explain.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, over and over. He shushed you, gently plucked the alcohol from your hand, and led you to the couch where a box of tissues sat on a table in the corner. He left you only for a second, just to grab the tissues, and returned faithfully to your side.

"I should've went with you," he said tightly, chastising himself. You blew your nose and shook your head.

"No, it would have been so much worse. Trust me."

He waited silently while you gathered yourself and wiped away your tears. Then he glanced at the bottle.

"Should I have some before you tell me what happened?"

You tried to smile, but you just couldn't. Your head was throbbing, your eyes felt like sandpaper, and your heart was shattered.

He took a sip directly from the bottle as you dragged a shaky breath in. And because you were cowardly, you stared down at the ruined tissue in your hands instead of his eyes when you said, "It was them. They sent the letters."

The silence stretched thin between you as Joel processed what you said, the only sound coming from the rain hitting angrily against the windows surrounding you. You stared at the pool, watched the way it lit up when there was a flash of lightning, then braced yourself for the inevitable clap of thunder. Meanwhile, Joel was connecting the dots, same as you did just an hour before, fitting your parents into each scenario and rehashing every conversation until it made sense.

"How'd they find out?"

"My dad found Renee's business card when they were helping me move," you admitted, the guilt at being so careless practically tearing you in half.

"Shit," he murmured, then he sighed and grabbed the bourbon again.

"Smart idea bringin' this."

He took a bigger swig that time while you sniffled next to him.

"Quit hogging it," you lightly scolded, taking it from his grip and bringing the bottle to your lips. Joel rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes as you drank, allowing the warmth from the alcohol to relax you into the couch.

"You up for talkin' 'bout it or you wanna wait til the morning?" His hands fell tiredly to his lap and he tilted his head to look at you.

Your shoulders sagged and you passed the bottle back for Joel to take another drink. A particularly loud gust of wind pushed the lounge chairs a few inches outside.

"They thought they were saving me," you began, sadness lacing every syllable. Joel blinked and slowly brought the bottle back down. "They found out about the agency and thought I was in over my head... brainwashed, he said."

You swiped roughly at the corner of your eye while Joel sat quietly next to you, listening and taking the occasional drink.

"They said they don't recognize me anymore. That I've changed since being with you. And—"

Your throat tightened and you could feel the tears springing back up, burning the backs of your eyes and breaking your heart all over again.

"—T-they think you don't love me. They... they sent the l-letters so you would leave me."

You buried your face in your hands and a second later, Joel's arms wrapped fiercely around you.

"That ain't true," he said gruffly. "I'd never leave you — ever. Y'hear me?"

"I know," you sobbed, "I know, I know."

"Then why're you cryin'?"

You couldn't get close enough, so you circled your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder. His familiar scent usually helped calm you, but it wasn't enough after the horrible evening you had.

"Because," you sniffled, "I hate that they did this to you. That they — they put you through all this stress over something so stupid. Especially after everything you've done for them. For me."

"Baby," he cooed in your ear, rubbing your back soothingly as he spoke. You nuzzled a little closer, shifting so you were nearly sitting in his lap. "All I care 'bout is you. I'd do anythin' for you. Anythin' to make you happy. Nothin' and no one else matters."

You smiled against his neck and turned so you could peek up at him through your lashes.

"Should you add that to your vows, too?"

He grinned and tugged your leg, pulling you over so you straddled him.

"Feels like I'm pretty good doin' it off the cuff. Maybe I'll just wing it."

"Don't you dare," you whispered before pressing your lips to his for a gentle kiss.

He broke away and tilted his chin up to look you in the eye. You smiled sadly and dragged your thumb over the bruises along his jaw and cheek.

"These are looking a little better."

He grunted in response, more concerned with the way your smile was slowly sliding from your face.

"This wedding's going to be a disaster," you said, voice trembling. "And it's all their fault."

"It ain't gonna be a disaster."

"Yes, it is," you whimpered, face crumpling at the thought. "How am I going to explain to all those people why my parents aren't there?"

Joel sighed and tucked a stray hair behind your ear while you squeezed your eyes shut, desperately trying to stop the seemingly endless flow of tears.

"You really don't want 'em there?" he asked gently.

"No!" Your voice wavered but you had never been more certain. "They would ruin it and I don't want them to take one more thing from us. Especially this."

Joel sighed, his chest aching at the sight of you so broken. He cupped your face with both hands, trying to catch each tear that fell.

"What can I do, baby?" he asked softly. Your whole body slumped forward, as if the despair was physically pulling you down. "Huh? What can I do?"

Truthfully, you had no idea. There was nothing either of you could do to fix it.

"Can you tell Nadia?" You fell forward to rest your head on his shoulder and you could feel Joel nodding before you even finished your request. "I just don't know how we're going to restructure the ceremony now without my dad walking me down the aisle." Then the more you thought about it, the heavier the pit in your stomach grew and the faster the tears came. "Oh, god, and the speeches. And the dances! How are—"

"What if we get married on the beach, instead?"

Your tears and thoughts all came to a screeching halt.

"Wh-what?"

"Tomorrow. Let's get married tomorrow, just me 'n you. On the beach."

You lifted your head to look at him, assuming he was joking, but when you saw his face you realized he was entirely serious.

"Joel," you laughed, tears still blurring your vision, "we can't. We invited all these people—"

"We'll still do the reception in a couple months like we planned. Just make it one big party. No ceremony, no speeches, no toasts, none of that bullshit. No pressure, just... havin' fun with the people we love."

He looked up at you so earnestly, his wide, brown eyes boring into you, searching your face for any inkling that his insane suggestion was landing. It left you completely stunned for a moment, like the wind got knocked right out of you. He was serious.

You planted your hands on his shoulders and raised an eyebrow, like you were bracing yourself for him to take it back or say he was joking. But it never came.

"Joel... we can't..."

But even you heard it in your voice. You were caving.

"Why not?" he pressed, sitting up a little taller and pulling your hips closer in his lap.

"Because... we..." Your drying eyes trailed around the room as if the answer would be somewhere nearby. Why couldn't you? Who could stop you? Then your gaze drifted above Joel's head, to the painting Ellie made — a replica of the one you had back home, of the pink seashells you fell in love with while you were also falling in love with Joel — and suddenly, you couldn't think of a single excuse.

"It can't be tomorrow," you said, attention snapping back to Joel. "I want Sarah and Celine to be there."

A huge grin stretched across his face.

"We'll call 'em first thing and I'll send the plane."

"And we have to ask Tommy, too," you added, excitement bubbling up now that the plan was beginning to form. Joel couldn't stop smiling.

"What 'bout Zoe?"

You nodded, head bobbing enthusiastically. "Then that's it."

"That's it," Joel echoed. "Just four people 'n us."

"What about your parents?" you asked, your excitement waning when you discovered your first roadblock. But Joel just gave you a look and shook his head.

"They don't care 'bout shit like that," he scoffed. "I still ain't convinced they're gonna come to the reception, they fuckin' hate traveling almost as much as they hate weddings."

"But you're their son," you protested, feeling guilty.

"Baby," he cooed, "I know 'em. They won't give a shit."

You considered it for another second before thinking fuck it and grinned.

"Are we really doing this?" you asked, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. It was the happiest you had looked since the brawl in the lobby and it made Joel's heart soar.

"Yeah. We're doin' this." His arms tightened around your waist and he tilted his chin up with a matching smile of his own. "I'm sick of not bein' married to you, anyway."

You cupped his face with both hands and slanted your mouth over his, pouring every ounce of affection you had into the kiss. The pain left in your heart and the tension rolling through your body disappeared when it all began to set in: you were getting married soon.

"This is crazy," you giggled when you came up for air. Joel shook his head, his mouth eagerly chasing yours.

"I don't care," he whispered before your lips met once again.

Your hands slid from his jaw to his hair, fingers tightening around his curls as he deepened the kiss with a quiet groan. You swapped traces of bourbon from both your tongues as he pried your mouth open with desperation, like he was trying to get as close to you as possible. And you hadn't even realized it, but your body was searching for the same — your hips had begun to roll, grinding down in his lap, chest to chest, unable to tear yourself away.

He squeezed your waist, pulled you forward, and bucked his hips up, all while your tongues danced and noses bumped together like you were trying to swallow each other whole.

"Christ," he grumbled impatiently against your mouth. "Take these off."

His hands tugged angrily at your shorts, clearly frustrated he had to contend with the thick fabric separating you.

Your feet hit the ground and you gave him one last hungry kiss before pulling away to stand and shimmy out of your shorts and panties. Your chests heaved in unison while he worked on his own clothes with shaky hands. When all that remained was his shirt, you climbed back into his lap while tossing your bra somewhere behind you.

He let the hem of his tshirt drop in favor of cupping your breasts with both hands and burying his face between them, so you helped him finish the job by lifting the shirt up and over his head. He detached himself from your chest only for a second, just to rid himself of the last of his clothes, and then he was back, licking and nipping at your soft skin while his thumbs dragged across your nipples until they hardened.

"You're the most beautiful goddamn thing I've ever seen," he said before swiping his tongue over your nipple. Your hand cupped the back of his neck and you held him there against your chest, his praise getting lost in your curves.

You smiled and tipped your head back, eyes falling closed while Joel left small bites across your breasts. Between your bodies, his cock twitched. Almost like a reminder, not that you needed it. You rolled your hips forward and gasped when you felt the thick weight of him slide through your folds.

"Joel," you pleaded, voice sounding pathetic to your own ears. He smirked, released your breast from his mouth with a sharp pop, then leaned back to look up at you.

"Need it bad, huh?" he teased with a lazy grin.

You couldn't even deny it. You did need it, needed him. You needed to forget the last twenty-four hours ever happened. You needed him to make the hurt go away. But mostly, you just really needed to show him how much you loved him for somehow verbalizing the solution to all the wedding woes you had been struggling with for months.

"The next time you fuck me, we'll be married," you said, lifting yourself so he could take his cock in his fist. You watched him give it a few lazy strokes before holding it still at the base. His eyes snapped up to yours like you slapped him.

"What if we can't find anyone to marry us that fast?" he asked as you shuffled forward on your knees. "What if I wanna fuck you tomorrow?"

You grinned, feeling the blunt head of him nudging at your opening.

"You'll figure it out."

You lowered yourself slowly, taking him inside you with a sharp gasp. Through hazy eyes, you watched his head drop back against the couch. A low groan tore from his throat as a couple more inches disappeared and didn't end until you sat flush in his lap. You felt his cock twitch, deep and warm within your soaked walls, and your head fell forward, already feeling like you were floating away.

You cursed under your breath and pressed yourself closer — chest to chest, mouth ghosting over his shoulder — before rolling your hips forward, ever so slightly. His pulse was racing, you could feel the steady flicker in his throat when your lips brushed gently against his skin.

"Joel," you whispered, grinding slowly in his lap. His arms circled you, holding you close, knowing how badly you needed to just feel. It wasn't a race, it wasn't driven by hunger — at least, not the kind that usually was shared between you. It was deeper than that.

"Yeah, baby, I'm right here." His palms skimmed your bare back, his touch gentle and loving. Your breath caught in your throat at his soft tone and your eyes fluttered closed when one hand got lost in your hair. You tucked yourself deeper into his hold as you began to ride him — still slow, just gentle little lifts of your hips, barely allowing an inch of him to leave as you moved.

The hand in your hair tilted your head to the side and then you felt the scrape of his mustache against your neck. You sighed and allowed him to make little adjustments as he licked and sucked at your skin until he pulled your head back so he could kiss you. It was slow and soft, the way his lips pried yours apart to make room for his tongue. It was desperate, but not in the way you were used to, and it had your heart aching deep within your chest.

Despite the slow, calm, gentle way you moved, your body reacted all the same. You could hear the wetness that leaked down his shaft every time you pressed your hips down and it made your face warm. Every time your chest bumped against his, your hardened nipples dragged across his skin, sending a jolt of arousal right between your legs.

Joel murmured your name after he broke the kiss and your swollen lips parted greedily for air while his own dragged down to pepper wet kisses along your throat. The heat was nearly stifling between your bodies, hot skin knocking against hot skin, yet you still wanted to be closer. You both craved a connection so intimate, so encompassing, that you would do anything to achieve it. It was likely the reason why Joel was urgently trying to gain your attention, your name falling from his mouth louder and breaking through the fog in your head.

"Hm?" you managed to hum.

But your eyes were closed and your jaw was open, too lost in how deep he was and how complete you felt. You could already feel the intensity building in your stomach, like a volcano ready to erupt, and it felt so unlike the other times that it had you shuddering in his arms.

"—look at me."

His voice sounded different. Not bad, not angry, and not like he was about to come — but different. It was enough to snap your eyes open. When you saw the look on his face, so vulnerable and open, eyes all wide and brows soft as he stared up at you, you froze.

He smiled then, just one corner of his mouth pulled up as he loosened his grip on your hair to tuck a piece behind your ear.

"Been tryin' to tell you somethin'," he began slowly, "but timing's never been right."

You blinked away the last of your haze and focused solely on his voice.

"Okay," you breathed.

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed. His gaze drifted all across your face, eyes flickering every which way. He was nervous. It caught you by surprise.

"I wanna—" He cut himself off and forced himself to look you in the eye. "I wanna try again one day. For a baby."

Your throat instantly tightened. It hurt to swallow, like something heavy had settled right against your windpipe, and your eyes slowly began to fill with tears. Joel saw your lower lip wobble and he quickly cupped your face.

"When you're ready," he clarified, the pads of his thumbs brushing soothingly at the corners of your eyes. "But if it ain't somethin' you want, that's okay, too. I just—" He gave you a small smile and the first hot tear rolled down your cheek. "—Just thought it'd be nice. We got so much love to give... and I — I wanna experience that with you."

You found yourself nodding, unable to form any words around the emotion stuck in your throat. A relieved smile tugged at his lips and another tear slipped down your face.

"Yeah?" he whispered in disbelief. You nodded again, that time more frantically, and his eyes turned glassy. He pulled you down for a feverish kiss so you couldn't see his tears, but you felt the wetness pressing against your skin, mixing with your own. You started to move again in sync with your mouth, each swipe of your tongue matched a slow roll of your hips until his hands fell to your waist and your breaths grew shallow.

"I love you," you whimpered against his lips when you finally found your voice. He exhaled shakily, his hot breath skimming across your throat. You couldn't be sure if it was the heaviness of the moment that caused it, or the way you felt so warm and wet, pulsing around his cock every time your hips shifted forward, but either way it sent a shiver down your spine.

"I love you, too, baby," he murmured in return. You tilted your chin up and closed your eyes with a soft moan when he began to lift his hips, matching your slow movements across his lap with his own. "You're all I need," he added, teeth grazing your collarbone as he spoke. "All I need to be happy. Just you. 'F you change your mind 'n you don't wanna try—"

"I won't." Your head rolled forward and you opened your eyes. He was gazing up at you, a few dried tears from earlier fading and melting away, blending in with a thin sheen of sweat that was coating both your bodies. "I won't change my mind. I — I want that. With you. I..." You sighed and dropped your forehead to press against his, the thick weight of his cock momentarily stealing the air from your lungs. "I want it all... with you."

His mouth lazily sought yours out, brushing against your swollen lips like a signature on the dotted line — a done deal. Then his hands tightened around your middle to help take the pressure off your tired, burning thighs. Very gently, he lifted and lowered you, up and down. You closed your eyes, sticky foreheads still pressed together and sharing the occasional wet, messy kiss until that heat built back up inside you.

"Joel..."

His name sounded so desperate on your tongue. A rough sound slipped past his lips and his fingers tightened, gripping and moving you a little faster in his lap. You gasped when he dipped his mouth lower to suction around your breast, his hot tongue gliding over your left nipple.

"So beautiful," he murmured quietly while he switched his attention to your right side. His teeth scraped gently against your breast and a flash of goosebumps broke out across your skin. "'N all mine, ain't that right?" he added before planting a wet kiss to your nipple and tilting his head back up. When your eyes locked — his nearly black with lust in the dim light of the sitting room — you found yourself nodding obediently.

The corner of his mouth lifted up into a smile. Then his hips shifted upwards with more force than before, knocking the air from your lungs with a breathy moan. His warm hands squeezed and pressed your hips, pulling you forward and back in his lap a little faster, a little harsher, until the tip of his cock pushed against a spot inside you that had your spine curling and your eyes squeezing shut.

"That it?" he asked softly, then did it again. Your mouth fell open, releasing a filthy sound from deep within your chest, and he chuckled to himself. "Yeah, that's it," he muttered.

Everything got hazy. Your vision began to swim, your muscles tensed up, and your blood was surging so fast in your veins that it was drowning out Joel's grunts and moans underneath you.

He was moving your bodies faster, but not nearly as fast as you were used to. He wasn't snapping his hips ruthlessly against you and he wasn't yanking or pulling your body up and down his shaft. His thrusts were slower, but calculated. Strong. Forceful. He wanted to keep you close, he wanted to keep his lips and hands on you as he pushed you higher and higher. He wanted you both to really feel it: every inch, every second, every breath.

You whimpered his name again and curled your arms around his neck. The tension in your belly was so strong that tears blurred your eyes. You blinked them away so you could watch Joel's face when you sucked in a sharp gasp and clamped down around his cock.

Your orgasm rolled through you like the storm outside: sudden, intense, and loud. You ground down, rubbing your clit against the base of his shaft, all while holding eye contact.

You watched his brows pinch together and his eyes widen when his movements grew unsteady, desperately holding on until you finally fell forward, relaxing against him with a deep sigh.

He groaned in your ear as you tiredly lifted a hand to get lost in his hair. Your body draped over him like a blanket, the side of your head resting on his shoulder, chests stuck together by sweat, and you watched his face contort as he came. You could feel his stomach seizing as he filled you up, moaning softly while clutching you fiercely to his front.

Your body shook in his arms when the air conditioning kicked on, cooling your hot skin while you both fought to catch your breath. His trembling hands skirted across your back, his gentle touch causing you to jolt violently in his lap. A soft noise slipped past your lips and you tucked yourself further into his hold, nuzzling against his flushed chest with a sigh.

Your eyes met, both heavy with sleep, and he smiled. One hand slid up to the back of your neck and the other wrapped protectively around your ass. You braced yourself because next he lifted you with a grunt and carried you through the door to your bedroom.

He lowered you carefully to the bed, planted a kiss to your forehead, and slowly eased out of you. Your face pinched for just a moment at the loss before relaxing again and closing your eyes. You felt the cool, soft sheets being draped across your body, then a moment later the mattress shifted and the warmth from Joel's body was enveloping you once again.

You turned onto your side, closing your eyes with a satisfied hum, then snaked your arm around his waist. He did the same, pulling you closer to his chest so you could hear the steady thump thump thump of his heart as it slowed.

"I can't wait to marry you," you whispered sleepily.

He said something else, something too quiet for you to hear, and then you slipped into a deep sleep, finally feeling at peace.

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[mandoatsea]

he is so damn hot

[mandoatsea]

*girl on the brink of self destruction* i miss academia

[mandoatsea]

Are you ready to love me? Part 3

Jackson Joel x f!reader

Rating: Over 18’s only please Word count: 3,087 Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller. Chapter Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning, thoughts of a sexual nature. Reference to character death (Sarah). Minimal descriptions of reader, but she has a nickname (darlin'). Some Joel POV. I'm always fleabag coded. Look away for a *SPOILER* we do have a kiss. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I never thought I'd write a Jackson Joel, but I am loving wandering around feeling ALL THE FEELINGS with these two SO much. I'd love to know your thoughts too 🖤🖤🖤 Thank you to @toomanytookas for the beta read & being part of the incredible group of lads who keep me going & support my madness @secretelephanttattoo @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty

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PART 3

Your eyes fly open and you sit bolt upright in your bed, throwing the warm covers off yourself and dragging a hand roughly down your sleep-addled face. The sudden jolt of a memory makes you gasp, the surge of adrenaline that comes with it means you’re up and out of the bed and running across the room before you’ve fully grasped if it’s even really the morning yet. 

There has been something lurking in the corner of your mind, just out of sight, ever since you first ran into Joel again. You’ve been in Jackson for a few weeks now and it has always been there, this little nagging doubt that you couldn’t put your finger on, a loose thread just out of reach that you weren’t able to catch hold of to give a sharp tug. 

That lingering feeling of frustration, that you’ve forgotten something? It’s disappeared with the clear vision of your wallet hidden at the bottom of your pack. Not that you ever needed a credit card again and or that money meant anything to anyone, but for some reason you never quite had the heart to throw away.  You hadn’t even bothered to clear out the faded, scrunched up receipts, mementos of another time when there had been cocktails and late night dancing and… and… there was a photo of Joel and Sarah tucked somewhere in there, you were sure of it. You felt almost like you had forgotten it on purpose, locked it away with all the other Joel memories that had been too raw to visit, pretended it didn’t exist so as not to hurt yourself.  

Yet somehow, twenty years later, that small leather wallet was still in your bag and you were certain that the picture was there too. There’s a small crash as you unceremoniously tip everything that was left in your pack onto the hardwood floor. 

A drowsy Sam calls to you from your bed, “Mama, what are you doing?” 

You’d been trying out the separate bedrooms thing, but more often than not, you found Sam in your bed by the morning. She wasn’t quite ready to be on her own yet, and you found you weren’t quite ready to insist she stayed in her own room. You knew waking up and finding her little body curled up next to you wasn’t going to last forever. It felt selfish almost, to have all this luxury all of a sudden, and to wake up in the morning and hear the sounds of Sam dreaming next to you had a kind of guilt edged around it, like you were being greedy by having her safe and warm. Just a little younger than the little girl in the photo you knew was somewhere in that worn rucksack. 

Your eyes flick to the clock on the bedside table, only ten minutes earlier than you’d usually begrudgingly haul yourself out of bed, “Sorry baby, I just remembered I have something really special hiding in my bag. Can you get dressed for school? We gotta go via Joel’s on the way.” 

“Urgh, that guy again.” 

You hear her groan and roll out of the bed, but you’re busy rooting around on the floor, sure you’ll find that ancient wallet in the detritus that lives at the bottom of your pack. You make a noise almost like a welp when you find it, rubbing at your eyes as if to double check, before your hands reach for the soft leather of the wallet. 

Joel POV

Joel doesn’t like to linger in bed. Once he’s awake he wants to be up and out, the first cup of coffee calling him as the sun rises. He’s stirring in a small spoon of honey, a decadence he doesn’t often allow himself, when he realises he’s been thinking of you all morning. From the moment his toes touched the floor, you’ve been flitting across his mind. He keeps replaying the feeling of you in his arms over and over again, the rise and fall of your chest against his as he held you, the feeling of your breath on his neck.

It’s like he’s in some kind of trance, carrying out his usual routine but not really present, instead matching up his memories of you; twenty something, sharp, slightly dangerous but secretly sentimental, playful, full of so much love, with the woman he met that freezing cold day a few weeks ago. He could feel your strength, the love you have for Sam, but also a new fierceness, with a wariness that certainly wasn’t there before. Secrets and shame, he guesses, just like he carries.

If he were to look a bit closer, he thinks he’d find you holding up a mirror, his own uneasy face reflected back, the knowledge of what it takes to survive in this world written in every line and every scar that now adorns it.

Ellie is still fast asleep, so he’s free to sit at the counter in silence, let these thoughts go off in all kinds of directions as he sips on the hot coffee.

He thinks about your own little kitchen, how tired it looked, how he could offer to come and fix the cupboards doors, give them a new lick of paint. A colour you’d like, something dark, he muses. You always were drawn to midnight blues and rich greens. He lets himself wander round your little plant filled apartment you had before you’d moved in with him and Sarah, always smelling of incense, considers if he could find you some when he’s out near some houses next, if that would make you happy? If the smell would bring back memories of your bodies entwined in bliss, slippery with lust and love. Or if instead it would make you sad, the scent infused with things that could never be again, of missed opportunities and forgotten hopes. 

Joel finds he’s stood in the shower, head drenched under the hot water, drifting between sweetness and hunger, because yes, he’d loved you so much it made his heart ache, but he’d also felt a desire so hot it almost burned. Hands desperate always to be touching you, to have your soft skin beneath his fingertips, the taste of you on his lips. He remembers being almost dizzy with it, a greed that filled his veins and had him delirious with want. He places his hands against the cool marble tile of the shower, tries to steady himself because if he closes his eyes tight enough it’s like he can feel you, how your body would melt against his, the way he could make you whine as he fucked you, slowly, deliberately, knowing just how to make you cry out, watching your back arch and your legs shake.

He’s falling into the memory, letting himself get swallowed up and lost in you. He’s fantasising so much it’s almost like he can hear your voice. 

Fuck, he can hear your voice?

He quickly shuts off the shower and cranes his neck towards the noise, hears Ellie’s reply loud and clear, “Oh shit, it’s you! The girlfriend, no, the ex-girlfriend! Whatever man, you’re so pretty? No wonder Joel keeps going on about you.” 

It’s something akin to blind panic that has him throwing a towel around his waist and bolting out of the bathroom door, one hand gripping the soggy cotton as he practically falls over his still wet feet as he calls out, “Ellie!” 

It’s a gleeful Ellie that greets him at the bottom of the stairs, grin wide on her delighted face, “Joel, we got visitors!” 

She lets out a high pitched giggle and even Sam, normally so po-faced when Joel’s around, is laughing. He turns to you hiding your own mirth behind your hand, but he can see it in the sparkle of your eyes, in the way your shoulders are shaking, a ripple of amusement across your chest. He knows exactly what your face would look like if he could pull your hand away, how you’d be biting your bottom lip to sniffle the laughter, and he wishes so much that he could capture that joy with his own mouth.     

He can feel his face burning, a steady drip drip drip onto the floor from the water rolling off his shoulders from his drenched curls, “Sorry… I heard voices and I… sorry, I’ll go get myself decent. Ellie, can you offer our guests something to drink, please?”

Ellie is still hooting and he takes two steps at a time to escape, “Go put some clothes on, old man!” 

He can hear her teasing Sam, “He’s not normally a naked kind of guy, I think he was worried I was going to tell you all his secrets.” His heart leaps into his mouth as Ellie says to you, “Or maybe it’s that you’re going to tell me all his secrets.” 

Back in the safety of his room, he lets out a stream of curses. He hasn’t been that naked, that exposed, in front of anyone for a very long time.

His thoughts are scrambled, regret that he didn’t get to introduce Ellie to you properly, anxiety that you’ll be scared off by his older, war-torn body, confusion as to why his body should matter to him… so he just keeps swearing as he pulls on his clothes, shaking his head and occasionally pressing his hands against his eyes, as if to stop the near constant rumble of this clash of emotions. It’s the first time you’ve been in his house, the first time Sam has been here, the first time you’ve met Ellie and he’s fucked it up already. Too rash, too panicked, he never knows the right thing to do these days. He feels like it’s another thing to add to his long list of fuck-ups. 

He used to be so steady for you, all those years ago, you could lean and lean and he’d absorb it all. Sure, things had been difficult to begin with, but what was the phrase? The course of true love never did run smooth. As soon as he thinks it, he raises his own eyebrows at himself. 

There’s no time to dwell on this thought, there’s a gentle rapping at the door. Couldn’t possibly be Ellie, her knocks are far more chaotic, written in capital letters. 

“Joel, are you decent?” 

He looks around the room, far too late to change anything, but he wonders what you’ll make of his space. Will it remind you of the room you used to share? He chucks his towel in the laundry basket, sits down on the end of the end. Braces for impact. 

“Yeah, come in, darlin’.”

Is that a hitch in his breathing as you walk into the room? A jump in his pulse? He can’t help the smile that creeps up onto his face as he takes you in, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that settles in his chest. 

“My turn to apologise, I’m so sorry we barged in unannounced. But I found something I had to give you right away.” Your hand is outstretched, a photo the size of a dollar bill between your fingers, curled at the edges so much he can’t make out what it is right away. “I’d completely forgotten I even had it, it’s been sat in my wallet for about twenty years… but as soon as I remembered it, I wanted you to have it.”

Joel stares at the picture, unseeing, for a good few moments. His mouth drops open and he blinks, rapidly. He’s gone from overthinking to not having a single thought in his head all at once. 

You sit softly down next to him, hands gentle, helping to hold it flat so he can really look at it, “I took it that day at the lake, do you remember? You looked so handsome with your hair all slicked back and Sarah was so brave out on the water, she laughed the whole day.”

He stares at Sarah’s face, taking in every detail, the tilt of her head mirroring his own, bright white smile, cheekbones that held the first shape of adulthood. A glimpse of the woman she never got to become. The strand of curls falling across her face, he can almost feel the texture of it, what it would have been like to tuck it behind her ear for her as she rolled her eyes at him for fussing. It had been a gloriously sunny day but now he curses the warmth that had caressed their skin, wishes it had been cloudy and grey so he could see her eyes fully in the photograph, that they hadn’t been half closed against the sun. 

He knows he won’t be able to make his voice come out normal, so he doesn’t even try, “‘Course I remember.” The sound feels crunchy in his throat, too much emotion bubbling in his chest to be able to think straight, “I can always see her face, when I miss her I can see her, you know? But this… This is so solid. It’s like having a little piece of her back. A bit more proof that she really existed.” 

“She was a force of nature, Joel. We all loved her so much.” 

He places the photo reverentially on the bedside table, turns his body fully towards you, blinking back the tears that are stinging at his eyes, “Thank you, truly, darlin’. This is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.”  

“Number of times I almost lost that damn rucksack, feels like fate that I was able to bring you this. I only have one photo of me and Sam, I know how important they can be.” 

Joel blames you for what happens next. Because when you reach down, bring his hand up to your mouth and place a soft kiss on his knuckles? It’s like a jolt of electricity has run down his spine. Before he can even think, he’s pulled your face to his and kissed you. It’s almost like a reflex, a need so deep there wasn’t a moment of hesitation. And you’re kissing him back, lips tender, soft, searching, and he finds he’s clasping your face as a honeyed, gentle whine slips from your throat. 

Did it always feel like this? That the world has stopped and there’s nothing but you and him? Your lips part and he chases your tongue with his own, a feeling so sweet and urgent all at once, that desire that has lain dormant for so long ignited once more. There’s a fire in his chest and he welcomes it, licks into you with a fierceness that he feels echoed as you kiss him back. 

You pull away slightly, looking into his eyes so hard he feels like you’re seeing past every layer of his skin, right into his chest and exposing his furiously beating heart. Your hand reaches up and holds his where it rests still against your face, thumb gently rubbing against his fingers. 

“Joel?” It’s a question that he has no idea the answer to. 

He’s not ready to speak yet, he just wants to live in this moment for a bit longer, so he leans his burning forehead against yours. You sigh and seem to accept the pause, and your eyes flutter closed at the same time. It’s so quiet. As he listens to the sounds of your shared ragged breathing, a peal of laughter dances up the stairs from your girls chatting in the kitchen, and he finds there’s a kind of peace in the chaos that’s swirling round his mind right now. 

A house with growing girls in it, with you sat by him on the bed, it’s almost too much, almost too good. He starts to feel a bit panicky, like the air in the room has got too thick and he can’t quite breathe properly. 

His voice is hushed as he says something he doesn’t really mean, doesn’t know why he lets it escape, “I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” 

There’s a shift in the energy and you drop back away from him, that closeness that he could feel snuffed out in an instant. He remembers you do this, when things get heavy you pull back and retreat into yourself, a mask slipping over your beautiful face that almost blanks it into nothingness. He used to be able to coax you out, felt like he was the one with the magic key to bring you back to yourself, but today the rising panic in his own chest stops him from being able to bring you both down to earth, stop the spiralling. 

“I’ve got to get Sam to school, we better get going.” 

You’re not graceful in your exit. There’s a vibration in the air that he doesn’t like, a bitter tang in his mouth that he knows is regret. He follows closely behind you and he wishes he were brave enough to reach out and grab your arm but he holds back, watches as you turn on a smile for Sam and Ellie. He recognises it, this switching to parenting mode where you pretend everything is fine to keep the wheels on. 

Sam and Ellie are hunched over a comic book, and Joel gives Ellie a tight smile. He sees her eyes narrow, never misses anything that kid, and he hopes she isn’t going to give him a hard time. He studies the floor in silence. 

“Ok, Sammy, we best get going so you’re not late for school.” Your voice is business like, firmly manoeuvring Sam out of the chair and towards the front door. Sam is mostly pliant, shooting a hard glance towards Joel and then a warmer smile in Ellie’s direction.  

“Can I come see Ellie again, please, mama? She said she’d take me to the library!” 

“Sure thing, baby, we’ll arrange it. Thanks Ellie, it was good to meet you. Sorry for disturbing you this morning, Joel, maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” Your face is cold, eyebrow arched in such a devastating way his stomach goes immediately tight and he can’t help but grimace. 

He stutters, “I… no, thank you for the picture. I didn’t…” 

You shake your head, hand at Sam’s shoulder as you usher her out of the house quickly. As soon as the door clicks shut, Ellie’s head turns sharply towards Joel and she pounces. 

“What the fuck did you do, Joel?”

PREV / NEXT

My Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tagging in some pals (please let me know if you'd like to be taken off/added on)

@katareyoudrilling @sin-djarin @guiltyasdave @sizzlingcloudmentality @milla-frenchy

@sawymredfox @yopossum @youcancallmeelle @aurorawritestoescape @almostfoxglove

@evolnoomym @magpiepills @maggiemayhemnj @sp00kymulderr @ghotifishreads 

@jessthebaker @bitchwitch1981 @beefrobeefcal @arcane-fox @oliveksmoked

@laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @copperhalfcent @sixhours @bergamote-catsandbooks

And the Are you ready to love me tag list (continued in the reblog)

@there1snothingleft4u @sebastanot @givemeth @umadirectioner @winyourheartemma

@registeredbelcher55 @tangled-tumbler-blog-blog @missladym1981 @casa-boiardi @jethrojessie

@soci0plath @jazzimac1967 @fanf1ctionislife @chewie-bars @fallout-girl219