She's So Real For That - Tumblr Posts
remember twilight and how edward and bella couldn’t do it bc edward was afraid he’d fuck her to death?
Queen Charlotte: Everyone who isn’t a Bridgerton leave now.
Lady Danbury:
she’s dedicated to the grind and the grind only
today i overheard a girl say "no, f*ck that. i will be lovely to everyone. maybe some people will remember they have a heart."
chapter three: coawrd 𓂃🖊 𓂃🖊𓂃wc: 1321𓂃🖊𓂃 beam of fate masterlist
You are seriously starting to regret coming to this goddamn party. It’s stiflingly hot in this living room, bodies of people you don’t know pressed up against you at every angle. You lost Kiyoko the second you walked in, Tanaka’s arm wrapped firmly around her waist as they made their way around the overcrowded apartment. Nishinoya disappeared eighteen seconds later, no doubt off to get sloppy drunk and flirt with every single person in the room. Luckily, Yachi is still with you, chattering away happily as she sips on the abnormally lime-colored drink she brought with her, but you’ve completely lost track of Yachi’s stream of consciousness, too aware of the thin lines of sweat making their way down your back and the soreness from practice that pulls at your muscles uncomfortably.
There’s a little voice in the back of your head reminding you that this wouldn’t be nearly this miserable if you were not the most sober person here, but the knowledge that you have to be at the gym at seven am tomorrow is enough to stop yourself from drifting to the kitchen for a cup of whatever drink a group of college boys have managed to engineer.
You manage to return your attention to Yachi just long enough to let her know you're stepping outside before you start squeezing your way through the room to the porch door. The sliding door sticks a bit when you pull on the handle, but after a particularly aggressive pull it gives in quickly, sliding open with a low screech that makes you wince.
The chill of the night air is an instant relief, and you can feel the uncomfortable heat that had been building inside you since you arrived begin to dissipate. The crowd of people outside is sparser, and you are careful to avoid the groups of people scattered around as you pick your way across the porch, wanting to avoid any possibility of conversation as you cross to the railing.
The wood of the porch railing stings your elbow when you lean onto it for support, your other hand reaching into the small bag that rests at your hip to pull out the secret box of shame cigarettes you’ve tucked away in the hidden pocket of your purse and the atrociously patterned pink-and-yellow lighter Yachi got you for your birthday last year.
The coils of smoke have barely made their way into your lungs, the soreness in your shoulders from practice barely beginning to unwind, when someone settles to your right, their crossed arms resting on the railing next to your own.
The mystery figure speaks before you can even react to his presence, “Cigarettes are terrible for you, y’know.”
The words are barely out of his mouth but you’re already turning, ready to ask him what his problem is (or tell him to fuck off), but you find the words dying in your mouth as you register who exactly is giving you health advice at two am on the porch of the worst house party you’ve every been dragged to.
Fuck. Hot Clinic Guy.
You blanch, your brain going startlingly blank as you scramble to find something to say. Just as you think you’ve managed to collect yourself into something resembling a normal girl capable of holding a normal conversation with a normal man, your brain seems to clock out again, suddenly unable to focus on anything but strain of his biceps against the sleeves of his t-shirt. You’re starting to understand why it hurt so much when he punched you on Monday because holy shit he’s fucking ripped.
By the time your stupid, traitorous brain clocks back in and stops thinking about his goddamn arms, an uncomfortable silence has settled over the two of you.
Fuck. Say something.
“Arms,” your brain supplies unhelpfully.
“What the fuck?” your mouth supplies, equally as unhelpful.
His brow furrows when he replies, gesturing at the cigarette you’re holding like you don’t know what he’s talking about- “You shouldn’t smoke- it’s terrible for you.”
“That’s sort of the point.” you grumble in response.
He doesn’t reply.
You turn away from him again, but you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your head as you take a drag from your neglected cigarette.
“How’s your wrist?”
“Fine.”
“You could always come back to the clinic,” he offers, “if it’s bothering you. I work every day but Tuesday.”
You make a note in your head to only come to the clinic on Tuesdays. “Am I gonna get punched again if I come back?” you ask.
You turn to look at him just in time to see the tips of his ears flush red, a blush creeping its way onto his alarmingly sharp cheekbones.
“Sorry about that.” His reply is softer than you expected, missing the sharp edge you can usually hear in his tone. “I-”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt.
He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the appearance of an oddly… sparkly brunette appearing behind him, slinging a lanky arm around his shoulders.
Fucking great. The twink’s here too.
You debate jumping off the porch. A three story fall can’t hurt that bad, can it? It would certainly be less painful than this.
The sparkly brunette extends his sparkly hand with an offer of his name.
Oikawa Tooru. Stupid fucking name.
You choose to ignore his hand, opting for a drag of the cigarette, though you do give him your name in return, your common manners overriding the strong urge you have to throw yourself off the fucking porch.
Hot clinic guy shoves his arm off with what sounds suspiciously like a murder threat, pushing him away from the two of you. Oikawa seems completely undeterred by this, turning back to you with a shit-eating grin and a sunny tone as he asks “Do you have an extra cigarette?”
Hot clinic guy swats his arm. “What the fuck?” he barks, “You don’t even smoke, shithead.”
Oikawa’s grin never falters as he replies, “I’m not gonna smoke it, Iwa. I just wanna look cool.”
Hot clinic guy hits him again, but it doesn’t deter Oikawa from holding his hand out expectantly to you.
You cannot believe you are about to waste a cigarette on Edward fucking Cullen but you truly do not see a better way out of this situation, so you extend a cigarette to him. “Do you need a light?” you offer.
“Nah,” he replies, “I just wanna hold it.”
Jesus.
You’re hoping that that’ll be the end of it, and the two of them will go back to the party, but Oikawa stays there, grinning like he’s having the time of his life standing on the porch with his newly acquired unlit cigarette. Hot clinic guy stands next to him, scowling like someone just pissed in his shoes.
Oikawa seems perfectly content to stand there grinning at you like a fat cat who just killed a mouse all night, but hot clinic guy swats at him between orders to fuck off until he finally slinks away.
Your cigarette is gone, burned into a nub that warms your fingers uncomfortably. You quickly grind it out in the ashtray on the railing near you.
Hot clinic guy is already speaking when you straighten back up. “Sorry about him.” he says, eyes fixed on your face, “He’s a dick.”
Against your will, you huff out a laugh. “It’s fine,” you assure him.
He starts to speak but hesitates, and you take the brief moment of silence to step back towards the door. “I have to go find my friends,” you lie, “they’ll start looking for me if I'm gone too long.” You don’t wait to hear him respond, turning away from him to make your way back into the party.
Even as you feel his sharp gaze burning into the back of your head, you don’t turn back.
more:
noya was banned from pregaming at kiyoko and yachis apartment after breaking two lamps and the coffee table trying to do a cartwheel 4 shots in
yn really genuinely believes that iwaizumi is not into her after their first interaction and thinks he just feels bad. she hates pity so she hates him but is also so into him it’s not even funny. </3 so she’s just avoiding the problem
iwaizumi was not wearing his name tag when yn came to the clinic and now she genuinely does not know his name
oikawa walked around all night with that damn cigarette. tucked it behind his ear and thought he was hot shit
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It happened a long time ago (Of course I told her the truth)
Her first language was not English, so… that happened.（´＿｀;;）
It happened a long time ago (Of course I told her the truth)
Her first language was not English, so… that happened.（´＿｀;;）
Same Phoebe, same.
FRIENDS 6.01: “The One After Vegas"
morning cardio | dbf!j.m. x f!reader
masterlist | updates blog pairing: dbf!neighbor!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] your neighbor and dad's longtime buddy catches you sneaking back home after an underwhelming hook-up. you want more — he provides. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!neighbor!joel, age gap (23/50), reader has a bad relationship with her father, reader's father is overly strict, reader hooks up with an oc, dirty talk, soft!dom joel, degradation, praise, thigh riding, 1 spank, titty slapping, daddy kink, exhibitionism but nobody sees, almost caught, heavy petting, misogyny for sexiness that joel doesn't actually believe in since he's a sweetheart [no use of y/n] word count: 3.7k a/n: watch me almost exclusively post dbf joel. watch me. also, mind the tags, they've changed slightly since i posted the teaser. this was supposed to be a series. this is no longer the case bc i'm indecisive. sorry.
Mistake number one: your eyes are crusted shut with the mascara you’d forgotten to wipe off.
Mistake number two: the bed you wake up in is not your own.
Mistake number three: sleeping with your neighbor.
Rubbing your mascara-sealed eyes, you blink yourself into consciousness and instantly regret it. There’s a moment of stillness, time stretching as you take in the room underneath the swelling orange sunlight. The window is cracked just enough to give you a glimpse at the world outside — birds chirping, sprinklers spritzing, cars crunching gravel as they pull out of the driveway. Surrounding the narrow, rumpled bed is a graveyard of orphaned socks. A box fan whirrs in the corner. The room had felt much cleaner past midnight when it was only the yellowed street lamp outside shining through the window. Then you spot the digital clock on the cluttered bedside table reads 6:10, ten minutes later than you’d wanted to be awake for, and time returns to its regular pace.
Your heart kicks awake in your chest, veins going cold. You kick the sheets off of your sweaty body, roll out of bed, and stumble two steps before planting your feet on the carpet below. Even that isn’t enough to stir your hookup. Dylan Andrews.
It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Both of you were home for spring break. Both of you had flirted at the block party with each other. He was only decent-looking and mediocre with his hands, but you needed a break from spending another night in your childhood bedroom. What better way to do it than with a dick appointment?
Again. It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Sneaking out underneath the nose of your strict, tough-as-nails dad was the easy part. Sneaking back in? Less easy. And to make matters worse, you were already ten minutes behind.
Shit.
You tiptoe across the room, naked as the day you were born, and stuff your underappreciated lingerie into your backpack. Without even putting your panties or bra on, you hop into your shorts and wrestle with your hoodie. By the time you’re out of Dylan’s room, it’s 6:12.
The difference between your dad and Dylan’s mom? She doesn’t give a shit what side of town Dylan wakes up on or how much alcohol is sloshing around in his system as long as he’s safe. You’re not the first girl to do the walk of shame out of Ms. Andrews' generic McMansion house, and you’re far from the last.
She’s downstairs in front of the coffee maker, still wearing her pajamas and doing a Dollar General crossword when you slip past her kitchen unnoticed. The door clangs shut behind you, and you figure she must see you walking down the cul-de-sac.
Your dad always leaves for work at 6:45 after a freezing cold shower and a steaming cup of black coffee for balance. You can only hope his shower ran a little late and that he isn’t at the dining room table already. Cramming two steps into one, you continue with your beeline down the awakening street.
You’re followed home by the mailboxes and flower beds, the pebbles you kick with every step. You’re almost to the property line, prepared to make a mad dash to your front door when you hear the faint call of your name. You skid to a stop, and turn to face the source: the craftsman-style house next door.
And there he is – Joel Miller, sitting on one of the cushioned chairs of his front porch in nothing but his sleep shorts and a t-shirt, legs spread as wide as the chair can accommodate. There’s a smug, knowing look on his face, one that says I’ve caught you. See how you can get out of this.
It’s been a long time since you’ve been face to face with Joel — Mr. Miller. You’d think you’d see him more often, with him being your dad’s buddy and your neighbor, but it’s been since summer. You’re sure he must be having the time of his life by joining your just got laid parade.
“You’re up awful early,” he calls, beckoning you up the driveway with a come-hither movement of his fingers. Leaving your dignity at the curb, you pad up the yard to his porch, climbing one of the stairs to lean against the gutter that feeds into his shrubbery. Pollen and moss is scattered across the wooden deck, surrounding a package that he hasn’t bothered to pick up yet. His guitar is off to the side, propped up against the doorway of the house. You wonder if he’d been playing when he’d seen you walking by.
Joel’s covered for you before, briefly and sparingly. Taken the fall for the half-empty bottle of fireball in your dresser even though he’d never go within ten feet of that shit, blamed it on himself for accidentally leaving it behind after fixing a wheel that had jumped off track for you. Even though your dad had chewed him out for drinking on the job, he’d still managed to sneak it back to you with the wise words of hiding it in a sock next time. You’d been two months past your twenty-first when that had happened, and maybe Joel had pitied you after realizing how authoritarian his friend was.
You aren’t as sure if he’ll pity you now.
“Needed some fresh air,” you defend lamely, hands hanging limp by your sides.
“Needed some cock?” he corrects, and his bluntness makes you choke. He seems relaxed for the words that just came out of his mouth, fingers drumming on his impossibly large thighs, a playful smirk resting on his lips.
You sputter, “No! Jesus, what the hell–”
“I got eyes, hun. Saw you leave that Andrews kid’s place. Clearly he didn’t stick it to ya that good if you’re still walkin’ steady,” he comments. His head tilts.
“Joel,” you hiss, eyes flitting to your dad’s house next door. He seems to read your mind, his smirk widening.
“Wonder what your pops would think. Bet I have a pretty good idea. His little angel, sneakin’ around and whorin’ herself out.” He clicks his tongue at you. “A damn shame.”
Heat spools low in your stomach and down to your unsatisfied center. You wish you’d worn darker colored shorts instead of the flimsy gray things you have on. There’s no barrier of your panties to stop yourself from leaking all over them, and with the way Joel’s looking at you, eyes dark and sly, you’re wishing there was.
“Can’t even imagine what you’re gettin’ up to at that college ‘a yours. Bet you had five guys inside of ya all at once, and I sure ain’t talkin’ about burgers, hun.” He lounges back in his chair, watching you.
You feel yourself gush. Heat burns in your thighs, and they rub together on instinct, seeking to extinguish that brimming ache between your legs. You bunch your hands in the fabric of your sweatshirt and can’t stop yourself from squirming underneath his gaze. It’s not like you’ve never thought about this, this with him of all people when you’re underneath your covers and your hand finds the warm junction between your thighs. Always unattainable. Always just out of reach.
You whisper again, “Joel,” but this time, it comes out as more of a moan. Humiliation warms your cheeks and chest, forming a different kind of pit in your stomach.
“Hmmmm?” Joel hums at you with a raised brow. He’s casual, indifferent, almost. But then his eyes flicker up and down, stopping at the wet patch smeared across the front of your shorts, the way your thighs press tight, tensing before letting go. “Ah. A little slut shamin’ gets you all riled up, hun?” That tears a whimper from you. He does that stupid come hither motion again, and like a lost dog, you listen. Standing in front of him, you feel completely, utterly exposed.
He adjusts himself in his chair, and you swallow the building lump in your throat when you see his bulge hardening. It sends another zap of heat to your core, and then another, more surprised one when his hand goes up to grab at your tit. Your breath catches as he thumbs one of your hardened nipples. A triumphant noise echoes out of him. “Braless, too?” His other hand goes down to your shorts, playing with the waistband. “Prancin’ around in these short, skimpy things, too. Practically giving the whole neighborhood a free peep show.”
His hand slides lower. Lower. Pans over to the crease of your thigh and then his thumb is planting over your clit, rubbing only once before he pulls away. “Messy pussy. Bet you stained the guys sheets.”
You’re quiet, staring at him, his wicked fucking expression, those hands that look like sin itself. You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Ah. Poor baby. All this effort and you didn’t even get to come.” He just looks at you. Unmoving. Not doing a single damn thing to get you there.
“Please, Joel,” you whisper, embarrassed by the gritty need already embedded into your voice when he’s hardly even touched you.
And he’s still wearing that wolfish look, that tainted-with-intention gleam in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what you do want when he asks, “What? What do you want?” He licks his lips, a fleeting moment.
You look over your shoulder, at the rising street. Anyone could have their windows cracked. Anyone could hear you confess on this porch. Still, you murmur, “I… I want you to make me come, Joel.” Your voice shivers a little bit along with the stroke of wind that wisps against the backs of your thighs.
His brows raise together, now. His head tips forward. “What was that? A little louder. You know, my ears really ain’t the sharpest these days…”
Fucking bastard.
“I want,” you say again, fighting to stop your voice from wavering, to keep it not too loud but not too quiet. “you to make me come.”
Joel sucks on his teeth for a second. “Ohhh. Now I don’t think that’s really fair, hun.” He gives you a mockingly sad look.
“Why?” you ask, and you know you sound as whiny as a petulant child. But he’d been correct earlier. You put in all of this effort, sneaking out for a thrilling night that had turned into something more like two sweaty bodies moving together and only one of them feeling good from it. You want to feel good. You’re tired of looking at the right and the wrong. Joel’s sitting in front of you, his thumb still smelling like your arousal; that’s what’s right.
“You’re out here breakin’ all the rules. Shouldn’t be rewarding you for that, sweetheart. Besides, it’s a little fucked up, dontcha think? Makin’ you come all over me while your pops, my buddy, is none the wiser gettin’ ready for work next door?” His vulgarity only weakens you even more, pussy clenching and begging to be filled. You’re about to protest again when he cuts in, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help ya out.”
Your heart pedals in your chest, eager and wanting. But Joel, instead of getting up and elbowing you inside like you expect, stays right where he is. He pats one of his splayed thighs, the grin on his face only widening. Your face contorts. Joel hears your question before you ask.
“What? Never humped someone’s leg before? With how much of a bitch in heat you’re actin’ right now, I’m surprised.” You can feel the shock on your face plain as day. Joel jerks his head down to his thigh, egging you on. “Better hurry up if you want my help, sweetheart. Pretty sure your dad’s about to get goin’, and I sure don’t have all day, either.”
The rapidly shrinking part of yourself that isn’t consumed with desire tells you to take a step back. That anyone, God forbid, even the Adlers across the street could witness this. Talk about a free peep show.
You think of the alternative: sneaking back into your house with a hope and a prayer that your dad won’t find you, backpack over your shoulder and shoes on, as you climb the stairs back to your bedroom. Open up your Joel-advised dresser drawer of things your dad says you shouldn’t have and pull out your vibrator. Do the same old hassle of a routine, desperately trying to make yourself come. Reach an unfulfilling peak.
Or… take what Joel’s offering you. Risks and all.
You take a tentative step forward, glaring at Joel when he chuckles because of your hesitance, and plop yourself down on his thigh. The pressure against your clit immediately pulls a whimper from you. His big hands fix themselves on your hips, holding tight, but not too tight as to hold you captive against him. There’s still the faint existence of the Joel you’ve always known, considerate and sweet and all southern gentleman, that exists behind the guise of his dominance.
You nestle your head into the crook of his neck, breathing heavy against him as you get a slow start to grinding your hips on his thigh. Although your movements are tentative, uncertain in nature, your head is already going fuzzy.
“Bet you’re only this wet cause that boy already put a new load in your dishwasher.” You scoff at him in disbelief — both at how much more wet it gets you, and how foul his words are. He chooses then to jerk you forward by the hips. You cry out as your pussy drags along the thick expanse of his thigh, clit catching on the bunched up fabric of your rumpled shorts.
“Zip it, you fuckin’ hussy. Ain’t a damn soul in this neighborhood that wants to wake up to you sobbin’ while gettin’ off on this thigh.” One of his hands drifts back to squeeze at the flesh of your ass. You hear the spank before you feel it, a sting that echoes and sticks right between your legs. He’s effortlessly strung a barbed wire of humiliation around your body. The lack of power makes your thighs clamp down around his, and you can’t tell if you crave more of it or despise it.
Unable to decide which, you loudly, exaggeratedly moan into his ear, still rocking down on his lap. It resounds through the neighborhood, the springboard roofs ricocheting you coquettish noises down the street and through the flowerbeds. A spooked crow lifts off of the power lines behind you, and you hear it squawk as its wings beat and carry it away.
Joel cocks his head at you, brow raised. “So it’s not just your legs that have a problem stayin’ shut. It’s your nasty mouth, too.” His hands migrate up your sides to your tits, which jostle with every flighty movement across his thigh. Before you know what he’s doing, he tweezes at your nipples in a way that makes you melt into him, forehead falling flat against his neck. And then he lands a hard smack across your chest, pleasure with a bite. Your hips jolt. “Behave for daddy before I make you walk next door draggin’ a snail trail behind ya.”
You know he doesn’t mean your real dad. A new rush of heat settles in your stomach, tightening your cunt from an ache to an insatiable thrumming that only Joel can solve. “Fuck,” you almost shout, but end up muffling into his skin with an open-mouthed kiss. He sighs, adjusting under you. The change in angle on your clit makes you whimper, especially when you feel his hardened length smushed against the outside of your thigh.
Your hand goes down to grip it, to participate in the push and pull, the cat and mouse, but he shakes his head, pulling it out of the way. He holds you by the small of your back, urging you to keep rubbing on him. “You’re lucky I’m even givin’ you my thigh,” he spits. “Ain’t gonna let you play chutes and ladders tryna make me come when I know damn well where that hand was last night.”
“Daddy,” you pout at him, lower lip jutting out.
He only shakes his head. “Don’t start.”
Whining in agitation, you manage to school yourself into behaving like he’d told you to. Every grind of your hips welcomes pleasure, beckons it, activates the porch light inside of you that invites it inside. You go limp against Joel as he guides you back and forth, and even limper when he tightens the muscle underneath your soaking core. Your hands anchor themselves on his broad shoulders, nails carving into his skin through the flimsy material of his shirt. He hisses underneath you, a break in his seemingly titanium resolve. You feel yourself getting closer, heat wreathing around your stomach, cunt clenching.
In your house, the foyer light flickers on.
Your hips stall over Joel’s as you see your dad’s backlit silhouette moving around in the foyer. Likely sliding on his shoes, patting his pockets for his wallet and his work phone…. You have two minutes at best.
Joel’s eyes follow your distracted line of vision. His amused chuckle warms the back of your neck. “Oughta hurry up if you don’t wanna get caught. Your old man would be in for a rude awakening, headin’ to work and finding his precious little girl fuckin’ my leg like a whore,” he murmurs.
He bounces his leg underneath you, and you bite back the needy cry that threatens to slip out. It feels so good, too good for you to think about anything other than the haze of arousal and pleasure that hovers over your head like a perpetual fog. You return to grinding down on him, hips pumping with a greater, renewed speed. “Attagirl,” Joel croons at you, and the hand at the small of your back presses harder, pushing you up and down his thigh.
Short, strained breaths of yours meet the morning air, eyes pinned on the rectangular window. It’s a golden-washed reminder of how wrong this is. Your dad would blow a gasket, see red, breathe fire at you if he knew exactly what was happening just a few feet away from his front yard.
But you forget all about that when Joel’s calloused fingers cup your chin, nudging you to look at him. His eyes are all pupil, darkened with something like starvation, something like want. “Don’t look at him. Look at me,” he coaxes, and he bounces his thigh again.
You’re close, you can feel it. He can feel it, too, in the way that your thighs fasten around his, your cunt rocking on him as your fervor makes the whole front porch shake and shudder. Tossing your hips back and forth, you wanted it, but now? Now you need it. Your stomach tightens, your legs shivering below you as your cunt gushes all over both of your shorts. “That’s it, baby, come on me like you were beggin’ to. ‘S alright, nice and easy for daddy, mhm?” He tenses his thigh one final time, and you lurch over that edge. “Gooood girl,” he hums as your cunt flutters against his leg. “You’re a daredevil, aren’t you?” he asks, jerking his head toward your house.
You figure you must be, after what you just did.
You’d planned on staying there, riding it out and trembling against his warm chest. But the garage cranks open. You jolt off of Joel’s lap, damn near teleporting across the porch with how fast you move. Joel smirks at you, crossing his unfucked leg over his freshly fucked one, where you’d rubbed your cum all over his skin until it’d glistened. The sight warms your stomach all over again, but it doesn’t last – nerves spasm in your ribcage as your dad ducks out into the driveway.
You fumble with your shorts, pulling them down and crossing your hands in front of the obvious stain on the gray fabric. Your dad squints across the yard, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Miller?” He calls your name shortly after, and you straighten. “You’re up early, kiddo.”
You open your mouth, on the precipice of a lie that you know won’t be good. It’ll come out unsteady, dishonest, and uneven.
Joel points at the package at the foot of his doorstep. “My toolbox got sent to yours,” he explains. “Damn postal. ‘Bout as good as the Boston Post Road these days. But your kid’s got me covered. Raised her right.”
For the second time, Joel Miller covers for you. You have no idea where this leaves you, standing under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. With your cum cooling and sticking to your folds the same way it’s cooling and sticking to his leg, Joel knows your secret. And he’s keeping it.
Your dad only gives a shallow nod, looking between the two of you. “Well,” he hooks a hand back at his truck. “I gotta head off to work.” He shifts on his feet, this time pointing to you. “And you head back inside, kiddo. Too early for you to be up and movin’.” Of course it is.
You stare at the ground, the pollen and stray leaves below your feet. Finally, you settle on a nod. Shallow and halfhearted, much like his. Your dad, satisfied, retreats back into the garage. You hear the truck engine come to life.
“You heard the man,” Joel says. You tighten your fists, moving to step away, but the way Joel’s eyes glimmer has you loitering. He lowers his voice. “See you soon, daredevil.”
That damned nickname. “How do you know I’ll be back?” you retort under your breath.
He shrugs. “I’m sure there’ll be more… ‘packages’.”
You blame the heat in your body on the rising sun, sweat clinging to the back of your neck as you plod off through the front yard. There’s only one thought in your head as your dad pulls out and you close the garage. Mr. Miller can’t happen again.
Mistake number four: thinking you’re telling the truth.
tool time
ao3 ⋆ main masterlist
pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: cock worship, self imposed denial, blue balls for all, that tool belt, pet names (darlin', baby), mentions of oral sex and p in v, very brief mention of alcohol, no/pre-outbreak TLOU, no use of y/n. word count: 3k summary: He was always there to pull you both back from the brink, though you weren't sure there was any saving you this time. And it was all because of something as simple as a tool belt.
A/N: it has been one year to the day (and almost to the minute) since I published sleepless in 2023. happy anniversary to the fic that started it all. thanks to all of you for sticking with me, and thanks to Joel Miller for always being That Man.
thank you to @sp00kymulderr and a conversation months ago at this point that inspired this fic 💛
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"Y'Starin'?"
You were. From the moment he walked in, actually.
Then, from the moment he slung that thing low around his hips this morning, you knew you were done for. Four weeks of pain and struggle, all for nothing.
The best laid plans, you guess, as you grunt back at him with a shrug.
It was on you, really. You were probably setting yourself up for failure the moment you had your first grownup sleepover with one Joel Miller. Sensible people don't do that to themselves. Not when they have rules to keep to. They may have been your own rules, but that was besides the point. Rules were rules, and you never did like breaking them.
Watching Joel move and shift, his bulge in his denim framed neatly by the leather of his work belt, you had a feeling breaking this particular rule wouldn't upset you for long.
Six weeks. That was the rule. Just two painful weeks away. Six weeks, and then you'd be free from this forced celibacy you'd put yourself into. It was a test for yourself more than anything - always too eager to throw yourself into intimacy with people who didn't care and, if you were being honest, with people who you didn't care about either. You figured if you wanted different, you'd have to make it different.
You just didn't account for the first man in your life after a months long dry spell to be Joel Miller.
From the day you said those words into his mouth - six weeks, give me six weeks and I'm all yours - he'd been all in. He told you he could wait as long as you needed, and from the moment he said it you believed him. The problem was, from the moment he said it, you also wanted to fuck him about it.
But you couldn't, because that was exactly the rule you were trying to keep to. No sex for six fucking weeks.
You weren't even sure why you picked six weeks in the first place. The exact whys of it all went out of your head the moment Joel committed to your stupid, self-imposed rule without question. Those reasons why grew further from you each and every week he calmly stopped your dates from going too far with a gruff don't wanna break your rules, baby.
Even when you were forced to stay the night after one too many drinks, or when a make-out session got too heated, there he was to pull you both back from the brink.
Though, you weren't sure there was any saving you this time.
And it was all because of something as simple as a tool belt.
You'd seen him in it before. It wasn't new. It was quite old, and worn, actually. Usually you'd simply see him throw it into the back seat of his truck, or onto his counter, or over his shoulder. On one occasion you'd caught him on his knees, belt strapped around his hips as he fixed up a broken cabinet in his garage.
It did the same to you then as it did now, but this time it was staying on and not being hastily discarded with an oh shit, I'm runnin' late.
Now, he stands and shifts his hips, legs crossed at the ankle, the bulge in his denim so perfectly framed you're sure the sight will be burned into your vision for ever.
"You're doing that on purpose."
Your eyes are looking through him. Fuck knows you can't look at him. Not right now, not when two billion reasons not to break your one rule couldn't hold you back from just doing it.
"Doin' what?" he asks in a voice so innocent you almost believe him. Until he shifts once again, hips rocking in your direction, the denim bunching between his legs over his soft bulge.
"Stop it, Joel."
"Stop doin' what?"
Maybe he doesn't have a clue what he's doing to you - what he's been doing to you every day for weeks. Maybe he's oblivious, or too innocent and pure and good to know just how ravenous you're feeling for him right this moment, or maybe he's hoping he isn't seeing the way you're looking at him, ready to devour him in one, so he stands some chance of getting to work on time.
Yes, you could be strong and ignore the way his hand engulfs the coffee mug he's drinking from - strong but delicate in a way you know it to be by how he lets his fingertips dance up and down your side in the dead of the night. You could look past how his eyes flick down your body, stood stiff and still as far away from him as you can get in your tiny little kitchen. You could even ignore the way he licks the dregs of coffee from his lips, swiping his hand across his chin as his cup clinks down on the counter.
But then, those strong, delicate hands find purchase on his belt, hooking through a loop you saw him tuck a hammer into that day in his garage, and - as though you hadn't decided from the moment he put the belt on his hips - the last crumbling ruins of your resolve crash to the ground.
"Fuck it."
"Darlin', you -"
You cut him off with a kiss - striding across the kitchen to grab him by the shirt before he could even realize what was happening.
"Shut up," you breath into his mouth, silencing him more with the pressure of your lips on his than with the words on your tongue.
Joel, still trying to be a gentleman, keeps his one hand planted on the counter, the other on his belt, white knuckle gripping as he tries to keep up with your frantic kisses. You bite and nip at his lips, the fire in your belly not letting up even though you're well aware neither of you have time for this. And, though his hands are still, he kisses back with a fire to match, setting the ruins of your rules ablaze right there on the kitchen floor.
But then you're gone, and he's chasing a mouth that's no longer there.
His eyes snap open just as you slip down his body, your hands releasing from his shirt to slide down the length of his torso as you descend.
"Darlin', I -"
"Shut up, Joel," you growl again as your knees collide with the kitchen tile. It's not comfortable, and it's certainly not romantic, but it's what you need, so you'll take it.
"Your rule, baby, I don't wanna -"
"Fuck my rule, Joel."
Your eyes drop from his to the belt in front of you, then lower still to the soft lump in worn denim. You'd only been this close in your dreams - and there had been a lot of them lately. Waking up wet and sticky between your legs after a Joel sleepover was something you were now well accustomed to. While the you of your dreams could make the man come in two seconds flat some nights, the real you - the one on their knees in their kitchen - didn't have a clue what got his blood pumping and his heart racing.
You press a lingering kiss to the front of his jeans anyway. Just to see, really. Then, by the way his eyes widen, pupils blowing black in his warm eyes, and his breath hitches, you have a feeling you won't have much trouble at all finding out what makes Joel Miller tick.
You chain together another kiss, and then another, and then another, pressing your soft lips to the rough denim as you listen to his ragged breaths.
"I -"
"Shut up."
You don't want him to speak. You don't want him to be sensible, or to stop you, not when you've already waited so long. Not when his cock is right in front of you, separated by nothing but a zipper and some fabric.
You press a firmer kiss to him, breathing deeply and letting your eyes slip closed as you inhale. He always smells so clean in the mornings, but this time it's mixed with something else. The soft scent of his laundry detergent is still there, but there's the earthy smell of his leather belt, just a few inches away from your face. It smells of wood and dust and metal - the fixtures and undoubtedly a few errant screws and nails dumped into the pockets and pouches accounting for the latter. Then there's something else too, as you take another breath, groaning against the denim that you nuzzle your face into, feeling him twitch beneath your cheek.
He likes this. If the stiffening lump beneath your lips, pressed against your nose, rubbed against your cheek is anything to go by, he likes this a lot. Who could blame the man, really. He'd waited as long as you had. Four weeks for you had been four weeks for him. Four weeks of you trying to break through his resolve, to crack him so he was to blame for your broken rule and not you. Four weeks of you edging closer and closer to his waistband each time you kissed on the couch. Four weeks of your hips shifting back into his crotch every night you went to sleep.
"You smell so good, Joel," you groan into his crotch, letting your head rest against his thigh as you sink lower on your knees. Your head feels floaty on your shoulders, and you wonder if he can feel the hot warmth of your breath against his cock through his jeans.
His thighs tense beneath your palms as you steady yourself on him. You should probably slow down, you think, but no sooner is the thought in your head when your fingers are already creeping up and up to stroke across the soft leather of his belt.
You want to pull it off and pull his jeans down and finally taste him. You want to leave it on, slung around his hips as it is, holding onto it to anchor yourself to him as he slides into you. You want to feel it slapping against your ass as he fucks you, face down into the mattress screaming his name.
Instead you pull, tugging his hips closer to your face. He grunts above you, shifting his own hips again as his cock swells in his pants, undoubtedly uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. You want to take it out - you could take it out. You could see it for the first time right now, right here. You could taste it if you wanted to. You'd imagined it enough.
But you don't.
Even through your desperation, there were things you still wanted for that first time with Joel Miller. Fantasies of the belt, and the need you had for him right now couldn't sway you from that, at least.
You'd have him stripped bare, and you would be too. Hands and mouths and tongues would explore first. And then, when the desperation got too much to bear, he'd slip into you like he'd always belonged there, sliding down to the root and burrowing himself in you.
"I don't want you to do anything you'll regret, baby," he whispers, holding your hand against his thigh, stilling you for just a second.
You could sob at how good he is, even now as you try to ruin him on your knees.
"How could I regret this," you murmur, white hot heat radiating off his cock as it throbs right beneath your chin. "Please, Joel. Fuck my rule. I don't care. I just want you."
You watch as his resolve begins to crack, shattering first in his eyes as he spares a heated glance down at you between his legs.
"Fuck."
You begin in earnest then. Your hands that were stilled go back to kneading, pawing at his thighs, reaching round to grab a handful of his ass as you press kiss after kiss to his cock, dampening the fabric of his jeans with your saliva.
"Wanted it for so long," you breath. "Need it. Fuck, Joel."
You're babbling into his crotch. You know you are. You don't care. All you care is about the wet heat between your legs and the cock in front of you, swollen and desperate as you are wet and dripping. In this moment you're made for each other, your pussy desperately clenching around nothing, as he throbs, pulsating with each kiss you press to him.
He gasps suddenly and you're pulled out of your trance, looking up at him as a wet patch blooms on the front of his jeans.
"Baby, you can't -"
"Don't you want to?" you ask breathlessly. "Don't you want to know what it's like?"
"I do - jesus fuck - I do, we just don't got the time."
You groan into his crotch. He's right. Of course he is. Still, you don't stop. He can feel your breath hot on him through the denim, you're sure of it. You want - need - him to know how much you want him. You need him to carry it with him all damn day until he's aching and desperate and ready to fuck you the moment he sees you.
He's not looking down at you the next time you cast your eyes up. Instead his head is titled skyward and his jaw is open in a soft moan you can barely hear from the blood pumping in your ears. The hand that was on his belt has joined the other, gripping the counter, twitching as if itching to grab at you when you run your teeth over the now solid mass in his pants.
"I want you," you whisper. "Wanted you for weeks."
You let your hands take over, cascading up and down his strong thighs, scraping nails down and dragging delicate finger tips up. With one more kiss to the heavy weight at the front of his jeans, you bring your hand up to cup him, palming the heat between his legs and gasping at the feel of it.
He feels so heavy, and warm, and perfect in your hand.
"Fuck," you hiss, squeezing gently at his covered cock. "Joel."
"Unngh."
He's wrecked. If his breathing and the way he can't look down at you is anything to go by, he may be past the point of no return. It sends a thrill through you, ruining your clean panties even more as the realization strikes you.
You could make him come like this.
And you shouldn't. The sensible part of you knows that. You know he doesn't have anything else to change into, and you know that time is rapidly ticking away by the ache gradually throbbing in your knees.
But, you could - and that just makes to too hard to resist.
So, you continue on, pressing kisses to his cock, wishing desperately you could cradle the heft of his balls in your hand as you took his head into your mouth. Your teeth nip at his thighs, scrape gently across the sides of his bulge. And then, your tongue slips out from between your swollen lips, and you lick gently at the precum seeping through his jeans.
You moan. Whine, really. Whimper, if you were being really honest with yourself. The rough fabric on your tongue and the bitter salt of his precum on your tongue almost have you coming right there on the kitchen floor. You quiver instead, holding it back as you spread your legs, desperate for relief that you don't have time for.
"Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me -"
The vibration of his phone in his pocket, twinned with a harsh beep, startles both of you. You look around, confused for a moment, before Joel scrambles for his back pocket.
"Tommy, hey," he says, clearing his throat. Tommy's voice booms back down the receiver. He's outside. Sorry I'm late, he says, and you could laugh if you weren't so painfully turned on and wrecked from the few minutes you'd spent on your knees acquanting yourself with Joel's cock.
"Yep. Uh-huh. Be out in a sec. Sure."
There's nothing but silence and the sound of your breathing when he hangs up. You can't bring yourself to get up any more than he can bring himself to walk away.
"We gotta get goin'," Joel finally says, hearing an impatient beep of a car horn outside.
"Tonight," you say with certainty, still on your knees. "You're fucking me tonight, Joel."
He helps you up, fingers twitching as they hold your waist. You don't have time for what you both want. Even a kiss could turn into something neither of you could pull back from now. You move to the door, together and desperate and messy in ways neither of you can say out loud, because the clock is ticking.
"Joel," you say, holding back a smile as you walk to your car. "Might wanna check the front of your pants."
He looks down, his cock still hard and uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. He'd hoped the short walk to the door would releave some of the pressure, but it doesn't. And then he sees it - the dark bloom of wet denim, evidence of the twin effort between you and his cock to ruin his day in the best possible way.
Joel shifts his tool belt, letting it sit lopsided on his hips. You can see by the look in his eye that he wants to push you up against your car and kiss you like he means it. You can see by the way his fingers grip that loop in his tool belt once more, holding onto it for dear life, biting at his inner cheek.
"Tonight," he growls, when he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, before stalking away to the waiting shadow of Tommy's truck.
You watch the leather of his belt slap against the full meat of his ass with every step, and you smile. Just one more day - ten more hours - and the denial would be over, the belt would be off and you'd finally, finally, get what you so desperately wanted.
Fuck your rule.
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I really wanna do it.
GAP THE SERIES | EP. 5 [2022-2023]
CHAPPELL ROAN - lollapalooza
No i get it.
I mean you ever be someone make such an annoying sound (mouth sounds typically) and want to rip your ears off,
But not before you can rip theirs off?
So I haven’t seen Chicago but I was listening to Cell Block Tango and I just realized how funny Pop is like the other women were cheated on or abused and then Pop’s story is essentially “I was angry and he was there”
kleomatsu sort of idolizes iyami like. man i wish i had half of that old man's swag..............
when there’s historical romance written abt ur friends
