Fandom slut

If there is one thing you needed to know, dear reader, it is that Joel Miller was a lonely man. 

Well, no—maybe lonely wasn’t quite it. Alone, perhaps. Though he didn’t mind it much, honest to God. It suited him in a lone-wolf sort of way, loyal to his daughter and to his brother but not much else. And yet, some nights he wondered what it might be like to have… someone.

He’d been thinking about leaving for an hour, truth be told. The guys had dragged him out for one beer after a long, miserable day on site, and he’d said yes out of solidarity more than anything. But they’d cleared out a while ago, and yet, he’d stayed. Couldn’t say why. The place would be swarming with college kids soon—and he didn’t want to be caught in that storm. The crowds, the shit music, the shouting. All of it. But tonight he lingered, watching the drifters and day drinkers finish up while the night came alive.

He briefly wondered if fate was real after all, if God had glued his ass to the seat tonight for a reason.

Because, just then, a girl slid onto the stool beside him—you. 

A perfect stranger, and a pretty one at that. Wearing a simple top with dainty little straps over your shoulders, something glossy and pink across your lips, a swipe of shimmer on your eyelids. Prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time, too. You looked a little out of place though, if Joel had to guess he’d bet you weren’t part of the college kid posse he despised so much, based on the way you politely ordered a drink from the bartender. One that wasn’t a vodka redbull or a cheap piss-water beer. He caught himself watching you a little too long, and forced his eyes back to the TV–Cowboys game, easy distraction. 

And as the crowd began to thicken behind you, people began surging at the counter, and your elbow brushed his. 

“Crowded tonight,” you said with an apologetic smile. Pretty voice, too. 

Joel didn’t say anything back, just tipped his beer in a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile. He figured he should’ve said something, but for the life of him couldn’t make his voice work. You were too close now, some vanilla and spice perfume wrapping around him, making him lean in a little further as someone dared to try and squeeze into the sliver of space left between the two of you for the bartender.

You gave a tiny nod, lifting your glass. He thought that’d be the end of it. Easy silence between strangers. He liked that kind of quiet. It was predictable, lacking expectations.

Some loud, awful music kicked in as some DJ started their set, and the lights shifted from warm gold to flashing blue and pink, the beat swelling until the whole place moved like a restless body of water, waves of people moving, a crowd dancing like a whirlpool in the center of it all. Joel really needed to get out of here.

But then he saw you go completely and utterly still as your eyes fixed over his shoulder. Your back stiffened, and Joel couldn’t help himself, he turned slightly, following your gaze through the haze of the fog machine. Whoever you saw changed everything in your face—color gone, lips parted, like you’d been caught somewhere you shouldn’t be.

“Oh my god,” you said, mostly to yourself. Then those eyes snapped back to him, wide and bright and pleading.

“Sorry—this is going to sound insane—but can you do me a favor?”

He blinked, caught between suspicion and curiosity. “Depends what kind of favor.”

So his voice did work after all, but it came out all gruff and gravely over the loud music, potentially a little rude without him meaning to. 

He could smell your perfume better now as you leaned into him conspiratorally: spices like nutmeg and cinnamon and sandalwood with that soft vanilla, like cashmere in front of a fireplace. His pulse jumped, traitorous, at the picture in his head—-a vision of the two of you huddled close on a couch staying warm, no one else around. Maybe even naked under a thick, wool blanket. He shook his head to empty it of such thoughts. Dirty old perv, he scolded inwardly.

“I know we just met and I’m really sorry,,” you said in a hurry, eyes flickering back over his shoulder once again, “but we’re in love and we’re planning to move to Italy in the spring.”

“Not really much of an Italy guy—” Joel mumbled, somehow his brain going claggy as your delicate little fingers shifted across his lower back. 

“John!” you screeched, plastering on a radiant smile, nearly blowing Joel’s poor old man ears out. Both of you stood abruptly, your hand nearly yanking Joel up as a fella came lazily up to you through the crowd of bar goers.

“So, this the new guy, huh?” John asked, unimpressed. Floppy hair, young. And suddenly Joel’s eyes were sidling to you, a thought provoking his heart into his lungs—God, how young were you?

“Yes,” you nodded eagerly, “this is my boyfriend—” and suddenly your face fell for a moment, your big eyes going even bigger as you looked up at him. 

“Joel,” he grinned, throwing his arm around your shoulders, your body fitting a little too perfectly against the side of his as he held out the other to shake the kid’s hand. Clammy, weak little handshake. It made Joel sit up a little taller, and he didn’t let himself think about the fact it had been years since a woman was on his arm. More time since he’d had one as good looking as you. 

Looking at this John a little longer, it made Joel feel a little pissed, honestly. Because you must’ve had good reason, a reason to be desperate for a savior, and Joel knew boys tended to only take women seriously if there was another man to stop them. It made him glower over his bottle of beer at the kid, his hand tightening around you as he brought you closer. 

“You said y’all are movin’ where, again?” the kid asked, folding his arms over his chest, “And so soon?”

You opened your mouth, but John was already speaking over you again, “Took me two years just to get ya out of your parents house, baby. Can hardly believe you’re gonna leave the country for some…old guy.”

“We’re headin’ to Canada. Always loved the cold, dontcha, baby?” Joel said, smug as ever. He was about to knock this kid’s teeth out if he referred to you under any pet name one more time. He wasn’t quite sure how to explain that feeling just yet.

“Love the cold.” you nodded, eyes shifting to Joel, closing them to give the words a little extra spirit, “Love the snow, the moose.”

“The…moose…?” John asked, dumbfounded, still suspicious. 

“Really amazing creatures,” you finished, losing your confidence a bit as your eyes went back to your ex. 

“We had a really nice trip up there just a few weeks ago,” Joel butt in, he wasn’t really sure what made him say it, what made him keep going, but that vision of you and him in front of a fireplace had morphed into something much more explicit in his mind’s eye. Some cocktail of male pride and testosterone firing in his blood. “Think we barely left the cabin, ain’t that right?” he smiled down at you. 

The feeling felt foreign in his cheeks as he suddenly realized he was having fun.

Your skin went hot, your eyes went a little wide, but you were smiling, you liked this game too, it seemed. You nodded, your arm tightening around his lower back, and Joel took another sip of his bottle to hide his smug grin. 

“Right, okay, well…that sounds…” John trailed off, “Yeah. Have a…a good night I guess. I’ll see ya around, Joe.” he nodded.

“It’s Joel, and no, you won’t.” you smiled after your ex as he sheepishly went off like a dog with its tail between his legs. 

The crowd around the bar was still thick, but Joel no longer had any reason to keep his arm around you. He wondered if you were thinking the same thing, though, because your hand stayed at his lower back, fingers clutching the thermal clinging to his waist. You let out a long sigh, watching John’s back disappear through the door. Finally, your eyes found Joel again, and you stepped away, letting your hand fall.

“I’m so sorry about all that,” you said, sheepish but smiling as you sat back down.

“S’no problem at all,” he replied, easing onto his stool. He wanted to keep talking, though. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to so badly before. “So, the moose, huh?”

You laughed, the sound bright again and less apologetic. “Yeah, that was… a bit of a panic moment. Not my fault you switched countries on me.”

Joel chuckled, and remained turned towards you in his bar seat, “I did say I’m not much of an Italy guy.”

Your grin didn’t fade and neither did his, and he watched your eyes catch the light, not just from the glitter on your lids. You studied him for a long moment, and he studied you right back. Despite the music and the pulse of bass shaking the floor, the air between you felt still.

“Joel,” you said finally, twisting to fully face him, glass in hand, the last sip of your drink swirling at the bottom.

“Yeah?” 

“Do you wanna get outta here?”

You must’ve seen the surprise on his face.

“I just mean—” you rushed, face going hot, eyes wide, words tumbling—“somewhere else, where I can actually hear myself think, not like—not like that—sorry, oh god—”

Joel laughed, low and rough, shoulders shaking. “Sure, darlin’. On one condition.”

“Anything,” you said easily, tongue darting out to catch the last taste of your drink from your lips.

Meanwhile, Joel felt his mouth go dry as the Sahara.

“Your name?” 

You smiled wider and gave it to him, shaking his hand like it was a deal. Your fingers were cool with condensation, soft against his calluses. He was chastising himself for thinking about them anywhere else and had to get himself together.

In need of distraction, he stood and grabbed his coat off the back of the bar seat and let you lead the way, noticing your lack of winter protection. 

“Don’t tell me you walked out the house without a jacket,” he called after you.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna act like my father,” you shot back as the cold air met you outside.

Joel shook his head, still smiling, the feeling came easier now, less strange on his face. He stopped you for just a moment, draping his coat around your shoulders before falling in step beside you. You didn’t fuss, and he was grateful. He wouldn’t have known how to explain it anyway—he just knew it was right.

The noise of downtown faded as you walked, small talk coming and going. You asked where he was from, if he had family, if he’d lived here long. He didn’t have great answers—here, yes, a daughter and a brother. You didn’t even flinch at daughter, and that made his stomach do something funny.

“Anyone else in your life?” you asked.

“No, and why am I startin’ to feel like I’m bein’ interrogated?” he asked with a laugh as he pushed open the door of a dive bar he knew. It was the only kind of place you could count on for cheap beer, fried food, and a band in the corner that didn’t suck.

Music filled the room as you both entered, warmth and yellow light washing over everything. You were already swaying to the band’s rendition of You Make Lovin’ Fun, his coat drowning your frame.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be an interrogation if you gave more than one-word answers, Joel,” you teased, pointing a finger his way as you danced.

He just shook his head, heading for the bar. When he turned to ask you your poison, you were already at the pool tables, green felt glowing under the lamps.

“I’ll tell you what,” you said, spinning a cue in your hand, eyes playful. “Every point I make, you owe me an honest answer. No more one-word stuff.”

Joel put his hands on his hips, grinning as he followed you over. He was already in over his head with you and he knew it. “You even know how to play?”

You circled the table, leaning over to test your stance. Joel swallowed hard at the sight—long legs braced against the floor, perky little ass bent over, his coat engulfing your frame but slipping down your shoulders, and your hair falling like a curtain as you tilted your head at him.

“You gonna show me?” 

You

This was not how you expected your night to go.

When you left the apartment earlier, you thought, sure, what’s one more Hinge date before winter break? What’s one more night out before everyone disappeared back to their hometowns, leaving you the quiet comfort of your little downtown without the reek of cheap beer and frat boy vomit? You’d pictured a mellow night, maybe a half-decent conversation, not a repeat of every lukewarm date you’d endured this final semester of your master’s program. Hell, maybe you’d even get laid. 

Your date never showed. Classic, but whatever. So you went to one of the busier bars, figuring maybe you’d find a hot lacrosse player to take home. Just something to erase the rejection, a distraction in human form.

And that’s how you ended up next to him.

Some quiet stranger who looked like he’d overstayed his welcome, nursing a beer like it was medicine. You didn’t see many of his kind in bars this late— older, broad, still in his work clothes. A man built from something that wasn’t the gym and heaps of protein powders, unlike the guys you knew. He’d nodded politely when you sat down, but said nothing else. And that was fine.

Until you saw fucking John.

As if the ghosted Hinge date wasn’t enough, the sight of your overbearing ex was enough to seal your feelings of god playing the fate strings a little too well. The last time you’d gotten a 2am text from him, you’d lied and made up some nonsense about a new boyfriend you were moving far, far away with. Just seeing the asshole was enough to make your eyes roll back in your head before the panic sunk in. You knew if you let him corner you, you’d end up in his bed again. And if you didn’t get out before morning, he’d be showing you his stock portfolio like it was foreplay at the crack of dawn.

So, you’d used this new, polite friend to your advantage. And once your ex stalked off and the longer the conversation went, the more you started to think your night had taken all the wrong turns just to end up exactly where it was supposed to. That is, with a man double your age, wearing it better than anyone you’d ever laid eyes on. He carried the years like the finest wine you’d ever tasted: dark, smooth, with a warmth that tickled your skin the more you stayed.

Joel. Joel Miller, you’d learned, after you’d sunk the blue-striped ball in the left corner pocket. The name fit him—solid, no fluff, no room for pretense. You liked the way it sounded when he said it, low and rough, like gravel dragged over his whiskey neat. You liked the way his eyes followed the cue ball, steady and focused, that small crease appearing between his brows when he lined up a shot. You liked a lot of things you probably shouldn’t have.

And, you know what? That was fine. More than fine, really. Maybe you’d allow yourself a little freedom after this hellish night.

You lined up your next shot, leaning over the table, Joel’s thick Carhartt jacket draped over the back of your chair where your drinks sat sweating behind you. You closed one eye, tongue peeking out as you focused on the orange-striped number five.

Joel stood across from you, one hand on his hip, the other resting a fist beside his cue on the table.

“Stop watching,” you warned, “you’ll make me miss.”

“Sayin’ I make you nervous?”

“Hey,” you shot back, “it’s my turn to ask a question.”

He smirked. “And that question is…?”

You thought for a second, standing up straight for a moment to chalk your cue stick with a slow roll. You hadn’t been doing all that well at the game, but he’d answered some of your questions anyway, though you’d chastise him for doing it out of pity. They were simple questions, already covering the easy stuff—favorite food, hometown, guilty pleasure songs—but now you were itching to see if he’d play along with something riskier. Because though he’d answered them, he was still dodging you all night with those short, gruff answers, giving nothing away. Maybe it was time to see if he’d bite.

You sighted the cue ball again, eyes narrowing.

“Alright,” you said lightly, leaning over with your stick to aim as you looked up at him under the low yellow light, “When you’re with someone—like, with someone—do you like to be the one in charge, or do you like when someone tells you what to do?”

And maybe it was his whiskey, maybe it was that he was starting to feel more comfortable with you, but his mustache twitched as a grin spread crookedly, his eyes lighting up with mischief. 

But then he surprised you. 

He reached forward, taking your pool stick, and yanked it a bit, pulling you further onto the table. You took a half second to be grateful you’d chosen jeans tonight as you bent over, the edge of the table pressing into your hip. He leaned in, his hand sliding down the stick until his fingers gripped it lightly.

“Put your hand here,” he murmured.

“Joel, I know perfectly well how to—”

“You’ve made one shot, honey. Look at the table.”

Honey. You ignored the way your tummy rolled at the sweet pet name, heeding his order, and glanced around. Only a few solid balls left, the rest stripes. His questions had been nice and gentle with you, never pushing your boundaries. What’re you in school for? Is your family local? What do you like to do when you’re not working or studying? 

You glared up at him. “Fine.”

“Hand here,” he said again, voice quieter now. “Don’t grip so tight. Just let it rest.”

You shifted your hand where he showed you, his fingers pinching your thumb into place, the heat of his skin lingering even after he moved away.

“Just there,” he said softly.

You weren’t sure why you were holding your breath now. 

He let go of your hand, and you aimed for the little white ball, and he was still smiling as he poked your stick a little to the right, centering your aim. His eyes flicked from the ball to your face, patient and sure—like he was waiting for you to see it the way he did. He gave a small, single nod, barely there.

You drew your elbow back and struck. The cue ball snapped forward, hit perfectly, and sent the orange number five rolling straight into the side pocket.

You straightened, grinning wide, a little breath of laughter slipping out before you could stop it.

Joel’s smile curved slow and knowingly. 

“I like to be in charge.”

Your skin went hot under his gaze. You turned away, hiding your smile behind a sip of your drink, hoping the cold would quell the tingling crawling up your neck. But his eyes stayed on you—you could feel it, that heavy, unhurried attention that made every inch of your skin too aware of itself.

“So that means I get another shot, right?” you said, setting the glass down.

“That’s right.” His voice was low, gravel catching on the last word.

“Another shot, another question,” you teased. “Kinda shot yourself in the foot there, huh?”

“I tend to enjoy a little bit of pain,” he said easily. You nearly choked. Your knees bumped together, legs clenching like that might keep the heat between them in check. You bent over the felt tablescape again, pretending to study the spread of the colorful balls, but your mind wasn’t on the game anymore.

The next half hour passed in that electric pull between laughter and nerves. Each question pushed a little harder, each answer pressed closer to something neither of you had planned to say out loud. You liked watching him squirm—when his eyes narrowed, when his jaw worked, when he didn’t know whether to smile or look away.

Only problem was, you still couldn’t land another shot to save your life. Which meant Joel got to do the asking.

He leaned on his cue, that damn smirk playing at his mouth.

“What was the deal with that ex of yours?”

“Do I make you nervous?”

“Where’s the craziest place you’ve hooked up with someone?”

“Oh, finally, something interesting,” you teased, exhaling a laugh. He rolled his eyes and sent the last solid cleanly into the pocket, his hazel eyes steadily on you.

“I’ve never done anything all that crazy,” you admitted, chalking your cue again without looking at him. You could feel his gaze remain on you, tracing the slow drag of chalk across wood. “But I’ve always wanted to try something… public.”

“Public?” he asked. You didn’t scold him for asking two questions in one score. 

“Yeah,” you said, blowing gently on the cue tip, “Like a movie theater, or a—” you paused, lips curving as you looked at him then, “—bathroom.”

The air seemed to change at your sudden confidence. The noise of the band fell into a blur behind you, replaced by the sharpness of his attention. You stared at each other across the table for a long moment—his jaw set, yours daring him to say something first while trying not to smile too wide.

But when he didn’t say anything, you dropped your shoulders and let the moment pass. Instead, you sighed, looking around the table.

“Okay, Joel,” you said, a long exhale accompanying his name, “Clearly my ass is getting whopped by you tonight. But if I make this one…” your eyes found his again, holding, “I think you owe me a kiss.”

He huffed out a surprised laugh. “Is that a question?”

You only shrugged, leaned down, and took aim like he’d shown you. The cue cracked, and the purple thirteen rolled smooth into the pocket.

You didn’t have time to celebrate. Joel crossed the space between you in two easy strides, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His palms were big and warm, rough from work, fingers tilting your chin so you could only look at him. Hazel eyes searched your face as if trying to find permission there.

“Ask the question,” he said softly, breath tinged with cedar-smoked whiskey.

His height had you rising onto your toes, fingers wrapping around his wrists where his pulse beat steady beneath your thumbs. The bar noise blurred out, every sound slipping behind the quickening thud of your heart.

“Will you kiss me, Joel?” you whispered.

He waited a long moment, gaze tracing every inch of your face for what felt like an eternity, until it landed on your waiting mouth, his fingers so gentle and yet eager at your jaw. As he breathed out, you breathed in. As you exhaled, he inhaled. It was shockingly intimate.

When he finally leaned down, it was so gentle you almost wanted to scream. His mustache brushed your skin first, the tickle of it making you shiver, and his mouth barely grazed your top lip—just enough to taste the promise of it before he pulled back.

“Bathroom. Now.”

He let you go, and you almost went toppling, but he caught your arms before you could stumble. That smug look on his face told you he knew exactly what he’d just done.

You found your footing again and turned toward the hallway, forcing yourself to walk away, glancing over your shoulder once. He was still at the table, calm as anything, back to you as he slid the cue sticks back into their rack like it was just another night. The rest of the game forgotten.

You pushed through the bathroom door and leaned back against it, letting the cool metal bite at the exposed skin of your shoulders and back. The air inside was different—damp, warm, the faint tang of bleach mixing with old beer. The walls were scrawled in black marker and half-peeled stickers, the mirror cloudy from years of neglect. You stumbled forward to the sink, turned the faucet on full blast, the pipes groaning, and splashed a handful of water over your skin.

It shocked you, sharp and cold as you patted wet palms along your face—bringing them up to your throat, the back of your neck, trying to settle the heat still scalding beneath your skin. You stared at yourself, reflection looking dazed, lips parted and pupils wide, pulse visible at your collarbone.

That’s when you heard the door creak open behind you.

In the mirror, he appeared. Big, broad, but there was something that made him larger than life in the dim light. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The small room shrank around him; it felt like all the air belonged to him now. You’d noticed his size before, the weight of his hands when he’d held your face, but here it was different. In this tiny, fluorescent-lit room, he filled the entire space.

His voice was low and gruff as he spoke.

“You can tell me to get out,” he said, eyes flicking from the rise and fall of your chest back to your face as you turned to look at him, your hands shaking as you leaned against the cracked porcelain sink. His rose in supplication, not moving another step forward. “Tell me to go, and I will. We can forget this ever—”

“If you don’t kiss me right now, Miller, I might lose my mind.”

He straightened, hands dropping, that familiar smugness tugging at his mouth—amused, impressed, maybe both. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

He closed the space between you, took your face in his hands once again, and you gasped in a breath when he didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, only sunk his head down and kissed you with full force. His tongue was eager right away, tasting the crest of your top lip, opening you without fuss. You moaned as your tongue slid against his, his gruff grunts and heavy breath flooding your head with static. He took and took and ate at your mouth, as if he couldn’t taste enough, as if he might devour you whole. He pressed you back against the sink, forcing your spine to arch, your neck craning up to meet him as he loomed over you. And as he pressed into you, your skin lit up like a fuse at the feeling of something thick and eager pushing against your belly. You were clutching and pulling, hands tangled in his hair, desperate to keep him close.

“I gotta say, sweetheart,” he murmured as broke the kiss to he mouth at your neck, one of his hands going to the strap of your tank, “I’ve been thinkin’ about these girls all night, tryin’ not to stare,”

“I wanted you to—” you hiccuped as he pulled the strap down, groaning at the lack of bra, at the cool air tightening your skin and puckering your sensitive peak. He cupped one of your breasts in his thick hand, engulfing it, kneading so gently and yet so hungrily, bending his head to take the nipple into his mouth greedily, “wanted you to look,” you continued, “too touch, oh fuck, fuck, daddy—”

You froze for a heartbeat, startled by the word, unsure where it had come from. You’d never used it like that before—but god, it fit him. Fit the man before you like a god damn badge.

He chuckled, the sound rough and warm, lowering himself until his knees hit the floor. Bones cracked faintly as he grunted in exertion, looking up at you with twinkling eyes from beneath his lashes. He tugged your top lower, the movement impatient, and your breasts jostled with the force of it.

“Oh my god,” he groaned softly, voice already fading into breath as his mouth found the valley between them. He kissed, nuzzled, licked—one nipple pinched between his fingers and then the other disappeared between his lips. His touch turned tender and worshipful, making your head tip back and your moans spill into the thick, heated air. Your fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him, praising without words.

When he’d had his fill, his mouth never left you, it only moved further down, leaving your shirt bunched around your waist, his lips suckling at the sensitive skin between belly button and waistband. Gooseflesh rose over your skin as you breathed out, watching him explore. 

“Bein’ such a good girl for me, baby,” he whispered, “you like how daddy touches you, huh?”

You huffed out a laugh between gasps as he kissed down your pelvis, unzipping your jeans and shimmying them down your legs, “You old perv,” you shakily whispered through laughter. 

Mmmm, he hummed, “But I happen to think you like this old perv,” he was smiling up at you, and god, was he stunning. 

“I might,” you smiled, cheeks aflame. 

“Good,” he said with finality. You began to step out of your jeans, but he was suddenly bullishly turning you around and bending you over the sink, palm at the base of your spine, forcing your ass to be pushed into his face and your belly touching the cool sink. 

You held on for dear life as his mouth dipped between your legs. Much like your kiss, he didn’t hesitate—only paused to breathe you in through the damp fabric, a low groan rattling in his chest before his tongue traced along the soaked gusset of your panties. His thick beard tickled your skin, pricking even through the fabric.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, fingers clutching the porcelain, eyes squeezing shut. “Please—”

“Patience, baby,” he drawled, “wanna say hi to 'er first,”

You whined, unable to form words, because he was flattening his tongue and pressing from your clit up to your covered hole, covering you in spit and making your panties stick to your skin, spit and slick coating the fabric. An incoherent babble of curse words were spilling from your mouth, his lips pursing around your clit where it hid under the fabric, suckling and licking and nipping. 

Finally, fucking finally, his fingers intertwined with the lace of your waistband.

“What do you say?”

“Oh, please, please please, Joel—”

“Where’s that dirty mouth I loved so much a minute ago?”

“Please, daddy.”

He clicked his tongue. “Aww, sweet girl, want daddy to eat your pussy?”

“Yes!” you squealed, stomping a little, wiggling your hips. You’d never been so embarrassingly desperate for a man in your life.

He chuckled, and his touch was so light it nearly tickled as he eased your panties down to join your jeans. Then his hands were back on you immediately—prying you open, spreading you wide. The wet sound that followed made you hang your head, mortified at how soaked you were.

“Christ all-fuckin’-mighty,” he breathed, voice thick as he was kissing your little clit, “if this ain’t the prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen in all my years,”

He stayed back just long enough to look at your weeping mess, blowing on it, cool air making you clench around nothing. You couldn’t help it, you turned, meeting his gaze over your shoulder, and what you saw there made your breath catch—his pupils black and wide, swallowing the pretty hazel color, his brow drawn tight in focus, a hunger etched deep across his face. He bent again, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up your center. Your knees wobbled, and his eyes flicked up to yours and stayed there, devouring.

“Tastes so good too, honey,” he murmured as he dipped back in to begin his assault. He was infuriatingly talented— it made you dizzy, unable to watch anymore because your back was bending in a full arch, head up and moaning, pushing your ass back into his face. You surely could never show your face in this establishment again, not with everyone knowing exactly what you sounded like being eaten by this behemoth of a man. 

He circled his tongue at your entrance, prodding, all the while two thick fingers rubbed at your clit, and you lifted your leg to the sink to give him more access, kicking your jeans and panties aside, and he moaned loudly into your pussy, drinking in everything you gave. Flat tongued, he went back to your clit and shook his head viciously, causing you to let out a piercing scream as you suddenly were rushing towards an orgasm that came on faster than any you’d had before. 

Joel was groaning and growling into your gushing cunt, drinking and lapping up every last drop as if it was his last meal on earth. When the aftershocks started to shake out of you, he pressed kisses at the tops of your thighs, soft and almost reverent, beard scraping your sensitive skin before biting your left cheek. You yelped a bit at the surprise of his teeth, and then he was standing at his full height, bending over you to kiss your neck. 

“I don’t—” you started, voice hoarse and shaky, “I don’t usually do this on a first date.”

“Aw, baby,” he said, tone soft as sin, one big hand sliding around you to catch your jaw, making you meet his eyes in the mirror. “We ain’t on a date.”

The sound of his belt loosening came next, leather sliding through metal, the rasp of a zipper following as he kept his eyes on you.

He fisted his cock, tapping it on your ass, and looked at you again, “If this was a date, I woulda’ taken you to dinner, even brought you your favorite flowers—what’re your favorite flowers, pretty girl?” he said, his thick hand still at your jaw, pressing your cheeks to force your lips into a pucker. 

“D-dahlias,” you said through squished lips. 

“I’d bring you dahlias, pay for your dinner, take you home and walk you to the door—” he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance gently, prodding, rubbing it against your clit, making you tremble. You couldn’t see it, and you wanted to, badly. Wanted to see him in all his glory, to know if your suspicions were true, but all you could do was feel. And he was heavy. Thick, even just at the tip.

His drawl got thicker and lazier as he went on, “—and maybe even steal a kiss goodnight,” he leaned over you, turned your head towards himself, and kissed you violently on the mouth, and you eagerly accepted his tongue. He groaned against you, swallowing your whimpers, all while keeping your face caged in his grip. When he broke the kiss, a thick string of spit stretched between you, catching the dim light before snapping. He leaned in again, his tongue dragging up the seam of your lips, slow and heavy, lapping away the mess he’d left behind before speaking again: “and only if you begged real pretty would I let you bring me inside to fuck you in your bed.”

You pushed back toward him, every nerve screaming for it, but he kept his cock just gently gliding up and down your cunt, collecting all your slick for himself. 

“Are you gonna beg pretty for me now, baby?” he said in your ear, mustache tickling your lobe.

You nodded.

“Wanna hear it,” he said. “Tell me how bad you need it.”

“Please,” you whispered, the word cracking open in your mouth.

He cocked a brow.

“I want it,” you urged on, “I want your cock so badly, J–daddy–it’s all I’ve been thinking about all night. Wondering how it would feel inside me, if you’d be big, if you would make me take it even if I said it hurt, I want it to hurt, please, please, daddy, please fuck me.”

He smiled down at you, kissed you again, a deep, breath-stealing kiss that had you both moaning. Your hand found his jaw first, dragging your fingernails through his beard then sliding up, threading through his hair until your nails pulled against his scalp. His grip tightened on your cheeks in equal measure, and you opened your eyes just to watch his face change in pleasure.

“I like a little pain too,” you whispered against his lips. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, turning your eyes back to the mirror, watching you as he notched the head of his cock inside of you, and you swore you could feel the ridge line of the thick tip, the shape of it enough to sting with stretch until he was sliding in with one slow, long thrust. It felt like your brain was dissolving into heat, the way your thoughts muddled together.

The symphony of your moans intertwining filled the tight space of the bathroom, bouncing off the walls and ringing in your ears. 

“Holy hell, baby,” he moaned, burying his face into your neck as he pulled out a couple of inches, and you cried out at the way your walls clung to him, “S’alright,” he cooed, kissing your neck, beard scraping, “Said you could take it, didn’t ya? Wanted daddy's cock to hurt a little, right?”

You moaned louder as he sunk home again, kissing your cervix. 

“Said you wanted me to make you take it, didn’t you, baby?”

“Yes, oh god, yes,” you said, eyes rolling as he began to pull out, thrust in, slow and easy at first, watching you in the mirror even as your eyes squeezed shut. 

“Watch,” he growled, fingers pinching your face harder, and you opened your eyes, he leaned so his head was next to yours, lips at your ear, “Want you to see how a real man fucks you,”

His pace deepened, quickening strong and merciless, hips driving you forward until the counter rattled under your grip. His heavy balls slapped up against your clit with every thrust, making your jaw slack and a glimmer of drool began to accumulate on the side of your mouth. He let go of your jaw then, letting you support yourself on the sink and let him take his fill, one hand to your hip and the other fisted in your hair, holding your head up. 

“Yeah, doubt that little fuck face ever made you feel like this, did he, baby?”

“N-never,” you gasped, eyes squeezing shut as the tip of his cock kept punching your womb, his balls clapping against you, skin to skin, loud and forceful. 

“S’alright, daddy’s gonna give it to ya the way you deserve,” he murmured, voice roughened with need.

He leaned down over you, as if any distance from your body were unbearable. Instead of gripping your hair or hips, he wrapped his arms around your middle, holding you close. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry,” he breathed into your neck, “I ain’t lastin’ long—pussy feels so fucking good, those little noises you make, Jesus, you’re ruinin’ me.”

“You’re ruining me back,” you managed, laughing breathlessly. “Want you to come for me, Joel, please.”

“You first.”

Your eyes widened, “I can’t, it’s too much,”

“You can, baby, you will,” he said, one hand snaking between your bodies, pulling you back flush against his chest now. You leaned into him, watching yourself in the mirror: tits bounding, his thick cock—oh god, maybe it was a mercy you hadn’t seen him before, he was so thick you might’ve lost your nerve, a smart girl would’ve hesitated—his broad hands mapping you while one found home on your clit, two fingers rubbing perfect little half circles. 

“Oh god—ohgodohgodohgod,” you squealed, shaking now, head falling back onto his shoulder.

“I know, I know,” he panted, voice rough with urgency in your ear. “You got it, baby—cream on daddy’s cock, let me feel it.”

You were seeing stars—bright and innumerable—bursting behind your eyelids, whole galaxies coming to life and dying as your body broke apart around him. The sound of him, the weight, the heat, it all blurred until there was nothing left but the thick pulse of your blood pounding.

You felt him seize up behind you, his thick, bullish breath stuttering against your neck, every muscle tightening. His grip was vice-like around you, but it felt comforting, contained, needed. He pushed into you once more before he was spilling everything he had into you. 

For a moment he stayed like that, unmoving, breathing hard, the two of you caught in the same shuddering stillness before gravity slowly reclaimed you both. You weren’t sure how to move at first. You weren’t sure you could even if you tried, everything felt heavy, sleepy. His chest rose and fell against your back, a slow rhythm that finally began to steady you. You could feel his heartbeat through your spine, each thud heavy and human, calling you back down from wherever you’d gone.

“Oh…wow,” you sighed at last, the world beginning to take shape again.

Joel was humming as he stayed a moment longer, face still tucked into your neck. You reached back, fingers weaving through his damp hair, and the gesture seemed to pull both of you the rest of the way down.

“I don’t think…” you whispered, voice barely there, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that before.”

“Me neither.”

When Joel finally eased back, his touch stayed soft and gentle. He guided you toward the sink, steadying you with a hand at your waist. Then, with a kind of sweetness that felt out of place for where you were, he gathered your clothes piece by piece—pulling your panties up gently, then your jeans, making sure everything sat right before zipping them closed. He helped you into your tank top, fingers careful as he smoothed the straps over your shoulders.

He loomed over you, but more of a confident, calming presence as he zipped himself up. He brought his hands back to you, brushing your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the damp edge of your cheek where a tear of pleasure had fallen. His eyes softened, and there was a gentle look on his face.

You rose onto your toes, looping your arms around his neck, still catching your breath, “How ’bout a rematch?” you asked, a little grin pulling your lips.

His face broke out into a dazzlingly wide smile, hands falling to your hips and pulling you in again.

“How 'bout that real date, first?”