۶۟ৎ shy ۶۟ৎ

"look, dad!" touya runs into the house, flames burning so hot they flicker into blue across his arms and chest. 

enji grumbles, but quickly his frown turns to fear as he turns to face his son. he jumps from where he's sitting, seeing the pain touya is failing to hide behind a wide smile. 

"touya!" enji yells, grabbing his son tight by the sides, "stop that! you're burning yourself!" he can see touya's skin pulling tight and bubbling under the flames and it's sending his heart racing.

"but-"

"no, buts," enji growls, shaking touya, "put it out now!" the pain and his dad yelling at him forces touya to stop. the flames die and touya starts to cry, breath hitching as his dad tries to assess the damage. before he can choke out how sorry he is, how he just wanted to make his dad proud, enji is lifting him up and heading to the bathroom. 

touya starts to babble out apologies as enji carries him, but they don't reach enji's ears. dead silent, he places touya down and grabs out a towel, laying it out on the tiles before grabbing three small towels. he turns on the tap for the sink, turning it to warm til it's cool, but not too cold, and dunks the small towels under the water, soaking them. he turns the tap off and snaps his fingers at touya, pointing to the towel. 

"lay down, now," he's no longer yelling, but his voice is firm. touya doesn't think, just laying down, still crying from the stinging pain of the burns. enji quickly places the towels over touya's chest and arms where the burns are and then slumps on the side of the bath, letting out a deep sigh. 

he closes his eyes and rubs his face before looking down at touya who's simply sniffling now, the wet towels easing his burns. 

"i know why you've been doing this," this is the closest todoroki enji has gotten to an admission of wrongdoing; he knows touya's burns are his fault, but he refuses to admit that, even to himself. "but you need to stop. you're hurting yourself, touya. i know you think you need to keep pushing yourself but you don't." enji's narrow eyes soften for once. "if you really want to keep training, we need to find a way to do it without you getting hurt every time." he shifts from the bath, kneeling down next touya, brushing his hair back. "but we do it together. no more training by yourself. you do it with me, son." although enji's words and his tone were staunch, demanding, his eyes were pleading with his son not to keep hurting himself. he can't bare to think of what his life would be like his first son died in his own flames. 

touya sniffles, the lingering pain from the burns reminding him that his dad is right, whether he wants to believe it or not. he nods. “okay, dad.” 

“i mean it,” enji tilts his head, “only practice with me and when i say it’s too much we stop, got it?” touya winces, trying to sit up, meeting his dad’s hand which gently pushes him back down. “please, touya.” 

touya freezes, shocked by his dad’s words. he rarely uses niceties so his words weigh heavy on his young heart. “i promise, dad. i won’t train without you and i’ll listen— i swear.” enji lets out a sigh and ruffles touya’s hair. 

“good,” he nods, “don’t move for another 15 minutes. we gotta make sure those burns don’t scar too bad.” touya rolls his eyes.

“but they’ll look cool,” touya kicks his feet.

“no, they won’t,” enji frowns. touya grumbles, but stays still, barring his regular fidgeting, till his dad takes the towels off. he pats touya down with a dry towel and grabs bandages from under the sink. 

“stay still for me,” enji wraps touya up gently in bandages, clenching his jaw as he covers the budding scars on his son’s body. after he wraps the dry towel around touya, trying to make sure the wet towels didn’t cool him down too much. enji scoops touya up, his son’s soft chuckle soothing his fear. 

placing touya down on his bed, enji grabs his son a soft shirt and helps him tug it over his head. he pauses before cupping touya’s face, leaning down to get as close to eye-level as his large stature allows. touya freezes, finding his dad’s comfort strange and unusual.

“don’t ever scare me like that again,” enji whispers, his voice rough as he tries to remain his composure, “i can’t lose you, son. don’t make me bury you. i don’t think i’ll survive that.” touya feels a small ache inside him at the thought of his own death, how his family would react, how his dad would react. 

“okay, dad,” he leans forwards and hugs his dad tight, “i promise.” enji wraps his arms around touya, tighter than he should, than he ever has. he holds touya’s head gently as they hug, needing to be reminded that his son is still here and still alive. he can’t trust the promise of a young boy whose mind is still so malleable, but he wants to badly. 

“i love you,” he mumbles, barely audible, but the magnitude of the statement is not lost on either of them. it’s not something enji says. 

“i love you too, dad,” touya smiles, unsure of how to feel about this new side of his dad, but comforted by his words and actions. he loves his dad and to know his dad loves him too, in his own way, means more to him than any praise or accomplishment. talents, skills, even the greatest heroes eventually lose their original charm, they get worn down by age. but love lasts through every pain, break, and long year.

despite enji’s behaviour, the hurt he’s caused, he loves his son. holding touya in his arms, the fear he just felt for him, and hearing his son reciprocate his love in spite of everything, reminds enji of what the actual point of fatherhood is. it’s about small moments like these where nothing matters than being the one thing that’s there for your kid when they need someone to hold them tight. it’s not why he became a dad, but it is the reason he's gonna remind himself of every day until it becomes second nature. touya needs him, fuyumi, natsuo, shotou, and rei, all need him to be better than he is right now. 

“i promise i’ll do better at showing it, touya,” enji presses a kiss to touya’s hair, relaxing his arms and letting his son move if he wants to. but he stays, tucked up against his dad, still hugging him. touya still feeling comfortable enough to hold him close makes enji’s eyes sting. 

“i know, dad,” touya pulls back and places a kiss on his dad’s forehead, “i know you just want me to be the best, just like you.” enji winces, shaking his head. 

“i want you to be the best you, you can be,” he sighs, “but not at the price of life, okay?” he gently pats over where the bandages are on touya’s chest. “i don’t ever want you to hurt yourself for me or anyone else, you hear me? you being alive and well is more important than all of that other stuff. i’m sorry i didn’t realise that until now.” touya doesn’t fully understand the weight of his dad’s words, but he can feel it. he nods, placing his hands on his dad’s shoulder. 

“promise i won’t hurt myself,” he smiles, trying to cheer his dad up. enji gives him a half-hearted smile.

“thank you, kiddo,” he pats touya’s cheek, using a nickname he’s heard other dad’s use with their son. it feels strange in his mouth, but he sees touya light up and the awkwardness is all worth it. touya bounces in spot, patting his dad’s shoulders. 

“you’re welcome, daddy,” he beams, “am i okay to go play now?” enji rolls his eyes, but smiles a little. 

“yeah, go on. just make sure you don’t aggravate your wounds— and no using your quirk,” he gives touya a stern look. 

You drank too much.

You know you did.

One drink with the girls over happy hour turned into two, and somewhere after the third, they started blurring together.

Then the crying started—the slightly too loud "how could he do this to me?" at the table making onlookers turn their heads. The pitiful stares of your friends, their hands running along your back in what was supposed to be quiet comfort, all settled in your stomach like a lead weight.

Against all odds, you somehow made it home without stumbling or throwing up in the Uber. Made it up the three flights to your front door. Dropped your keys more than once like the clumsy fool you are, all while the poor old lady across the hall was forced to listen to every expletive you could think of, muttered beneath your vodka-scented breath.

Now you're lying in bed, pajamas half on, phone in hand as you fixate on things you have no business dragging up.

An ex.

The ex.

Should you call him?

Definitely not.

Are you typing in the number you know by heart and pressing call anyway?

Absolutely.

If for nothing else than to tell him to go to hell, that you hope he's miserable without you.

That, or you'll start blubbering like a baby again and regret it like a shot to the head come morning.

You already fucked up royally by looking. Saw the tagged photos, the smiling selfies, the public softness he never gave you. The girl who matters more than you ever did under his arm.

What's another mistake to add to the growing list of ones you've made so far?

The line rings a few times before it clicks to life.

You blink, stare at the ceiling for a couple seconds too long, insides curdling before his name even makes it past your throat.

"...Evan?"

He sighs, low and deep, more tired than anything else.

You're crying before he can get a word out. Shudders that stay lodged in your chest quickly growing to the humiliating, telltale sobs that betray any composure you might have had left.

"I didn't mean to call," you lie, wiping at your eyes, sniffing quietly. "God, I'm just confused. Why did you even say you loved me if you were just gonna—"

You trail off, the words dying on your tongue, swallowed down with another shaky breath.

Joel toes off his boots, groaning quietly as he drops onto the couch, the springs creaking in protest.

The first time he's sat all day, and apparently this is what he's doing with it—listening in on something he's got no business hearing.

"He cheat?" he asks simply.

That voice, unfamiliar to your ears, shuts you up real quick.

You frown, pulling the phone from your ear to glance at it, your reflection glaring back at you in confusion. The number is exactly how you remember it.

Five-eight-four—

Fuck.

"Oh, my god," you groan loudly, face screwing up in embarrassment, palm connecting with your forehead sharp enough to leave a mark.

Maybe you deserve it, drunk-dialing some poor stranger just going about his business and spilling your guts out without hesitation.

"I'm so sorry. Wrong number."

"Just about," he says gruffly.

You're too far gone to say much else—cheeks flushed with humiliation, fingers twisted in the sheets.

"He do that often?" he asks suddenly, the question lingering.

"Do what often?"

"Make you cry."

Damn him for asking.

The question lands harder than it should, enough to make your breath catch, what was meant to be a quiet sob coming out mortifyingly loud.

Your free hand drags through your hair, fingertips snagging in the tangles it accrued throughout the night, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke still clinging to the strands.

"...Yeah," you admit reluctantly, voice small. "That's—"

You breathe deep, sinking further into the mattress.

"Yeah."

You scrub hard at your face, like maybe if you do it enough, the shame will come off along with the mascara streaked down your cheeks.

Joel doesn't say a thing. Not yet, anyway.

The silence stretches—not awkward, but not exactly comforting, either. Your laugh comes out brittle.

"This is so humiliating."

You sniff, dragging your sleeve under your nose with a grimace.

"You can hang up if you want."

He can.

He probably should.

This isn't his business and he knows it.

But Sarah's at a friend's for the night. The only alternative is the lonely hum of the radiator, a cold beer, and whatever game show rerun is on this late.

He exhales through his nose—slow, steady.

What the hell.

"Go on."

That simple permission from him does something to your chest, loosens it just enough for you to make it through the story without crying your eyes out.

He doesn't tell you you're a pain—doesn't make you feel small or stupid for trusting the wrong man. Just sits there, listening without a word.

"—then my friend said he was always a little ugly anyway, which honestly wasn't helpful, it only made me feel worse, 'cause, like, what does that even say about me—"

You trail off with a yawn, eyes heavy, the phone slipping slightly from your grip.

"And yeah..." you murmur. "That's what happened."

"Mhm."

The beer's gone warm in Joel's grip, phone resting on his chest as he listens to your breathing evening out on the other line.

His eyes are on the television, arm tucked behind his head, watching some poor bastard blow his Jeopardy winnings in the same damn category—like he didn't learn the first three times.

He waits for you to say something else, the silence growing longer.

"...you still there?"

When you don't respond, breathing deep and steady into the receiver, he scrubs a hand over his face.

"...Get some sleep."

Click.

Joel thinks about you all damn day.

Not in a dramatic, poetic way he'd ever admit out loud, but in little flashes that distract him more than he'd like.

The sound of your crying through the receiver while he rips out old drywall.

That small, embarrassed little thank you when he didn't leave you high and dry at your worst, coming to mind as he tries to drive a screw into place.

Your sleepy sighs when the night grew late as he lays down a tarp.

He tells himself it was a one-off—a drunk stranger, wrong number, end of story—but even Tommy notices something's off.

"You plannin' on starin' that damn drill to death or you gonna use it?"

Joel grunts, ignores him, throwing himself back into his work without a word.

But his head just isn't in it.

"Who's got you all distracted, brother?" Tommy asks, a sly grin growing on his lips, like he knows something Joel won't admit.

"I ain't distracted."

"Sure... Alright." He walks past, claps him on the back. "And I'm the Pope."

When Joel manages to get a minute to himself, he stares at his phone like the damn thing's liable to blow up any second.

One text. That's all he needs.

He types You okay? Decides it's simple enough. Hits send before he can tell himself what a damn fool he's being.

Meanwhile, you wake in a cold sweat.

Hair a mess, strands stuck to your damp forehead, feeling like you've just been hit by a freight train.

Popping a couple painkillers, you groan as you sit up, back slumping against the headboard.

Squinting one eye open, you pat around for your phone, digging it out from somewhere beneath your hip.

You don't remember much about last night.

The taste of liquor in your throat. Your friends trying to console you over Cosmopolitans and bad karaoke.

Crying.

Lots and lots of crying.

That much, you remember. But there's an odd feeling nagging at you, like you're forgetting something important.

Your phone vibrates in your palm, a new message jolting you from your thoughts.

— You okay?

You stare at it until your eyes dry out, and something happens in your chest you can't explain.

It's not panic—not yet. It's something quieter, an odd sense of relief that washes you clean.

The tension eases from your shoulders in waves, a calming breath leaving your chest.

He checked.

And only then do things start to click—the memory crashing in all at once.

The man on the phone. The shameless sobbing in his ear as you told him your whole life story like he asked for it. Him listening without a word.

Your jaw goes slack, mortification taking its rightful place in your expression as you drop your face into your hands with a silent scream.

You glance at the message again—fingers hovering over the keyboard— cycling through what on earth you could even say to make up for it, but nothing seems good enough.

Maybe he'll forget all about it.

What if he doesn't?

With a deep, steadying breath, you mull it over.

You'll call him tonight, you decide. Just the once.

Apologize and put this all behind you. Put him behind you.

Might be easier said than done.

You pace once, then back again—arms crossed tight over your chest, thumbnail caught between your teeth as your phone sits on the bed like a live grenade.

His number still open and waiting, the clock on your bedside reading nine on the dot.

This is ridiculous.

You're a grown woman. You can call a man and apologize for drunkenly unloading your entire tragic backstory onto him without needing to explain yourself.

It's a normal response. Reasonable, even. Entirely sane.

Just call, apologize, clear the air. After all, the worst he can do is not answer.

Or block you.

Or answer just to tell you to never call him again.

Your face twists, stomach turning.

Okay. Maybe not the worst.

You tell yourself he wouldn't have texted if that was the case, if he didn't care at least a little bit. So, before you can think better of it, you lunge for the phone and press call.

Your eyes widen in immediate regret, but your fingers are too slow to hang up.

"Shit."

You drag a hand through your hair, resume your pacing while the call connects.

It rings only once before he answers, like he was expecting you.

He was.

"Hi—"

His sigh is slow as it comes through. Not annoyed, but something warmer—light enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

"You makin' a habit outta this?"

"Of what?" you ask, swallowing around the sudden dryness in your throat.

"Callin' men you don't know," he says—like it's obvious.

Despite yourself, your mouth tips upward.

No irritation, no clipped impatience. Just warmth in his voice that loosens something in your chest.

"Technically, the first time was an accident," you counter in defense.

"Yeah? And what's it this time?" he asks, giving you all the space you need to answer.

Your mouth opens, closes, the words not coming out as easy as you thought they would.

You settle on the edge of your bed, your free hand running idly along your thigh as you muster a reply that feels right.

"Just wanted to apologize. For last night."

Joel sets his beer down, rests his elbows on his thighs, repositioning the phone at his ear.

You listen, wait patiently for something—anything—toying with a loose thread on your bedspread, gaze fixed stubbornly on it.

"Got nothin' to apologize for."

You huff softly. "I beg to differ."

A moment passes, your steady breathing filling the space.

"I don't even know your name," you add quietly.

His head dips, jaw working, staring at nothing while he listens to the way your voice shrinks around the admission.

"Joel."

You lift your head, eyes rising, the name warming your chest.

"Joel," you repeat.

You tell him your name in return—it's only fair. But it feels like you're handing over something more precious than it is.

Then he says it back, turning it over in that rough voice like he's testing the shape of it in his mouth, making sure it fits.

It does.

It sounds better coming from him than it has from anyone else.

You don't quite know what to do with it.

"Suits you," he adds.

You sigh, head hanging between your shoulders.

He pretends it doesn't do a damn thing to him to hear you like this.

Not upset. Not shattered over some asshole who didn't deserve you.

Just you.

But hearing you say his name—soft, relieved, almost fond—settles something in him he'd rather not think too hard about.

You talk for a while after that—about anything and everything. This and that. Nothing important.

Just things.

Somewhere between talking about work and him complaining about his daughter making him upgrade his phone, you find out he isn't married.

No wife, no girlfriend. Just him and Sarah. And when he talks about her, something in his voice shifts—softening around the edges with unmistakable pride.

Your heart likes the sound of it.

The hours pass quicker than you'd like, and it isn't long before you chance a glance at the time and wince.

"It's getting late," you say softly. "I should probably let you go."

"Yeah. Got work... and Sarah just got home."

"Sarah—right..."

The silence stretches once more, and you feel it then, hanging in the air between you.

Reluctance.

"Joel?"

"Yeah?"

"...Glad I called," you admit.

For a moment, all you have is the sound of him there. Just a quiet exhale through the line, softer than before.

"Yeah," he says then. "Me too."

Click.

You lay there a little while after, phone still flush to your ear—like if you stay there and wait, he might reappear on the other end, giving you more time to memorize the sound of his voice.

He doesn't.

And you realize too late you've begun to memorize it anyway.

Two weeks later, you're still calling, and Joel's still answering like it doesn't cost him a thing. But deep down, he knows it does.

He won't admit he waits by the phone now, soon as nine o'clock rolls around. That he lets it ring before picking up so he doesn't seem too eager.

Sarah's started to notice it, too.

Him smiling to himself about some unspoken thing, eyes drifting to his phone just before he puts her to bed.

He was right that it's become a habit, and if there's one thing either of you know about habits, it's that they can be dangerous little things.

This one feels like it might just be headed that way.

Before, you wondered if you were grasping at straws—fighting to keep something alive that didn't want to be—but he meets you halfway now.

And God, if that doesn't make you want to hold on that much tighter.

"How was work?" you ask, rummaging through your dresser, phone on speaker.

"Fine. Same as always," he replies, exhaling slow. You hear the sound of his throat as he takes a swig, the quiet drone of the TV through the receiver.

"How was school?"

"Ugh, it was boring," you scoff. "Two exams and the longest lecture of my life."

He snorts. "Brat."

You freeze.

It's the first time he's ever called you that, and it sends an unexpected warmth skittering up your back, lingering at your nape.

Gaping at the phone, a surprised laugh escapes you.

"Excuse you. I am not a brat."

"You are. Always talkin' back," he says, like that explains it.

Before you can get a word out, he adds, "See? There you go again."

A smile finds you anyway—slow and unbidden as it settles on your lips.

"You're so annoying," you mutter, hands stilling momentarily as you glance at his name on the screen.

Joel 🤍

The heart emoji next to it? Purely decorative.

That's what you've been telling yourself since it found its way there, anyway.

"What're you diggin' for?" he asks, pulling you from your sudden daze. "Makin' all that noise."

"I'm just looking for something," you say casually, trailing off as your fingers card through the drawer in search of the right thing.

You don't mention you're looking for a nightie you bought months back—pink silk with white lace. The same one you can't stop imagining him bunching up around your hips before he—

Woah.

No.

You're just going to change, lie down, listen to him talk about his day the way you always do.

And maybe you'll slip your fingers into your panties while you do, rub one out before he notices anything is amiss.

That's all. No big deal.

It's an innocent crush, is what it is.

"...Somethin' on your mind, sweetheart?"

"What?" you say—too quick, too breathy.

You shake it off, rest your hand on your chest to steady your heart. As if he didn't just catch you in the middle of a thought that grew legs and ran out ahead of you.

"No, nothing. Just—" your fingertips find home on the soft fabric, latching on instantly. "A-ha!" you exclaim, pulling it from the drawer with a satisfied grin.

He's silent for a moment, then speaks again, voice lower now—curiosity dripping from every word.

"What'd you find?"

Biting the inside of your cheek, you turn toward the mirror, smoothing the fabric over your frame.

"Mm... nothin' really."

You tilt your head, watching yourself. The words slip before you can stop them.

"You'd like it."

Joel pauses mid-sip, beer tilted against his lips as he registers what you said. The silence is a heady thing, stretching for miles between you, so palpable you can nearly taste it.

You can't help but wonder if he's imagining you the way you do him.

When it's late at night and he's on your mind, and your composure slips enough that it's his name you sigh into the dark—only to pretend in the morning you didn't step over that line in the sand that's been fading more and more by the day.

His voice darkens, dropping low enough to send all the warmth in your body pooling south the moment he speaks.

"Yeah?" he asks. "That so?"

The silk shifts against your bare legs—soft and delicate, too gentle for the filth that's suddenly clogging up your mind.

"Yeah," you murmur, confidence coming in like waves on a shore, tide growing high. "I think you would."

You hear the quiet clink of his beer as he sets it down, the rustle as he adjusts himself on the couch to get more comfortable. You close your eyes—let yourself picture him.

Big hands running up your thighs, rough and calloused from working hard, parting them just enough to get a good look at you. Beard scraping your skin as he kisses his way down your chest, lips finding your ear to rumble words that make you ache.

"You still with me, sweetheart?"

"Mhm," you hum, quieter than you need to be, not wanting to give yourself away.

Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it off, discarding it on the floor without a care.

Slipping the nightgown overhead, you pull it down as far as it goes—just above mid-thigh, hugging your body like a glove.

He hears it all.

The difference in your breathing, the sounds of you changing, clothes being tossed aside.

He's imagining you, too. With all the shamelessness a lonely man like him can muster.

Picturing what you might look like under him.

If your eyes would be blue or brown as they stare into his.

If your nails would leave light indents along his back, or deep, red scratches that would still be there come morning.

Then the obvious—if your face is as pretty as that voice of yours. If the little noises you'd let out when he makes you feel good would sound as sweet as he's envisioned.

"You changin' for me?"

Your heart thunders in your ears—loud and unruly—throat running dry, like cotton in your mouth when you try to speak.

You swallow. "Maybe."

It's been a while since your mind started chiding you for this, telling you to quit while you're ahead, but you don't listen. Enough to ignore it when it tells you this is something you can't come back from.

You know that.

And still, you couldn't care less.

"You wanna see?" you offer, eyes fluttering shut as you try to slow your pulse, breaths coming in quicker now.

His grip tightens around the phone, pressing it closer to his ear like it'll let him hear those words again.

You're offering something he should refuse, something he has no right to accept. But Joel Miller's quickly learning he doesn't have the honest strength to deny you a damn thing.

"Sweetheart..." he says, letting the silence speak for itself for a minute. "Don't do that unless you mean it."

You interject smoothly—so wound up, you're practically trembling where you stand.

You laugh to yourself, a huff of nervousness that makes your chest feel tight. "I mean it. Just—tell me you wanna see me."

It takes Joel a while to get the words out.

Not because he doesn't want to.

Maybe it's knowing what all it could do. A sweet thing on the other end of the line—something too good for the likes of him—offering herself up to his eyes without hesitation.

It's bound to change things, for better or for worse.

And he's never been a fan of change.

Even still, he can't say no to you. Won't.

Not when you're asking like you're half-convinced he'll reject you already, like a man who doesn't know what he's got.

"Yeah," he mutters finally. "Wanna see you."

Something in you draws up tight at that, a flutter in your stomach that knocks the wind clean out of you.

"Okay... Yeah, okay. Give me a second," you murmur, ambling over to your bed.

You settle onto your knees, sitting back on your calves, legs parted to reveal delicate lace panties you put on with him in mind. The silk slides under your fingers as you draw up the slip, until it sits resting high around your hips.

You've done this before, taken photos of yourself for a man—more than once.

But... it's never felt like this.

Not even close.

There's a steady flush in your cheeks, and a heat like fire burning down low, an ache building you wish he could soothe.

He'd know what to do, you think.

How to get you riled up, filthy words low and rough in your ear as he works you over with his fingers. Then, mouth trailing down your chest, he'd settle against your wet heat, lapping at you until you finish on his tongue, drinking you down without hesitation.

You purse your lips, press them together tight to tamp down how the thought of him taking care of you is ruining you more and more by the second.

Once the picture is gone in the air, hitting send with shaky hands, you drop back onto the bed and wait for it to deliver.

When he doesn't say a thing, you're close to asking if he got it—then, you hear it.

Quiet enough to miss if you're not paying attention.

But you are, without a goddamn doubt.

A slow release through his nose, proceeded by a hum that has your thighs clamping shut, breath hitching in your chest.

Satisfied.

Appreciative.

"You wear that for me?" he asks, a husky shift in tone that has your lips parting.

"Yeah, I—"

You stop yourself, take a second.

"Do you like it?"

"You gotta ask?" he murmurs, drawl draping itself around every word, a shiver running through you at the sound.

You giggle softly.

"Maybe I do. You're a man of few words," you return, finger twirling around a strand of your hair.

"Oh, I got words, darlin'. They just ain't sweet enough."

"I'm sweet enough for the both of us," you blurt, the double-meaning landing heavy between you.

He goes quiet again, long enough to make you wonder if you broke him. When he speaks again, his voice lands low in your belly, twisting you up deliciously.

"That right?"

"Mhm," you hum, smiling to yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"Keep talkin' like that. That mouth's gonna get you in trouble."

Your mind takes that idea and runs with it before you can reel it back in. Joel bending you over his knee, his hand coming down firm on your ass, leaving a handprint that lingers for days, hot to the touch.

That same harsh voice in your ear telling you exactly what your mouth got you.

Christ.

"You still with me?" he asks.

"Yeah," you blurt, tongue darting out to wet your lips, tone laced with anticipation. "I'm here. Just... thinking."

The small grin in his voice registers without needing to see it. It drives you crazy.

"About me?"

You laugh, a touch unsteady. "Yeah, about you... wanna see you."

"Mm," he hums, as if considering it. Like he's not already straining against his jeans from that one picture of you.

"What you wanna see?" he asks finally.

"Your face," you mumble, a near whisper. "Your hands... your fingers."

Another low breath filters through the speaker, sounding like a heady mix of amusement and sheer arousal. But he doesn't laugh, not outright—doesn't tease you for being specific.

He takes it exactly how you meant it.

"My hands," he repeats slowly, rolling the words around his mouth like he's tasting them. "Fingers."

You hear a rustle—denim shifting against denim—then a heavy creak like he's leaning back, spreading his legs wider, latching onto every goddamn word that leaves your mouth.

"What exactly do you wanna do with 'em?"

You swallow, worrying your bottom lip, staring at the ceiling to try and ground yourself.

"I was hoping you'd be the one using them, actually."

The admission hangs in the air, raw and unrestrained. You're giving him control and he knows it.

When he speaks again, his voice has darkened—breaths slower, more controlled. Then that rough, approving sound rumbles low in his throat, a faint curse muttered under his breath.

"Ain't even touched you and you got me actin' stupid."

Your fingers tighten in the sheets before relaxing completely, running slowly along your thigh, phone angling closer to your ear.

"...You wanna touch me?"

He pauses.

"Been thinkin' about it."

You flush instantly, thighs clenching again, tighter this time.

"...Tell me about it," you say.

His response takes a moment to come out, like he's choosing every word carefully.

"You wanna know what I'd do with my hands on you?" he asks, voice rougher at the edges, dragging over every syllable like gravel under a boot heel.

Your fingers inch closer to your core, rubbing slow over the lace, applying just enough pressure to make your back arch as a shiver curls its way up your spine.

"Yeah," you whisper, a ragged little sound in your throat. "Please."

"I'd start slow," he says, voice dropping an octave. "Real slow."

You let your eyes flutter shut as you press down firmer, rubbing in slow circles that have your hips bucking into your hand, focused entirely on the sound of his voice in your ear.

"Slide my hands up your thighs real gentle, feel how soft your skin is. Wouldn't leave marks—too pretty for that."

"And if I ask nicely?" you ask breathlessly.

Joel palms himself through his jeans, sighing with relief as he works himself free.

The sound of his zipper perks you right up.

"Got a feelin' I'd have a hard time tellin' you no."

"That's a dangerous thing to tell a girl like me," you goad, moving the lace aside to swipe a finger along your slit. You circle your clit firmly, just once—all you need to have you whimpering in his ear.

He hums low, the sound rumbling through the phone like a physical touch.

"Reckon it is."

His hand moves over himself faster now, imagining your fingers taking the place of his own, working up a steady rhythm that has him grunting under his breath.

"You started this."

The slick sound of your arousal reaches him through the speaker, followed by that pretty voice of yours that has his movements faltering.

"I did," you admit. "...But you wanted it to happen."

"Not denyin’ that," he says, low and unhurried. "Wanted it."

He pauses.

"Still do."

"Me too," you whisper, lashes fluttering when you finally sink a finger in—curling just enough to hit that spot that makes you shiver, drawing a moan from your lips.

His head tips back against the couch, jaw tight, hanging onto every little noise you make.

"Add another," he says suddenly, your eyes opening in a daze.

"What—"

"You heard me. Another."

Your mouth parts on instinct, heat flooding your face, pulse kicking hard at your throat.

"Joel..."

"C'mon, sweetheart. Don't go shy on me now."

Eyes squeezing shut, your hand obeys before your mind can catch up.

It's a tight fit, walls clenching around your fingers to try and accommodate the sudden fullness. You bite your lip nearly hard enough to bleed, whining at the feel of it, his name tumbling from your lips like it's the only word you have left.

"That's it," he murmurs. "There you go."

You're not sure what does you in.

His hard breaths across the line, the wet sounds his hand makes as he strokes himself—a slow and languid rhythm at first, soon picking up pace to match your own—but before you can help it, you're tensing, coming with a sharp cry of his name.

Joel's hand tightens around his length, his own breath catching in his throat. He can imagine you all too easily—back arched, face flushed, those legs spread wide as you come apart.

That's all it takes.

With a guttural groan, he comes hard, release coating his hand, spilling onto his stomach.

Coming down from the high, you right your panties into place and settle onto your side. You curl up under the sheets, listening to his staggered breaths as he puts himself back together again.

"So..." you murmur, toying with the hem of your nightgown, core still throbbing from your release. "Same time tomorrow?"

He breathes deep, trying to steady himself as best he can, letting the silence speak for itself.

Then—

"Yeah."

You smile, slow and satisfied—wait for him to say it.

"Same time tomorrow."

a/n: i interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you... a very self-indulgent, horny joel miller fic! and the crowd goes wild!!! idk why my first ever breakup came to mind to use as a plot device, but life imitates art or something like that.

March 2010

  Y/n’s phone buzzed, drawing her attention from the hunter drunkenly blabbering in her ear. They’d just wrapped up a quick hunt, a werewolf somewhere in northern Montana. She didn’t even really know the guy but Bobby had given him her number to ask for help. She agreed, not really having anything more to do. He was fine for a hunter, other than he never shut up and was getting too handsy for her liking, and him being on his fifth drink wasn’t helping. 

She opened the message, not recognizing the number. Bobby had to stop handing it out to whoever.  

           “Hey, Sweetheart. Whatcha up to?”  

The phone fell into her lap. There was only one person she ever let get away with calling her that, or anything really, and he didn’t come around often. 

           “Depends, who is this?”  

    The response was almost immediate. 

          “Don’t do me like that, Y/n”

 She could almost see his stupid grin on the screen and had to look away to control the heat rising in her face. Within five seconds and two texts, Dean Winchester had turned her into a giggling schoolgirl with a crush. 

          “I’m at a bar, what do you want?” 

         “Ah, a girl after my own heart. Which one? I wanna see you.” 

In any other universe, she would have assumed he had ulterior motives. She had the first few times she’d received that text but ended up spending the night hiding her disappointment. He only wanted to see her. He’d meet with her wherever she was. A bar, a motel, a diner.   

They’d spend hours talking about everything. She’d tell him stories of her recent hunts and the hunters she was stuck helping. He’d tell her of whatever they’d been facing. On rare occasions, when it was super late and they were sprawled on her bed, in a half-drunken stupor, he’d tell her about Sam or their dad. He’d mention their childhood and what he was put through. One night, he even mentioned a girl named Cassie, he skirted around details but Y/n understood. 

   They’d fall asleep like that, on top of the covers of a dirty motel bed. The next morning, he’d take her to breakfast, hug her goodbye, and then he was gone. 

     Her phone buzzed in her hand again. 

       “I miss you.” 

Her blood ran cold as she stared at the screen. He’d definitely never said that before. They just never went there and maybe this wasn’t him going there but it was different. Without another thought, she sent him the address. 

Present, April 2011

  “What Dean did wasn’t ok, you know that right?” Sam said through the phone. “He never should’ve left like that. We just really could use your and Bobby’s help on this case.” 

  Y/n sighed in response. What could she even say? That she knew, that she understood. That it still didn’t matter because even through all of the anger and hurt, she’d take him back tomorrow. 

  Not that he’d ever actually been hers. It was only half a spring, barely two months. 

It didn’t matter either way. There was a job to be done and she had to do it. She could put her feelings aside for a few days. 

 “He always left like that, not like I’m surprised.”  

   “Look, I’ve gotta go but please, Y/n, call us if you need anything. We’ll be there soon.“ 

 “Bye, Sam.” 

  The call ended, leaving Y/n leaning against the railing of Bobby’s porch. The early spring wind whipped around her and she hugged her flannel closer, looking out onto the empty road. 

   It had been over a year since she’d seen either of them. She knew of everything that happened to them. Sam going to hell and coming back without a soul. Dean, living a normal life for over a year with a woman and her kid. 

 Y/n didn’t know her, only hearing about the situation from Sam and Bobby in passing. She knew her name was Lisa and that Dean cared for her. Maybe more. She knew that Dean had promised Sam to live a normal life after he jumped into the cage. And she was happy that he got a year of peace. She was. 

   She could picture him helping in the kitchen, wearing an apron with flour smeared across his face. He’d probably set up family movie nights and weekend outings and birthday dinners. He’d been happy and okay. Against all odds, he had gotten out. 

    That didn’t stop the wave of hurt that washed over at the thought of him, all domestic and soft.  

 The click of the door opening pulled her out of her thoughts. Bobby stood there, a knowing look on his face.  

     “C’mon kid, let’s see if we can figure out something before those boys get here.” 

A few hours later, Y/n stared at the book in her lap. She’d been rereading the same paragraph for thirty minutes. Every time she’d get drawn into the book, the house would creak or the wind would blow and she’d be snapped out of it. 

   She kept waiting for the door to open, for footsteps to trail down the foyer and into the living room. She couldn’t even begin to prepare for what the next few days were going to be like. Her only plan was to act as normal as possible, which was already proving to be difficult. 

  A pit formed in her stomach, there was a lump in her throat and her head was clouded. The whole room was hazy and it felt like she was watching herself exist.

    She didn’t even realize she was crying until something wet hit her hands and slid onto her jeans. She quickly wiped her eyes and tried to focus on the book again. The lines blurred together as more tears filled her eyes.  

    God, she was sitting here crying over some guy. She was a grown woman, she had to get over this. It was pathetic at this point. 

   “You know, what Dean did was wrong. Leaving like that, not telling you what happening.” Bobby said, walking into the room, a stack of books in his hands. “I love the kid but he’s a real dick sometimes.”

       He meant well but she swore if one more person said that Dean had done bad, she was going to go crazy. 

    She knew that. More than anyone, she knew. She was the one who spent months hunting with him, helping him and Sam figure out how to save the damn world. They’d spent nights wrapped up in each other, more than ever before. Farther than before.  

  She was the one who woke up to an empty bed with no trace of him anywhere. He never responded to a call or a text. Never even let her know he was alive. 

  He’d left like an assassin. 

   Part of her couldn’t even blame him. It probably had been for the best because if he’d told her what the plan had been, she’d have begged. 

     In the end, he’d got to be a coward and she salvaged some amount of self-respect. 

 “I know, Bobby.” She said, giving him a small smile, “I know.” 

The door creaked causing Y/n to jump, earning her a concerned look from Bobby. 

  She smiled at him again, trying to reassure him. She could tell he’d been worried about her lately. He was justified in it. She’d been on edge and closed off for the last year and a half. 

   She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She’d known these boys for the better part of her life, it wasn’t a big deal. 

     Sam rounded the corner first, entering with a slight grin. His eyes immediately found hers and without warning he pulled her off the couch and into his arms. 

   Y/n let out a surprised laugh as her feet dangled off the ground and the life was squeezed out of her.  

   “I missed you too, Sam.” She said, unable to hold back more laughter, “Put me down now.” 

   Her feet hit the floor and Sam stepped back. She looked him over, still smiling. 

     “I’m so glad you’re back.” 

   “Yeah, me too.” 

A set of footsteps grew louder causing Y/n to look up, only for her to meet two green eyes. 

  The breath was knocked out of her and she was all too aware of the pit in her stomach again. 

Ignoring the pairs of eyes on her, She spun on her heel to face Bobby.   

    “Let’s get started?” 

March 2010 

“I call shotgun!” Y/n yelled as they walked out of the diner and took off towards the Impala.

   She was probably being unfair. She’d barely shared the passenger side in the few weeks she’d been with the boys. Sam was getting huffy about it, she could tell but she enjoyed the view more from the front.  Sitting in the back she’d miss the way Dean’s hands looked gripping the steering wheel, the way his lips moved as he mouthed the lyrics to whatever was on the radio, or the way his eyes would flicker to hers for just a split second. 

 Dean had also finally let her DJ and she didn’t plan on giving that rare privilege away anytime soon.

   “C'mon, dude. It's my turn.” Sam whined, “My legs are starting to cramp.” 

Sam beat her to the car which wasn’t surprising since he was literally the size of one. She was close to giving in when an arm landed on her shoulder. Dean nudged Sam out of the way, ignoring his protests, and opened the door. 

     “Sorry, Sammy.”  Dean’s eyes never left hers as she slid into the seat, “Need my Darlin’ by my side.” 

Present, April 2011

   Cracked wooden planks creaked under Y/n’s feet as she followed the boys and Bobby into the abandoned house. It was pitch black. She blinked her eyes, trying to adapt to the lack of lighting.  

According to Sam, a nest of vamps had been holed up there for weeks. They’d started leaving a trail of bodies, teens who’d come through as a dare or curiosity. She didn’t know the exact numbers racked up in that time but it was enough for Sam and Dean to ask for help. 

   Dean motioned for them to split up, two taking the downstairs and two going up. She went to follow behind Sam who had taken off into the next room but Bobby beat her to it. She would’ve fought back but it wasn’t exactly like she could cause a scene right then. 

   She followed Dean up the stairs, cringing every time the stairs groaned underneath their feet. 

Dean slowed as he hit the final step before a long, dark hallway. Y/n was a step behind him. His body nearly covered her. She shifted to the side to peer around him. 

  Both raised their machetes, trying to keep their breathing quiet as they waited for any sign of movement.

    A crash came from down the hall. Dean started towards the sound, Y/n following close behind. The complete darkness put them on edge. Being minus one sense in a house of at least ten fanged bastards, not fun. 

      The floorboard creaked behind her causing her to flip around, just in time to dodge the first vampire of the night. 

       She swung her machete, hitting its arm. Distracted, she brought down the weapon. Its head hit the floor. 

        Dean yelled out from behind her. She flung herself around to hear him fighting off, what she guessed was three on his own. Her presence seemed to catch the attention of one of them because it charged at her. 

   She dodged, the vamp lunged again grabbing her by the arm. She twisted out of its grasp. Using the angle to her advantage, she swiped her leg around, knocking it off balance. Its head rolled away as its body hit the ground. 

     She wiped the sweat from her forehead and turned to try to find Dean. She still couldn’t see him but she could hear him panting a few feet away.

She was yanked forward. Hands gripped her forearms tight enough to leave bruises and slammed into the wall. Her head buzzed on impact and she forced herself to stay upright. Its fangs grazed her neck and then its head dropped to the floor. 

   Dean stood in front of her, so close she could feel him breathing, rather than hearing it. Without thinking, she reached out to him and landed on his arm. She went to pull away but his other hand grasped her wrist, holding her in place. 

“Thanks.” She breathed, “You good?” 

“Yeah, You?” 

She wished she could see him, make sure he was being truthful. He didn’t exactly have the best track record with honesty. But in the dark, she had no choice but to trust him. 

    “I’m fine.” There were definitely bruises forming in her arms and her head was still spinning but she’d had worse.  

   Dean’s hand dropped her wrist. She ignored the deflated feeling in her chest and dropped her arm back to her side. 

  Without warning, he ran his hands over her arms and up her shoulders. She tried to pull away but he didn’t stop. 

    “What are you doing?” She whisper-yelled. 

“I literally heard you hit the wall, Y/n,” He said, running his hands over her head, checking for any bumps. 

“I am fine.”  She tried to swat him away but he grabbed her wrists mid-air and pulled them to his chest.  

    The air was humid around them. She heard him panting. Leather and sweat invaded her senses. Any focus she had before vanished. 

He was here, touching her, after so long. 

  Silence enveloped them. The only noise was their panting. 

 This was wrong. Sam and Bobby were probably fighting for their life downstairs and here they were, doing whatever this was.

  She was about to pull away when a loud yell came from downstairs. 

   The moment was broken. They took off down the hallway and stairs. Staying close to not get lost in the dark. 

  They hit the last few steps as a vampire, charged at them. 

 Dean swung his machete and it fell to the floor.  

 They moved further into the first floor of the home, finding Sam and Bobby fighting off at least four vamps each.  

   They split up, him going to Bobby and her going to Sam.  

     None of the vampires were aware of her yet. She grabbed the syringe of deadman’s blood out of her pocket and plunged the needle into the closet to her. 

  Now they knew she was there.

 Two turned towards her giving Sam time to take down his remaining one. 

   Both charged at her, hissing. She ran in between them.She flipped around, slicing the blade in an arc. The one on her left doubled over at the impact. 

    She swung. 

The right one lunged at her. She pivoted and cut the blade up. 

Its head hit the floor. 

She looked around the room, a slight beam of moonlight flooded the house now. She made out Sam helping Bobby up from the floor, right as Dean took down the last vampire. 

   The room was silent other than everyone trying to catch their breath.  

Dean’s eyes found hers. She forced herself to look away. Sam interrupted the non-moment. 

“Time for drinks?” 

Y/n and the boys decided to go out. They were leaving soon but everyone needed time to wash off and get ready. 

   She dragged the black liner across her eyelid, double-checking to see if it smeared the shimmery brown eyeshadow she’d already put on. The cracks in the old mirror made it kind of hard to perfect the make-up but it would have to do.  She already changed from her bloodied hunting clothes into a clean pair of jeans with a simple tank top. She didn’t own much and traveled with less. 

“Broke mirrors are bad luck, ya know?”  

  Dean leaned against the doorframe, flannel pulled taut around his crossed arms. 

She ignored the pit that had reappeared in her stomach and continued applying her lipstick. She flipped through ideas for a response. She could yell at him to get out or cry about how much he hurt her. Instead, she opted to act like nothing was wrong. 

   “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who broke it.”  She said, shoveling her makeup back into the bag, still never meeting his eye. She stood and gathered the rest of her stuff into a neat pile on her bed. Her back was completely towards him. 

    She heard him walk into the room and the door clicked shut. 

“Y/n, look at me.”  

She turned around and looked up at him. Her eyebrows raised like he was boring her. In reality, she was struggling to breathe. Her hands shook and a lump was stuck in her throat.  

 Her eyes glanced over his face. His jaw was set but eyes were soft.  She knew where this was going. 

  Dean took a deep breath before starting.  

“Look, what I did-” 

“Do not finish that sentence, Dean Winchester.” She spat. 

“I just-”

“No. You don’t get to say anything. You don’t get to say that what you did was wrong or how sorry you are. You don’t think I don’t know that what you did was wrong? Everyone keeps telling me that. Bobby, Sam and now you. They kept telling me how horrible of you that was like it wasn’t me. Like I wasn’t the one who spent months with you, like I didn't help you figure out how to stop the fucking apocalypse. Like I didn’t stitch you up after every hunt or spend every car ride next to you. Like I wasn’t the one who would hold you after you woke up screaming or it wasn’t me who spent every single night in your fucking sheets.” 

 Every ounce of refrain she’d worked to keep was gone. Hot tears were streaming down her face as her eyes bored into his. He didn’t try to interrupt her but his jaw twitched and body tensed. 

  “Like it wasn’t me who woke up two months later to an empty bed. You were gone, Dean. You left without a word. No text, no note. Nothing. You fucking left me. And then I found out you were with some other girl for a year? So yeah, I know that what you did was bad.” 

Somewhere in her speech, she’d moved close enough for their chest to touch. Her finger was stabbing into his chest.  He didn’t move, was barely breathing but she wasn’t finished. 

   “Maybe it was cheap to you, or maybe it was some fling to pass the time but it was real to me. It was all I had. You were all I had.” Her voice broke at the last word and she dropped her hand. Her head fell as she cried. Over a year of built-up heartbreak exploding in one moment was too much. 

     His hand found hers and placed it back on his chest. She looked back up at him, his other hand reaching out to cup her cheek. She closed her eyes as his thumb wiped away the remaining tears. 

    “Do you want to know what the worst part is?” She whispered, eyes still shut. “I’d be yours again if you wanted. If you asked. How pathetic is that?” 

      “Y/n.” 

She opened her eyes to look at him despite her embarrassment.  

  “You are anything but cheap or pathetic.” His voice was thick and his eyes were glassy. She’d seen him in so many different states but she’d never seen so much emotion written across his face. 

   “Ask me then. Ask me to come with you.” 

His expression darkened and he dropped his hand from her face. He took a step back and looked away. 

   “It’s not that easy.” He said, shaking his head. “It's never that easy.” 

She let out a bitter laugh. 

 She wasn’t even surprised. She should’ve been disappointed or furious but she was just over it. She was tired and desperate. And if she couldn’t have him, he needed to go. 

  She wiped a hand down her face and glanced back into the mirror assessing the damage her outburst caused. She started wiping off the messed-up liner before starting to reapply. Dean stood behind her, brows furrowed in confusion. 

    “Get out.” She said without hesitation, her voice as steady as possible.  

He opened his mouth as if to speak but shut it. He walked towards the door but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. 

   “For what it's worth, I am sorry.” 

The buzz of conversation filled the packed-out bar. Sam found them a small booth in the corner and was now talking about a new piece of lore he’d found about some Egyptian god. Most of the time, she loved hearing what he had to say but right now all she could focus on was Dean's hand trailing up and down the woman’s hip. He never even sat down with them, finding himself a spot at the bar, next to a pretty blonde. She’d watched for half an hour now as he grinned at the girl, whispered in her ear, and bought her a drink. 

  She wanted to puke or cry or both. She decided to get drunk instead. 

She went to take a sip of her beer only to realize it was empty. Motioning to Sam she was going to get another, she slid out of the booth and made her way to the opposite side of the bar from Dean. 

   She planned to order a shot of some vodka and another beer but she couldn’t catch the attention of either bartender.

  A body bumped up against hers causing her to stumble. A hand wrapped around her waist to catch her. She almost jerked away but she looked up to find a familiarly unfamiliar pair of dark green eyes and dark blonde hair.  

   The man was by far the prettiest she’d seen all night. 

 “I am so sorry, It's packed in here. Isn’t it?  Nowhere to stand.” He had a slight southern drawl and a boyish charm about him. 

 “It is. Can’t seem to even order a drink.”  She smiled at him.

 “You see, now that had to be fate or something because I was just wantin’ to buy you one.” He grinned and waited, almost seeing if she’d allow it. His hand was still on her but she found she didn’t really mind. 

 The room was fuzzy and she could only make out the man in front of her. Even then, he was a little hazy and she had no idea what he was saying, only that his mouth looked pretty as he said it.    

  Y/n didn’t know how long it’d been since the handsome stranger volunteered to feed into her night of drunkenness or even how many she’d had so far. She vaguely remembered him buying her the first shot and then the second and maybe a third. They made small talk, she gave some bullshit story about what she did for work and where she was from. Somewhere in between she had a fourth, fifth, and sixth one. 

 And somewhere between the seventh and now, she’d lost track of Dean. She didn’t even know if he was still there. She did know that the new guy made her feel ok, at least for now. His hands never left her and the drinks never seemed to end.

  She could barely remember the events of the day. Maybe by tomorrow, she wouldn’t remember any of it, or at least a girl could hope.

But right now, she didn’t feel like crying or throwing up as long as she didn’t think of it.