Chapter Text
I think I'll take my whiskey neat
My coffee black
and my bed at three
you're too sweet for me
The police station ain’t exactly the best place to be on a Thursday night.
It’s so cold. The lights are flickerin’ on and off and your head's been fuckin' killing you since you got there. You sit there, arms crossed, eyes on the floor like it somehow it might make the time pass a little faster.
How'd you end up here?
Truth be hold, it was your dad.
Fraud. Money Laundering.
Stealing cars?
Yeah. That included the one you were driving home.
Fuckin' Figures.
The lobby’s dead. Nobody wants to sit at a police station unless they have to. Fuck, you just wanna go home.
To make matters fuckin’ worse, you lost your phone.
So, you had the cop call Tommy—your dad’s friend, well sort of. He was the only one who might answer. Might not make a scene.
That was over an hour ago.
Were you ever gonna leave this shitty police station?
The officer walks over, bored lookin' and a small note pad.
“He answered,” the cop says. “Said his brother’s on his way.”
He looks down at the paper in his notebook. “Joel, I think his name was.”
Fuck.
Joel.
Anyone but Joel Miller.
Joel was your dad’s best friend. Well…before all this.
Told him not to get involved in all that shit. Warned him somethin' bad was gonna happen.
But your dad? He didn't listen. Wasn't ever good at it anyway.
You grew up around Joel around. He was there–almost every barbecue, every holiday. Always showing up with a six pack.
After your mama left, he stuck around. Checked in sometimes. Fixed your car when your dad was too drunk. Made sure he didn't drink himself to death. You used to watch Sarah, too, his daughter. She was younger.
He was always around.
That’s what made this worse.
You sigh and stare down at the tile floor, the kind that somehow looks dirty even when it’s scrubbed clean. You’re just waiting now. For this mess to be over. For a goddamn way out.
Front door opens.
Heavy boots across the lobby floor.
You don’t even have to really look up to know who it is.
It’s Joel. Rugged. Grey streaks in his hair. Worn denim and that damn tan jacket he’d had for years. Jeans. Boots scruffed. That look on his face—the one he wore when someone around him did something stupid. Like this wasn’t the first time he had to deal with someone else’s mess.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, casually, like you’re not sitting in a fucking police station.
“Hey,” you mutter back, quietly.
“Y’they lettin’ you go?” Joel asks.
You shrug. Been there for hours at this point and honestly, no one’s told you shit.
“They won’t say much,” you say. “Talkin’ to me like I’m five.”
Joel doesn’t say much. Just walks over to the cops, starts talking in that low voice that somehow makes people listen. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. Between work and part-time classes, life just… got in the way.
But Joel?
He hasn't really changed. Still has that way of making you feel...safe, maybe. Even now. Joel just handled shit, the way you thought men were suppose to. Not like everybody else, talkin' too loud and makin' everythin' worse.
You watch him talk to the cop, hands in his pockets like he doesn't have a worry in the world. Like he's got everythin' under control.
Joel walks back over.
“Get your stuff,” he says.
“–Joel—are you su–”
“Let’s go.”
You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and follow him out.
He’s already at the truck, passenger door open, just waiting. It’s newer, bigger, and cleaner. You can smell the leather and sawdust as you climb in.
Your dad had mentioned the construction business was doing well. Said Joel had a crew now. Jobs lined up for months. You’d seen it too; last year at the neighborhood barbecue, when he showed up in a clean shirt and boots that didn’t look like he’d been wearing them for a decade.
He shuts the door and doesn’t look at you. Just rounds the truck, climbs in, and starts the truck.
He doesn’t say a word as he drives.
Neither do you.
Felt slike Joel don’t even know what to say. Truth is, you don’t either. He just picked you up from a goddamn police station. You were about to be tangled up in your dad’s mess.
“Where ya stayin’?” he asks finally. “Dorm?”
You shake your head. “No…I–uh.”
School wasn’t something you could afford anymore. Had to drop to part-time. Scrape by. Make payments late and hope the university didn’t send you notices.
Your dad was paying for it.
Until he wasn’t.
“I’m crashin’ at a friends,” you mutter. “Just ‘til I find somewhere.”
“I just heard you were livin’ in the dorms,” Joel says. “Or was he payin’ for that?”
“He was.”
Joel just nods. Doesn’t say nothin’ else for a while. His eyes stayed on the road.
“You’re comin’ home with me,” he says.
“Joel…” you sigh. “It’s fine. I’m good, really, I promi–”
“You’re stayin’,” he says, sharper now. “Got the space. You don’t gotta figure this shit out on ya own.”
You nod, slow.
“Ain’t forever,” he says, looking over. “Just ‘til ya get settled.”
And you can’t help but wonder—
Is he just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re his friend's kid?
His only kid.
“Ya eaten anythin’?” Joel asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
Before you know it, Joel’s pulling into a fast food place.
Doesn’t ask. Just knows.
Maybe–just maybe–this won’t be so bad.
Stayin’ with your dad’s best friend?
Can’t be the end of the world.
Right?
────୨ৎ────
You wake up to the smell of bacon.
Don’t know what time it is. Don’t even remember falling asleep, really. First night in a new place–well, not new . Just unfamiliar. Same floors, same creaky hall, different energy.
You slept in a baggy T-shirt Joel gave you last night.
Soft, worn with a hole in the bottom of it, it smelled like fabric softener. You stretch, muscles feeling stiff, hair a fuckin’ mess, then slip out of bed.
The house is quiet as you wander downstairs, your feet brushing against the cold hardwood floors. The clock in the living room blinks: 12:30.
Fuck.
You step into the kitchen, Joel’s at the stove, back to you, flipping something in a pan. He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head at you.
“It’s past noon,” he says. “Whole damn mornin’ gone, sunshine.”
“I don’t ‘member what time I fell asleep,” you mumble through a yawn. “Hard to sleep.”
Joel doesn’t say anything. Just keeps working at the stove, like he hears you, like he understands what you mean.
You sit down at the table. The chair creaks loudly under you.
It’s strange being here.
Still not yours.
But it’s quiet. Feels like something solid after years of nothing but mess.
It was quiet for a while. Just the sound of the pan and the clock on the wall ticking. Then he moves, walks over, grabs something from his bag.
A small box.
Black Bow.
He sets it down in front of you.
“Ain’t like not bein’ able to reach you,” he says, firmly. “Use it. Set it up how you want.”
You look down. It’s a phone, a brand new one. You’re speechless. You’re not even sure what to say to him. Joel doesn’t look at you.
“Didn’t ask what color,” he mutters. “Don’t bitch.”
“Joel–you—” you start.
He cuts you a look, a look that was sharp.
You know better than to argue with him.
“Thank you,” you say, quietly.
He sets a plate of breakfast down in front of you, still hot. He writes something quickly on a different piece of paper, then he grabs a scrap of paper and a pen from the counter.
“I’ll grab your stuff later,” he says. “Write the address.”
That’s it. No offer for you to go with. No questions.
You just do it.
Used to bite people’s heads off who told you what to do. Your parents, they constantly told you what to do. Exhausted you with it. But with Joel? You don’t. You just listen.
“You sure you don’t want me to come?” You ask, quietly.
“Quicker if I do it myself,” he mutters.
You write the address. Slide it over and he grabs the paper, grabs his work bag. Doesn’t say nothin’ else. Just leaves.
Now you’re alone.
In Joel’s house.
You look down at the box, phone still laying neatly inside.
He bought you a phone. Just like that. No big talk about it, no strings attached. You’re sleepin’ in his spare room. Eating his food. Staying here “until you figure shit out.”
And he’s not asking for a damn thing.
Why does that feel so fuckin’ strange?
That he’d just do this. No questions. No rules. Just– here .
You finish up your breakfast, scrape the plate, head to the sink.
There is a note.
Home late.Order Pizza.
–Joel.
Twenty dollars sitting on top of it.
That’s it.
────୨ৎ────
It’s been almost two weeks at Joel’s.
Feels longer. Feels like nothing. He’s barely home. Out before you wake up, back late.
You get rides to work. Keep your head down mostly. Classes are on break ‘til spring, not that you’ve paid your tuition bill at all. You’re not even sure if you can.
Joel doesn’t say much.
But he does things.
Keeps the fridge stocked. Leaves a clean towel on the counter for you to shower. Bought you face wash last week–just left it by the sink. No note. No comment. Just there.
You never asked for any of it.
You keep wondering what he gets out of this.
It’s not like you’re doing anything. Not helping. Not giving him a reason to keep getting you things. You just exist in this house. Taking up space. Most likely annoying him.
You’ve started thinkin’ maybe you should cook dinner.
Something simple. Just…something.
Feels like the least you could do.
Joel’s never been picky. Not that you know. But cooking feels like a way to give a little back.
It’s been quiet though.
He works all the time.
But not the bad kind.
The kind that makes you feel safe, but drives you mad.
Still, you’ve found yourself lying awake more than once, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing just down the hall.
If you knocked on the door; if you asked to just sit with him.
Would he let you?
You don’t.
There’s a line.
Should you cross it?
No.
Yes.
No.
Today, you got home later than usual. Picked up a shift at the restaurant for a friend. Didn’t mind it–kept yourself busy to keep out of your head. You take a quick shower when you get in. Let the water rinse the entire day off your skin. Let yourself feel clean again.
You head downstairs, barefoot. Hair still damp, dripping down your back. Thin tank top. Shorts. Should be fuckin’ freezin’, it’s winter. But Joel kept the house warm for you.
You round the corner and see him.
Feet kicked up on the coffee table. One hand wrapped around a half-empty beer. TV playing some old black-and-white western, the kind he’s probably seen a hundred times. He doesn’t look away from the screen.
Just says–
“C’mere.”
You do.
No hesitation.
You walk over, eyes landing on the screen. “What’s on?”
Joel doesn’t look over at you.
“Nothin’ good,” he mutters.
You sit beside him. Close, but not too close. His arm draped around the back of the couch. Casual. Calm. But it’s there.
He smells like cedar soap. The kind you saw in the shower earlier. And underneath that–sawdust and a little bit of sweat after a long day.
After a while, he speaks.
“Work was a bitch.”
You look over at him. His head leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. Then his hand drags down his face, slowly. He looked tired, completely worn out.
“Delivery truck didn’t show,” Joel mutters. “Big job. Had me on the damn phone all day with some fuckin’ kid who didn’t know shit.”
He shakes his head and takes a slow slip of his beer.
“Bein’ in charge just means cleanin’ up everybody else’s fuckups.”
It’s the first time he’s ever opened up and said anything about work. Or when you think about it, his day.
You reach out to him, slowly. Hand resting on his arm–just above the elbow, your touch so light and careful. Your thumb moves softly over the fabric of his shirt.
You’re nervous.
You shouldn’t be.
But you are.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
You look up at him. “You do a lot,” you say. “You… deserve to relax.”
He tenses, shoulders shift, like he’s a little caught off guard. You freeze–should you stop? But…he isn’t pulling away. Doesn’t move at all. So, you leave your hand there. Fingers dancing along his arm. Yo
’re not trying to push, just trying to be there. A quiet way of showing that you care.
He continues to watch the movie, keeping his eyes on it like nothing’s changed. You feel the change in him, the tension, the stillness. Like he’s holding his breath and doesn’t even realize it.
The movie keeps playing, slow, pointless background now. You’re used to the quiet now, used to him. Joel’s never been a man who needed to fill the space with words.
You don’t even realize how much time’s passed. Not ‘til Joel shifts. Subtle, just barely. Then his hand finds your knee. He still doesn’t say anything, just leaves it there.
A minute later, it moves.
Slow.
Steady.
Fingers drifting up, stopping just shy of the hem of your shorts. He squeezes your thigh lightly. Then his fingers slip higher, pushing your shorts up a little, settling on the bareskin. Like it’s nothing, like he’s just mindlessly doing it.
Your breathin’ practically stops. He just keeps watching tv, and doesn't flinch. Doesn't look over at you.
Maybe he didn’t notice . Or maybe, he did.
He just keeps watching the screen like nothing’s changed.
But…something has changed.
────୨ৎ────
Joel’s been on your mind for weeks.
Won’t leave your head. Not when you’re awake, not when you’re dreaming. You know it’s wrong–thinking about him like that. Wanting him so fuckin’ bad it keeps you awake.
Imagining what it would feel like for your lips to be on his, him on top of you. Imagining what it would be like to knock on his door in the middle of the night.
But you don’t. You stop yourself…every time.
After that night on the couch, movies became your routine. Evenings where he wasn’t workin’ late, you’d sit together on the couch, watching whatever you’d bicker about puttin’ on.
Somehow it was just…easy.
Money left on the counter without a word. A new pair of headphones when you complained that yours stopped workin’. Always buyin’ your favorite snacks. One afternoon, last thursday, he dropped you off at the mall–handed you his credit card .
Said, “Get what you want.”
Didn’t ask for anything back.
But no matter what, you settled nicely into this routine. Nights with Joel. He’d sit beside you on the couch, he’d rub your leg with that hand of his, like he didn’t even realize he was doin’ it. You’d lay against him sometimes, feel his chest through that old flannel, watchin’ whatever movie he picked–usually some western, sometimes an action flick that had low ratings.
One night, you talked him into Friday the 13th.
He just grumbled about it being total nonsense.
But he still watched it all the way through.
You wanted to cross that line, needed to. Every night, it got so much harder not to. But you held back.
Until now…
You woke up late. House was quiet already. Joel was gone… at work.
But when you walk into the kitchen, there’s a box on the counter. Wrapped, a bow on top of it. Joel’s thing he did with his gifts for you.
You recognize it before you even open it—the necklace. The one your mom gave you. The one that snapped last week when it got caught on your sweater.
He fixed it.
Didn’t say a word.
Just left a little note folded under the ribbon.
For you, Darlin’.
—Joel.
You’ve been tryin’ to get used to the gifts.
To the way Joel leaves things for you without a word. Pays for what you need. Asks for nothin’ back. You don’t know if it’s guilt over your dad bein’ locked away—or if he just likes takin’ care of you.
There’s a part of you that wrestles with it. That still wants to earn it somehow.
But there is another part.
One that secretly loves the idea of being taken care of.
You made him dinner tonight, even he was a little shocked. He ate in silence, like he asked. You left him there while you showered. Now you’re headin’ back downstairs. Back to him.
Back to this new routine.
You’re wearin’ one of his shirts–big, warm right out of the dryer. You took it from his drawer a few weeks ago, he didn’t notice .
But he’s seen it on you.
“We ain’t watchin’ another one of them damn horror movies,” Joel grumbled, settling back on the couch. “Last one was fuckin’ terrible.”
You roll your eyes as you sit down next to him.
“Fine,” you mutter. “You pick, then. Since I’m so awful at it.”
He picks some older movies. Lettin’ it play in the background, more noise than anything else. You take a small sip of beer he put out for you.
“How was work?” you ask softly.
Joel just huffs. Doesn’t look over.
“Long,” he says. “Tired of dealin’ with people who don’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”
He seemed a little better when he walked through the door. A little less stressed out. You wonder if it’s the movies. The silence. Just sittin’ together.
You lean into him, slow, like you always do.
And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift away from you. He’s gotten used to it.
You watch him. Not sayin’ a word—just takin’ in the way his jaw stays tighty, the way he grips his beer a little too firm. Eyes on the TV, but not really watchin’.
He’s so wound up. You can see it.
The movie drags on, just background noise between the two of you now.
You debate it.
Talk yourself out of it.
Then back into it.
Then out again.
And then his hand moves.
To your thigh, fingers slowly grazing your skin.
Like he means it this time.
Fuck it.
You slide off the couch and down to your knees. Settle between his legs–spread wide and lazy where he sits.
He looks down at you. Eyes dark. Jaw tight.
“What’re y’doin’, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low.
You don’t answer at first, just reach for his belt; your fingers trembling, eyes locked on his.
“Helpin’ you relax.”
Joel doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales through his nose.
You tug the belt free quickly. Pop the button, fingers slippin’ to the zipper–but he gets there first. Reaches down before you, grabbing it.
Drags it down himself. The sound cuts through the room. Then he pushes his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, stopping just under the muscle. Hard. Already waiting for you.
Joel leans back into the couch. One arm thrown over the back like he’s settlin’ in. His eyes are on you, just watching.
You pause. Just for a second. Because he’s there–thick, swollen, and the tip of his cock is glistening with pre-cum.
You swallow hard.
“Go on, princess,” he mutters. “Ain’t the time to get shy on me now.”
You reach out, wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock. A low groan comes from his throat when you start stroking him.
“Fuck,” he says, jaw tight. “This’s a bad fuckin’ idea.”
But he’s not pulling away. Just lets you keep going.
You stroke him, feel him twitch in your hand, just a little. Then again. You do it just to tease him, you hear him moan, strained, quiet, fighting that need to thrust into your palm.
Leaning in, you lick a slow line from the base of his cock to the tip. Draggin’ your tongue over the thick vein. The taste of him–salty–spreads across your lips. Then your mouth wraps around the head of his cock, tongue swirling.
Joel’s hand moves fast–right to the back of your head and his fingers knot in your hair, firmly. Holding you.
You open your mouth wider, taking him in slowly. Let him guide across your tongue, inch by inch, until your lips are nearly at the base and your throat tightens around him.
“God—fuck,” he breaths. “That mouth... Been thinkin’ about this. Thinkin’ how good it’d feel.”
You set a rhythm, steady, wet and he lets you for a minute. Just watches. His cock disappears into your mouth over and over, until your chin’s slick and his cock’s shining with spit.
“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” Joel mutters.
He grips your hair tighter, it hurts a little.
“You hear me?”
You moan around him. You’re drooling now, a filthy fuckin’ mess and he’s lovin’ it.
His hands lock in your hair now, fingers twisting deep as he starts to move.
Not sloppy.
Not rushed.
Controlled.
He knows what he’s doin’. Knows how to use your mouth…how long to keep you right there on the edge. Just enough to drive you crazy. Just enough to make you fuckin’ need it.
“Just like that, baby,” he groans. “Goddamn–y’know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
You gag, just a little, when he pushes deeper and he grunts, breathless.
“Easy,” he says, even as his hips roll forward.
“Don’t choke, sweetheart,” he breaths. “Ain’t done with you yet.”
Your spit is all over his cock, your throat is raw, eyes glassy, tears threatenin’ to spill. Joel watches, doesn’t miss a thing.
“Look at that mess,” he groans. “Drippin’ down your chin. So fuckin’ pretty like this.”
He holds your head steady and starts to thrust harder into your mouth. Your hands dig into his thighs, bracing. Your jaw burns –but you don’t stop. You take it, like you’re supposed to.
“Shit,” Joel growls, voice cracking. “The way you suck my cock–princess, fuck .”
A deep moan.
“Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
He’s breathing is ragged now. Not gone…not yet…but close. Right on the edge.
“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he asks. “Wanted me usin’ that mouth like this.”
You moan around him and his cock twitches on your tongue.
“Baby,” he breaths. “You keep doin’ that–I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.”
But you don’t stop. You moan again–on purpose. Throat tight, lips wrapped, tongue draggin’ slow along every thick inch as he fucks your mouth.
Joel moans, louder this time.
“Jesus– fuck —you’re takin’ me so good,” he pants. “So. Fuckin’. Good.”
You can feel it. The way his thighs tense up. The sharp jerk of his hips, the rough sound of his breathing.
“I’m gon’ cum,” he growls. “You ready for it? Gonna swallow for me, huh?”
You nod–best you can, mouth full, eyes up. He pushes you down deeper onto his cock.
“That’s it,” Joel groans. “That’s it–God—don’t—”
Then he spills into your mouth. Thick, hot, endless. You try to swallow every drop, but he’s still twitching, still pulsing, and it leaks past your lip.
His chest heaves, breath ragged.
And then—
Buzzzzz.
Buzzzzz.
The phone on the coffee table goes off.
Joel exhales hard, like the wind just got knocked out of him. Then carefully, he pulls out of your mouth, stands up, pulls up his pants and grabs the phone off the table.
You’re still on your knees. Panting. Lips swollen. His cum at the corner of your lips.
“Yeah?” he answers.
A pause.
“I’m home.”
His eyes drop down to you. He reaches out and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. Smears the cum away with one slow drag.
“Tommy,” he sighs. “Was workin’ on somethin’.”
Walks into the kitchen like nothin’s changed. Pulls his zipper up, belt clicks as he threads it back through. Phone still pressed to his ear.
He leaves you there. Kneeling. Swollen-lipped. Messy. Wet.
And you don’t know what’s worse.
That he walked off like nothin’ happened–like everything’s still the same.
Or that you’re just kneelin’ there–cunt throbbing, soaked, mouth wrecked from takin’ him.
Wanting more.