"all That Honey, All That Rot."

"all that honey, all that rot."

a step uncle!joel miller x reader

summary: the summer heat brings out the worst in people. and so do family reunions. (or, in simpler terms: A Southern Gothic Porno about things you shouldn’t say to your step-daddy’s brother, but do anyway.)

warnings: step uncle!joel miller (not your cup of tea? just scroll! <3), girthy age gap, obvs taboo relationship, religious guilt/blasphemy, power dynamic, smoking/alcohol, southern gothic themes (rotting morality, decay, etc.), emotional manipulation/guilt, emotional whiplash, unresolved shame spiral energy thingy whatever, a lot of smut... like a lot soooo (praise kink, degradation kink, public sex, dubious consent vibes, daddy kink & uncle kink, fingering, oral, some slight edging, possession, breeding kink, mentions of bodily fluids, lots of dirty talk, etc.)

a. note: this fic contains no actual blood relations, but it feeling wrong and depraved is.... kinda the point. anyways, god is not present in this fic and if you ever see me in public after this, no tf you did not!

July in Texas meant the kind of heat that makes the devil himself sweat, and the kind of family gatherings that make you wish he'd drag you back to hell with him.

The front porch of grandma and grandpa's old home sagged, tired of carrying generational secrets and trauma, its broken wood planks littered with cigarette butts and broken beer bottlers. Grandma June's cross-stitched Jesus watched over the house from the kitchen wall, thick and smudged by the steam of collard greens and cast iron grease.

The tea was sweet enough to make your molars ache, the gossip between your aunts somehow even sweeter. They wore their linen dresses and bickered like fighting crows over potato salad, their unruly kids screaming around the pool like a baptism gone wrong. Somewhere in the distance, a bloodhound barked loud and shrill, and somewhere even closer, Uncle Joel lit an American Spirit like he was trying to smoke out an ache from his chest.

You hadn't meant to look at him like that.

Well, not at first.

He wasn't supposed to be the one. It should've been Tommy- your mamma's brand new, shiny second husband, all clean smiles and thick forearms. But Tommy never looked at you the way his brother Joel did, like you were temptation dressed in a pair of cutoffs, like you were his Eve and he was getting real sick of apples.

He was the oldest brother, Joel. The grizzled one. The one with broad shoulders that blocked out the sun and rough hands that looked like they could rip Bibles in half.

He came in reeking of sweat, smoke, and the kind of loneliness that settles deep into a man's bones after too many years of pretending he doesn't need anybody or anything.

It was a tale as old as time. You should have been scared of him.

Instead, you sucked the melted ice cream off your fingers, looking at him from behind a pair of long fake eyelashes, cherry red lips stretched into a pretty, perfect smile. "Hi, Uncle Joel."

He flinched the first time you ever called him that.

Good.

You shouldn't have enjoyed it. The way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched and nostrils flared. But you did. And you would continue to enjoy it.

The first time you saw Joel- really saw him- was on the third day of that godforsaken family reunion, right as the sun bled out over the backyard and turned the skies to bruised peaches and dying lilacs. You'd come out of the sunroom for more sweet tea, barefoot on cracked concrete as a symphony of cicadas beckoned you forth, the hem of your sundress- same color as Joel's shirt- clinging damp against your sticky sweet thighs.

He was by the smoker, beer in hand, sweat darkening the collar of his flannel even though it was too hot for sleeves.

Joel was watching you. There was no attempt to hide it. Just a dark, sleezy pair of eyes following you, a hawk zeroing in on its prey, like you were nothing more than a rabbit trying to scurry away in time.

There was a raw, quiet sort of hunger, and you watched his jaw tick ever so slightly as he drank you in, as though he was memorizing every step you took in case the good Lord gave him one more chance to turn his back on you, on the taboo hunger that stirred deep in his belly.

"You shouldn't be wearin' that around me." His voice was a mutter, half to himself, as though he were conversing with a pesky little devil that had perched itself on his shoulder.

"Shouldn't be looking then." You quipped back.

There was a pause.

That same muscle ticked in his jaw.

Joel turned around and walked off with a huff, as though you had slapped him clean across the face.

You couldn't help but smile into your tea.

The next night, it stormed.

Texas thunderstorms never knocked politely. They rattled the windows like judgement day.

You watched from the dining room as the rain spilled down the glass, almost everyone else tucked in to bed for the night. You could hear over the lighting your grandma muttering prayers. Cousins were passed out on couches, your mother deep into a bottle of wine with Tommy in the sunroom, both sure no one else would be awake to hear them giggling.

It was quiet. The eerie kind of quiet the seeped into the walls of old Texas homes, the kind of quiet that only ever accompanied lonely nights like this.

Joel stood on the porch, the lightning carving out his silhouette into the screen door every few seconds, painted across the house like a ghost hungry for something other than vengeance.

You found him like that. Smoking, brooding, thinking some dark, unholy thoughts that you craved to learn for yourself.

"Can't sleep?" He finally asked, voice full of gravel. His back was to you, but he could sense you, he could smell you.

You didn't answer. What was there to ever say? You stepped out into the night air, rain cooling your skin, and leaned against the porch rail. The white cotton of your nightdress stuck to your back. No bra. No panties. Nothing.

Joel noticed.

Of course he did. He always noticed you.

"You walk around like that on purpose?" Joel inhaled a thick line of cigarette smoke, an eyebrow raised as he watched the old dirt road begin to turn in to mud.

"Would it matter if I did?"

The porch light flickered as the hum of the moths grew louder, the rain only darkening the sky even more.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, baby." His words sent a shiver right down your spine and straight between your legs, your thighs clenching at the hate that peppered his voice, the annoyance. It only made you want him more.

You tilted your head up at him. The same devil that plagued him with all those nasty thoughts danced behind your eyes.

"I was raised in a house full of liars and preachers, Joel. Danger is a game I know well."

Joel snorted out a response, turning back to the horizon.

You stayed quiet, listening to the hiss of rain and the gentle smolder of his cigarette, watching the way the smoke curled around his knuckles, hazy and Baroque. He didn't look at you, but you knew he saw everything- how the thin cotton clung to your skin, how your thighs rubbed together each time he lifted his smoke to his lips, how you licked the expanse of your plush lips like a girl who didn't know any better.

But you did. And he knew you did.

"Why're you always lookin' at me like that?" Joel's voice was low and rough, the words scraping their way out of his tobacco singed throat.

You shrugged. "Cause you always look back."

Oh. Oh. Now that got him.

Joel flicked the cigarette into the muddy yard with a sharp little motion that made your lips twitch, his jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grinding down like stone on stone.

Then he stood. He walked over. Too close. Close enough to feel his heart thrumming, close enough to breathe in that second hand smoke that always lingered around him like an aura.

The wood of the porch creaked beneath his worn leather boots as he boxed you in- one hand on the rail behind you, the other ghosting down your side, not touching, not really, but just enough to burn you like the sinner you were.

"You ain't got a fuckin' idea what you're doin'." Joel's voice was a warning, like smoke and sin, and it hit you like a brick.

"I think I do." Your words were more of a moan than a whisper.

"Is that right?"

You didn't break eye contact. You couldn't. You wanted him to feel it, all of it. That heavy thrum beneath your skin, that ugly, ugly craving, that part of you that yearned to be ruined by his hands, and his alone.

Before you knew it, that very same hand was wrapped around your throat.

Not tight- just testing. His fingers, calloused and thick, resting there like a cautionary tale you would never quite learn.

"Say the word. I'll stop."

"You won't."

"You don't know me, honey."

"Maybe not. But I know what you're thinking when you look at me like that." He felt your pulse against his palm, erratic and wild, hungry for more.

There was silence for a moment that felt too long, thunder rolling low in the back like the ground itself was growling, a desperate animal lurking and watching you two dance a dangerous tango.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. It was messy and hungry and depraved, teeth scraping lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth like he was starving and you were the only thing on his dinner table. Like he'd held back for too long and hated himself for it.

And God, of course you kissed him back.

You moaned into it, melting into the depths of his chest, his cheap cologne and aftershave meddling with the stench of ash filling your flaring nostrils as his mouth claimed yours. He dragged his lips down your neck, shoving the hem of your nightdress up to your hips with no remorse. Joel's rough hands pushed one of your thighs over the rail without a word, and he pulled away, staring at you for a beat too long, at your pussy that glistened in the shaded moonlight just for him, polite and pretty and intoxicating.

"Ain't gonna fuck you." He growled, his breath hot on your skin as he nipped across the soft skin of your jaw line. You felt the tip of his middle finger trace along your wet folds, gathering up that slick that was just for him. "Ain't gonna do it, not yet."

And then he knelt, like a sinner offering himself up before god, but not before slipping his finger in your mouth, allowing you to taste just how sweet your sin tasted, allowing your own moisture to coat your tastebuds, salty and sweet and damned.

Right there, on that forsaken porch, rain pounding down around you, lightning flashing, he tasted you for the first time. Your shift bunched around your waist while he pulled your leg over his shoulder and devoured you, like he was punishing you for existing, angry that you were there and stirring up so much trouble in his life.

He started slowly, gently, allowed him to explore every inch of you, and then you felt his mouth on your clit, sucking hard and rough, a wild wolf that finally caught his prey. His dull nails dug into your hips, holding you tight and hard as though the storm winds would whisk you away from him. You wanted to cry out his name. Joel, Joel, Joel. That was who was worshipping at the altar of you, that's who was making you feel this good, this... heavenly.

Your hands slipped down, found his own, and as he ran his tongue back and forth across your swelling clit, you traced the veins on the back of his hands, explored the divots of his knuckles, felt the tips of his rough nails worn down from years of labor, you memorized the way he felt against you.

You memorized the way his tongue felt in your pussy, his teeth on your thighs- and right there on that porch he made you his, ruined you for any other man. The pretty flesh of your lower belly was bruised by the markings of his teeth, tattooed by his incisors, purple and pretty and all for him, your arousal dripping down your legs, thick and heavy with the weight of your crimes.

You orgasmed with your hand tight in his hair and his name bitten into your bottom lip, you tasted the metallic tang of blood as he tasted your honeyed cum, flowing all because of him.

After you finished, he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and he stared at you, not saying a word, inspecting you like a sculpture in a museum.

Your chest rose and fell as you caught your breath, but he had nothing else to offer in terms of aftercare or remorse- he simply walked back inside, and you caught a glimpse of that cross-stitched Jesus watching you from the kitchen window.

The next morning came thick and hot, humid from all that rain, the air thick like syrup. The morning songbirds chirped like they hadn't just witnessed a crime against both God and family values on that porch, their melody delightfully pretty and annoyingly cheerful.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in an old robe that might have once belonged to your mother, but now hung open on you in a way that was clearly an act of war, devious and lustful.

You didn't have to look up to know Joel was there. You could feel him. Brooding in the corner like the storm hadn't quite ended.

He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his black coffee in one hand. Joel wouldn't look at you, in fact he refused.

"Moooornin', Uncle Joel." You grinned, your voice as light and sweet as the peach jam your grandma had laid out on the table. You didn't miss the way his teeth clenched together.

He nodded towards you. Didn't speak a word.

Coward.

Grandma was flipping pancakes. Tommy and your mamma were nowhere to be seen, which felt like a small mercy. The smell of butter and shame hung low in the air as you slid onto a stool at the kitchen island, your heels crossed just so as you poured yourself some apple juice.

"Sleep alright?" You asked him plainly, as if your thighs hadn't been wrapped around his handsome face a few hours ago.

"Slept fine." He muttered.

"Are you sure? You seemed a little... tense last night."

Joel slammed his mug down on the table a little too hard.

Your grandma looked up from the griddle with a startt, her voice a disapproving tut. "Now y'all better be gettin' along now. Ain't no room for drama in this house, except what's on daytime TV." She pointed her spatula between the both of you, he eyes glossed over with seriousness.

"Oh, don't worry, Nan. We get along real well." You calmed her with a big smile. "Don't we, Uncle Joel?"

He walked towards you, and you suddenly felt small against his shadow, tiny and powerless as he towered over where you sat. His face twitched. You smelled like that sweet coconut shampoo you always used, and that pretty vanilla perfume he could always pick out from a mile away.

"Go put on somethin' decent," he warned through gritted teeth, voice quiet and low. Your nan hummed naively in the background, whistling as she continued making breakfast.

"This ain't decent?" You blinked innocently, your voice like sugar.

He finally looked at you then, eyes locking, his irises dark and dangerous and far, far away.

That's when you felt it. That nasty tension, that heat that settled between you two- undeniable, like a bruise beginning to bloom beneath the skin of a polite conversation. The memory of his mouth and how it felt hung in the space between the both of you like humidity.

"Don't start," he growled beneath his breath, low enough that only you could hear.

"I'm not startin," you whispered, leaning in close enough to make him flinch. "I'm just finishing what you-"

"Stop."

You held his gaze for a beat too long. The word tumbled out low, dangerous- any other peep from you and he would take matters into his own hands, that much you were sure of.

Then you stood, slowly and deliberately, the robe parting just enough to show the curve of your hip.

"Fine." You relented, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "I'll go change."

You didn't miss the way his eyes dragged down your body one last time, and before either of you could turn away, he caught your wrist in his hands.

He nodded for a moment, eyes boring into your own.

"Good girl." Joel whispered, those simple syllables knocking the air right out of your lungs. His thumb felt soft as it caressed atop your knuckles, and you watched him saunter off to his coffee cup before you scurried towards your room.

For a long while you stood in the hallway, lips parted, trembling from the ghost of his voice against your ear.

Good girl.

He said it like a threat. Like a confession. Like the kind of thing a man only says once, or forever- either or.

You stood there dumbly for a moment, blinking.

The house buzzed around you- grandma humming over pancakes, a child screaming about a lost toy- but it all faded into static.

Because Joel Miller had just called you good girl, and you knew the world would never be the same again. At least not yours.

Your skin buzzed like live wire, chest tight. Between your legs was an entirely different story- a slow, throbbing mess. That damn robe clung to your body like it was trying to apologize for failing to cover enough, as though it wished it could have saved you from your recent conundrum of both the heart and the pussy.

You walked towards your room, chest pounding with every step, every bone in your body warning you to turn back before it was too late.

But it already was, and it already had been.

You didn't hear him follow you, you didn't have to. You could feel him, you could feel the air pressure shift and change, like the house was tilting in his direction. The hair on your arms rose, skin prickling with the heat that rolled off of him in waves.

You paused outside your bedroom door, fingers curling around the frame. And then, before anything else, came his voice: low, thick, full of grit and threat.

"You like actin' up in front of people?"

Slowly you turned your head.

He was standing there, arms cross, coffee mug long since abandoned. His gaze was darker than it had been at breakfast. It was predatory. That porch-slick, tongue-between-your-legs version of Joel... he had never left, in fact he was alive and well.

"Wasn't tryin' to act up-"

"Bull. Shit." Joel snarled, backing you up into your room, circling you like a hungry wolf. He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. "You think I didn't see what you were doin'? Wearin' that-that... thing. Lookin' at me like that in front of your grandma?"

You were backed into the wall now, the torn floral wallpaper a stark contrast to the energy that dripped off of your bodies. His hand came up, cupped your jaw- not hard, but firm, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip as though he were weighing whether to shut you up or make you moan.

"Maybe I wanted your attention." You muttered, gently chewing on your bottom lip.

Joel breathed hard, nostrils flaring, before his thumb dipped past your lip, just slightly, resting tenderly on the tip of your tongue. It was enough to make your knees wobble and your heart beat hard against the cage of your ribs.

"Keep talkin' like that," he growled, "and I'll take you apart right here, right now. With your mamma in the livin' room and the Lord watchin'."

You whimpered.

You hated yourself for it, loved yourself for it.

He leaned in, lips grazing yours, not kissing- hovering. Making you beg for his very touch with your breath.

"You gonna be a good girl for real this time?"

You nodded, wordless.

And then- He pulled away, snatched his hand back like you were poison and he had been cut.

"Then get dressed. We're goin' into town. Gotta pick up beer for the grill."

Just like that. A simple command. As if the little room hadn't nearly erupted into flames.

You stood frozen, skin flushed, thighs trembling, every nerve screaming his name over and over and over again. You wanted to scream after him, wanted to brand the word coward into him with a red hot iron. You wanted to pull him back against you and make him finish what he started.

Instead, you slipped into the closet and reached for something short, tight, and pretty. The shorts barely counted as fabric, and the little gold cross dangling around your neck was perfectly ironic, pretty and dainty between your collarbones.

Joel was already waiting by the door, keys in hand, a muscle twitching in his jaw like he'd been chewing on the same thought all morning. His eyes dragged over you once, and that was all it took.

He inhaled deeply through his nostrils before speaking. "Get in the truck."

A warning.

The ride started silent.

He didn't look at you as he drove, and you didn't bother pretending you couldn't notice the way his fingers tightened around the steering wheel every time your thighs shifted against the hot leather seat.

"You always this quiet?" Your words were meant to poke the bear, a shit eating grin stretched cutely on your mouth.

"You always this loud?" He shot back.

You smiled something innocent. "Only when I'm ignored."

Joel scoffed. "Ain't ignorin' you," he muttered, eyes on the road. "I'm tryin' not to fuckin' kill you."

You tilted your head. "Oh?"

"You think this is funny?"

"Oh no, not at all. I think it's... fun."

Another twitch. His fingers grasped the steering wheel so tight it looked like it hurt.

"You don't got any idea what you're doin'." Joel rasped.

"I'm wearing shorts in the summer, Joel. It's not a crime."

He laughed a short, dry laugh. "Not a crime? Oh baby. It is when you're sittin' next to your step-daddy's big brother with your legs wide open. I'm supposed to be your uncle."

You spread your legs a little wider, your grin only widening. "You lookin' or something?"

"Jesus Christ." He growled, umber irises clinging to the turf ahead.

You allowed the sweet kiss of silence to stretch long and painful between the both of you, the heat between your bodies thick enough to chew. The radio was off, the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the occasional sharp exhale from Joel, like he was trying to exorcise something demonic from within him.

Eventually you reached over and turned the dial, letting some old country song roll in, low and moody.

"She got a body like a backroad..." The man crooned on the radio.

You smiled wide. "You like this one, Uncle Joel?" Your words were a taunting challenge, a hook and bait you were begging him to grab ahold of.

Joel said nothing.

You leaned in closer, close enough to feel his shoulder against your arm.

"Don't like it when I call you Uncle?" You asked softly, your voice a hot whisper that fanned across his face.

He shook his head. "No."

"Fine. What about... daddy?"

Joel turned and looked at you. Really looked at you.

Dark brown eyes wild. Breath short. Sweat kissing at his temple.

"You keep talkin' like that, and you're gonna learn what the word daddy means real fuckin' quick."

You licked your lips. "I was hopin' I would."

He pulled over. Fast.

His truck skidded into a shaded shoulder off the side of the road, gravel crunching like bones beneath the tires. He parked. Threw it in gear. Then turned to you wild and raging like he was about to do something illegal.

"Get in the backseat." He rasped.

You shifted. Slow, testing, leaning into his space. Your heart pounded.

"Make me." They were only two simple words. Soft. Defiant. But they were enough to bring the whole universe crashing in on you.

Joel stared you down, caught between deciding whether he wanted to kiss you or kill you.

He made his choice.

You didn’t even have time to squeal before he’d reached over, grabbed you by the waist, and hauled you over the console like you weighed nothing. You hit the backseat with a soft grunt, denim-clad hips scraping across the warm leather, and before you could blink, he was on top of you.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” Joel growled, voice like thunder rumbling in a storm cellar. His fingers were working the buttons of your shorts, rough against your exposed skin in a way that was deliciously dirty.

“I think I do,” you whispered, smiling up at him like the liar you were.

His hand was on your thigh, pushing it open—wide. Exposing the lacy little excuse for underwear you’d chosen just for this moment. It was soaked through.

Joel groaned like he was in pain.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He leaned in, forearm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh, hoisting it up until your knee nearly touched the fogged-up window and your foot was resting on his shoulder. His breath was hot on your face, the scent of coffee and cigarettes and something darker, something animal, wafting across your face.

“You’re drippin’,” he muttered, eyes locked on the spot between your panties that pulsed for his touch. “You’re gonna tell me this ain’t what you wanted? That you didn’t walk outta that house like a fuckin’ invitation?”

“I wanted this,” you breathed. “I want you.”

He growled. Actually growled.

His fingers hooked under your panties and dragged them aside, exposing your soaked cunt to the hot air inside the truck. He didn’t even take them off, just shoved them to the side, rough and impatient and easily forgotten.

Then his fingers were on you—two of them, thick and calloused, sliding through your folds, parting you open like you were his to split and ruin and mark.

You gasped.

“Joel—fuck—”

“That’s Daddy,” he hissed, and then he was inside you, two fingers buried to the hilt, pressing up against that spongy shot that had uncontrollable moans erupting from your throat.

You saw stars.

Back arched. Mouth open. One hand flew to his wrist, trying to steady yourself as he fucked you with his fingers, deep and precise, curling against that sweet spot like he’d mapped it himself.

“Tight little pussy,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “So goddamn wet for me. So fuckin’ pretty.”

You were moaning now—soft and breathless and desperate. His name fell from your lips again and again, but it wasn’t the one he wanted.

So he slowed down, pulled his fingers out just enough to tease your entrance, not pushing back in until you whined.

“What’s my name?” he asked.

“Joel—”

“Wrong.”

He stopped completely. Just held you there, fingers resting at your slick, pulsing hole, lips against your neck, teeth dragging against your veins.

“What’s my fuckin’ name, sugar?”

You choked on a gasp.

“D-Daddy—fuck—Daddy, please—”

And just like that, he slammed his fingers back in, rougher now. Faster. His palm rubbed against your clit as he worked you open, relentless, filthy sounds echoing inside the cab.

“That’s my girl. My good girl," he murmured, kissing the corner of your jaw as you writhed beneath him. “Takin’ it so well. Just like you were made for me.”

Your eyes rolled back. Every muscle in your body clenched. Your stomach twisted tight and sweet, and then—

You came.

Hard.

Convulsing around his fingers, sobbing his name, thighs trembling against his sides. He didn’t stop until he wrung every last spasm from your body, until you were so sure you would pass out if he went any longer.

Only then did he pull his fingers out—slow, sticky, glistening—and stare at them like they’d just given him the answers to every question he’d never dared to ask. You watched him slowly sink one into his mouth, lick off the taste that sung of you, his dark eyes peering in to your own, challenging and mean.

“Taste like sin,” he muttered. “Sweet, nasty little sin.”

You lay there, spent and gasping, your skin hot against the sticky leather, your mind wrecked, your heart somewhere in the back of your throat, beating and thrumming and clawing its way towards your tongue.

And Joel?

He just leaned back in the front seat and lit a cigarette, breathing hard, not saying a word, allowing the smoke to cover him like a safety blanket.

“We still gotta get the beer,” he said after a long pause, voice low and ruined.

You blinked at him, dazed.

“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind,” you whispered, your top halfway off your body and your little jean shorts still unzipped and uncomfortably tight around your hips.

He grinned, crooked and mean. You shouldn't have found it so alluring, but you did. How could you not? "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

After Joel wrung your orgasm out like it owed him rent, the truck ride into town was—unsurprisingly—tense. He didn’t speak, nor did he look at you.

Just smoked his cigarette like it was a goddamn life raft and kept his eyes glued to the road.

But you knew him now. Knew the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of his eyes in the rearview mirror, the way his free hand kept flexing open and closed on the gearshift.

Uncle Joel was seething.

Not because of what you’d let him do to you, but because of how easy it was. How easy it was to sink his thick fingers deep within you, how easy it was for his ears to tune to the pitch of your moans, pretty and wild, how easy it was to get lost in the way your eyes went crazy and wide with pleasure he was giving you.

It was too easy, alarmingly so.

And by the time he rolled into the parking lot, those thoughts were thrumming loud in his ear drums.

The gas station was one of those sad little roadside stops with flickering lights and hand-scrawled beer specials in the window, old and rundown and oh so hick. The air was thick with diesel exhaust and divorced dad regret, heavy with a sort of tension that was unknown to you.

You slid out of the truck, legs still a little shaky, and walked inside like nothing had happened, still trying to adjust your bra straps, as though all of the town had their eyes on you and knew what you had just done. Joel stayed outside, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, eyes locked on you through the dusty windshield as he opened up his second pack of American Spirits.

You could feel the heat of him even from twenty feet away.

And then he walked in.

Some guy—twenties, scruffy, boots worn but clean. Too much cologne. You smelled him before you saw him, and he smelled like bad decisions made in the back of a pickup truck. Not unlike the one you’d just made, but something that was- somehow- even more embarrassing.

“Hey there,” he said, smiling wide, eyes dragging down your legs, over your ass, lingering just a beat too long on the swell of your tits beneath the tight tank. “You lost, sweetheart?”

You turned your head slow. Blinked. Smiled like a trap being set.

“No, I’m good. Just grabbin’ some beer for the grill.”

“Family BBQ?” he asked, stepping closer. “Mind if I crash? I make a mean brisket.”

You laughed. Sweet and dismissive. But then you glanced out the window.

Joel was still watching. His jaw was clenched, and his arms were still crossed, yet the veins on his arms bulged with something dangerously close to jealousy. You saw it in his umber irises- something murderous. It made your heart beat pick up, made that adrenaline in your belly pound for more.

So you leaned into it. Just a little.

“I dunno,” you purred. “You look more like dessert than dinner.”

The guy laughed, and his oil covered fingers touched your elbow as his lips parted to say something else, no doubt something boyish and horny.

Joel moved.

You didn’t see him come in—but suddenly he was there, all heat and fury, stepping between you and the stranger with the kind of slow, dangerous calm that made your stomach drop and all that adrenaline fade.

“She’s taken,” Joel said, voice low and steady, like a hungry dog growling through its teeth, with no cage to stop it from pouncing.

The guy blinked, all of his emotion draining from his face. “Whoa, man. I was- I was just talkin’—”

“Yeah, I saw.” Joel’s hand came down hard on the counter as he leaned in, inches from the poor bastard’s face, and you saw the crow's feet narrow alongside his eyes, saw the way his teeth gritted tight together as he spat out his words. “You ever look at her like that again, I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw.”

“Jesus, alright—”

“Don’t bring him into this.” You would have laughed if the situation wasn't so tense/

The guy backed off fast, muttering apologies as he grabbed a bag of chips and vanished down an aisle, his tail between his legs and his head down. You stood there, beer in hand, soaking in the tension like it was bathwater, unsure of what to say or do next.

Joel didn’t look at you. Not until you reached for the register. He leaned in close, breath hot at your ear. “We’re gonna have a problem if you keep lettin’ boys touch what don’t belong to them.”

You turned your head, inches from his lips. “I didn’t know I belonged to anyone.” Your words were steady, despite the way your heart pounded inside of you.

He smiled, but it wasn’t nice, it never was. “You will.”

He paid for the beer and a fresh pack of cigarettes before hauling you outside, back to the deserted parking lot, back to his truck that was hidden behind the dumpster, the air thick and still with summer heat.

"I don't believe you." You challenged, his hand tight around your wrist.

He stopped in his tracks. Joel looked at you like he'd just made peace with his damnation.

His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. And then—he grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you, it was more of a threat than a declaration. Not soft. Not romantic. Consuming.

You barely had time to gasp before he spun you around and shoved you against the grimy, vibrating hood of his pickup, right there in the gas station parking lot.

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” he snarled.

“No.”

You didn’t flinch. You wanted the punishment. You needed the consequence. You craved him.

His eyes went dark. Dangerously dark. You felt it in your throat, in your clit, in your soul.

“You think you’re in charge?” Joel stepped in close, pressing the heat of his body against your back, one hand gripping your waist like he wanted to crush you and fuck you in the same motion. “You been walkin’ around all summer with your little ass hangin’ out, beggin’ for attention, and now you’re gonna act shy? Nah, baby. You earned this.”

His fingers trailed down your stomach and popped the button on your shorts with one flick. You didn’t stop him. You arched into it, your ass tight against his hardened cock.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you right here,” he muttered against your ear. “Where anyone could see. Where someone might walk by and know exactly what you are.”

“What am I?” you asked, breathless, barely able to get the words out as he dragged your zipper down and shoved your shorts and soaked panties to your knees.

Joel’s hand slid between your thighs. His fingers dipped into your wetness, obscene and slick.

“My dirty little girl,” he growled. “My fuckin’ problem. My cock-hungry little niece.”

You gasped, legs already shaking.

He chuckled darkly.

“Yeah. That got you wet, didn’t it? Bein’ my brother’s girl. Bein’ my family. You been thinkin’ about this every night, haven’t you? Touched yourself with that pretty little cross around your neck while you thought about Uncle Joel splittin’ you open like a goddamn peach.”

You whimpered. You were already on the edge. Already soaked. Already gone.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I want it.”

“Say what you are.”

You clenched around nothing. Your mouth felt dry and sinful, tongue aching for words that would never fully form.

“I’m your niece,” you whispered, words broken. “And I want you to ruin me.”

Joel groaned. Real. Deep. Like it hurt him.

Then he flipped you over, shoved you up onto the hood, and dragged your legs open with no ceremony, no patience, like a man unhinged.

You watched his eyes drag over you. Soaking. Spread. Wanton.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he muttered, dragging the head of his cock through your dripping folds. “Told myself I’d be good. But then you started callin’ me Daddy. And now—fuck, baby—I’m gonna wreck you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe.

One thrust.

One brutal, impossible thrust and he was inside you, bottomed out, thick and hot and everywhere all at once.

You cried out—loud, raw, unfiltered—and he loved it.

“Shhh, now,” Joel purred. “You don’t wanna get caught, do you? You want someone to see me fuckin’ this little pussy? Want someone to know you got your uncle's cock inside you?”

You moaned. Desperate. Aching.

He snapped his hips forward.

The truck rocked under you.

Gas station lights flickered overhead. The radio inside buzzed faintly, muffled by the sound of you being fucked within an inch of your existence.

“God, Joel—please—”

“What? You prayin’ now?” he growled, grabbing the back of your thigh and lifting it higher so he could go deeper. “You think God’s listenin’? Sweetheart, He left the moment you let me push my cock inside you.”

You clenched around him, sobbing out with how fucking full you were.

“You like that?” Joel growled, hips slamming into you over and over. “You like Daddy tellin’ you you’re too far gone to be saved?”

“Yes—yes—I want it—I need it—”

Joel leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice a low snarl.

“I’m gonna cum inside you.”

Your eyes widened.

“You’re gonna sit at dinner tonight with my cum leakin’ out of you while your step daddy Tommy passes you the fuckin’ potatoes and pretends not to see the way you squirm in your seat.”

“Do it,” you begged. “Breed me, Daddy.”

That broke him.

He fucked you so hard the hood of the truck dented. Your thighs bruised beneath his grip. Your nails scraped the metal like claws, your voice rising in pitch with every snap of his hips.

You came so hard your vision whited out, screaming his name—Joel, Daddy, Uncle, whatever it took—as your pussy fluttered around him like it was made to take him, like it was created for the sole purpose of feeling Joel Miller's fucking cock, for taking his cum.

Joel’s hips didn’t stop even after he emptied himself inside you. He stayed deep, grinding into the mess he’d made like he wanted to etch his name inside your womb. You could feel him—still hard, still leaking, still not satisfied.

You whimpered, face pressed to the warm hood of the truck, your legs spread wide and shaking. Every movement sent another hot trickle of him dripping down the inside of your thigh.

“Too much,” you gasped. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

He leaned over you, chest against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You don’t get to say that,” Joel growled. “Not when you begged for it. Not when you called me Daddy with my cock already buried inside you.”

One of his hands slipped under your shirt and dragged up your belly, sliding rough over your ribs until he palmed your breast, squeezing tight, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasped.

“Now you’re gonna take it.”

He slid out—just enough to watch your pussy flutter and leak—and then slammed back in, all the way to the hilt, feeling your gummy walls constrict tightly around him.

You cried out. It was too much. It was perfect.

Joel moaned behind you, grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise. He didn’t care that you were shaking, that your thighs were already slick with both of your cum, that you were gasping like you were about to cry.

He fucked you anyway.

Hard. Deep. Fast. Dirty.

The truck shook with every thrust. The sound of it—wet and obscene—echoed through the empty parking lot like a prayer in reverse.

“Listen to that,” Joel grunted. “That’s what you wanted, right? That sweet little cunt of yours suckin’ me in. You fuckin’ hear it?”

You were sobbing now, your face pressed to the metal, your body twitching from overstimulation.

“I can’t—Joel—please—”

His hand slapped your ass. “You can. And you will.”

Then he spit on his fingers and reached around, finding your clit like he’d done it a hundred times. Like it was his.

He rubbed tight, brutal circles against it—no patience, no mercy, your little bud tight and sensitive, twitching beneath the pads of his calloused fingers.

“Don’t you dare hold it,” he growled. “Cum on my cock again. Show me just how ruined you really are.”

You couldn’t even speak. You splintered. You came so hard your knees buckled. Your mouth opened in a silent scream. Your pussy clenched around him like it didn’t want to let go.

And Joel—he came again.

Harder this time. With a groan so deep it sounded like a man dying and coming back to life at once. He stayed deep, rutting into you, making sure every drop of him was inside, that none of his spend would go to waste.

You felt it—hot and thick and endless—coating your walls, your thighs, your soul.

And then… stillness.

Heavy breathing.

You, draped over the hood of the truck like a used doll, your body soaked in sweat and slick and shameful satisfaction.

Joel pulled out slow, watching his cum drip from you. A thick string slid down the inside of your leg and he groaned at the sight of it.

He dragged two fingers through the mess and brought them to your mouth.

You opened. You sucked. You tasted everything—him, you, the filth of what you were—and didn’t look away once.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running his thumb along your bottom lip. “You're mine now, baby."

You nodded. Smiling like the little sinner you were.

Bent. Fucked. Full. And proud of it.

When you arrived home, you walked into the kitchen, the house loud with the clatter of silverware and family gossip. You could feel Joel's cum thick and hot between your legs, stuffed full, your pussy sore and used and humming with pleasant satisfaction.

You walked inside like a new woman. You were freshly showered- sort of- rinsed off by a hose outside on Joel's orders, while he smoked and watched the way your body moved, told you not to get too clean.

So you didn't.

You were still wearing his flannel. No bra. That pretty cross dangling between your pretty breasts, glistening and glimmering beneath the low light of the old rickety house.

Everyone had seated for lunch. Grandma at the head of the table. Your mother, flushed from wine. Tommy, smiling wide. Cousins, loud and sticky with grape soda and sunscreen. The TV was playing some rerun of an old Baylor football game in the living room. A fly buzzed lazily near the screen door, the ambiance unsettling and homely.

Joel sat across from you at the table, his eyes following every movement you made, watched the exact moment your legs pressed together tightly because you shifted and felt that familiar drip, that tempestuous aftershock of all he had done to you.

He was pounding back Coors and sweet tea, doing anything he could to keep his mind off of you.

Your grandma passed the green beans and muttered something about politics. You tried not to make a sound, until your mamma looked at you with concerned and asked, "you alright, baby? You're awfully quiet."

"I'm fine, Mamma. Just sore."

Joel choked on his lager.

"Sore?" Tommy asked with a blink.

"Yeah." You sighed out innocently, raising your cup to your lips as you sent Joel a challenging glare from behind the brim. "Took a real long ride earlier."

Joel hid a grunt with a cough, loud and rough. He dropped his fork and stood up from the table, muttering about taking a smoke break, his face the vision of a man who wasn't sure if he were about to hit someone or fuck you again- and you weren't sure which it would be.

He looked at you. Hard. You grinned, slowly chewing on a spoonful of cobbler, watching as he walked out.

You waited for a bit. Got swept up in the conversation about football and politics and how crazy the world was getting.

You set your fork down after a while, following the blazing trail that Joel had left in his wake.

You found him on the back porch, cigarette lit, a hand in his pocket. The setting sun painted him in gold and ash, air heavy with tension and cicadas and everything you hadn't said.

He didn't turn around. He took a long, heavy drag, finally speaking. "This can't happen again."

You stepped closer, pressed your chest to his back, slid your arms around his waist- you swore he leaned in to it, tilted his head back every so slightly, like a broken man who hadn't been touched like that in years.

"Sure it can."

"No, it can't. You're-Tommy... you're-"

"Doesn't really matter." You hummed.

Joel turned, fast, eyes wild and mouth tense.

"You don't get it- I can't... hold back. Not with you."

"Yeah, I'm kinda counting on that, Joel."

There was a long silence, loud with singing crickets and your heartbeat and every broken thing that the both of you were.

But then?

He kissed you. Soft this time- but it wasn't safe, it never was, it never would be. It tasted like the end of something, like the beginning of something even worse.

Joel pulled back just enough to whisper, "you're gonna be the death of me."

And you smiled, tasting him on your tongue. "Maybe."

You glanced over your shoulder, through the screen door. Lunch was in full swing. Grandma rambling, Tommy laughing, Mamma pouring more wine- everything was normal. Everything was fine.

And none of them knew. Not yet, hopefully never.

You leaned in close, grabbing Joel's hand, your lips pretty against his ear, "but you'll die happy."