secrets
cowboy like me chapter fourteen
one day i'll rein my chapters back in. today is not that day. thirteen thousand words of...a little bit of fucking and a lot of fighting. i love you all and i still can't believe the love you continue to show this series. you're all actually insane. i present to you: the penultimate chapter of cowboy.
pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader
summary: the one where...everybody finds out.
warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), a big argument, a lot of guilt, angry disappointed dad, one mention of alcohol consumption, lil bit of sub!joel, unprotected piv, tiny bit of degradation, tiny bit of praise kink, creampie, cursing, smut, fluff, angst
word count: 12.9k (dry heaves)
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You haven’t slept a wink. Not one second.
You and Joel were awake until one in the morning on the phone; you – panicking, spilling words into the receiver, watching different cuts of your dad realizing everything as though projected across your blank ceiling, and Joel – monotone as fucking ever, batting every single theory away.
He doesn’t know a damn thing, he’d said. You didn’t miss the way his words hung over the edge of the sentence, trembling almost.
You scoffed and hissed back down the line. You don’t fucking know that! How can you know that?
You think he just found out about us and thought, Hey, better get some shut-eye before I deal with this? Really, baby?
I think he doesn’t know what he found out. I think he’s probably tryna convince himself that he’s wrong.
So, let him. He’s wrong. We go with that.
Joel knew he wasn’t doing anything to calm you down. Wasn’t offering anything you could seriously take on. You know he wasn’t trying to.
He was as worried as you were – he was just pretending not to be, because what fucking good would it do to have the two of you bouncing off one another with panic?
Still, he stayed on the phone the entire night. When he fell asleep, you lay in bed and tossed everything over in your head like tearing back the pages of a diary. Last night, then Frank’s, then the weekend before that, then the Hillcrest – all the way back to that first ride home. The pissing rain, the boxes of nails rattling in the glove compartment with each sway of the truck. Recalling every word spoken, every move made, every expression pulled and glance stolen and fucking breath taken.
Any sound from beyond your door shot a bullet of adrenaline through your veins, coursing through your body like ice. As if it was your dad, barreling in at 3AM to have it out with you.
You reckon you’d be ready if he did. Wide-eyed, fists clenched, heart hammering.
Joel groans back to life at eight. You hear the ruffling of bedsheets, the crackle down the line as he drags the phone across his mattress and pins it to his ear. You lift your own. Joel and 08:43:36, 37, 38 underneath it on the screen.
His voice drums low and groggy from the speaker. “You are gonna have my phone bill through the damn roof. I’m exhausted, darlin’.”
“I can’t think of anything else. He knows, Joel.”
He sighs. You can see his head falling into his hand, see his thumb rubbing circles into his temple. “Let’s just see what happens, alright? There ain’t any chance you left your phone in the living room ‘n he came across it, thought he’d keep it for you comin’ home?”
“I’ve barely left my room all week. Why would it be down there?”
Joel’s quiet. He just breathes down the line. After a minute, he clears his throat.
“Come over, would ya?”
“Huh?”
“Come over. I wanna see you. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Joel, I’m –”
“Hey. Don’t make me ask again, alright? C’mon, now. I got some errands to run; you’re coming with me.”
He doesn’t have to say much else to convince you; you’re already pulling your bedsheets back and hanging up. Your hoodie and shorts are still hooked over the foot of your bed. The sun filters through the drapes, edges you nearer the door. Your chest fills with something calling itself bravery, and slowly, quietly – you click the door open.
The hallway is silent. A blushing gold in the morning light. The house is still – eerily still. Your dad’s room door is open, bed made, sheets tucked neatly under the mattress. Like he had time to spend on it. Stuff to mull over as he made it.
The carpet softens your footsteps when you finally move for the stairs. The birds are singing outside. The wallpaper canvases your shadow, a little monster creeping along one step behind you, passing picture frames which dazzle with sunrays and mirror a half-lit reflection back to you. One side you – the other, missing.
You lean over the last step, craning your head and shoulders into the hallway. The clock on the wall opposite ticks to no one. Tick tick tick tick. And aside from it, from its taunting tutting, there are no other signs of life. His jacket hangs from the peg. His boots lying below, laces tangled.
The sun separates into brittle shards through the window, illuminating the way to the kitchen. You’re not fucking prepared to follow it.
Shoulders hunched, like it might make a difference, you step forward and lower your thumb and index finger over your keys, aiming for them like a shaky arcade claw machine. Tick tick tick. They jingle as you hook your fingertip through them. Your nose wrinkles.
“Hey.”
He appears around the corner like an apparition. The keys drop back to the unit with a violent clatter.
“Jesus!”
“Woah, woah.” Your dad holds a palm up, laughing nervously. “Sorry. Where you headed?”
“Uh, J– Sarah’s. Some errands she wants some help with.”
He nods. “Yeah? You don’t want breakfast first?”
You drag your eyes to meet his for the first time. He looks drawn, skin like webbing, as though it’s just draped over his skull. As though you could put your finger through it like parchment, just push straight through. He looks like he’s had about as much sleep as you have.
“No, thanks,” you say, the sunken, sullen sight of him crumbling your voice to dust. Your lips move wordlessly, waiting for another lie from your tongue to offer over. But between the way he looks, weary and forlorn, and the thin veil of truth left between you – nothing materializes.
“Why don’t you – why don’t you hold back a second?” Dad beckons you forward, folding his fingers to his palm. “Got somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.”
“Dad, I really gotta go, I –”
“Just – come on. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”
He disappears without waiting for a response. Shifts back into the living room, shadow following him like a cloak across the door. You hear the creak of his chair as he settles down into it, the unsettling squeal of leather and spring.
Your feet are planted to the hall floor. To move in either direction feels like a trap. To follow after him – sit opposite and swallow back what you think you know is coming. All of his suspicions stuck in your throat like a bitter, powdery pill. Or to turn away – leave him in an empty house, nothing but the sound of his own breathing and that tick tick tick affirming your guilt.
No more excuses filter through – none of Joel’s ideas, none of his explanations. You let your shoulders drop and your eyes close. The only image behind them is that six-foot, graying, droning idiot who’s probably sat waiting for you to pull up so he can take you to fucking Trader Joe’s or whatever.
And his shirt, which he’d probably drape over your shoulders before he’s even said hello. And his smile, which would draw you onto your tiptoes, draw your lips to his. And his hands, and his waist, and his pulse in step with yours as you follow him around the quiet store, the Saturday morning air daring you to hook your fingers around two of his every now and then. The longing a gnawing in your chest, burrowing deep beneath the cage of your ribs.
He's not here, though. It’s just you. And if you call him now, if he shows up unannounced – it’s only going to confirm what your dad thinks. Fuck it – what he knows.
So you unstick your sneakers and haul yourself through to the living room.
He’s rocking in the chair when you sink back into the couch. Balls of his feet pushing him back and forth. His fingers to his lips, like keeping the words at bay for now. Like feeling the jagged shape of them through his skin.
You throw a pillow over your legs, shaggy ivory fringe tickling your bare thighs. Your dad doesn’t speak. When you lift your head, his eyes flit from yours down to your restless fingers knitting the tassels of his pillow.
“What is it?” you croak.
“Mind if I ask you somethin’?”
You shrug. “Go for it.”
He waits a beat. A hesitation. Like he doesn’t want to ask the first question. He’s at the edge of a cliff. One more step and he’s plummeting down the rocky side, into a fog of cloud. Nothing will ever be the same. Only – you’ve already pushed him. He’s already falling. He just hasn’t realized it yet.
Maybe he feels the drop in his stomach, right now. Maybe the wind screams in his ears. He finally asks, “When were you gonna tell me about y’all gettin’ into a barfight on Friday night?”
Unexpected. But keep your fucking cool.
Your fingertip whitens, blood halted by the knot of the cushion fringe. You chew on a torn leaf of skin from your lips. “What?”
“You ‘n Joel. When he picked you up. What the hell happened?”
Your eyes slide from his to the patio door behind him, garden lighting up with the sun scaling higher in the sky. You stare there until it burns, until it’s all just a blur of color in your vision, and then pull a half-blinded gaze back in his direction.
You’re frozen, as if he has you at gunpoint. Shoulders tense, eyes wide. Dontshootdontshootdontshoot. “Who –? Who said that?”
“Hank. Was on the phone to ‘im last night. Anna said Joel was squarin’ up to some kid in Frank’s. You wanna tell me exactly what happened?”
“Nothing.” Liar. “Nothing happened. It was just some asshole. Joel was just lookin’ out for me. For us. Me ‘n Anna.”
“She told Hank he knocked the kid out. That Sam had to stop it from gettin’ outta control.”
He stares at you, and there’s no mask on his face. No cover, no disguise. He’s suspicious. And he doesn’t care that you know it. He’s not just asking about the barfight.
“Are you gonna say it or am I, hon?”
“Say what?”
Your last thread of insane hope that he’s innocently wondering about Frank’s is snapped in two by the words that tear out of his mouth, so quick they rip into your skin like shards of glass.
“What the hell’s goin’ on between you two?”
Your body suddenly drops further into the couch, the weight of your blood freezing to ice in your veins. Your joints seize, your jaw locks. Air passes across your open lips with no intention of carrying words back out the way it came. You forget any ability you had previously to come up with excuses, to cover up, to lie. Hell, you’re not sure you’d remember your own fucking name if he asked that next.
You say nothing. And he cocks his head, drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.
Say something.
“Nothing.”
Say something more convincing.
“Nothing?” you repeat, a shrill pitch in your voice like it’s a question. Like he’s dumb for even thinking there might be something weird going on. Like he’s the idiot.
The clock in the hall ticks to itself, amused. Fifteen little snaps. Each one sounds like a plate of glass beneath your feet, cracking a little more, a little deeper, a little wider. The abyss opening its wide, dark jaws beneath you.
Your dad’s expression doesn’t change. He crosses his arms, head leaning back a little. He almost looks sad. Almost looks like he might give in. Send you on your way, on your errands with Sarah.
But something recharges him, something must flicker behind his eyes, because he sits forward again and watches your reaction intently as he says –
“Then explain the text messages you been sendin’ each other.”
Another blow hits your stomach, rippling waves of white heat through you. You feel hot, a scorching panic right beneath the surface of your skin so hot that it mistakes itself for ice cold. A panic which radiates from your heart, pulsating through your entire body, every limb beginning to shudder involuntarily. Your silence is answer enough.
He sighs. Sits forward with his elbows on his knees. “I knew y’all were close, knew you cared about each other. You sure always talked to ‘im more ‘n you ever talked to me, even before you went off to college. But I’ve been noticing things lately…Something’s different. Something’s changed.”
Your eyes trace his form as he talks. It’s fucking dizzying. He’s animated, like a character from some eighties cop show who finally solved the mystery. He knows. He knows everything. Your jaw won’t move to answer.
“Seeing you two together – talking, laughing. The way you look at each other these days. ‘n you’re always near each other, ain’t you? Always hoverin’. It ain’t anything like before. That day the three of us went to Costco, that – I –” His anger seems to boil over, cascading from his lips in an angry burst of hot breath. “I felt like a spare tire in the back of the truck that day.”
“We’re…We’re just…f-friends…I don’t –”
He holds a finger up. Doesn’t want to hear it. Not until his speech is done. The sun moves behind a cloud; the living room suddenly drains of light. “That day you said you were spending the night at Anna’s. Said you were havin’ a pool day, right?”
“Right,” you whisper, eyes closing over. They feel heavy. Tired and teary.
“Right. Except,” he brings his finger down, aims it straight at you, “Hank says you weren’t never there. Anna was at Sal’s all day Sunday.”
Fuck.
“Dad…”
You’re pleading with him now. Enough, I’ve heard enough. I know you know. As if you might still be able to stop the train, dig your heels in and hold on tight to derail it. Derail his thoughts. Salvage the situation, string it back together with shame and atonement.
But he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even hear you.
“’n that’s when I got to thinkin’ – last Monday, at Joel’s. I went over to fix his sink – you remember I told you about his sink?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I went over there, and he’s cookin’ this great big breakfast – pancakes, all of it – and there ain’t no one else in his house. Just him. Sarah was in Nashville, you remember?”
You take a deep breath. This is it. The ship’s beginning to disappear beneath the black waves.
“I thought maybe he had someone over, maybe expectin’ that girl from the plant hire…Anyway,” he bats his hand, bats the hopeful glint in Lois’s eye from his mind, “I’m walking downstairs, on my way out, and I notice somethin’ on the floor by the door.”
His chair squeaks timidly as he moves, his right arm lowering, scooping for something you can’t see yet. But when he shakily lifts it, your eyes fall to your knees. It hangs before you, apologetic and ashamed.
Joel was right. He knew it. You palmed him off. You told him your dad wouldn’t – couldn’t – put two and two together. And here he is, sat feet from you, holding the final piece to the puzzle in a quivering fist. Proof that, when he was in the house that day, you were only feet from him. Wrapped in his best friend’s shirt, dripping wet from his shower.
“This bag,” he hisses, and the tears finally drop onto your cheeks. They scurry to your chin, gathering and throwing themselves to your chest. Your shoulders drop, your eyes still low. You can’t look at him.
He speaks slowly. Speaks through his teeth. Every word like its own poisonous jab.
“Now you tell me: what in God’s name is your bag doin’ in Joel Miller’s hallway, at ten in the mornin’, when you’re supposed to be at Anna’s?”
Your fingers touch your forehead, a burning pain beginning to sting through your skull. You can feel your pulse in your temples. You’ve never wanted Joel to be stood in front of you so badly in all your life; just to deflect some of the interrogation off of you, just to give you breathing space. Just to protect you from the onslaught of questioning from your dad.
“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. The bag hits the carpet with a thud. “No, there ain’t no way. You were at Anna’s, right? You ain’t with Joel Miller, no way. I’m thinkin’, Please, God, don’t let that have been my daughter’s bag that day. But I’m right, ain’t I? You were there, weren’t you?”
You blink rapidly. The tears multiply quicker. The room is glossed in a protective film of salt and adrenaline. Give me something to say back. Give me something to say back.
“Where were you, hon? Musta been hidin’ somewhere, right?”
Give me something please think of something please come over please walk through that door please tell me what to say.
And then it comes to you. You blink the mist from your eyes. He said…he knew about texts you’d been sending Joel. How did he…?
“How did you know about the texts?”
“Pardon me?”
You straighten up and look him dead in the eye. Your voice feels hoarse. It sounds nothing like you. “How – did you know – about – the texts?”
“That’s your concern right now?”
“How – did you know?”
He begins to sputter, like the heat turned up under a pan on the hob. “Look, hon, you had me worried sick. Disappearin’ and I got no clue where you are. Always having an excuse to go off somewhere alone, no explanation. Don’t even get me started on those marks on your neck.”
Your hand immediately clamps around your throat, hot skin stained pink hissing into your palm. Joel’s teeth on you last night. His words cushioning the sharp bite. I love you. The heat hurts, now, when it felt so comforting just a few hours ago. It burns. It throbs. It feels like shame.
Your dad’s voice brings you back into the room.
“There’s another thing – last night,” he flings a laugh to you, “you were so quiet. So damn quiet. Didn’t say a word the entire time, and then I leave for all of ten minutes, and suddenly the two of you are headin’ over to his for – what was it? UCLA pamphlets?”
There’s a break between his words, a gap which makes you think that he wants you to answer. Like he’s giving you a chance, extending his arm. But he fills the space with a jeering laugh, and keeps talking.
“Where are they, huh? These pamphlets? ‘s why you were at Joel’s, right? Go on, go get ‘em. Show them to me.”
Your face solidifies. Lips tremble. There’s a scowl pulling your brows together. You’ve no right for it to be there. “Stop it,” you seethe. “Tell me what you did.”
“He’s the only one. The only one who could get you to talk. I had to check, kiddo. I had to know.”
Your stare doesn’t let up. Your lips bolt shut, refusing to say another word until he confesses. Which he does. Almost breezily.
“I looked through your phone. While you were gone. I – I went upstairs, ‘n I took it.”
He says it casually, as though he’s simply checked the newspaper. As though he’s just relaying the columns to you. Someone’s had a baby. Someone else won three grand on a scratch card. By the way, I know you’ve been messing around with Joel.
So it takes a minute for what he’s said to hit you. But when it does, the wave crashes over your shoulders so violently that it throws you to your feet, tasseled pillow whipped to the other side of the couch.
There are tears searing across your eyes. A twisted grimace of a smile on your face, a laugh breaking roughly from your throat. Some crazed, disbelieving, ugly little laugh.
“You – you checked my…my fuckin’ phone. You – you fucking –”
His head jerks back, offended. “Hey, now, listen to me –”
“I’m not listenin’ to another word! Am I twelve?”
You stalk over to the kitchen. The rattle of your dad’s chair tells you he follows.
“Well – you tell me, hon, ‘cause right now, you’re making a lot of real stupid decisions.”
That same ugly laugh echoes around the house. You grip onto the kitchen island. The room starts to wheel.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?” you pant, eyes tight shut. Your thumbs begin to slip, sweat gliding between your skin and the counter.
“I’m your father! I’m lookin’ out for you, damnit! You think I wanna be havin’ this conversation with you right now?”
The granite countertop blurs in and out of focus when you open your eyes. You hook onto it, using it to haul yourself around the island until there’s distance between your wobbly figure and his. And you remember one week ago, when the same counter separated you and Joel, and you think of Joel, and think of his fingers around your wrist, and his fist against Knox’s jaw, and his teeth in your neck.
“Look,” your dad’s voice floats somewhere over the image of Joel’s eyes, “let’s just – let’s calm down. You ‘n me – we’re gonna talk this out. We’re gonna have a calm, mature discussion about all of this. You’re gonna tell me exactly what’s been goin’ on, and then I’m gonna head over to Joel’s – alone – and talk to him.”
But his voice doesn’t sound calm. There’s a tremble to it – a tremor as fragile as glass, as thin as ice. It’s crackling as he speaks. He can hardly keep a hold on it himself.
If he goes over to Joel’s – this you know – there ain’t anything calm or mature that will come of it. Suddenly the images in your head warp, and it’s your fingers around Joel’s wrist, someone else’s fist against his cheek, someone else’s teeth and the venom spat between them.
“Dad,” you pant, “it’s over. He ended it. It’s been done for, like, two weeks now. It was nothing.”
“Oh, nothing, was it?” He steps closer. You retreat. Edge further around the counter, further from him. His head tilts, eyebrows curl. He looks like a vulture, eyeing its prey. “Then what were the two of you up to last night?”
“We – we went for ice cream, that’s all. He wanted to make sure I was alright.”
He’s not convinced. And he shouldn’t be, either. He coughs a laugh. “For three hours? You were eatin’ ice cream for three Goddamn hours?” His cheeks wobble as he shakes his head. Then, in a softer voice, like he’s arming himself with a chisel to prick at the weakest parts of the sculpture, “What’d he do to you, girl?”
The marble cracks and snaps wide open. Anger floods out in hot waves. Any composure you’d managed to scrape together flushes clean out of your body.
“Nothing I didn’t want him to fuckin’ do. Stop treating me like I’m some kid who’s – who’s been tricked, or something. I’m twenty-three, Dad, I’m an adult.”
His silence sends another misdirected shot of panic through you.
“I was in on it just as much as he was,” you weep, fingers searching for a scratch of beard or kiss of flannel.
Your dad scoffs then, hands slapping against his thighs, and turns away. “There ain’t no gettin’ through to you,” he announces to the timid living room.
Still bracing yourself against the island, you take the break in his tirade to catch your breath. The only thought running through your head, losing velocity with each circuit, is Joel walking through that door. His face when he notices you with your flushed cheeks and wide eyes. His hands reaching for yours, through all the lies and hurt. Your dad, stood opposite, tight as an arrow and ready to fucking fly for him. Fists balled, teeth bared.
“He doesn’t even know,” you realize, staring at the glow on the floor cast by the front door. “You haven’t told him you know, have you?”
“’course I ain’t told him. I wanted to talk to you first. Not that it’s gotten us anywhere, huh?”
“I’m gonna text him.”
“Hon, don’t you d–”
“I am not having this conversation on my own. There are two people involved here.”
You pull your phone from your pocket and scrawl some messy message to Joel. Three messy messages. Something like he knows everything, can you come over? I need you. Some needy, dramatic, helpless message.
The typing bubble appears for a fraction of a second. So fleeting that you almost miss it through your tears, before it drops back to nothing. He doesn’t reply.
Doesn’t pick up, either, when you call him. Three times in a row. Three missed calls; three Hey, it’s Joel, sorry I missed yous.
The phone rattles off the counter when you drop it, your head falling into your hands. Your dad wanders back over to his armchair and collapses into it with a sigh, his fingers massaging his temples. The two of you mirrored, the same storm circling between you, only ice in his veins and fire in yours.
Fear keeps your feet planted to the kitchen floor; adrenaline alone keeps you upright. Your fingers push hard into your forehead, an ache sat directly behind that dizzies you. Blood thudding its fists against your eyes, screaming in your ears.
How the fuck did this happen? It feels ridiculous to ask, but it’s all you got. When did the two of you get so lazy? Start forgetting to cover your tracks? Or – maybe worse – stop caring enough to even try?
Of course, saying you were with Anna was a dumb fucking move. Her dad is one of your dad’s buddies. One of Joel’s, too. That was always going to fuck it all up. And you were too caught up, too hellbent on seeing Joel, too fucking horny to stop for five seconds and keep your damn story straight.
There’s nothing to say, nothing that might fix this. There’s no winding your way out of it. The trap has you by the throat. Your jaw aches from trying to free yourself.
Your dad sways side to side in his chair, staring silently at the wall ahead of him. Your face burns with shame, with anger, with embarrassment. Your heart stings from the hurt, from wanting Joel here, from his ignoring your pleas for help. And, most annoying of all – from letting your dad down.
It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. How you spin it. Sure, you’re twenty-three. You can make your own decisions. That much is fucking clear now. Doesn’t mean they’re always good. Even when they make you laugh until your cheeks hurt, make your stomach flip with excitement, make you scream from pleasure.
Make your heart do things you’ve never felt it do before. Things you never knew that it could do.
You let your dad down. He can barely look at you for it. You know damn well that it was worth every second, and yet, right now, nothing but thick, awkward, unbreathable air between the two of you – it feels like it should never have happened.
You’re bent over the counter, head resting on your folded arms, breathing still staggered – when you hear it. The squeal of brakes outside. An engine cutting. A door slamming.
Two knocks on the door, and Joel pushes it open. You’re already in the hallway, watching his heavy head and loose shirt cross the threshold.
He looks up and your eyes meet. His hair’s a mess, he’s in the same tee from last night. He’s gotten straight out of bed and into his truck, and he’s braced, like he doesn’t know what’s coming. Which direction to expect the first punch from.
Your knees weaken at the sight of him. The safe haven of his arms, the home of his chest. The beating pulse behind it whose language you’ve become fluent in. Even now, when everything’s fallen apart, his being here washes relief over you like cool water dousing an inferno. Your body relaxes, your breathing quietens.
Joel nods towards you. You okay?
You shake your head lightly, and he flicks his fingers. You’re in his arms before your brain tells your limbs to move.
“’s okay,” he breathes, lips lined with your ear. His chest is soft, warm; you take fistfuls of his shirt. He strokes your hair, mumbling, “Told you we’ll be alright, yeah? It’s goin’ to be alright.”
You weep into him, lips dripping with salty tears. They part to reply, when a low growl rips between your bodies. Joel loosens his grip and you step back, turning around to face the ghost of your father at the end of the hall.
“Get the hell away from him.”
He advances, takes a few steps forward. You meet him halfway, gripping onto his shirt, planting yourself firmly between him and Joel.
“Woah, woah,” you say, pushing on his small chest, “let’s all just calm down. Dad.”
He’s smaller, scrawnier, older, and weaker than Joel. He’s never going to lift a fucking hand to him. Not if he wants to keep it intact. He wouldn’t square up to a fly, never mind an actual worthy opponent – but your gut tells you to make damn sure he doesn’t even try.
“Get out of the way, hon.”
“No. No way. And let you –? No.”
He’s not even looking at you. You’re nothing but an obstacle. He’s staring a few feet behind.
“Baby,” Joel says, voice weary and surrendered. “It’s alright, now. C’mon, outta the way.”
“Baby?” your dad seethes. “You just call my daughter baby?”
“Called me it as long as he’s known me, Dad.”
“’s different now,” he spits. “What the f–? I mean, what the fuck, Joel? What were you even thinkin’? Putting your Goddamn hands on my daughter?”
You don’t usually hear your dad curse. All through growing up, even when you left home – you could count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard it. It sends a bolt of fear through you as if you’re five years old again, and he can’t do much worse than say bad words in front of you.
You don’t usually see your dad do any of this stuff. Raise his voice, ball his fists. Lean forward, feet planted on the ground, like daring Joel to make the first move. Joel – his best friend. The guy he was supposed to be able to trust more than anyone in the world.
Angry. Furious. And you think: if there were a time he had a right to feel this way, to act like this and throw threats around as though they’re light as air, if ever there were a moment – this would be it. A betrayal. A secret this big.
Joel takes a step forward. He doesn’t seem scared. More – placating. Letting the tantrum run its course. He holds his hands out. “Let’s just – let’s just talk.”
“Talk,” your dad repeats, spitting the word like it’s rotten in his mouth. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. What the hell have you been doin’ to her? Hm?”
Joel shakes his head, shoulders lifting. “I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to her. That’s not what this is.”
“Hell,” your dad scoffs, “not what it is. Why don’t you explain to me exactly what it is, then, Joel? If it ain’t you takin’ advantage of a young girl? Takin’ advantage of my kid?”
Your head whips back to face Joel, hand lifting in a bracing motion. He sees it – sees the way your head shakes, imperceptible to your dad. Please don’t tell him. Not yet.
It’s bad enough that he knows you’ve been messing around. It hurts enough that he knows you’ve been lying for the entire summer. Telling him the full story – the conversation in the truck, the words exchanged over ice cream and the quiet tick of traffic lights across the street – would only hurt more. Would only sharpen his anger. He’d ask more questions; he’d drive his dagger deeper.
Joel pleads with you. His eyes do his bargaining. You don’t relent. Please.
“You know what I keep thinkin’ about,” your dad interrupts, “you know what’s runnin’ through my mind? That damn garden party. Those cupcakes. You puttin’ your thumb on her lip. I should’ve known the second you touched her what was happening. You arrogant, shameless son of a bitch, Joel, you got no idea what you –”
“Dad. Enough.”
Sure, you’re trying to calm him down, palms outstretched and motioning like he’s a wild horse, rearing frantically and threatening to crush you. But it also stings to hear him talking about Joel like that. Talking to him like that.
The same Joel he’d sling an arm around, knocking their beers together when the Rangers won. The same Joel you know he’d spent hours sat out back with, talking into the night and sharing stories and secrets with the stars.
The same Joel who covered your legs with his jacket last night, who held you when you were hurting, who reminded you what it was like to feel your heart again, beating rapidly in your chest.
He’s not talking about the same Joel. Not the Joel you know. Yours.
He’s still rambling. “…’n all this time, you pair have been closer ‘n you were lettin’ on.”
“You don’t understand,” you plead, “you don’t know him like I do.”
Your dad scoffs, twisted smirk on his face. “Oh, I know ‘im. I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer and a hell of a lot better ‘n you have, hon. Known him since he was fifteen, askin’ me ‘n my buddies to buy ‘im a case of beer from the liquor store. His little brother in ‘n outta jail like God only knows what. I know exactly what he’s like.”
“What he’s like?” you huff, exasperated. You spin on your heel, arms coming down on your sides with a slap. “Joel, help me.”
“Don’t you dare look at ‘im! Listen, kiddo, I know him. Know what he’s like at Frank’s, takin’ women home left ‘n right, then forgetting their damn names. Know he sure as hell can’t remember that schoolteacher’s name, can you, Joel? You remember her?”
“Quit it,” you tell him over your shoulder, still facing Joel.
Your dad laughs from behind you. It turns your stomach. “I’ll bet he never told you about that one, did he? That’d turn you off ‘im in a heartbeat, wouldn’t it?”
“Nah, he told me about Jess.”
Your dad’s voice cuts. Joel’s head finally lifts, his eyes ungluing from the floor to look at you.
You shrug back. “I figured it out. Sister’s name is Mia – she’s a year younger ‘n me.”
You swear he almost fucking smiles. Almost. It’s funny, or at least, it would be if you weren’t both in the middle of tearing your entire dynamic apart. Any other time, he’d nudge you, or tousle your hair, and say you were too clever for him, or something about being old again.
When you turn back to face your dad, he looks like he’s run out of words. So, he repeats ones he’s already said.
“I…Well, I know him, honey. And he ain’t someone you oughta be with.”
“How’d you figure that?”
He sighs. “I just told you my reasons.”
“’cause he wanted beer when he was a kid and he’s slept with people before? ‘cause Tommy gets himself into trouble – trouble that Joel then gets him out of?”
“No, I –”
“You don’t know a damn thing about any of this. You won’t listen to me. If you’d hear me out – hear us out, then you’d –”
“Don’t you dare tell me I’d change my damn mind. Don’t – you – dare.” Your dad’s voice is quiet and slow. Dangerous. Laced with something you’ve never heard in it before. It’s not worth finding out what.
Your head shakes, knee jerking with nerves. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to say.”
The fire flickers, loses light for a second. His voice softens. “Honey…This –” he waggles his finger between your body and Joel’s, “this thing y’all have been…It ain’t right. It is not right, what y’all have been doin’. You are far too young for him. He should know better, and the fact that he doesn’t – well.”
Your brows tighten, eyes pinching around painful tears. “I know why you’re mad. I get it. I’m sorry. But I can’t –” You sigh. “You are suffocatin’ me, living here.”
His façade drops instantly. He pushes his fingers into his eyes, groaning. “Hon, you’re not hearin’ me.”
“I hear you loud and clear, I –”
He cuts you off, throwing his arms up into the air with another loud yell. The words melt into one long drone, a mountainous ramble which peaks and falls in pitch; one minute low and angry and the next high and frantic.
You sigh, shoving by him for the living room. Joel reaches for your hand, your fingers brushing against his.
“Baby,” he says.
“Ah!” Your dad blocks his advance, shaky finger held to his chest. “You dare, son.”
You’re swipe the bag from the floor by your dad’s chair, your change of clothes still in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Slinging it over your shoulder, you whip past your father and lock your hand with Joel’s.
“Hey,” Joel says, slowing you down. “Darlin’, where are you –?”
“I wanna leave.”
“Huh?” he asks, brows raised.
“I want to go,” you whisper.
He glances over to your dad, dumbfounded by the stairs. “Where d’you wanna go?”
Your shoulders roll. Anywhere. Just take me away.
He doesn’t hesitate; barely thinks it over. He tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you toward him. Your feet stumble over the carpet.
“Where in the hell –?” Your dad’s snarling picks up again, his final chance. “I don’t think so –”
Joel’s backing up towards the front door, led by the pull of your hand. “Emotions are pretty high,” he announces, “why don’t we have this conversation once everybody’s calmed down?”
“Joel, if you take her, I’ll–”
“I ain’t takin’ her anywhere. She’s an adult.”
Liar. His hand wouldn’t let go of yours if you tried to pry it from his clutches.
“I’m leavin’,” he says, “she’s just coming with me.”
Your dad barks your name, and you freeze. Joel stops, too, allows you the time to turn. Like a deer in the headlights.
“I’m going, Dad,” you shakily tell him.
“I swear to God,” he says, “if y’all walk outta that door…”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean for any of this.”
He shakes his head. “Stay, hon. Let’s talk.”
“You’re not talkin’, though. All you wanna do is argue. I wanna go with Joel.”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere with no one! ‘specially not him!”
You shrug, give your head a solemn shake. “Stop me.”
Joel hears the exhaustion in your voice, the scratch of your throat. The way the words melt into one another. He tugs on your hand, leading you through the front door. Your dad doesn’t speak again, and you don’t turn back to check on him.
The neighborhood is silent in the early morning. Yards empty, curtains still closed. No one, not even the sun, tucked behind a thin veil of cloud, sees when you pile into the front seat of Joel’s truck.
“Baby,” he says, pulling your seatbelt over your body.
Your eyes fix on the asphalt ahead. “Just drive.”
“Hey. Look at me.”
When you turn to him, he takes your jaw in both hands. “I love you,” he says.
“Still?” you squeak, eyes heavy with sleeplessness and tears.
“More.”
“This is fucking insane, Joel.”
He nods. “Yeah. ‘n you’re worth all of it.”
“Hey,” Sarah calls when the two of you spill in through the front door. She’s on the couch, Switch console in hand. “What’s up?”
“We have a – a lodger, for the next…little while,” Joel grumbles, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. He kicks off his boots and slides them to the wall, straightens up and looks to you.
You follow suit wordlessly, slipping out of your sneakers. Joel places them by his.
“Cool,” Sarah says, standing up. “How come?”
“Just – dad trouble,” you whisper, deflated. She’s wandering around the couch. A defeated sound rings from the console hanging from her thumb.
Her head tilts. “I…I got plenty room for you,” she flashes you a warm grin, “it can be like a big-ass sleepover.”
You return her smile, a slow, grateful breath filling your lungs. Joel’s arm wraps over your shoulder as your mouth opens to answer.
“No, uh…” He clears his throat. “She’ll be in my room. With me.”
Sarah’s expression is blank. She blinks between the two of you, arms limp either side of her hips. Your eyes flit from Joel to her and back again, wide, waiting. Waiting for someone to move, or speak, or yell.
Joel looks indifferent. Unbothered. As if he just told her it’s sunny outside.
She takes a step forward, and by instinct, you draw back. “Sarah…” you mutter, and she swings around the newel post. She dodges your outstretched hand, whether accidental or deliberate – you’re not sure.
“No, it’s…Okay. Yeah. I’ll – I gotta…Yeah.”
You watch as she climbs the stairs backwards, still looking from your pleading face to her dad’s stoic. She shrugs, wiggles the Switch and mumbles something about it needing charged, before she’s spinning and taking the last few steps two at a time.
When her bedroom door closes, you slump back. Joel doesn’t let go of your shoulder, catching you and pulling you into his chest.
“Fuck,” you whisper, lips pressed against his tee. He smells like pine, like mint, like you.
“’s okay,” he says into your hair, hand curving the shape of your skull. “She’ll come around. You know Sarah.”
You turn, ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. It doesn’t tell you anything new. You miss the days you used to listen for secret messages in the soft rhythm.
Joel’s chin rests on the crown of your head. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “None of this is your fault, you hear? None of it.”
“Now you’re just lyin’ to me. You know that ain’t true.”
A hum rumbles against your cheek like the earth readjusting, rearranging beneath your feet. You lift your head, loosen your grip around his waist.
“You need sleep,” he tells you, thumb swiping gently beneath your heavy eyes.
You don’t protest.
Joel takes your hand, leads you mutely upstairs and into his room. His bed’s not made. The shades aren’t even open. He lifts the sea of sheets, tosses them twice in the air and then pulls the corner back, letting you sit on the edge of the mattress.
He undresses you carefully, like your limbs might crack and burst at the slightest touch. He replaces your hoodie with a fresh tee of his own, one that still smells like the world before its end, and you lay back into bed slowly.
It’s shaped like you – the divot in the mattress. You slot back into it like you never left. The curl of your back and the fold of your knees. You’ve left little pieces of evidence all over the place – all over Joel.
He runs a delicate hand across your head, the repetitive movement lulling you off to sleep. Pushing the boat out.
“You need anythin’?” he asks.
You shake your head, arms wrapping tight underneath your pillow. “I’m good,” you whisper, and the waves pull you under.
His bedside lamp is on when you stir, the left half of the room a glowing honey color. His bare leg slotted between yours, your hands intertwined on his chest. His finger drifts back and forth against your palm, the strokes matching your breathing.
You’re still tired, eyes still rolling beneath heavy lids, but when some commentator screams at the game playing on the TV screen, you snap awake.
Joel curses under his breath, begins tearing the bed apart for the remote – but by the time he turns the volume down, your head is propped against his pillow, knuckles rubbing your eyes.
“Sorry, baby,” he sighs, kissing your forehead as he sits on the edge of the bed.
“’s okay.” You flash him a lazy smile. “What time is it?”
“Almost five thirty.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Slept all fucking day.”
“You needed it,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You want some dinner? Or – breakfast?”
You nod. “Sounds good.”
He disappears downstairs. The echoing of pots and pans and the hum of the extraction fan follow in his wake. You groan, stretching out like a starfish across the messy bed, forgetting for just a moment why you’re here, and what’s happened, and how different everything is.
It feels the same, even after eight hours sleep. Same guilt, and shame. Same anger and resentment towards your dad. Same punch to your gut anytime you picture his face, the wrinkled frown. The trembling fist holding your bag in midair.
The blow is soothed only by the swelling of warmth across your chest, looking around the room. The safety you feel here, as though you’re cut off from the rest of the world. Your father on pause the second you left the house; Joel’s room and his bed giving you time to catch your breath and recalibrate.
You’re not thinking about when you’ll have to go back home. You’re just not.
You knot your shorts back around your waist, take one huge swig of the water Joel left for you, and open his bedroom door, your head throbbing with each movement.
There’s a figure at the end of the hall, frozen in space like a phantom.
“Morning,” she says. Her hair is tied back, oversized hoodie over her shoulders.
“Hi.”
“You sleep good?”
“Must’ve. Missed half the day.”
Sarah smiles.
“Are you gonna kill me?”
“Hm,” her head tips back and forth, “not today. Don’t have the energy. Watch your back tomorrow, though.”
For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, a genuine laugh pushes its way past your lips. The knot in your stomach loosens, even if only a little.
“You wanna come help with dinner?” she asks, nodding to the stairs.
You smile. “Please.”
The three of you settle on pasta with some tomato sauce from a jar mixed through. You sit opposite Sarah as Joel sets the plates down, sliding into the seat next to yours with a gentle squeeze on your knee under the table.
The three of you talk. About nothing in particular – college, Rita and her cross stitch, some client of Joel’s whose wife got caught having an affair – but it soothes the ache in your heart. It feels like a blanket over your shoulders, a spot by the fire, a voice in your ear promising you that things are still okay. That they can still be this way: light, alive. The earth is still moving, the stars are still pinned up in the sky. Tomorrow will always come, and the day after that.
Sarah asks about LA. You tell her you didn’t know she knew. She grins and says, “Well, now that I do – you better put an application in.”
You hum around the fork between you lips. “Maybe.”
“Come on. The two of us out there together? For six whole months? You gotta do it. Tell me you don’t wanna do it. Are you gonna do it?”
Joel casts her a glower, his stony expression pushing her back in her chair.
Your eyes shift from hers over to his. He runs a slice of garlic bread around the curve of his plate, coating it in sauce, before he notices you staring. His face breaks into a tiny smirk.
“I don’t know,” you decide, turning back to Sarah. “I still gotta think it through.”
She nods earnestly. “Yeah, you should sleep on it. And then, first thing tomorrow, we’re doing it.”
The two of you let her have the final say, falling quiet until some new conversation is shifted onto the table, and then another, and then another. When you’re done eating, Sarah takes your hand and drags you back upstairs.
Sarah Miller’s bedroom has been baby pink for as long as you can remember. Joel painted it one summer while she was at camp, eliciting help from your dad to shift all the furniture. As she grew up, she covered the walls in posters, changed the sheets, changed the curtains, strung fairy lights to distract from what she saw as a kiddish color.
But she never asked to change it. Always wanted the same blushing pink her dad had picked out when she was ten – even if secretly.
Her blinds are tilted, golden light from the slowly lowering sun filtering through onto her carpet, stained with tiny dabs of nail polish. She throws herself down onto the bed, her curls igniting brown in the summer light, and you slowly sink down beside her.
“Nice Zayn poster,” you note, pointing to the straight-browed, dark-haired figure painted in a moody grayscale on her ceiling. “Interesting placement.”
“Was so I could dream about him every night.”
“You didn’t wanna take him to California?”
“Didn’t have to,” Sarah smiles, tapping her temple, “he’s all up here, baby.”
You snort. Your eyes flutter closed; hands clasped on your stomach. She sighs contentedly by your side, listening to the chatter of birds out front.
“I miss this,” she says eventually, her voice smooth and soothing. She elbows you lightly.
“Me too,” you reply. And then, with a deep breath: “Sarah…are you okay?”
When she turns back, the sunlight catches in her eyes. They twinkle, like she’s some doe-eyed Disney character. Someone who might be able to wiggle her fingers and make the last day disappear.
“Am I okay?”
“Yeah. With…everything.”
She shrugs, mumbles an I dunno. “What can I do about it? It’s weird, but…it’s none of my business. I guess…I guess if y’all are happy, then – you know. I’m gone half the time, anyways.”
“It is your business, too, though,” you tell her. “I don’t wanna make you feel weird.”
“I think you got bigger things to worry about right now. Sounds like your dad’s pretty mad.”
You sigh, looking back up to the boyband poster. “Yeah. He’s pretty mad.”
“My dad told me what happened. Well, parts. I can kinda guess the rest. Can’t really blame him, I guess.”
You shrug. “Guess not, but then…I am twenty-three, y’know? I’m not a kid. I can make my own mind up.”
She’s still staring at you, but you don’t return her glance. Something tells you that you already know what it says. Still, she verbalizes it.
“Would you be okay if I slept with your dad?”
That is so not what I thought you were gonna fuckin’ say.
You shoot her a look. “What?”
“’m askin’. Would you be okay with it, if I –”
You lift your hand to shut her up. “That is…so totally different.”
“How is that different?” she scoffs.
“Because…because…my dad’s not hot.”
Sarah gags.
“And – and also you’re not friends with him. It’s just different, alright?”
“You were friends with my dad?”
You’re laughing with her now. You can hear how pathetic your justification sounds. “Kinda, yeah. I was close to ‘im.”
“Yeah, that much is obvious, now, babe.”
You smack her arm and she giggles.
“I think he’ll come around. Your dad.”
“I don’t. Not ever.”
“Why wouldn’t he? His best friend would become his son-in-law, I would become his granddaughter-in-law –” She gasps and props herself up on her elbow, staring you down. “Does this make you, like, my stepmom?”
You spit out a laugh, and Sarah throws her head back against her pillow, clutching her belly.
“You’re my fuckin’ mom, dude!”
“Don’t you fucking dare!” you reply, covering your face with your hands. “Aw, fuck,” you breathe, giggling.
You settle back into the bed, your heads leaning against one another as you stare up at Zayn and his audience of glow-in-the-dark stars. Sarah hums something softly to herself, her ankle rocking, her fingers tapping.
The two of you were raised together. Sisters, when neither of you knew what that word really meant. You figure she’s as close as you could find – someone who reflects all of your favorite parts of yourself and who calls out the uglier ones without hesitation. Someone who comforts you with a punch to the arm, a mocking quip about your hair or the something in your teeth. A safe little secret keeper, for all of your wildest dreams and biggest fears.
“I guess this is all why you were so down in the dumps last night, right? Your dad knew then?”
You shake your head. “Not at that point. He found out after we all left. Realized it all on his own. It’s all just…so fucking stupid…”
She sighs. “My dad – if he…if he makes you happy, then I don’t even know. As long as I don’t have to see it – we’re cool.”
One cinderblock of weight lifts from your chest, allowing a rugged breath to escape. “Wish my dad would take a leaf outta your book,” you mumble.
“He’s just mad,” Sarah says. “He’s just mad, and he’ll eventually calm down.”
“Doesn’t matter even if he does calm down,” you reply. “My dad has more of a…restrictive parenting approach.”
“Can you really parent a twenty-three-year-old?”
“He finds a way to try.”
She scoffs, saying, “I get it. My dad’s more, try it ‘n see. Your dad is, like, try it ‘n see…what your punishment is.”
You both erupt into laughter, and Sarah reaches for the TV remote.
“Exactly,” you tell her, tugging on the hem of Joel’s shirt. “Although, if your dad found out you were with my dad, I don’t think he’d be cool with it, either.”
“Yeah,” she smirks, flicking through Netflix titles, “y’all got what you deserved.”
The sound of Sarah’s bedroom door closing over stirs you. Her room is the color of rust; the stream of amber sunlight on the carpet replaced by that of the streetlights. Beneath the door, the sliver of light is shifted by the sway of a silhouette walking off down the hall.
Sarah’s snoring quietly beside you, still in her jeans. Keeping an eye on her, you roll off the bed and creep towards the door, a slow groan coming from the handle as you twist it. Joel’s at the opposite end of the hall, disappearing into his room as you shut Sarah back into her warm slumber.
“Thought you were sleepin’,” he whispers when you slip into his room. He’s already sat in bed, leant against the headboard. The room a thick darkness, a black cloud of dusk spiraling around you and cutting you off from the rest of the world.
“Heard you come in.” You wander over, pausing at the side of the bed. “Wanna stay with you.”
“C’mere,” he says, holding a hand out. You take it, pulling yourself into his lap. He slips his hands under the hem of your shorts, fingertips brushing the crests of your hipbones. “You okay?” he asks, thumbs swiping gently on the seam of your thigh.
“Never better. You?”
He sighs in response and looks off to the window, the light catching his eye. You tilt your head and bend forward, kissing below his ear. He smells like whiskey. You breathe it in, inhaling like the sharp scent might fold you under a numb blanket of inebriation, too.
Joel takes a fistful of your hair and pulls you from his neck, watching the shift in your expression before he kisses you – steady, bracing. The first time since everything went so wrong.
For a few minutes you pretend nothing has changed – you’re still sneaking around, shushing one another; someone’s in the next room, there are still secrets to be kept. You slip your shorts down your legs, kicking them over the side of the bed; Joel’s sweatpants follow soon after. His hands surrender and you push up on his chest, dragging your core against his stubborn crotch, lips never losing contact. Tongues rolling against one another, noses bumping; a tangle of breath between you until you’ve no idea which is yours and which is his.
It’s all you know how to do, after all. It’s how this started, it’s how it got out of control. The two of you taking out your needs on one another. Right now is no different. You need to feel something other than the dread in the pit of your stomach, the ache in your heart anytime you look at him and know he feels it, too.
You come up for air and suddenly the feeling dissipates; doubt sets back in and fear washes over you like ice water. Your hips cease, Joel’s hands lift from your body. He pushes the hair from your face to find his own expression mirrored in yours.
Everything has changed.
You watch his movements, the light trace of his finger on your bare skin, the pinch of fabric as he adjusts his boxers. The careful movements of his own hips, trying not to incite anything more.
“I love you,” you offer, when he doesn’t say anything. Whispered, like it’s a question, like something to dangle in front of him to make him bite.
At the very least, it unsticks his gaze from the cotton print over your chest and back up to your face – where he softens and says, “Oh, darlin’. I love you, too.”
He gives you a squeeze and pulls you by the shoulders closer, letting you feel his lips on yours again and again, until you’re out of breath. You nuzzle your head under his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart at your ear.
Joel trails his hands up and down your spine. He breaks the silence first – stammers his way through a question you’re not sure how to answer.
“Was I – was I hurtin’ you? All this time?”
You lift your head, looking blankly at him. “What –?”
“Was I hurting you?”
“Hurting me?”
He nods. “Everythin’ we were doin’. Everything we’ve done. You wanted me to be doing it, right?”
He looks…scared, as though forty years have been shaved from him over the course of one day. Eyes glassy like he might burst into tears; bottom lip almost trembling with uncertainty.
You sit up and cup his face; he breathes a sigh of relief when you look him dead in the eye and say, “I wanted you to be doing all of it.”
“All of it?” he repeats.
“Yes,” you nod, “nothing you ever did ever hurt me.”
He lowers his gaze. “’cept when I left.”
“You came back.”
His thumb curves beneath the slip of fabric on your hips, toying with the elastic. There’s more in his question, you know it. He’s not convinced by a word you say.
“It’s just…all such a fuckin’ mess,” he groans, fingertips massaging his forehead.
You hesitate, unwilling to agree and unable to disagree. It is a fucking mess – that much is true. But if that’s all it is, then why does your heart pause for breath whenever you see him? Why does the mere thought of his presence, the tiniest glimpse of him – why does it all send your stomach somersaulting?
How can something supposed to be so bad, make you feel so fucking good?
“It was wrong of me,” Joel says, “to flirt with you that night I first saw you again. To put you in that position. But I did, and we ended up here. And I’m glad we did, baby, you know I am, but…it’s on me. This thing with you ‘n your dad.”
“You don’t think he should back off a little? Don’t think he’s oversteppin’ a mark, even a tiny bit?”
He shakes his head. “I’d do the damn same, ‘n you know it. I shoulda known better. Shouldn’ta let it happen. You mean more to me than the world, and I – I caused all this hurt for you.”
Sure, it’s real noble of him to take all of the blame, but it wasn’t just him. You had a part in it, too: your batting eyelashes, your hands where they shouldn’t have been. Your jaw tightens when he says it, holding back from telling him you want as much responsibility in this as he’s taking, even if he won’t allow it.
But an argument with Joel, right off the back of one with your father, isn’t really something you need. It wouldn’t help anything. So, you swallow your words and whisper new ones.
“You shouldn’t have flirted with me?”
His eyebrows flick, concern knotting them together. He sits up, scooping you in his arms. “I meant I should’ve never let it get to this point.”
“’n what about the first time you touched me?”
The memory plays between you: the weight of him on your body, the sound of the stereo system firing up downstairs. One hand between your legs and the other pinching your heart.
The light in your eyes starts to bleed through your body into Joel’s, distorting the projected image of that scene in your bedroom. It ignites somewhere low, travelling upwards until his stare locks with yours: an understanding weaving between you both.
You lean back from him, drinking in the sight. “Nothin’ but trouble, right? That’s what you said, that first night. You knew damn well where it might go. ‘n you still wanted it, just as bad.”
“Darlin’, I’m not sayin’ I didn’t, I –”
“No, no, I get it. I get it.”
You push his shoulders to the mattress. Fire in your belly, some kind of twisted energy pumping through your veins, you grind down on him again.
That thing, about this being all you know how to do? About taking your needs out on each other?
Right now, you need distraction. You need something to tire you out, to drain you of energy, to stop your thoughts for five minutes. You need someone to hold you, and love you, and make you feel good. Joel’s the perfect distraction.
He’s still hard. You’re still wet. It’s easy.
You drag your hips lazily over his, cotton riding against lace. He’s growing harder, bigger; he’s pushing up into you. You respond by pushing down, and Joel groans.
“Hey,” he takes hold of your thighs, “baby, we don’t have to –”
“Then, let’s stop.”
He says nothing.
You reach down past the band of his boxers and take him in your hand. He bites back a moan, his head falling into the pillow. You’re stroking him: long, hard strokes, fist tightening around him, fingers dipping between your folds to apply your slick to his length.
“Say the word, Joel. We’ll stop,” you pant, unsure if even you buy the words you’re saying. “You said it: none of this should’ve ever happened. You should’ve never laid a finger on me.”
His arms lift, throbbing biceps curving around his pillow and crumpling it against his skull. He doesn’t tell you to stop, because he doesn’t fucking want you to. He needs this – needs you as much as you need him, needs you more than he needs the air in his lungs.
And you’re right: it is different now. Now, it’s out in the open. The whole world could know, for all the two of you care. And maybe that’s the kick to it, now. No more hiding. No more fleeing from shadow to shadow.
You tug his underwear down and lower yourself, dragging your folds up and down the width of him while sticky precome gathers at his tip, dappling the trail of hair from his navel. And when you can’t do it anymore, when the mere sight of him drenched in your arousal threatens to send you over the edge, you line him up to your entrance and sink down, slow.
He moans into the pillow, fabric muffling your favorite sound in the world. And he doesn’t stop, his chest doesn’t stop rumbling until you reach his hilt, where he gasps.
“Darlin’,” he whimpers, hands coming back down to hold you in place.
You bat them away. “Uh-uh,” you tut, pinning his wrists above his head. “Not a – fuckin’ – finger.”
Joel grits his teeth, eyes locking onto yours, directly above him as you slide up off his cock, hips circling as you do, and then back down. Your free hand curves around his ribcage, the solid flesh of his torso stabilizing you.
“Poor baby,” you coo, pouting your lip. “Can’t even touch me. Can’t put a hand on your girl when you need to most.”
“Fuckin’ – whore,” he grunts, and your hips grind to a halt. You release his wrists.
“That what you think of me?” you ask, sitting upright on his lap. Joel’s still buried deep inside you.
“No,” he’s breathing, lips curling, “no, baby. Keep goin’.”
“I’m not the one goin’ back on my word here.”
He flashes a thick, filthy smile. “I know, I know. Go on. Make me proud.”
You lean forward again and he sighs, the feel of your wet cunt wrapping like satin around him.
“You think he’d trust you, anyway, after everythin’?” you mewl. “Think he thinks I’m in a different room right now? Tucked up in bed, safe ‘n sound? Nah, baby, he knows. He knows what you’re doin’ right now. Keep your hands off me? You can’t keep your cock outta me.”
Joel moans in agreement, hands gripping into the sheets to ground himself, hips bucking up against yours. You place your hands either side of him on the mattress and start to bounce, skin slapping, bed shaking.
“You like that, huh?” you moan, feeling the sharp kiss of his head at your cervix. Nudging, nudging, nudging. Blunt pain, blissful pleasure. “Like me riding it. Takin’ what I – oh, fuck – what I need.”
He lets out a guttural moan, writhing around underneath you. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is, forgotten you guys aren’t alone in the house; drunk on the sight, smell, sound, and feel of you on him, not even trying to stifle his sounds anymore.
You close your eyes and hope Sarah doesn’t wake anytime soon.
You’re keeping the façade up for Joel, but on the inside, you feel the exact same. His words echo in your ears, shouldn’ta let it happen, and how quickly that melted into make me proud. Your head starts to swim, your eyes heavy, your body trembling.
The thatch of hair at the bottom of his cock brushes against your clit, a gasp drawing between your teeth. Pain begins to rip upwards on the inside of your thighs, forcing you forward.
“Joel,” you pant, leaning over him. “Fuck.”
“Gotta let me touch you, baby,” he whispers, hands lifting beneath the fabric of your shirt. His fingers ghost across the curve of your shoulders. “You need it, don’t you?”
You whimper in response and Joel slips past the moment of weakness, taking a strong grip of both shoulders and pulling himself upright on the mattress. The tee slips from your body in one breath, and his hands follow the incline of your neck to your jaw, holding you steady as he fucks up into you.
“You want me to fill you up?” he asks, leaning back with a palm flat on the bed behind to watch himself disappear between your legs.
You’re nodding desperately. “Mhm.”
“Gotta ask nicely, remember? Be a good girl for me?”
“Dick,” you hiss, draping your arms over his shoulders.
He pouts. Sweat gleams on his upper lip. His voice cracks, weakens like stone beginning to crumble. “’s not v-very n-ice, baby.”
“Comeinme,” you beg, your fingers swirling around the dark hair at the bottom of his skull. “Please, come in me.”
“Atta-girl,” he groans, and his hands instantly lock on your hips. You don’t stop him this time, letting him push you down as hard as he can onto his cock, coming as deep inside you as he can.
And then – that familiar feeling of being his. Filled with him, your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your cunt spilling with the sight, smell, taste and feel of him. He coats your walls, throbs deep inside you as he claims every tiny corner of your body.
He growls as his cock twitches, and you watch his expression go from determined, to blissful, to fucking exhausted when he stills and his head rolls forward into your chest. His breath hot and staggered between your breasts; light kisses peppered onto damp skin.
You watch him through a post-sex haze, the air between you thick and blurry, as he presses his lips into your chest. He sucks along the cushion of your breast until he reaches the nipple, lips cupping around it, tongue flicking with all the effort he has left in him.
When he lifts his head again, one final kiss to your sensitive flesh, you balance his chin under your thumbs.
“You come?” he asks, the words propelled by a heavy exhale.
You shake your head slowly. “I’m tired, anyway.”
“Alright,” Joel groans, flipping you over. He pushes your thighs apart, his spend leaking from your slit and running southwards.
“Joel,” you giggle, “c’mon, I’m tired. You don’t have to –”
He’s already pushing himself lower, whipping the dark cotton tee from his shoulders and brushing his naked chest over your stomach. You lower your arms to hook under his.
“Hey. Come here a sec.”
Joel blinks up at you. “What’s up?”
“Just – come here.”
He kneels back up to you, hovering over you with his hands under your shoulders. His limp cock lies against the inside of your thigh as he lowers his weight onto your hips. You tilt your head, mapping his face.
Your knuckle runs across his cheek, the jagged bristle of his beard on your warm skin. Like running your hand under water, unable to tell whether it’s scalding hot or freezing cold – there is no saying whether you’re so used to him now that the feel of him is unaffecting, or entirely all-consuming. There’s no middle ground. Not anymore.
“I know –” You sigh, your voice swollen with a soft cry. There’s no stopping the tears anymore. They just come. “I know you think you should’ve known better. But I am so fucking glad that you didn’t.”
It’s done nothing but pour all day. You woke up this morning to the rain battering against Joel’s window, your body hooked against his by his arm.
Day four. Still no call, no text, no nothing from your dad. You haven’t exactly returned the favor – the closest you dared was having Sarah drive you to your house while he was at work so you could dip into the hallway, grab your car keys, and drive straight back to Joel’s. You pulled up in his driveway alongside each other and she rolled her window down, checking your expression before snorting.
It’s like a damn Mission: Impossible film, she jested.
The pain feels blunter, more distant than it did on Saturday. Like your father has bowed his head, faded some into the dark background of upstage. You realize, a few days in – the movie nights and the meals homecooked by three chefs; the way Joel’s scent starts to become yours, his T-shirts hanging loose over your shoulders and his boxers snug against your hips – that you forget to check on the shadow of your dad. Forget the spot he once stood in, the thunderous cloud cast over his head. The same one that so regularly used to pour rain over you.
Sarah went out with her friends a few hours ago. She called to say she’d miss dinner, so you and Joel ordered Chinese. You’re sat with your legs in his lap picking away at some noodles, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while he catches up on some baseball highlights show.
“Fuckin’ – idiots,” he mumbles, fork angrily picking at rice.
Your eyes don’t lift from the Instagram caption you’re reading. “Fuckin’ idiots,” you flatly agree.
Joel’s head turns. “Alright, Miss Big Rangers Fan. I remember a time you pretended to be into ‘em to get my attention.” He attempts to grab your phone, and you swipe it from his grasp.
“Shut up,” you giggle, grabbing hold of your takeout box. “Joel – be careful!”
He snorts, settling back into the couch, changing the TV channel. You give his thigh a little kick, tugging your blanket up. As the TV switches from one showing to the next, your phone buzzes.
You glance down, chopsticks halfway to your mouth, and freeze.
Dear Candidate…
“Joel.”
“Hm?” he asks, eyes glued to the flickering screen.
“Joel.”
“Yes, darlin’?”
You unstick your stare from the phone, looking up to meet his perplexed expression. “They got back to me.”
He squints for a second before the remote is dropped to the cushion. “And?”
“I don’t know, I just saw the first line.”
“Open it, baby. C’mon. Whatever it is, you gotta know.”
“You know what,” you shrug, “I’m good. I don’t need to know. It’s all good.”
“Hey.” Joel snaps his fingers scooping your gaze from the floral, bohemian name on the header of the email and up to his own. “Open it, or I’m kickin’ you out.”
You mock gasp. “You’d put me out on the streets?”
“Worse. Put you back to your dad’s. Now open the email.”
Your thumb trembles as it hovers over the screen, one tap away from the biggest change in your life since you left for New York. Like it’s five years ago, and you’re sat in front of your laptop, psyching yourself up to open the response to your college application.
“Okay,” you breathe, slamming your thumb down. Joel leans in, staring at the screen from upside down.
It swipes across and your eyes flit down, focusing hard on the sentence beneath the opening line. You blink rapidly, waiting for the wash of tears to clear and dissolve it to Unfortunately, or After careful consideration, or We appreciate your interest.
But it never does.
Invite to interview stares back up at you, waiting for your face to break. Expectant, a little nervous. Jittering inside your shaking fist. Joel breaks first, when he spots it.
He almost throws his food onto the coffee table, taking your container from your hands and bundling you up in his. He pulls you into his body, presses heavy kisses to the crook of your neck as you laugh, your entire body quaking with joy and terror and relief and anxiety.
“What’d I tell you?” he says, kissing you roughly. “I knew it, babygirl. I knew you would – Fuck, I am so fucking proud of you.”
“It’s just –” sniff, “– it’s just an interview, remember. I might not get it, in the end.”
Joel shakes his head. “I don’t care. You’re a damn sight closer to gettin’ it than you were three days ago.”
You sit for probably twenty minutes, laughing and then weeping and then laughing again – until the food is cold, there’s a new episode of South Park rolling on TV, and Joel’s T-shirt is soaked with your tears.
“I gotta call Sarah,” you whisper, finger sifting through his hair. Your head buried in his neck, your knees either side of his hips.
“She’s going to lose her fuckin’ mind,” he mumbles into your shoulder, laughing to himself. “She’ll sit off-camera in the corner of the room, so they can’t see her, ‘n hold up cue cards.”
You giggle, letting it dissipate into something weaker, something unconvinced. In a small voice, you say, “We just got one step closer to being four states apart.”
He looks up at you, curving a hand around your jaw, and pulls your lips against his. It’s slow, tender – his every thought and feeling translated into physical movement, transformed into a spin of butterflies in your chest.
When you pull away from him, smiling dumbly, he clips your cheek. “That scare you?”
You hesitate, afraid to tell him the truth. But it’s Joel. He knows every thought that passes through your head. You nod, eyes filling with a salty sting.
“Why?” he asks.
You glance out to the street. “’cause I love you. I don’t wanna leave you.”
Joel nods. Considers it. Then says, “You know why it doesn’t scare me?”
You lift your eyebrows in response. Why?
“Because I love you. And we are gonna be just fine.”
And you believe him.
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Eat
Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator
A/N: Pussy? Eaten. Stomach? Butterflies. Hotel? Trivago.
Think this takes place short after Gush.
Summary: You tell Joel that you cannot come from getting eaten out, but he isn’t convinced.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)
Tags: +18 smut (mdni), dad’s best friend joel miller, daddy kink, soft soft soft and patient joel, nipple play, pussy eating, dirty talk, intense orgasm, pet names , bit of praise kink and body worship
Word count: 3k
Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49669783
Eat
Joel has you completely naked and pinned to his bed. It’s a Saturday afternoon, sun is pining in through the curtains and heating up the room that’s already warm from your bodies being entwined. You have yet to get out of bed despite needing a shower, perhaps some food for your growling stomach, and maybe a glass of ice water from how sweaty your body is when you are in the older man’s proximity. He makes your heart pound.
He hovers over you whilst on his knees between your legs, hands on your wrists and gaze hungry as he contemplates what he wants to do with you. Your stomach drops as he asks, “Will you lemme have it? Lemme eat your pussy, princess?”
It’s not that you don’t think this is sexy. It is just that. Though, despite how many times Joel has made you come during the summer, he actually hasn’t gone down on you yet.
He has tried a million times though, but you have always playfully pushed his head away every time he has tried to descend on your body, distracted him with a blowjob, or made him finger your cunt instead. At this point, you still haven’t told him that the reason is that you simply don’t like it.
“Joel,” you avoid his gaze, turn your head away, “I—“
Joel hasn’t heard hesitation from you before, only the jokes that he hasn’t taken to heart. He lets go of one of your wrists, takes hold of your chin, and guides your head back so you face him again. He furrows his brow at the uncertainty in your eyes that meet his, “What’s a’ matter?”
“Nothing,” you play dumb, avoiding his curious look once more but he snaps his fingers in front of you to regain your attention. You groan at how well it works, “Why would anything be wrong? It’s just… I don’t really like it. I can’t come from it.”
Joel narrows his eyes slightly, not convinced, “Why’d you think you can’t come from it?”
“This guy I was with,” you begin and it’s Joel’s turn to look uncertain. You want to roll your eyes; doesn’t he know that he has ruined everyone else for you by now?
“Years ago,” you add, “He told me I took too long, so maybe I just, you know, couldn’t. I didn’t want to try again.”
Joel doesn’t get pissed at the guy or start a rant like you expect him to do (something about that boy taking this sort of experience from you and turning it into something negative). Instead, he starts laughing to the point where he needs to rest his forehead against your shoulder to calm himself because the pout you give him just makes him laugh harder.
“What?” You push at his head in annoyance. He cannot even hold onto your other wrist anymore.
“Took too long. Jesus,” his laughter is interrupted by a cough. You can feel his chest vibrating against your own, “He was bullshittin’ you, baby girl. What a lazy piece of shit, and what range of stupid lil’ fuckers you’ve allowed to have what’s mine.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I hate it,” you squirm underneath him at his choice of words, reaching for his hair with your hands to pull at it gently, “Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”
“It is kinda funny,” he looks up at you through his lashes. There’s something sweet to his voice whilst his eyes darken, “Hey now. It’s just… ya said ya didn’t squirt either, and then fuckin’ wet the bed.”
You go beet red, “Joel. God.”
“I’m merely a man just tryna prove a point,” he jokes, earning a glare. Something shifts a little in the air and then he isn’t playing anymore, “Will ya lemme try? Just f’me? We can stop anytime you want.”
“I don’t know,” you sound unsure.
“We’ll go reeeal slow,” he pushes.
“O-okay,” you say. What’s the harm in letting him try? It’s not like it is uncomfortable for you, but rather just slightly boring and awkward.
“Okay’s not a yes, princess,” Joel crawls up to try to kiss your uncertainty away. He pecks your lips over and over again, switching not long after to pepper your face with more gentle kisses instead. They’re scattered across your cheeks, lips, nose, above your eyebrows, soft eyelids, and chin. He doesn’t let up until you giggle sweetly.
“Yes!” You squeak and mess up his hair, “Eat some damn pussy, if it means that much to you.”
“Try to relax for me,” he instructs and pushes himself to sit up again. His eyes have darkened further, “How do you want ya legs?”
You bend your legs, planting your feet firmly on the bed and spreading yourself open enough for Joel’s broad shoulders to fit between your thighs. He doesn’t go down yet though, keeping his promise of taking things slow in case you want to stop before it gets too intense.
His lips connect to where your neck meets your shoulder, pressing his nose firmly into you to inhale your scent. It must be nothing but sleep and sweat by now. He opens his mouth against your skin, sucks across your collarbone until he reaches your jugular notch. He dips his tongue into the dent, and licks off the sweat before murmuring, “I can feel you not relaxin’.”
“I’m sorry,” you say with a pounding heart and you mean it, curl your toes, but he shushes you immediately.
“No, no. This ain’t on you, baby. Tell me what I can do to make ya relax,” he pulls back to look at your face. He looks so gorgeous with the sun hitting his body like this.
“Talk to me,” you whisper without knowing why.
“My baby wants to hear how gorgeous she is?” He asks as he goes back to putting his mouth on your throat. You tip your head back, and he hums against you, “How perfect ‘n beautiful ‘n sexy? Perhaps a little spoiled too?”
“Mhm, yes,” you rest your hand on the back of his neck when he starts to descend. His lips trail down between your breasts, and his huge palm covers one of them whilst he sucks on the other. He is eager, cheeky enough to tug your nipple into his mouth with his teeth. You moan softly.
“Fuckin’ love your tits, Jesus, look at you,” he mumbles absentmindedly to himself before going back in. He dares to suck a light purple mark onto your skin just close enough to your nipple so that you can cover it up and keep it a secret between the two of you even if going to the lake with friends and wearing your skimpy bikini.
You groan and arch your back when he switches to the other one of your tits, cupping it still whilst lapping at your nipple. He flicks his tongue across it just when you think he might pull away, causing you to let out a long drawn-out whine.
“You fuckin’ love that, don’t ya?” He kisses the swell of your breast, tugs a little with his hand. You close your eyes, bolts of arousal shooting up your spine again when he suckles once more.
Slowly, you find that much of the nervousness is seeping out of your body with every kiss, lick and suck of your salty skin. It may be the time to admit that Joel knows just which buttons to push to turn you into putty. It may also be the time to admit that you are starting to get excited about what is going to happen. Nervous but excited.
“You’re so soft… like damn silk,” he admires whilst he goes lower. His nose brushes along the length of your stomach, tickling a little to the point where you shiver and let out a soft sigh. He relishes in it, “Damn, baby. Listen to that sound.”
You rake your nails across his scalp when he nips at your skin. Heat is pooling in your belly and you can feel slick drip onto the sheets, running down the cleft of your ass, “Touch my pussy, Daddy.”
Joel tenses visibly at the nickname. He grips your hip, and somehow becomes a little rougher in everything he does, “Gotta wait. Maybe your disaster college boyfriend didn’t get ya worked up enough. I definitely ain’t gonna make that mistake.”
He crawls further down, kisses open-mouthed and hot right below your belly button several times. Even places the flat of his tongue against the skin there to lick long languid stripes, “Won’t start until you beg me to kiss your little twitchin’ clit.”
“But I’m so wet,” you pout, flexing the muscles in your stomach. When you try lifting your hips to find some kind of friction, he pushes you right back down into the mattress.
“Stop,” he warns sternly. The hand on your hip runs across your belly, teases over your mound and ghosts over your clit until you cry feebly for him, “Do you want me to just touch ya between your pretty legs?”
“I told you I don’t like the other thing,” you reply to spite him and egg him on. He smacks one of your thighs, wiggling the flesh after.
“Liar,” he breaks eye contact to look right down at your cunt. You are sure that he can see how you clench around nothing, clit so hard that it is exposed from underneath the hood. You are so ready for him to follow through, no matter the nervousness in your body, “The anticipation wouldn’t have you this excited if yadidn’t care. You’ll fuckin’ let Daddy live between your thighs after he’s done eating.”
“Fine,” you huff, spreading your legs further to punctuate your sentence, “Put your mouth on my pussy. Prove it.”
Joel groans at the sight of you giving in to him. He gets comfortable on the bed, legs hanging out over the edge. One arm scoops underneath you to curl around your right thigh and the other rests on top of your left. He splays his hand across your sternum, and almost automatically, you reach for it and tug at two of his fingers as if needing something to hold onto for dear life.
“Now we talkin’,” he smirks.
“Hold on,” you interrupt, heart almost beating out of your chest with how horny you feel. That, and the fact that what Joel is about to do to you seems to be the most intimate thing you can think of. It feels dangerous, exciting, and scary.
You put another pillow behind your back and head, so you can watch him over the top of your tits and his hand. He grumbles but waits.
“Go,” you say with an apologetic smile, “Just wanted to see you.”
“Ain’t you adorable?” Joel gazes up at you to follow through on your wish, “Ready?”
“Just wanna come now,” you promise, “‘m just nervous. Makes me fidget.”
“Oh, I know,” he replies, breath ghosting over your pussy as he lowers himself down slowly, “Makes ya toes curl too.”
You cannot quite believe that you have Joel Miller’s face between your legs right now, and even less so believe the hungriest smile in history that he is sporting. It is enough to make you blush, letting go of Joel’s hand and reaching up to cup your face when the anticipation becomes overwhelming. You rest your pinkies in front of your mouth, palms burning from being clasped around your cheeks but it feels like you might lose it if you let go.
The simple brush of his tongue that he chooses as a starting point has you squirming on the bed. His tongue is warm and flat against you, licking how he had done it against the sensitive skin of your stomach.
Your stomach muscles twitch. It feels… good. Better than the first time you did it.
“Okay?” He asks in a hum, looking up at you through his lashes with genuine eyes. You nod slowly, and he lowers again to press a soft kiss to your sensitive clit.
And then another.
And another.
You make a noise best described as a soft sigh.
Then he goes lower, the kisses becoming more sloppy and wet. He stops when he reaches your quivering cunt, lets out his tongue to scoop up some of the slick that has gathered and is spilling down between your cheeks. He then licks a long stripe all the way up to your clit, and laps at it like he is eating a damn ice cream cone.
“Mhmm, tastes so fuckin’ good, baby, like heaven,” he continues with his small licks, the hand on your chest finding your left nipple. Tugs like he knows you like.
You moan for the first time, not sure if you have repressed the urge to do so. He takes it as a sign to keep going, stiffening his tongue to run it between your folds repeatedly and eventually settling on your clit again. He flicks the tensed-up muscle against the nub, setting up a pace that suddenly causes you to whine.
“Ohh,” you swallow thickly, part your lips and breathe heavily. A muscle in the thigh that Joel is holding flexes involuntarily, and you can feel him smirk against you when he moves back to open-mouthed kisses.
“No, go back,” you demand, “Please.”
“Yeah?” Joel pulls back instead to tease you. He removes his hand from your thigh to suck his thumb into his mouth. He makes you tremble at the sight, but even more when he circles your clit with the pad of the finger after, “You like Daddy’s tongue on your pussy, baby?”
You hesitate for a moment.
“Say it,” he still draws lazy circles.
“Feels so good,” you admit finally with a groan, “You’re always right.”
“Know I am,” he kisses your inner thigh. The hand on your breast moves to rub soothingly up and down your belly, “‘bout time you realized.”
“I want you to keep going,” you say with a shy smile, blinking down at him, “Please, Daddy?”
His hands still on you, but then he reaches to place both hands on your inner thighs to spread you out a little further. You fall back into the pillow, and he sinks into you again, “Whatever baby wants, baby gets.”
You have never actually thought about how big his mouth is before. In fact, it is huge in comparison to everything about you. He is able to stretch his lips over every inch of your cunt, and he gladly does.
Your breath hitches before you let out a drawn-out moan. Joel eats you out enthusiastically; he licks, sucks, and even dips his tongue inside of you for a moment too. You can feel the world closing in on you, shrinking to nothing but the pressure that builds.
“It’s—“ you want to say something that makes sense, because whatever you had done in the dim light of your college dormitory a few years prior was definitely not this, but there are no words that describe how overwhelming his slick tongue is, “It’s— oh God.”
You squeal pathetically as your cunt teeters on the edge of an orgasm. You try to press your thighs inwards to make the intensity go away, but Joel is so much stronger than you.
It hits you then. Fuck, it’s going to happen; you’re going to come with his mouth between your legs, and he is never going to let you live this down. This is not what you had planned. There is a little part of you that knows you would have relished in being right for once, but there’s a much bigger part that thanks the Gods that you aren’t going to live forever without coming like this.
You close your eyes as you groan, but it makes Joel slow down, “Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart, look at me.”
He sucks again, and your hands fly to his hair, but it only goes on for a second, “Ya doing so well. Does it feel good, princess?”
“You’re being mean,” you whimper, tugging at the strands of hair that you have between your fingers, “Make me come.”
Joel follows through then. He buries his nose in your mound and sucks your clit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks with how much effort he puts into it. When you start thrashing on the bed, he wraps his arms around your legs and holds you tightly in place until you fall apart right below his mouth.
You shriek as your cunt spasms. If not for Joel’s strength, you are sure that you would have accidentally kneed him in the face, because your legs lose control of themselves as if the orgasm has severed any connection to them.
“Fuck, Daddy,” you break the swearing rule as your orgasm peaks, pushing and pulling his head away because you don’t have a clue whether you want more or less. Your back arches as Joel keeps licking through your drenched folds, you think you might have started to cry too.
Shaking breaths echo through Joel’s bedroom as you come down. Joel has removed your hands from his head, and you have slumped into the mattress with a whimper. Nothing has ever felt more dirty.
“Are you okay?” He asks after crawling up the bed to lay beside you. He rubs your stomach with his broad hand, and even that makes you let out a feeble sigh.
You laugh with exhaustion, but don’t reply.
“I do good?” He asks with a lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his hand over his soaked mouth and chin.
You turn your head to look at him but then start giggling, pointing to your own nose, “You got a little… you know.”
He doesn’t get it when he wipes his hand over his nose the first time. You laugh harder due to the dopamine flowing through your system, and he grumbles, “Well help me then, kiddo.”
When you beckon him closer, he moves without hesitation, and as you run your index finger down his nose to catch your own shiny arousal, you try to push down the feeling of butterflies that erupt in your stomach.
It’s a feeling that needs to go away. You can’t possibly love Joel Miller and survive.
.
.
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