#he certainly made a DECISION there...

[tentaclecats]

absolutely crazy to me how through the books, leo's pov is always talking about how he feels left out of the 7, and he doesn't have any friends or family that isnt the 7 so. hes literally sad about the fact that hes never truly had anyone love him, since his mom died. he juggled foster homes and ran away from things and even now that he HAS friends and a prophecized future and everything? "to storm or fire the world must fall", he STILL feels like the least important member of the group. the 7th wheel. the one nobody is actually friends with. hes so incredibly used to feeling unloved. AND THEN RICK GIVES HIM A GIRLFRIEND. theres so much wrong with calypso but first of all it was also just shitty to give him a romantic interest before letting him heal his friendships and mental health. AND. CALYPSO ONLY LOVES HIM BECAUSE SHES CURSED TO FALL IN LOVE WITH EVERYONE WHO LANDS ON HER ISLAND. SHE ONLY LOVES LEO BECAUSE SHE IS PHYSICALLY BEING FORCED TO AND SHE ISNT EVEN NICE TO HIM. AND HE IS OKAY WITH THIS????

[emeraldmew]

Here it is. The reason the second part of the book is called Alloran's Choice, despite Alloran himself bring absent for much of it.

Alloran knows how dangerous the Time Matrix is. Everyone from Arbron to Chapman has talked about how it could wipe out entire species by removing their ancestors from the timeline.

He could have gone to the Skrit Na ship to retrieve it alone. He could have gone to the Skrit Na ship to seek Elfangor and Arbron since, like Elfangor figured, that was the mission so it would be the most likely place to reunite. He could have looked for the arisths at all.

But he fixates on killing the Yeerks in that ship. He spends a day and a half on this with the Time Matrix within the Yeerk's grasp.

But it's not just about killing yeerks. It's about proving that he's right. So he doesn't take the shot himself. He orders Elfangor to do it so Elfangor will learn his lesson...

and so he can prove he was right back then, too. Back when he committed another war crime. He needs to prove to himself that he was justified.

And that choice? The choice to double down on killing yeerks to prove he was right all along?

Well, we already know the name of Visser Three's host from Book 8.

Sub-Visser Seven may gloat that it was Elfangor's mercy that let him take Alloran, but the book itself? The book calls this part Alloran's Choice.

[leelreallylikespersona]

I'm going to be burned at the stakes but I don't care I love putting Yaldabaoth and Satanael in domestic situations

Mementos is their giant-ass home actually and it occasionally detaches from the real world and they have peace

They have a normal room where they play normal games instead of god games that would potentially end humanity. They have normal conversations about the weather outside

"How's the weather today?"

"Humid nothingness today."

"Gross."

They do normal things like laundry. Except Yaldy doesn't have clothes he just cuts new pieces of sheet metal to attach to himself

[wonder-worker]

J.L. Laynesmith taking the 'Buckingham Did It™' route for the murder of the Princes in the Tower AND the rumors of Edward IV's bastardy ... I have to laugh

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

Danilov is out 👀

[i-will-change-this-someday]

Something that keeps nagging at me is, why did Jon continue to take statements?

I’m not talking about season four. In episode 120 it is revealed that Jon gets dreams of the statements, and in episode 114, Daisy asks about his shirt, meaning the dreams weren’t just happening during the coma. (Also 120 states that he’s had these dreams before)

And look, I know Jon loves trying to deny things, he spent the entirety of season 1 doing just that, but he’s not stupid; no one would think “hm, I’ve been getting dreams of the live statements, where I watch them live through their trauma again and I’m turning into something not quite human, probably just a coincidence. Nothing to worry about.” So why does he continue to take live statements?

Because even if Jon doesn’t know that the other person shares the dream, why would he want to keep dreaming them? Because he enjoys it. He’s not suddenly more “monstrous�� in season 4, taking strangers statements, it wasn’t like he suddenly started making these selfish decisions, he already was.

I’ve seen a lot of people say that Jon doesn’t become an avatar until season 4, but, to me, he already was one, his choice in episode 121 is more about becoming the Archivist not an avatar of the Eye. Because in season 3 he can already compel people, he can already Know things, and he is already enjoying people’s fear. He plainly tells Gerry that he likes compelling people.

So, I think, Jon enjoys taking peoples statements, and he enjoys watching their dreams, because he doesn’t have a choice. Jon admits that he thinks he’s losing himself to the Eye:

“ARCHIVIST

Avatars! But they end up getting these abilities, and they lose a lot of their self. Sometimes all of it.

GEORGIE

And you think… that’s what’s happening to you?

ARCHIVIST

Yes. Yes. The Institute serves one of these beings.”

The Eye took a part of him, and now he has to enjoy others’ suffering, he still feels immense guilt for his actions, but as Helen said “When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?”

[random-mdzs-thoughts-dumpster]

Me: The one good thing about Xiyao not being canon is that people can't claim LXC was thinking with his dic-

People: LXC was thinking with his dick.

[anonymousfog101]

An idea for a animated series came to me in a dream last night so now I have to do some minor research on something I've vaguely heard about called little witch academia so that I don't get flagged for copyright, just in case

I know nothing about it

[dragonji]

Clawing at walls . and etc,

[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, loan shark!price x reader part 1, fem!reader, afab!reader, noncon elements, manipulative price, implied violence (not reader), petting, almost(?) fingering - 3K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune massive thank you to @pricetagged for keeping me sane writing this

“Mr. Price-” you spoke up, fingers massaging into your temples. 

“Said you can call me John, Sweetheart.” the man interjected with a serious look. 

He was currently hanging your entire life over your head and he knew it, you most certainly were not going to call him by his first name. Noticing your reluctance, he shrugged and leaned back into your dining room chair.

“Look, I’ve been as kind as a man like me ought to be. Don’t know how much longer I can shoulder the loss, and I don't know how much longer you-” He sent a condescending look of concern your way, a hand fishing into his pocket. “-can take the fees. I’m playing the good guy here, y’gotta pay up, lovie.” 

“No smoking inside.” you warned, voice less confident than you would have liked it to be.

His hand paused in his coat before slipping out and up in a sign of surrender.

There was a buzzing silence between the two of you, only interrupted by the occasional tick of your kitchen clock. It was hard to meet his gaze, eyes rooted downwards towards your table under the weight of your rising debt to one of the most notorious men in the city.

“Right then.” he huffed, palms coming down to rest on the table before twitching upwards. “So?” 

“Give me another month to pull something together.” you spoke, wincing when you caught the way his eyebrows quirked in surprise. “-Please?”

There was no telling a man like John Price what would be happening. He was the shot caller, the unequivocal card dealer, it was only by some higher grace that he let your ill manners slip. 

He grumbled for a moment before looking up. “I respect what you’ve got going on in the shop, I do. Lovely place, good atmosphere—we’re both the entrepreneurial type, so to say I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for you-” the thought that he’d lump your small shop in with his exploitative business made your stomach turn. “-but this is a bit much, yeah? Let’s give it up, sweetheart.” 

Your face twisted into a sharp grimace, but that was all you could do—what right did you have to tell the man whose money you were living off of to get out of your house? Even worse, you hated that he had a point; you were so tired of your lackluster sales and mounting bills, but-

“I’m not the only owner, I-I can’t just make decisions like that.” you reasoned.

He looked incredibly unimpressed, nostrils flaring with a dissatisfied huff. “Right, your business partner.” 

“H-he-”

“If it’s what you want, m’sure he’ll understand,” Mr. Price hummed, eyes narrowing. “I think you’ll find my men and I can be quite persuasive.” 

Registering your cautious demeanor, his lips curled upwards.

“Where is the bloke anyway?” John asked in faux-disinterest, disapproval blooming from his tone. “Always sends you to talk to the big mean lender. S’not right.” 

He shook his head and sighed.

“-Seen this play out before, love. He’s throwing you under the bus.” 

Your mouth shut, hard set into a frown—you knew he was right. Your business partner was most likely enjoying his morning in peace knowing it was your apartment above the building—your life about to be uprooted if it all went tits-up. It was hard not to feel played.

Mr. Price’s gaze glimmered in recognition, and slowly, like a languid predator, he was leaning across the table with a large hand over your own. 

You studied the sparse dusting of translucent hair on his fingers, the trimmed nails at the ends of his stocky fingers, his nice, expensive-looking watch—anything not to meet his eyes. 

“S’not worth it,” he urged softly. “spreading yourself thin like this.” he paused to think. “My advice? Liquidate, I'm sure you and I can work something out in the long term.”

You swallowed, throat feeling impossibly dry as you focused on the twitch of his thumb.

“I’ll think about it.” 

“I don’t want to be the bad guy, but business is business, sweetheart—I’m offering you a hand, it’s in your best interest to take it.” he spoke, palm patting over your digits before withdrawing into his pocket. There was a deep breath drawn in through his lips. “Right, I’ll be off then—Unless you want me over for lunch?” 

He chuckled deeply in solus as he stood, reminding you of a proud and awful beast. “Maybe another time then, love.” 

Ideally not.

-

The shop had closed on another unnoteworthy day, only serving to further hammer in Mr. Price’s point. With defeated footfall on the stairs up to your flat, you nearly slipped, shocked by a fist beating on the front door frantically. You slowly turned around, heart pounding from the sound.

“-Christ! Let me in!” Ewan, your business partner cried out from the other side of the threshold.

You hurried to the door; pushed aside as soon as the lock had released.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” you scolded over the shop door’s welcome chime. You were met without response while the man darted for the till. “What are you-”

“Not now,” he growled. “we need to get out of here.” 

Studying him closer, you realized one of his arms had been held up by a makeshift sling, tucked neatly beneath his quilted coat.

“W-what are you talking about?”

He paused, looking up. 

Your eyes widened when the light from the street outside washed over his face. 

“What happened to you?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” he snarled, freshly dried blood crusting at the movement. His head dipped down as he popped open the till. “Price and his dogs want our heads.” 

“I just spoke to him this morning-” 

“Things change—may have pushed our luck a little too far. We’ve got to get out of town.” 

You frowned “I-I can’t just-” 

“Suit yourself.” he snapped, voice dropping to a mumble while his fingers grabbed at whatever they could, stuffing it into his coat pocket haphazardly. “-Sitting duck.”

“Wait—that's our money.” you balked, watching the empty register drawer shut. He offered you a bloody, tight-lipped smile as he sped past you towards the door; in and out like a typhoon.

“Good luck.”

You were stuck where you stood when the door swung shut, absolutely beside yourself in shock as you watched his figure disappear from view into the night. Looking around your shop, it was just as it had been when you closed up, but the knowledge that you were sitting on an empty till, all alone with the looming threat of a less-than-savory money lender finding out you were back to square one for your upcoming payment was not kind as it crashed into you. 

After a sobering moment, you hobbled over to the point of sales, turning the drawer’s lock tentatively. Of course, the tray was as empty as the day you had bought it, save for a spare coin roll shoved into the side. You stared down at the dark plastic, hand clumsily digging into your pocket for your phone. Swiping at the device, you paused, debating for a moment over whether or not to open the banking app; you already knew what you’d see if you did.

Confirming your fears, the log showed a hefty transaction at the branch earlier that day. The account had been emptied right before the banks closed. 

You had nothing to give John Price.

It was all gone.

You stared at your feet while it sunk in. Slowly, you regained the ability to move, making your way over to the shop door and locking it back up before spinning on your heels. The trip upstairs was eerily silent as you slipped into your flat, legs wobbling as you ambled into your washroom and stepped under the hot stream from your showerhead. You let the water run over you for far longer than necessary, only stepping out onto the frigid tile once your fingers had pruned. 

The dinner prep that followed had gone surprisingly smooth, serving as a vessel to pretend the foundation of your life wasn't crumbling away. You replayed comforting thoughts, words passing through your mind like a liferaft just out of reach– you knew Mr. Price, he always spoke gently to you, he would understand, he-

A fat tear fell onto the hand that braced you over the stove, watching the bubbling pasta through bleary eyes. With a shaking grip, you drained the water and slipped the noodles into your saucepan, stirring and sniffling lamely.

You made too much—you had nothing to give and you had made too much. Typical.

Sitting at your table, you ate in near-silence, listening to your clock’s soft ticking as you tried to ignore the afterburn image of Mr. Price across from you where he had sat that morning.

Your fork paused mid-air when the downstairs shop chime rang out. 

Had Ewan come to his senses? 

You closed your eyes and waited for him to call up to you. 

The stark sound of heavy footfall bustling around the lower level was the first thing to alert you to the intrusion—too much noise for one man. Setting down your fork, you stared owlishly at the door to your flat as if it was the last line of defense between you and whatever was happening down there. Through the muffled commotion, you could faintly make out the creak of your stairs getting louder—closer, you watched helplessly as the knob slowly turned.

The door opened a fraction, a thick hand curling around the side to brace it against the three thunderous knocks that echoed throughout the room.

“Come in.” you spoke up once your heartbeat had evened out, blinking as Mr. Price emerged from the dark stairway.

“Mmh, you’re here.” he stared down at you, a pleased rumble rolling around in his chest. “‘Course you didn’t skip town, smart. Good girl.”

He kicked his boots off and drifted through your kitchen; cabinets and drawers clattering behind you while he whistled breathily, dishing up some pasta as if you had made it for him—you do suppose he had every right to, though. 

Your whole body tensed as a palm ghosted across your back. The plate was set down, and the chair beside you was tugged out from beneath the table. 

Your eyes darted to his dish where it sat, steam trailing fragrantly. Mr. Price tucked in, humming lowly despite his tense demeanor. 

“S’good, Love. eat up.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and grabbed your fork, gaze falling back to your dish as you picked at the food, appetite long gone. Once again, it was you, Mr. Price, and the sounds of your kitchen—an unwelcome sense of Deja Vu creeping in. 

“Your money’s gone.” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

He reached towards you, grabbing your napkin, and patting his mouth. “I know.” he scratched at his beard idly. “My boys are dealing with that.” 

You paled, trying not to think about what would happen to your business partner as you watched Mr.Price fuss with his fork, leaning in to take another large bite; a nauseated feeling washing over you. 

“What's going to happen to me?” you murmured, eyes downcast. 

His fork clattered quietly against his plate as his hand came to rest on the back of your neck, thumb petting at your nape. “That’s what I'm here to sort out, sweetheart.” 

Sort out. It was ugly, spoken as if you were just one of his assets. You nodded; compliance met with a soft, affirming squeeze. 

“We can work something out.” his hand traveled downwards, grazing your arm before landing on the meat of your thigh. “I don’t have to be the bad guy.” 

“Mr. Price..” you spoke after a sharp breath, tears threatening to well up. 

You missed the way his eyes crinkled at your weepy tone, thumb brushing your thigh in comfort. 

“I’ve had my eye on you, love—Would have never lent you as much as I did if I wasn't sweet on you. Thought maybe I’d be able to charm my way into your life but it seems like I only see you when you’re late on a payment.” he laughed hoarsely. A knee knocked into yours as he stood; his chair scraping beneath him. The floor creaked under bulk, two large hands coming to rub at your arms with hot breath and trimmed beard tickling at your ear. “-I’m a hopeless romantic, y’see.” 

“Price!” a voice hollered up, causing the man to straighten with a low growl. 

“What?” he barked, voice aimed downstairs.

“Trucks loaded up, gonna head back to the office, yeah? See if Simon needs any help retrieving the cash.” 

His hands flexed around your shoulders. “Good, lock up behind yourself. I’ll be a bit.”

You froze, looking up to see the looming shadow of a man; profile distinct in the low light. He turned to you, offering a tight grin while a wayward hand trailed from your arm to your neck, caressing the skin as he exhaled deeply behind you, resting your head against his abdomen. 

“It’s okay to give in, love.” he cooed. “Let me take care of it all.” 

You had nearly folded when that little prey animal in your brain stiffened, hackles raising. You stood carefully, sidestepping his grasp.

“No, I-I… I couldn’t impose… It’s alright.” you silently begged for him to understand your polite refusal.

“S’not imposing,” he challenged, glaring down at you. “imposing would be the number of zeroes on the sum you owe me—now you care about my burden?”

“That’s-”

“That’s not how this works, sweetheart.” he laughed. “Now, sit back down.”

You complied, lowering back into the seat shamefully.

“Good.” he exhaled, crouching beside you with hands knotted together. “I always collect what’s owed, that’s one thing you need to understand.” 

You nodded.

“-But I’m not opposed to shouldering burdens where personal interest is involved.” His eyes searched your own desperately, palms unfurling to rest back on your legs. “You understand what I'm saying, yeah? You’ll never pay it off alone, let me help. I could take care of you.”

Overwhelmed, you turned away; the grip on your thighs tightening in response as he braced himself, standing up. A warm hand cradled your cheek as he drew your gaze upwards, free hand looping around your back and lifting you to stand against him like a marionette. 

“I don’t know what to do…” you sniffled as his big palm had begun to rub circles into your back. 

He shushed you. “-It’s okay, love. I can handle it, It’ll be okay.”

You nodded, turning and rubbing your face into his shirt as he comforted you. The entire situation was a disorienting experience. Had you done something so wrong to get here?– had it been a crime to want to live a gentle and quiet life in your shop? 

It was hard to care much for your sense of conviction when the root of your problem looked more like a finely woven cradle; what did it matter if you were to bend the knee to your devil’s appeal at this point? 

Still, it felt as if you were teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“I’m scared.” your lips settled for, hiccuping the words into his chest. 

He hummed thoughtfully, the noise buzzing around the walls of your head as his thick arms hooked around your neck, pulling you in deeper—a trap set without any fuss. 

“It’s okay for you to be scared,” he pressed a kiss to your crown. “There’s no way anyone was getting out of those rates you agreed to, love. Let me help you.”

You stiffened, head raising slowly to look at him. He smiled down at you.

“You definitely won’t be taking care of our finances, yeah?” John joked, letting out a deep, phlegmy laugh before he pecked your nose, pulling you back into his chest and rumbling against your head. “Enough nonsense. You’re tired, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

It was all so domestic—like he hadn’t just shown you his rows of jagged, shark-like teeth. 

His grip relented as he patted your bum. “Go on and get into bed, let me clean up dinner.”

-

So you did, brushing your teeth and feeling incredibly confused as to why you were readily complying. What truly got to you was how tender it felt—had you been so oblivious to his vying interest? You had just assumed he was a rare good-natured lender; though, you suppose neither of these had been true.

John Price was not a good man; although it was a recent revelation in the grand scheme of things, you knew this as a fact now. The other fact of the matter was that it seemed you were most likely the real collateral in the vulturine deal. Had he been playing the long game?

You could hear John floating around in the other room as you pulled an old shirt over your head to sleep in—the kitchen faucet running as you slipped into your bed. It all felt so wrong. 

Your eyes shot open when the bedroom’s aged floor creaked, deer-like paralysis keeping you snapshot-still as the ring of his belt buckle filled the static air. Was he—The rickety bed dipped behind you under John’s added weight, bedframe crying out with every shift of his body that came with tucking himself against you; achy grunts blowing out from his lips.

“Not as limber as I used to be.” he laughed modestly. “Still gets the job done though, I reckon.” 

He breathed for a moment before his nose dipped into the hair at your nape, sniffling around. 

“-Better than I imagined.” he grumbled contently.

Thick hands dipped under your shirt, massaging at the skin momentarily before slipping into your panties, tugging them out of the way. 

“Mr. Price.” you winced, feeling his cold hand on the sensitive skin.

his hands paused as the large man thought for a moment.

“Mrs. Price…” he chuckled after a beat, the hairs on your neck standing up in response. “-See? You don’t like it much, either. Now, what’s my name, love?”

“John.” you mumbled quietly, eyes darting around through the dark of your room.

“Mmh. good girl.” he hummed, hand cupping your cunt and thumbing at it absentmindedly. “Sleep, love. Big day tomorrow, yeah?” 

[gallusrostromegalus]

I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.

-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a

~*Spiritual Experience*~

I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.

Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.

He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only BARELY enough space for the fireworks and certainly none for his truck.

So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand. This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.

He begins, and this is crucial to what happens next, by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it unsecured on his lawn.

Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.

His process for unloading the fireworks is to 1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls. 2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things. 3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed 4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup. 5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her. 6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house. 7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too. 8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate 9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed 10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.

Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man? Answer: Absolutely Not.

There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else. (This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual) Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally. Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.

I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.

However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up. and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop" And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."

For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."

I move under the eaves. "Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not." "Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."

Sometimes, the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.

The Gods were not merciful today.

It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this, But I got to see it today. Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before. Oh. I realized as it got closer. That's RAIN.

Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say, five to tent square miles, is instead concentrated into an area of say, my neighborhood exactly.

So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.

The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel. Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge. Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.

My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp. They do not have a tarp. They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.

Which is when the hail begins.

"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy. "HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!" "OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"

I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic. The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor. Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.

So. I was raised Agnostic -but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.

---

(If you laughed, please consider supporting my Ko-fi or preordering my book of Strange Stories on Patreon)

[rowarn]

IF YOU NEEDED ME !

simon riley/reader – 7.1k words sale of a lifetime mini series !

tags: smut, childhood best friend!simon, virginity for sale trope, unrealized feelings, soft!simon, protective!simon, virgin!reader, afab!reader, no prns for reader

cw: loss of virginity, cunnilingus, wet & messy, fingering, creampie, mid-sex love confession, a little arguing but nothing crazy tbh, petnames (love, lovie, sweetheart)

; he remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. he never thought he was deserving of such happiness. but now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

or.

he may not have been the first man you picked to give your first time to. but looking back, you realized he was the only right choice in the end.

Meeting some unknown, shady guy out on the street outside of a seedy bar wasn’t the smartest decision you’ve ever made. Nor was it how you actually intended to spend your Friday evening. But it was the only option you had at the moment, so you swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to stay put at the spot the guy had chosen despite the fact that being out on the street made you feel x10 more nervous and vulnerable. 

You could hear the loud music and chatter inside the bar every time the door opened to let someone in or out. There was a chill in the air that had you contemplating actually going inside and just telling the guy to meet you in there – you were about to give the bastard your damn virginity, the least he could be was accommodating to your temperature struggles. Plus, you could really use a drink.

A car, expensive by the looks of it, pulling up to the curb had you pausing in that train of thought. You recognized him from his profile picture when he stepped out of the vehicle – Lucas, you recall being his name. Whether that was really his name or not didn’t matter; all that mattered was he brought what he promised.

“You have the money?” you asked when he approached you, giving him a tight-lipped smile as a greeting.

“Yeah, got it in the car. All cash, I hope that’s alright,” he grinned, a sight that made a shiver go down your spine. His tone didn’t match the smile, all transactional and dull despite the glimmer in his eyes.

He wasn’t necessarily unattractive but he certainly wasn’t your type. There was a look in his eyes, one that made your skin crawl because you felt like you were nothing but a piece of raw meat in front of a starving, salivating predator. 

“We should get going,” he said, hurrying to open the backseat of his car for you.

You paused, “Aren’t we going to go inside or something?”

He looked confused, grip on the door tightening for a moment before he bursted out laughing. When he saw the shocked look on your face he sobered up, “Sorry, sorry, that was rude of me. Sweetheart, this isn’t a date. I’m just here to get what I paid for.”

“Oh…” you swallowed around the lump in your throat at the condescending tone, humiliation making your cheeks burn, “Right.”

Tears stung the back of your eyes and you quickly averted your gaze so he wouldn’t see how much that stung. Of course, you knew it wasn’t a date. This was a transaction. But you at least thought you’d get to know the guy who was about to take your virginity. You should have known better.

A man who was paying for your virginity wasn’t bound to be someone you could trust to feel comfortable around. You quietly sigh, resigning yourself to this all for the sake of some fucking money. 

You settle into the car, heart jumping into your throat when the door slams. It feels as if you’ve just sealed your fate and you can’t deny that you’re scared. 

But there’s an envelope next to you that you can see stuffed with bills and you clench your fists, trying to calm your racing heart by closing your eyes and breathing. 

You just hope this decision doesn’t cost you your life or something. You’d hate to imagine what that would do to a certain someone.

Suddenly, the car jostles. Your eyes snap open and you see Lucas is jacked up against the side of the car, a very familiar form caging him in. His scarred hands grip the man’s shirt in tight fists. You can’t hear what they’re saying but you can see Lucas is chattering frantically, gesturing wildly with his hands in an attempt to quell the angry man in the skull balaclava. 

You curse to yourself, a different kind of terror shocking through your system. Lucas is thrown to the side and you wince at how hard he hits the pavement before the car door is jerked open.

You can’t even say anything before a strong, rough hand wraps around your arm, yanking you out. You stumble once you’re on your feet, falling right into his chest. 

You try to pull away but his arm clamps down around you. 

Lucas is cursing and screaming his head off, words you don’t even bother to try and decipher because you’re too preoccupied with the masked figure that made his sudden appearance. Nerves make your knees shake and from the look of pure rage in his eyes, you know you’re in deep shit. 

Lucas opens the car door and slams it before driving off, tires squealing against the pavement before he vanishes. Along with that wad of cash that was going to be yours in just a short time. 

Suddenly you’re angry, shoving your hands against his chest to get him away from you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Riley?!” you shriek, shooting him the fiercest glare you could muster.

“I should be askin’ you that,” he sneers, “The hell were you doin’ with that prick?”

“I–”

“Don’t answer that,” he snaps, cutting you off swiftly, “I know what you were doin’. If you needed money that badly you should have told me.”

“It’s not your concern, Simon!” you cry, resisting the urge to petulantly stomp your foot.

You’re so pissed. 

Simon Riley and you went way back, childhood friends. The two of you had always been in each other's lives. Simon especially was always there when you needed him, a beacon of safety and protection. Your best friend and someone you loved to the ends of the Earth. 

But right now, you’re so angry with him that you can’t seem to think straight.

How dare he show up now, when you’re about to do the most humiliating act of your entire life. How could he show his stupid, masked face here when you didn’t even ask for his help in the first place for a reason. 

“You are always my concern,” he shoots back, scarred knuckles turning white from how hard he clenches his fists, “I have always taken care of you. You should have come to me for help instead of puttin’ yourself in danger like this. You didn’t know that guy, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Anger makes your skin hot, sweat beading on your forehead, blocking out the chill that once made goosebumps rise. You feel ashamed that you were caught in this situation – that the man you’ve known your entire life knew you were about to sleep with some random asshole for a fat wad of cash. You don’t like that he’s made you feel ashamed and confronted you with it.

“Just fuck off, Simon!” you shriek, the only thing you can think of before turning on your heel and stalking away from him.

You don’t glance over your shoulder to check if he’s following because you know he most likely is – from a safe distance to make sure you make it inside your apartment alright but far enough that you can’t get mad at him for it. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that you feel a headache radiating down your neck. 

By the time you reach your apartment, the anger has simmered and all you’re left with is a festering shame that makes tears fill your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself and quickly shuffle yourself inside, not bothering to check if Simon is out there or not. All you want is to get a hot shower and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend. 

You do just that, letting the burning hot water scald your skin until you can’t feel any emotions except exhaustion. And then, you crawl into bed and let sleep overtake you without a second thought. 

When you wake up, it’s clear that it’s late into the afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and shining painfully bright through the crack in your curtains. You groan and roll over, slapping the bed to find your phone. 

You grab the device and unlock it, taking a moment to scroll through your notifications. There’s some angry messages from the guy from last night – cursing you out for setting him up to be jumped. It makes you roll your eyes before a particular notification catches your eye.

It’s from your bank – alerting you of a deposit. 

You sit up straight in your bed, brows furrowed before your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see your bank statement. It’s more than you needed and you know exactly who was responsible. 

You jump out of bed, not even bothering to dress out of your pajamas before you’re shoving some slides onto your feet and storming out of your apartment. 

You’re so heated that you can’t even remember the walk to Simon’s place, your mind racing a million miles a second. You storm up to the door and slam your fist on it, the hard wood making your hand sting from how hard you pound. 

The radiating tingle of pain is quickly forgotten when the door swings open. 

Simon stands there, looking down at you expectantly. He leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an army-issued t-shirt that’s a bit too tight. The sleeves stretch taunt around his biceps and you can make out the swell of his pecs. It’s not very often that you get to see his tattooed arms, littered with scars since he tends to wear long sleeves most of the time. 

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you, clearly having expected you. The apathetic look in his eyes just solidifies that you were right all along.

“What the hell is your problem?!” you cry without so much as a greeting.

He sighs, broad shoulders rising and falling with it before he opens the door wide and motions you inside. You duck underneath his outstretched arm, turning to watch as he closes the door and locks it. 

He wanders into the kitchen and you realize you can smell bacon. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by your outburst nor does he seem interested in acknowledging your question.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, only solidifying how unperturbed he is by your display of anger. 

“No!” you snap, “I want to know why you did that, Simon!”

He sighs again, much louder but doesn’t respond. You stand in the doorway to his kitchen, watching him plate his lunch – which is actually just breakfast food. He places the dish on the table and pauses, looking up at you.

“You needed the money, I had it,” he offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I was handling it on my own,” you say, “I-It was my problem to solve.”

“By sellin’ yourself to some prick?” he snarls, the anger he was masking coming out in a flurry.

“I wasn’t selling myself–” you refute but he slams his palms down on the table. His cutlery clatters with the action and you jump.

“I read that post you made,” he hisses, teeth bared, “There’s no fuckin’ reason you should be selling your virginity for some cash when I was right here the whole time!”

Your cheeks burn when he brings up your virginity, crossing your arms over your chest protectively, “I-It’s mine to sell if I want to! I needed that money!”

“And now you have it,” he says with finality. 

He takes a seat and you stand there, fuming. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding together as your mind races to find a rebuttal. He begins to eat, taking large, fast bites that just shows how he’s been conditioned to eat quickly by the military. 

“That’s not the point, Simon,” you huff, growing less angry and more frustrated by this conversation. You were just going around in circles. 

“Then what is the point?” he snaps, snatching his empty plate and angrily tossing it in the sink. He turns to you again, a frown evident on his face, “You got the money you needed safely. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s too much money, Simon!” you cry, “I was selling something in exchange for it!”

“I care about you,” he says, “That doesn’t matter to me. What’s mine is yours, you know that.”

You silently glare at him, wishing that the heated stare would get through to him. He stands unbothered, staring blankly at you with his fists clenched by his sides.

You hang your head, sighing, “I-I can’t take your money, Simon, alright? I’m already in debt and I’m not going to be in debt to you of all people.”

“You feel like you owe me, is that it?” he asks.

You nod your head, heart rate spiking when he stalks towards you. You’re close enough to smell his body wash and aftershave, a painfully familiar scent that you adore. He stares down his nose at you, brown eyes lidded and lazy. 

He reaches out suddenly, rough hand gripping your cheeks, smushing them together until your lips pucker, “Then give me a kiss as payment.”

“H-Huh?” you whimper dumbly, eyes wide in shock as his face grows closer and closer.

“It can be payment for a kiss, lovie,” he coos, syrupy sweet and soft, “Will that make up for it, then?”

The air in your lungs suddenly doesn’t feel like enough. This is a man that you’ve known almost your entire life so you’ve obviously thought about him in a romantic sense at some point. Hell, when you were a teenager you even had a crush on him. But he never once looked at you any other way than as a friend so you quickly got over it – or maybe that’s just what you told yourself. Because as you stand there, staring into his eyes, you realize that kissing him would feel like a dream come true. 

You find yourself nodding despite the inner turmoil going on in your head. Simon huffs through his nose before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. 

There’s a shock of electricity that goes through you at the contact. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into the kiss, letting him take over. He works his lips expertly against yours, eventually abandoning his hold on your face in favor of wrapping his arm around your waist. You gasp into the kiss when he suddenly yanks you closer, your body pressed close against his. 

He’s warm and sturdy against you, a solid form of muscle that makes you feel safe and content – just as he always has. His hands are big and rough as they grip your hips, kneading the soft flesh there as he gets lost in kissing you. 

“S-Si,” you find yourself muttering without realizing.

He hums in response, chuckling when you continue to mindlessly kiss him. He pulls back, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat, thumbing at your jaw as your eyes slowly focus on him, “What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

“I-I don’t…” you swallow thickly around the forming lump in your throat, “I don’t know. I just…”

“Show me,” he breathes, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. 

The sweet, tender look in his big, brown eyes is what gives you the courage to grab his wrist, leading it just under the hem of your shirt so he can touch your bare stomach. You give him a shy glance from under your lashes, hoping he’ll get the hint that you want more. 

You want him.

Simon, in all his experienced wisdom, understands immediately what it is you’re aching for. His hand travels up further, pausing at your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. Your heart hammers in your chest when your gaze meets his. His eyes are lidded, long lashes obscuring his pupils but still burning into you. 

He stares deep into your eyes, waiting for any sign of hesitation as his fingers creep higher and higher. You suck in a breath when he cups your breast in his palm, squeezing lightly to feel their weight. 

A large, calloused thumb creeps up, passing ever so softly over your nipple until the bud peaks and hardens under the attention. You sigh at the feeling, new shocks washing over you that you’ve never experienced before. 

Sure, you played with yourself plenty – you had a healthy masturbation life, you’d say. But you’d always just been focused on reaching an orgasm, never on the build up. You imagine, however, it would never feel as good by yourself as it does with him.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine, lips parting as the sound escapes. Simon takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your hands grab his shoulders, desperately clinging to his shirt as you lose yourself in the sloppy kiss. 

Drool drips down your chin – it's messy and hot between the two of you. His hand switches to your other breast to give it the same attention as the other. You tremble in his arms, overcome by the insatiable throbbing between your thighs. 

You shift on your feet, the fabric of your panties stick uncomfortably to your core. You’re so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been in your life. By the time he pulls back, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. 

“You want more?” he asks, voice gravelly as he speaks, as if he’s drunk. You nod your head and he clicks his tongue, “You gotta tell me, sweetheart.”

“I-I want more, Si,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks burn as you admit it. 

“Let’s go,” he hums, taking your hand in his as he leads you around the couch towards the hallway.

“Where?” you ask dumbly, hoping that making some kind of conversation would ease the nerves steadily building in your chest. 

“The bedroom,” he responds, stroking his thumb over the top of your hand as if he can sense that you’re nervous, “Wouldn’t want to be stripped down in the middle of the living room, I imagine.”

“N-No,” you squeak, cheeks burning even hotter at those words. 

You’re going to be naked. In front of another person for the first time. In front of him. Simon. 

“There now, lovie,” he whispers as he shuts his bedroom door behind the both of you. He takes your waist in his hands, kneading the soft flesh there, “It’s alright.”

“I-I’m just–”

“Nervous,” he finishes for you, smiling softly when you nod, “I know. We can stop anytime you’d like.”

“I don’t want to,” you rush out, hands coming up to press against his firm chest, “Just…d-don’t be upset when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The tender way he looks at you sets your heart pounding like a little rabbit. A ghost a smile appears on his lips, “I would never do somethin’ like that.”

“I-I know, I just…” you look down at your feet only for him to catch your chin in his fingers, pulling you to look up at him.

You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat, holding your breath as he descends down. His lips find yours all over again, as exhilarating and mind-melting as the first time. 

Just the sweet, deep kiss he gives you has your nerves dissipating a bit – back to normal levels. You no longer feel the desire to flee, you just feel an intense longing and anticipation. You crave more from him.

As if sensing this, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. He slowly starts to pull it up, agonizingly slow. But you’re grateful for it, it gives you time to prepare before you’re bared completely to him. You lift your arms for him, a sign that you’re still okay with this. 

He pulls it up over your head and lets the fabric drop to the floor. But he doesn’t look down, he continues looking in your eyes, softly pecking your lips as his hands cup your breasts once more. 

When you sigh and lean into his touch, he finally lets himself break the eye contact. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees how pretty your tits sit in his hands. He touches them softly, sweetly brushing over your nipples in admiration. 

“Perfect tits, lovie,” he coos, chuckling when you whine in embarrassment. 

His head descends, pink lips parting to take one of your nipples in his mouth. It’s hot but his tongue is soft when it circles and flicks at the bud. He sucks, popping off lewdly before switching to the other one. 

The sensation makes you squeeze your thighs together, imaging what that would feel like around your clit. Your hole clenches around nothing, drooling messily into your panties. The fabric was so wet by now that it couldn’t soak it up anymore, leaving it to slick up your thighs instead.

Your core ached, a feeling only Simon would be able to soothe. 

“Please, Si,” you finally break, whimpering pathetically. 

He detaches from your breast, lips wet and swollen from the worship he had been giving your now sore nipples. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing brown and you were sure that yours looked the same. 

He stands to his full height, nudging you backwards until your knees hit the bed. They buckled at that, leaving you to fall back against the bed. Simon’s bedding was soft, the scent of detergent and his own body wash filling your senses. You relax at the familiar, comforting scent, sinking into the blankets with a bashful smile on your face.

To Simon, you’re an ethereal beauty. You take the air right out of his lungs with the way you look at him.

He remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. He never thought he was deserving of such happiness. But now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you. 

He scooches you up the bed, crawling on after you until he’s on top of you. Though you’re still wearing your pants, you feel so vulnerable beneath his weight. He’s heavy and warm and he smells so good. You can’t focus on anything except for him – he’s all around you and it’s exhilarating. 

Feeling bold, you reach up and tug at his shirt. He pulls it off with ease, revealing his toned, scarred upper body. You can’t help but trace over some of the ones you’re familiar with – there’s one from a time he fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat that you had been crying about. He fell out of the tree on the way down, a jagged branch stabbing into his upper arm and slicing it open. There was another one from when you were teenagers, some other kids jumped him and he took a stab to his shoulder trying to protect you. You kiss that one and he softens, as if he’s remembering it too. 

He’s always been there for you, an overwhelming presence that you simply couldn’t live without. The fact you’re here, in this bed, about to give him your virginity is something that you never would have expected. 

And to think, you were planning to sell it off to some random loser. 

“I’m glad you stopped me,” you find yourself whispering. 

He looks confused for a second before he hums, nodding in understanding, “I am too.”

“I-I want it to be you, Si,” you whisper, the confession leaving you embarrassed. It’s true, all this time, you realize, he’s all you’ve ever really wanted. You had just buried it deep down so you no longer felt those sparks towards him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers back, as if the two of you are sharing some secret little moment that no one else can hear about even though it’s just the two of you in this room. 

“You always do,” you respond, the words making his dark eyes light up. 

He kisses you deeply, moving his lips slowly against yours. When your hands come up to grip the back of his neck, he takes that as his cue to move down to your neck, then your collarbones, down the center of your chest between your breasts, the spot between your breasts, and finally your navel. 

You lay back, head in his pillows with your hands on either side of your head. You watch him, breathing labored as you wait for his next move. He pauses in his path, looking up through his lashes at you before his fingers find the hem of your sweats. You swallow thickly, holding your breath when he slowly begins to pull the fabric down. You lift your hips to help him, pulling your legs free while being careful not to kick him by accident. 

He keeps his gaze on you until you’re settled back down into the bed and the pants are forgotten on the floor to be collected later. Then, he looks down. 

Even though you still have your panties on, you know that the white cotton is soaked through and hides absolutely nothing from his view. 

You watch as he licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly bone dry. His hands are burning hot when he touches you again, sliding over your thighs to your hips. He leans down, pressing his lips against each of your thighs. 

His thumb reaches down, stretches over your pubic bone to touch the sticky fabric. You nearly jump at the sensation – someone’s fingers other than your own touching you there for the first time. Simon’s fingers.

As if he can’t help himself anymore, he tugs the waistband of your panties and yanks them down your thighs. You squeal when you’re jostled under the force. 

He holds the material up and you’re mortified to see just how wet they are. He runs his thumbs over the crotch and you whine, drawing his attention from them. He drops them to the floor and returns his hands back to you, gripping underneath your knees, so he can spread you all the way open. 

Your hands fly to your face, covering your eyes in embarrassment at how exposed you are. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing a kiss over the top of your hands before moving back down your body. 

You peek through your fingers only to find him already staring at you with a sparkle in his eyes. He carefully spreads your slippery folds apart with his thumbs, the movement causing a wet, sticky sound to emanate from between your legs. The little bud of your clit is hard and twitching as it’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. When he’s sure you’re looking he leans down, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. You stop breathing as you watch a fat glob of spit roll down the surface of the smooth muscle and splatter right on your clit. 

“Si-!” your squeal of his name is cut off when your eyes roll back in his head as that sinful tongue slides right over your bud. 

Your whole body twitches at that, hands falling away from your face so you can reach down and grab his hair. It doesn’t even seem like he notices your grip, focused on slurping up that sensitive nub into his hot mouth. 

You choke out a moan, tilting your head back into the pillows as your back arches. It feels just as good as you thought it would when he was giving the same, lewd treatment to your nipples. 

He continues to suck and lick your clit until your mind is completely blank and all you can think is him. Then, all at once it stops and he pulls back, letting your bud slip from the heavenly clutch of his lips.

“You ever have somethin’ inside you, lovie?” he asks, bringing up one of his fingers to swipe through the folds of your entrance, as if to show you what he intends. 

You swallow to moisten your throat before nodding, “J-Just my fingers.”

“How many?” he asks, growing more confident in prodding at the tight little hole. 

“T-Two,” you breathe, any embarrassment you felt long dissipated in the face of true pleasure.

“Alright, lovie,” he hums, “Just lay back, I’ll take good care of you, yeah?”

You nod and do as he says, turning utterly boneless against the blankets. The sweat already slicking your skin despite the fact you’ve only just begun makes the fabric stick to you. 

He prods at your entrance for only a second longer before finally, he pushes his thick middle digit inside you. Your cunt is so wet and pliant that it hungrily swallows it up to the very last knuckle. You clench around it intentionally, getting used to the feeling of the foreign finger inside of you for the first time. 

It feels so different compared to your own, thicker and rougher. The sensation is so strange but you can’t say you don’t like it – in fact, it feels amazing. You already want another, feeling like one just isn’t enough to give you that unknown feeling you’re chasing. It’s like you have an itch that needs to be scratched and only Simon can do it for you. 

As if sensing this, ever the reliable one, he carefully introduces a second finger. The stretch is unfamiliar, a burn around your entrance following as he reaches the last knuckle on that one too. His middle and ring finger stuffed snuggly inside your gooey little cunt as you whine and squirm from the feeling. 

Once you’ve adjusted, he slowly begins working them in and out of you. You slick up his fingers easily, streaks of creamy white coating his skin and making his mouth water. When he crooks his fingers up suddenly, prodding at that tender little spot inside of you, your entire body twitches and the most beautiful moan rips from your chest. 

He can’t resist leaning down and trapping your pulsing little clit under the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t slurp it into his mouth like before, instead, he just licks over it, pressing it down with the muscle. Your eyes are rolled up and your mouth hangs open as you moan and moan, tugging mindlessly at his hair as he works you towards your orgasm. 

It grows and grows, the unrelenting pleasure of his fingers fucking deeply into you and his tongue lapping sloppily at your clit like a mutt driving that knot in your belly to tighten. Drool spills out around his tongue, slipping down to meet his fingers where he easily fucks it into you – the added lubrication not needed but so very welcome with how much wetter and messier it makes you. 

“S-Simon…” you pant, gasping to catch your breath as the pleasure makes it hard for you to even think. 

He glances up at you through his lashes but doesn’t offer any other acknowledgement. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to wring this orgasm out of your little cunt whether you like it or not. 

And fuck, do you love it. 

The orgasms you brought yourself in the deep of the night, little hands stuffed down your panties as you played with your clit and stuffed yourself with your own fingers was nothing like what you were experiencing now. Simon’s thick fingers and hot tongue were torturing your little clit until your entire body started to lock up.

You looked at him desperately, unsure what was even going through your mind besides him and how fucking good you felt right now. 

Just as you teetered on the edge of this orgasm, he suddenly changed up and swallowed your twitchy little clit into his mouth. He sucked, sending you flying over the edge with a shrill wail of his name. Your legs kicked and twitched, heels hitting him on the back as you trembled and shook through the orgasm that he eagerly fucked out of you onto his fingers. 

He suckled your clit, swirling his tongue around it until it was too sensitive and you were tearily pushing him away. When he finally released you, slipping his fingers from your cunt, you were boneless and twitching on the bed. You didn’t even try to close your legs when he pulled away, giving him the perfect view to watch your cute little pussy clench and messily drool cum in the aftermath of your orgasm. 

He popped his fingers in his mouth, eyes rolling and lashes fluttering at the taste of your cum tingling on his taste buds. As you came down, eyes closed and breathing heavy, he began pulling at his belt. 

You could hear the metal clinking as he dropped it to the floor, peeking your heavy lids open to see him pull the button of his jeans open. As he slowly pulled them down, his underwear went with and suddenly you were more aware than ever. 

His cock was something to behold. Thick and veiny, bobbing in the air where it hung – too heavy to actually stand upright. You’d seen dicks in porn before but none of them prepared you for Simon’s. Precum dribbled from the tip, creating a long, gooey string down towards the floor before it broke. 

He wrapped a big hand around himself, giving a few good strokes as he reached down to cup his own heavy balls. The hair wasn’t wild or offensive, but neatly trimmed short. 

“All good, lovie?” he asked, stepping out of the pool of his jeans and boxers so he could kneel on the bed again.

“All god-good!” you blushed as he laughed, leaning down over you to balance his weight on his elbows.

“You still want this?” he asks, hushed and sweet, 

You glance between your bodies to see that intimidating cock, drooling messily over your skin. You realize, quickly, that you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

When you voice such, he looks relieved, like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. He sits back on his heels and spreads your legs, pushing your knees up to your chest.

“Hold them there,” he orders, which you follow immediately. 

Your elbows circle around your knees, holding yourself open for him as he asked. He whistles low in appreciation when your cum-slicked cunt was spread and exposed for him to prod his cockhead against. 

He swipes the tip up and down through your folds, humming appreciatively when your little hole tries to suck him in every time he grazes past it. He nudges your clit, the little bud still hard and sensitive from your orgasm but so eager for more. He couldn’t wait to grant your wish and make you cream on his cock. 

You watch him with wide eyes as he starts to push into you. Your jaw drops as you feel that burning stretch, an ache settling between your legs as he continues to sink himself into you. 

“F-Fuck, wait, Simon!” you squeal and he halts immediately. 

He’s only reached just past the head of his cock but he reaches down to pet your clit. The pleasure shoots through you, making your toes curl and your walls relax around him. He keeps his eyes on your face for any sign that you want him to stop as he moves his hips again. 

More and more of his cock sinks inside and his thumb keeps working little circles over your clit until his hips are flush with yours. Your voice breaks as you moan when you realize you’ve taken every single inch of him. 

He’s heavy and throbbing inside of you and you clench around him intentionally, forcing a moan from his chest. 

He leans down, arranging your knees over his shoulders, folding you up and pressing down on  you. He’s heavy and it makes it hard to breathe but that makes it even better – the pleasure of being speared on that fat cock and being utterly helpless underneath this man is better than any fantasy you could have made for yourself. 

“Fuck,” he snarls, rolling his hips back before rocking them forward again, heavy balls slapping against you as he does, “Can’t believe you were gonna give this little cunt away to some prick.”

“S-Si,” you whimper, biting your lip at the feeling of him slowly and carefully rocking his hips against yours, “‘M sorry, sh-shoulda been you all this time.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hums, “No one else gets to love you but me, sweetheart.”

“O-Only you!” you agree, nails digging into his shoulders when he hits that spot just right. 

He can feel you soaking his cock, drippy cum lathering him up to make every glide of his cock wetter than the last. He sits back up on his knees, adjusting his grip so he can pin your legs wide open, giving him the best view of your greedy cunt swallowing his length up. 

He begins to fuck you in earnest, pulling out halfway before sliding home again - nothing like the little movements he gave you to prepare you. He was going to show you exactly why you should only think of giving him this precious pussy for the rest of your life. No one will ever be able to fuck you as good as he can, he’s going to learn your body like the back of your hand and you’re never going to be able to cum as hard as you can with him. You’ll never even want to use your own fingers again when he’s done with you. 

You can’t do anything but lay there and take it, take the pleasure and take his cock. He hits so deep, prodding at your cervix in a way that aches but it only feels that much better when it’s mixed with mind-numbing pleasure. 

Simon looms above you, panting and groaning as he fucks you like he was made to. He angles his hips just right, blunt nails biting into your thighs where he pins you open, neither of you caring if he happens to break skin while he does. You don’t even register the bite of pain underneath the way his cock prods you g-spot so perfectly. 

Your own fingers would have been tired by now, no longer able to work that little spot like you need. Simon’s cock, however, is unrelenting. The pleasure builds and mounts uninterrupted, every stroke of his length sending you higher. His body moves fluidly, rolling his hips tirelessly so he can give you every ounce of pleasure your sweet little cunt needs. 

You’re creaming around him, a frothy, milky ring forming around the base every time he sinks in and becoming visible when he pulls back. It’s filthy and messy and makes your cheeks burn but Simon seems to not mind in the slightest.

“So fuckin’ messy, love,” he coos, breathy and slurred, “Look at that, pretty cunt needed some cock, huh?”

“Y-Yours!” you manage to choke out.

“What’s that?” he asks, a crooked, teasing grin on his face. 

“Y-Your cock! Only needed your cock, Simon,” you pant, reaching up to grope your own tits, pinching and rolling your nipples meanly. It hurts so good, making you clench around his cock. He moans at the sight, his pretty little virgin tormenting your own nipples.

“That’s right,” he hums, reaching a shaky hand down to thumb at your clit, “Keep pinchin’ those pretty tits, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”

You nod your head, unable to form a vocal response from the new sensation of your clit being played with while he fucks you. It feels so damn good that you could go drunk from it all. Everything in your brain is slow, thoughts of only him and how good you feel are all that’s there. Your entire world, right at this moment, revolves around Simon Riley. 

He knows it too, a cocky grin on his face as he works you to your orgasm. You dangle, almost helplessly, staring unblinkingly at his handsome face as he works it out of you. 

After what feels like minutes, but is probably only seconds, you cum. Hard.

Your head slams back against the pillows, back arching as you cunt clasps tight around him. You cry out in pure, unadulterated pleasure as he fucks you through it. His thumb keeps working your clit as it twitches and pulses under the digit, cumming nice and pretty for him just like he wanted. Just like you deserved. 

You cream his cock messily, it drips down his balls and down your ass to the bedding below. So fucking sloppy and wet, a perfect little cunt made to take his cock. 

His brows furrow, mouth falling open as his own orgasm mounts and builds. Now that your well-earned orgasm is out of the way, he can finally let go and allow himself to experience it as well.

“Where do you want it?” he grits out, teeth clenched from the ache of holding back.

His balls draw up, heavy and full. He feels ready to positively explode when you gasp, “I-Inside!”

His head falls back, the loudest, most drawn out moan you’d never expected to come from a stoic man like Simon falling from his lips. It’s deep and primal, full of nothing but euphoria as he spills into you. His load is hot and thick, drooling out of the sides of his cock as he slows his thrusts to milk the least bits of pleasure from the orgasm. 

When he comes down, he collapses. Your legs lock around his waist and he draws you tightly into his arms, neither of you caring for the way his weight crushes you. All you care about is being wrapped up in his arms where you belong. 

He pulls his neck from your chest and kisses your forehead. Then he kisses your nose. Then your lips. 

“Pretty,” he breathes, still drunk on the endorphins of the sex so his lips are a little looser than they’d normally be, “Always thought you were pretty.”

“Really?” you prompt, cheeks heating at his confession. 

He hums, “Glad you’re finally mine.”

You beam, “No one deserved me as much as you.”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, rolling off of you with a sigh. His cock unplugs your cunt and a gush of your mixed cum comes out, making you whine. He laughs softly, drawing you back into your arms. 

You’ve never felt safer and warmer in your life, knowing in that moment that you should have come to Simon all along. There’s no one in the world who would be there for you, more willing and able than he. 

this work belongs to rowarn. do not repost to third party websites or use for character ai. reblogs welcome and appreciated!

[reasonsforhope]

Kamala Harris just announced that her vice president will be Minnesota governor Tim Walz. Based on the coverage so far I'm really reassured by this decision.

The Washington Post did an obviously great job of making a prepared article for each option, considering how long an article they had up 7 minutes after the announcement.

((Okay technically it's not an official announcement yet it's "according to three people familiar with the pick, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss a decision that is not yet public." But listen. I am 99% sure this is a weather balloon. (Meaning: a deliberate leak to gauge reaction.) Because the sheer weakness or incompetence on the part of the Harris campaign that it would take for three people to all confirm that within a few hours hours of each other and the planned announcement it is massive.))

-via The Washington Post, August 6, 2024

Honestly this decision, from everything I've read and can tell, looks like it's brilliant politics.

Important Context: The vice president(ial candidates)'s job in an election is not to be similar to the president. The vice president's job on the ballot is very, very much specifically to be different from the president. Why? So they can cover each others' weaknesses. Especially regionally.

(Sidenote: I feel a bit ridiculous saying this. But genuinely if you want to get a stronger understanding of how US elections really work. Go watch seasons 6 and 7 of The West Wing. Genuinely, a lot of politicians have said - especially back in its day - that that was the most accurate depiction of an election they'd ever seen. Also specifically features an entire arc about a contested Democratic primary convention, so also very good if you're interested in understanding weird nominating convention shenanigans.)

From the article:

"Harris’s choice for a running mate was among the most closely watched decisions of her fledgling campaign, as she sought to bolster the ticket’s prospects for victory in November and rapidly find someone who could be a governing partner. In picking Walz, she has selected a seasoned politician with executive governing experience and signaled the importance of Midwestern battleground states such as Wisconsin and Michigan.

Walz’s foray into politics came later in life: He spent more than two decades as a public school teacher and football coach, and as a member of the Army National Guard, before running for Congress in his 40s. In 2006, he defeated a Republican to win Minnesota’s 1st Congressional District--a rural, conservative area--and won reelection five times before leaving Congress to run for governor.

Walz was first elected governor in 2018 and handily won reelection in 2022. Though little-known outside his state, Walz emerged publicly as one of the earliest names mentioned as a possible running mate for Harris, and in the ensuing days he made the rounds on television as an outspoken surrogate for the vice president...

“These are weird people on the other side. They want to take books away, they want to be in your exam room. … They are bad on foreign policy, they are bad on the environment, they certainly have no health care plan, and they keep talking about the middle-class,” Walz told MSNBC in July. “As I said, a robber baron real estate guy and a venture capitalist trying to tell us they understand who we are? They don’t know who we are.”

Walz also has faced criticism from Republicans that his policies as governor were too liberal, including legalizing recreational marijuana for adults, protecting abortion rights, expanding LGBTQ protections, implementing tuition-free college for low-income Minnesotans and providing free breakfast and lunch for schoolchildren in the state.

But many of those initiatives are broadly popular. Walz also signed an executive order removing the college-degree requirement for 75 percent of Minnesota’s state jobs, a move that garnered bipartisan support and that several other states have also adopted.

“What a monster. Kids are eating and having full bellies, so they can go learn, and women are making their own health-care decisions,” Walz said sarcastically in a July 28 interview with CNN when questioned whether such policies would be fodder for conservative attacks, later adding: “If that’s where they want to label me, I’m more than happy to take the [liberal] label.”

Walz also spoke at a kickoff event in St. Paul for a Democratic canvassing effort, casting Trump as a “bully.”

“Don’t lift these guys up like they’re some kind of heroes. Everybody in this room knows--I know it as a teacher--a bully has no self-confidence. A bully has no strength. They have nothing,” Walz said at the event, sporting a camouflage hunting hat and T-shirt.

Walz has explained that he felt some Democrats’ practice of calling Trump an existential threat to democracy was giving him too much credit, which prompted his decision to denounce the GOP nominee instead as being “weird.”

“I do believe all those things are a real possibility, but it gives him way too much power," Walz said on CNN’s “State of the Union” regarding the Democrats’ rhetoric. “Listen to the guy. He’s talking about Hannibal Lecter, shocking sharks, and just whatever crazy thing pops into his mind.”

If Walz is elected vice president, under state law, Minnesota Lt. Gov. Peggy Flanagan (D) would assume the governorship for the rest of his term. Minnesota Senate president Bobby Joe Champion, a Democrat, would become lieutenant governor."

-via The Washington Post, August 6, 2024

--

This guy. Sounds like. fucking Moderate swing-state/rural/Midwestern/southern/"heartland"/working class white voter catnip. He sounds like he's also a very smart politician and strong campaigner. And he's apparently genuinely a good guy with a good record, too.

He sounds like he's going to do a really good job of appealing to voters in several of the big deal swing states without being from any of them specifically. Which means it doesn't feel like pandering to one of the states involved (and thereby spurning the others), which is also great.

(Also he was the one who started "weird" @ conservatives and I think we should take that seriously as a very good political instinct/move. Judging in large part by how it has so clearly hit an actual nerve with conservatives like so little else. Also hugely relevant: that post going around about how part of why conservatives are so upset about "weird" is because in the Midwest, "weird" specifically also implies anti-social or harmful behavior.)

Officially feeling more optimistic about Trump not winning in November

[papayadays]

my man - ln4

⋆˚✿˖° lando just won monaco, but it was supposed to your night with him ⋆˚✿˖° inspired by miss possessive for my so close to what event ⋆˚✿˖° wc: 2.1k+ | a/n: this was finished at 12 am for lando monaco win so sorry it took me forever (so happy for lando)

SASS CAFE WAS BUZZING WELL INTO MIDNIGHT. lando had just won monaco, and of course, it called for a big celebration with his friends. honestly, was it really a lando norris win without a rager? there were celebrities galore, such were lando’s connections, and you even saw kylian mbappe hanging around. rounds of shots had been passed around, with most partygoers buzzed within the first hour or two.

it was how you expected—bass thrumming, lights down low, people crowded together as they attempted to dance to the beat. and there in the middle of it was your boyfriend, the race winner. from lights out to lap 78, it had been a whirlwind, but it ended with you tearing up as you watched lando beam, triumphant, so it was all worth it. had you almost pulled out your hair due to nerves? no comment. had your heart pounded with glee and pride? most definitely.

but it all worked out in the end. lando deserved the stars, in your unbiased opinion, and you knew how much this meant to him. c’mon, it was the monaco grand prix. historic. iconic. magic. and lando, your lando, had won it. in a beautiful, perfect victory no less. how were you supposed to be normal about that? 

the whole time you were fidgeting with whatever was on hand, and a few curse words were muttered, but god, was it worth the anxiety. cisca and adam were also there, a highlight of your day as cisca gave you one of her unique bangles for good luck, and adam narrated everything in extreme detail. they were genuinely some of the sweetest people you’d ever met; it was clear where lando got it from.

you headed back towards the center of action, where lando and his mates were cheering and making a poor attempt to dance to the music. drinks in hand, you stopped in your tracks as you saw what was in front of you.

baby blue eyes wandered up and down your boyfriend’s figure, and a red lip caught by teeth made your blood boil. her outfit certainly didn’t help either; a skintight dress that landed high on her thigh with a slit. the girl leaned over, and you almost rolled your eyes. it was clear she was trying to get lando’s attention, and you didn’t like it. to be honest, it was like watching the fia make decisions: annoying, irrational, and pointless. now, you didn’t—couldn’t—move as you watched her blonde hair sweep over her shoulders, model physique moving closer to lando in that short orange dress of hers that you knew was for attention.

she was beautiful, anyone could see that she had the kind of natural beauty many women would envy. but you kept watching, frozen, as she squeezed his shoulder and giggled way too hard at whatever joke lando was making, shoulders shaking. and your boyfriend was too kind and outgoing to notice, bless his soul. he was oblivious, much to your surprise.

but the initial shock washed off, and a spark ignited inside you. you had already let the rest of the world have their moment with lando after his win. you let zak brown terrorize him. you stood off to the side and let the team have their share of champagne showers and helmet pats. you saw his parents squeeze him tightly, pride shining in their eyes. you went with him to interact with his fans and noticed him taking some time with the random famous partygoers. hell, you even watched on in disbelief as jenson button brazenly flirted with him, charm in full force as he teased lando about “monaco, baby”. everyone else had gotten their time with lando, and it was finally your turn now. or, it should have been.

it was akin to watching a wildlife documentary or something of the sort as the girl’s eyes flitted over your boyfriend yet again, a kind of ravenous desire in her eyes, like watching predator and prey. you knew what she saw—a famous and handsome f1 driver who had just taken a big victory here in monaco. yeah, you knew what she, and countless others,  wanted: to run around and go home with a winner, someone with the status and fame. she wanted a star. she wanted your boyfriend.

something twisted under your ribcage, not a sharp pang but a slow, torturous grind. this wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last. the tabloids had made it clear that you were different from the women lando had dated before, that you were cut from a different cloth. the “not a model and more of a normal person” cloth. and honestly? you didn’t expect lando to stay forever; you knew there would be an expiration date. his lifestyle was a magnet for girls like the one with your boyfriend right now, and let’s be real, athletes clearly dated models. part of you thought he saw you as a new challenge, a new kind of conquest that was nice before he went back to his old ways. and you supposed that you were fine with that, despite how it sounded. you liked lando, and it would be good while it lasted.

but tonight, he was yours. not hers. and she really needed to get her hands off your man before you were about to snap.

“lan, baby, here’s your drink,” you hummed, voice dripping with honey as you draped your arm around lando’s neck. you gave the girl a once-over, but if she noticed, she didn’t let on.

“thanks, love,” lando grinned, pecking your lips quickly but still giving you a taste of the champagne he had been drinking. you cast a side glance at the girl, smug as you ran your fingers through your boyfriend’s hair. lando waved his hand, the corner of his mouth quirking up at the sight of you as he introduced you to the girl. “this is my girlfriend, who i really appreciate got me drinks.” you snorted, playfully hitting his arm.

“nice to meet you,” the girl beamed, but you knew she couldn’t have been that happy to see you, as evident from the way the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. she reached over and patted your arm, nails skimming over your skin in a way that made you stiffen. quite frankly, you didn’t know why she was keeping up the pretense that she really seemed to like you. you hardly knew her, how was she acting like you two were about to become besties? “lando’s such a great guy, you must be very lucky.”

lucky. ha. if only she knew that was actually how you felt. as irritated as you were, you weren’t about to let her see that she had struck a nerve. “oh, i don’t know if it’s luck,” you chuckled, trying to ease the tightness in your jaw. you were already a few drinks in which made you much less cautious than how you usually acted, more reckless and unbothered. “you know fate has a way of bringing two people together.” you took a sip of your drink, trying your best to feign nonchalant indifference and not let her get what she wanted.

“and i’m glad it did,” lando chimed in, a soft, reverent gaze in his eyes.

 he tended to get sentimental when he got drunk, and today was no exception. you chuckled, cupping his cheek for a second as if to ground him. he was making things easier for you, making it easier to prove your point. your hands left lando, fixing your outfit with indifference as you sat down on the couch next to him, one of his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist.

before you could do anything else, max and pietra walked over, with the latter smiling and rushing to hug the girl who had been hovering around lando. so apparently she was p’s friend. okay, well, so be it. your legs shifted closer to lando, and his hands went under your knees, pulling your legs over his, amusement sparkling in his eyes. with a knowing smirk, he leaned forward, voice low and teasing. “i know what you’re trying to do.” his lips almost brushed the shell of your ear.

“and?” you huffed, tilting your head as if to dare him to quit first. “you got a problem with that, lan?” to add to it, you splayed a hand across lando’s chest, playfully kissing his cheek and pushing him back as he tried to be a little shit and get up.

lando opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off as max nudged him, bringing you two back out of your bubble. “oh, we were just talking about you,” the girl added, not bothering to add further elaboration until the awkwardness started to settle like a cold front. “i was just asking p why we didn’t see you at all during the race.” wow, now you knew what it was like for lando in the media pen and the horde of press that loved to stir random things up.

composing yourself, you smiled and laughed like a champ, twisting a ring on your finger to ground yourself. “i’m not one for the spotlight,” you shrugged, leaning into lando, who was animatedly chatting with max about something he saw in the paddock. for a heartbeat, your breath caught at the way the purple light caught on the angles of his face and his wide beam as his hands were gesturing, clearly in the middle of telling a story. you couldn’t help but smile, your boyfriend was happy, and that’s what made you happy as well. he was just…a star, the dazzling sun, and you loved him.

the girl wasn’t impressed, blue eyes narrowing at you as she fixed her hair. she could act indifferent. still, you were so sure that she’d lay a hand on your boyfriend again. “lando, are you staying in monaco for a bit?” she asked, voice saccharine, almost a croon. “maybe the race winner should do a victory lap sometime.” the implication in her tone was obvious; if not, the way she was looking at lando like she was asking him to do her a favor was clear.

you almost rolled your eyes to the back of your head at the girl’s giggle. why the hell was she all over your man? kylian mbappe was literally right there. anyone else except lando, in your humble, unbiased opinion. “i’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off my man.” your eyes met the girl’s, hoping your glare didn’t waver.

lando moved his hand to your knee, giving you a small squeeze as a shit-eating grin stretched across his face, leaning back with an air of superiority. knowing him, he probably thought it was entertaining watching you fight off other girls.

the girl opened her mouth to say something before turning back to lando. “you know where to find me,” she purred in lando’s ear, metaphorically swiping her claws at you with the barbed smile she gave. with that, she walked off with an air of arrogance, presumably to find pietra.

you scoffed, wrapping your arms around lando’s neck. his grin widened, enjoying your extra attention. he closed his eyes as your fingers ran through his brown curls, gentle and bold, a juxaposition. as lando trailed soft kisses to your jaw, you shot a glance at the girl over his shoulder, blowing a mocking kiss to her. she so wished she was you. but alas, she could only wish.

“y’know, you become so vicious when you’re jealous,” lando smirked, the sound low and teasing, nuzzling into your neck. his hands roamed up and down your sides, squeezing your hips in a way that tempted you, looking like the cat who got the cream. “i love it. trying to stake your claim on me?”

it twisted something in you, some part of you that was happy at his pride over you being jealous. everything he did seemed to cater to your needs, honestly. “just didn’t like the way she was looking at you,” you mumbled, suddenly bashful as you ducked your head. “like she wanted the winner to herself when you’re mine.”

something flickered in lando’s eyes, some emotion you couldn’t place—it made you want to reach out and fall into the abyss of his eyes. he leaned forward, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer to him. “yeah? yours?” he grinned, voice soft as his eyes sparkled. and really, how were you supposed to not love him?

“yeah, mine.”

[st4rymoon]

Our Secret

★ Simon Riley x Prices Daughter (nsfw)

Simon felt guilty. He felt like a horrible friend, horrible man, and somehow unloyal to the man who he owed his life to.

But god did you feel like heaven. “O- oh my-“ Simon seethed, balls deep in his captains pretty little daughter.

Simon fucked you on your childhood bed hoping he’d make a mark big enough to make you his. Even if he had to keep it a secret for as long as needed. He never wanted to let you go.

And a mark he certainly made. Coming back from college for a short break was the best decision you ever made.

Simon had your legs bent up to your chest, nearly hitting your cheeks as he pounded you onto your flowery bed sheets. Your eyes gawked down at the way Simon bullied his way in and out of you cunt with pure determination. Leaving you stupid and mouth dumbly hanging open with drool pooling at the sides.

“Fe- feels good bunny? Taking my cock like a big girl ya?” He tenderly cooed. You nodded dumbly and Simon couldn’t help but smile. He always admired the way your eyes always seemed to gloss over whenever he fucked you.

Or rather when he did anything sexual with you at all. It didn’t matter if he had you in a mating press, on your knees, or his mouth lapping at you cunt. You always gawked up at him with the same pretty look he could never seem to get enough of.

“Yeahh? Feels good huh lovie?” He pouted as you weakly clawed at his arms. You could feel him everywhere, Simon completely filled your senses everytime he had you on his hands.

By your lack of words and pulsing cunt, he knew you were growing closer and closer to your limit. He’s had you like this for almost an hour, after all he has to take advantage of this time with you alone. It isn’t everyday Price wasn’t home without Simon by his side.

You’re quiet sobs made Simon’s eyes soften, he knew he was being cruel. Working you up then fucking you for god knows how long was so so cruel of him. “S’ getting to much?” Simon hummed as he gave your legs a break and let them fall to his side.

You nodded cock drunk as his thrusts never relented, only slowing their pace ever so slightly “But don’t you wanna make me feel good bunny?”

You nodded vigorously, moving more than you ever have in the past 40 minute’s. “You do?” Simon cooed “you, make you f- feels so good” you hiccuped.

“Atta’ girl” he tenderly cooed, repaying you with a kiss on the forehead before picking up his pace again. “Always so good to me”

[littlcdarlin]

Till Death Do Us Part (Or Unparted By Death)

Joel Miller x fem!reader part 1 | part 2 summary: When your mother asks you to take Joel to a family wedding, you start opening up to him in ways you haven't with anybody else. word count: 24k warnings: dbf!Joel, control kink, decision making kink (?), age gap (20s & 50s), praise kink, asphyxiation, unprotected p in v, Joel calls reader kid or kiddo, edging, orgasm denial, orgasm control, reader works out her family issues on Joel's cock, Joel is very understanding and sweet, Joel is something of a fatherfigure and had a relationship to reader when she was a child, I need to be shot, reader presents herself in a feminine way (wears a dress and makeup), reader has a tattoo (not described), description of reader's family, reader drinks alcohol

note: this is what happens when my cousin announces she's getting married! It's been stewing in my drafts since February, I am very proud of it. Inspired by a scene from Fleabag — you’ll understand why. Enjoy reading, and tell me what you think if you'd like. Keeps me motivated and makes me smile

Your mother should be crowned queen of awkward, bad ideas. And this one surely takes the cake.

"I’m going alone, Mom, it’s not the nineteen-thirties."

"It’s a wedding, darling, who will you dance with?"

You scoff – if you know one thing, it’s that you certainly will not be dancing in front of people, not without the sufficient amount of alcohol.

"Are you gonna ask aunt Ruth the same thing just cause she divorced uncle–."

"You don’t have to be such a smart-ass," she interrupted,  "Joel would be going alone otherwise, and this way you both get to have someone there with you! I think he’s been lonely ever since Sarah moved out."

And what’s that got to do with me?, you want to ask, but your mother is right. Your next door neighbor has been sulking all summer, drinking beer on the porch and staring at the driveway as if that will make his daughter magically reappear. Sometimes when you get home in the evening you chat with him for a few minutes. You like Joel – he has the same aversion to smalltalk as you do, so the conversation isn’t superficial. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s pushing his late 50s.

"It wouldn’t be a real date, honey, I’d never set you up with him," you mother starts again, and you sigh. "I just think it’d cheer him up to spend time with someone who isn’t your father."

You almost ask your mother to go with him if it’s so important to her, but of all the guests there he’s probably the easiest to talk to. Not one to make a fuss, Joel Miller. You could just sit quietly next to each other, and if he’s your partner you doubt there’ll be much dancing. Maybe you could convince him to tell any other man who asks you to dance to fuck off. It would make your evening much more enjoyable than pressing your sweating body against the friend of a distant cousin and awkwardly swaying to some romantic pop song from 2009 with your parents watching. It’s a mystery to you why Joel is going at all – it’s not like it’s someone in his family who’s getting married. Your mother mentioned something about the groom and Joel having worked together on a job, but you weren’t paying attention much, as it was before she was trying to pimp you out to a guy basically triple your age.

"I’ll talk to him about it," you concede, and she smiles, clearly taking your answer as success already. You’re not as sure Joel will be thrilled about this idea, can almost hear his grumpy response: you even old enough to stay up past 9 pm? Still, maybe it will get your mother off your back if you at least try to convince him.

***

So you knock on Joel’s door, a tray of cookies your mother made for him in your slightly sweaty hands. You know he’ll find the idea absurd, and you’re not looking forward to being teased for proposing it.

"Hey, kid," Joel drawls when he opens the door, an easy smile tugging on his lips.

"Hi," you answer, pushing the tray towards him, "Mom made these and wanted you to have some."

"Geez, she thinks I don’t eat now that Sarah’s in Boston."

You get the inkling your mother isn’t entirely wrong about that, you haven’t seen Joel do his usual run for groceries in weeks. He probably eats steak every day, no vegetables. The thought almost makes you grin. Joel takes the tray from you and raises an eyebrow.

"You wanna come in?"

"Yeah, I’m definitely eating those," you say, nodding towards his cookies. He scoffs good-naturedly and kicks the door open further with his foot.

"No way, I’m not givin’ these away. Your mother’s bakin’ is sublime."

"Think of it as payment."

He snorts.

"What for?"

"Bringing them over."

Joel shoots you a look that clearly says stop whinin’, you live across the street, but doesn’t answer, just leads you to his kitchen and gets out milk and two glasses. He pushes one over to you, and you dunk one of your mother’s chocolate chip cookies in the milk, watching Joel do the same thing. You eat quietly for a moment, just enjoying the sugar melting into your tongues.

"Mom wants you to take me to my cousin’s wedding," you say once you’ve swallowed your first bite. Joel looks like he has dough stuck in his throat, and when he starts coughing you briefly wonder if you’d be able to perform the Heimlich maneuver on a man of Joel’s size, but he recovers quickly, and gulps down some milk.

"Why?" he asks, voice hoarse. You could lie, but Joel would know – you’ve never been able to hide stuff from him. He knew you were smoking behind his garage when you were seventeen, recognized the boys you snuck in and out of your bedroom window. He never told on you, though.

"She thinks we’re both loners."

Joel scoffs, and takes another bite of his cookie. You shrug.

"I told her it’s a bad idea. She said we needed a dance partner."

You’re grinning, the idea of Joel in a suit and dancing more than absurd. The most you’ve seen him do is tap his foot while listening to his classic rock radio station in his garage.

"I don’t dance," he answers, his brows furrowing.

"Neither do I."

He looks at you inquiringly, and you raise your eyebrows.

"What?"

"You’re what, twenty-one and you don’t dance? Aren’t you supposed to be spendin’ your weekends in clubs, makin’ all sorts of bad choices?"

"Okay, then, let me rephrase that: I don’t dance without at least four shots of tequila in my bloodstream and I doubt my parents would approve of me getting wasted at a family wedding."

Joel hums, as if to say fair point, and looks thoughtful for a second.

"You wanna go with someone else?"

The question is unexpected, you can’t help but answer it honestly.

"No."

Joel holds your eye contact, and you sigh.

"I’m not seeing anyone at the moment and my family is fucking insane, so I’m definitely not taking any of my friends."

That makes Joel chuckle, and for a brief moment you wonder what he thinks of your family.

"So let me take you, then. Wouldn’t have to waltz or nothin’."

No comment about your age, no teasing remarks about the boys Joel knows you see without your parents being aware of it.

"Why?"

Even to your own ears, your voice sounds suspicious. You lean on Joel’s kitchen island and stare up at him inquiringly. He doesn’t look away, not intimidated in the slightest.

"Your Dad’s been tryin’ to get me to ask out Loretta Henderson."

"What, and you’re not interested?"

You know Loretta, a nosy woman who knows all the gossip in the neighborhood. The thought of Joel going out with her makes you frown, he’s so much nicer than her.

"No," Joel just answers, but doesn’t offer much more. You sigh, and he cocks an eyebrow. "What, are you Loretta Henderson’s personal cupid now?"

"It’s not that," you say a little grumbly.

"What, then?"

His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and you find yourself giving into his question before you can change your mind.

"I don’t wanna go to that stupid fucking wedding at all."

There, it’s out in the open, all your childish and petulant disdain for family events. Now he’ll demand explanations, say you’re silly, to grow up and make your parents happy.

"So don’t go."

You stare at him. He stares back, and after a couple of seconds the corners of his mouth lift in a brief, tentative smile.

"You don’t gotta go, kid, with me or with anyone. You’re an adult."

Sure, but it’s your cousin’s wedding. Who bails on something like that? Joel Miller, maybe. He’s not exactly known to be the life of every party, although you know he can stomach quite a few beers. The thought of him building a tolerance on his own makes your frown reappear.

"It’s not that simple," you answer, staring at the crumbs of cookie in what’s left of your milk. "My parents would kill me. Like, genuinely, they’d put an axe to my neck."

Joel chuckles and the sound feels warm in your ears.

"I highly doubt that. You wanna talk about why you’re skippin’ a free three course meal and unlimited drinks?"

"I’m not skipping anything," you argue, then sigh, and look at your hands. "I’m the second oldest after my cousin, and she’s got this great guy, and a degree, and probably twin babies who won’t ever cry on the way, and I…I just don’t think I can handle every single one of my aunts asking me why I’m still single."

Joel is watching you, and hums as if to say he understands, and before you change your mind, you keep rambling.

"I always gotta justify every decision I make to them, you know? Like when I started my first degree, and when I quit it, and when I cut my hair, and got a tattoo. It’s exhausting. I’m awful at decision-making on the best of days, but my whole extended family scrutinizing me makes it hell."

You know you’re being dramatic, that there’s people with worse problems than a distant family member’s snide comments about a tattoo. But still. Still, you don’t want to spend your precious free day defending the choices you struggled with making in the first place, choices you question yourself, day after day.

Joel looks thoughtful, and he contemplates your words for so long, you think he might not answer at all, but then he pushes the cookies over to you, as if to say you need these more than me.

"I was so young when I had Sarah," Joel says to your surprise, "and everybody had somethin’ to say about it. Kept askin’ me if I was sure about havin’ a kid at that age, while I was holdin’ her in my arms, as if I could’ve just gotten her receipt and returned her like a pair of jeans."

You’re not entirely certain, but you think this might not be the kind of thing Joel tells people easily. He sighs.

"Look, I know it’s exhaustin’ to always have to stand your ground, ’specially when it’s shaky even without people voicing their unwarranted opinions. If peace of mind is what ya want, I’d say definitely avoid them. But if you wanna stand up for yourself and tell them to mind their business, I’ll drive your getaway car."

It’s so very much like Joel to offer something like that – taking you to a wedding just so that you can leave it. You can’t help it, you smile. He smiles back, and it makes the crinkles around his eyes more prominent. It’s a good look on him.

"Alright," you say after a second, thinking that if all else fails, you’ll be able to explain all the family gossip to Joel – maybe the day doesn’t have to be all bad.

"Alright," Joel agrees, "what color dress are you wearin’? So I can match my tie."

You groan – partly because the image of Joel Miller in a suit and tie is, for some reason, devastating, and partly because the idea of picking a dress makes you want to scream.

"Fuck, Joel, they’re gonna hate whatever I wear anyway," you mutter, aware you’re making something big out of something small, that any girl would be happy to get to pick out a pretty dress for a wedding – you can see the judgmental looks already, though: too overdressed, too underdressed, too colorful, too conservative, too this and that.

When you look up, Joel is watching you, brows furrowed while he’s thinking. You kind of wish he’d just tell you to suck it up and stop whining.

"Want me to pick it?"

You stare at him. It’s an odd proposition, and the absurdity of the situation is catching up to you – Joel Miller asking to pick your dress for the wedding he’s taking you to, so that the decision won’t fall onto your shoulders. Flannel-wearing, denim-loving Joel, picking a dress he thinks is best suited for you and for the occasion, perhaps even one he would like to see you in. It makes your head spin. It’s strange, absurd, weird, but the idea is oddly soothing. Would you feel self-conscious under your family’s stares if you knew Joel liked the dress? If the choice wasn’t yours in the first place, would you still find a way to feel guilty about it?

"I do," you answer quietly. You know you’re treading in dangerous waters now. Something feels blurry about this conversation, and although you trust Joel not to have ulterior motives, you’re also aware you both know there’s something happening here beyond a choice of dress.

"Alright," Joel says again, just like that.

"Alright," you say. Just like that.

***

Joel takes you shopping, because in his own words he’s never had to buy a fancy dress for Sarah, so you hop onto the passenger seat of his Bronco and try to find a radio station with songs that aren’t several decades older than you, but Joel doesn’t seem to enjoy anything past the 80s, so you opt for a 60s station – Dusty Springfield coos into your ear as you watch Joel turn on the engine.

"My parents somehow don’t think this is strange," you say, and Joel shoots you a glance – you’re clearly implying they should.

"Do you?"

You hum, then shrug.

"I’ve never met a straight man who went shopping for dresses voluntarily. Is there a specific reason you’re not interested in Mrs. Henderson?"

Joel looks over at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Sarah says it’s not politically correct to joke about bein’ gay," he answers seriously, and you grin.

"Yeah, but it’s funny in this case. Poor Loretta, she’s so blissfully unaware of just how small her shot at going out with you is."

Joel shakes his head, but you can see his mouth twitching under his beard.

"Your teasin’ don’t affect me, sweetheart."

"Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Miller."

"I have."

You gape at him, and an involuntary giggle leaves your mouth.

"You’re kidding."

Joel laughs, and runs a broad palm over his beard.

"I’m not. Had a friend called Bill who kissed me once. Hell, I must’ve been your age."

"What happened?" you ask impatiently, a broad smile on your face. Joel shrugs.

"Nothin’. Was a good kiss, but the beard sorta bothered me, so I told him I wasn’t interested like that and that he should ask out Frank. He was another friend of ours, ’n I knew he liked Bill. They’re married now, as far as I know."

It’s oddly sweet instead of funny, and you watch the scenery pass with a smile on your face.

"So why are you spending your Saturday at the mall with me instead of…I don’t know, tinkering with your car? Missing Sarah already?"

Joel looks over and smiles, and in that brief second something in your stomach flutters.

"I’m practically forcin’ you to go to that wedding, the least I can do is spare you the stress and get you your dress myself."

"Technically, you’re not sparing me much if you make me come with you because you don’t know shit about dresses."

Joel scowls and you grin.

"Technically, I could turn this car around right now and make you go in a jeans and t-shirt."

"Can’t make me do anything, Miller."

He doesn’t answer.

***

Turns out Joel’s idea of shopping is getting every single dress in the shop in your size, and making you try them all on. Although his intention was to relieve you of the decision, he’s sort of unhelpful – he tells you it looks real pretty every time you come out of the changing room, and when you can’t stifle a laugh after the fifth time, he clumsily tries to explain why – he likes the purply sort of color.

After around ten dresses, each a different color and style, you feel exhausted – you do like a few, but some have more cleavage than you usually wear, others might be too casual for a wedding, and you sit down on the little bench in the changing room while Joel puts the last dress back on the hanger.

"I changed my mind, Miller, I’m not going to the wedding," you groan. Joel leans against the wall of the changing room, the red dress you tried on last still in his hands.

"I’m no good at this," he says apologetically, "told you I’d help ya pick one and it’s still stressful, sweetheart, I’m sorry."

The nickname makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.

"No, it’s not your fault," you answer and play with the hem of the dark blue dress you’re currently wearing, "I just…I don’t wanna buy a dress cause they’ll like it."

Joel considers you for a couple of seconds.

"Which one would you get if your family wasn’t there?"

You sigh.

"But they are there, Joel–"

"Which one?"

His tone doesn’t allow any arguing, so you look at the dresses, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You liked a baby blue one, a black one, and a light pink one. You lift them up to show Joel, and he smiles.

"So get one of these," he says, as if it’s that easy.

"The blue one has too much cleavage–"

"You’re twenty-one, sweetheart, and you ain’t a nun."

It makes you chuckle, despite yourself.

"I think the baby pink one might be too close to white, you’re not supposed to wear white to somebody else’s wedding."

Joel snorts.

"’S your cousin colorblind?"

You groan, looking between the three dresses.

"Which one would you most like to wear in your own apartment, when you get dressed up just for yourself?"

You stare at Joel, heat rising in your cheeks, as if he caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing.

"I’m a girl-Dad," he reminds you softly, and you have a sudden image of Sarah playing dress-up in front of Joel’s bedroom mirror in your mind. Again, that flutter in your stomach.

"This one," you say quietly, and lift the hanger of the light blue dress. Joel nods, takes the dresses from your hands, drapes the blue one over his forearm, and clutches the curtain of the changing room in his massive fist.

"I’m returnin’ these, you’re changin’ into your jeans again and then we’re gettin’ the blue one."

It’s more expensive than the black one, you want to say, but Joel closes the curtain without giving you the time to argue, and you hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way out of the changing rooms. All of a sudden you have to smile – relief washes over you now that a decision is made.

When you walk out of the changing rooms in your jeans and t-shirt again, the dress you changed out of long forgotten on its hanger, you can see Joel at the checkout, handing the cashier something, and you practically run over to him.

"Absolutely not, Joel, you’re not payi–"

"Thank you," Joel says to the cashier, putting his card back into his worn leather wallet and looking at you, "It’s done. Quit whinin’ and take your new dress."

He hands you the bag with a smile, and although you feel guilty, there’s also a strange sort of comfort in knowing Joel payed for it. Sure, it’s yours, but in a way you’re giving the weight of your family’s reactions, good or bad, over to him.

"Thank you," you say softly, "you didn’t have to do that."

"I know," Joel just answers, "you got matchin’ shoes?"

***

The wedding is still a week away, when you get a message from Joel.

Are you driving to the wedding with your family, or with your date?

You smile, and consider his question for a second. You’re all spending the weekend in a hotel, arriving a day early, and knowing your parents, the packing and driving won’t be exactly peaceful. You don’t know what they will think if you tell them you’re going with Joel, but then you remember your mom asked you to spend time with him so he isn’t lonely. It’s the perfect excuse, and the idea of spending the hours with Joel in his Bronco rather than in the backseat of your parents’ car, trying hard to keep the peace between them while they’re stressed, makes you feel almost giddy.

With my date, you don’t know him tho ;)

You can practically hear Joel’s huff.

Smartass. I’ll pick you up at nine on Friday, don’t oversleep.

From then on you text Joel from time to time. You’re not sure why, but you like the way he responds to you. It never takes him long, even when he surely must be working, and the idea of him checking his phone at a construction site makes that flutter in your stomach reappear. You know it’s stupid, and although it’s not technically flirting, it’s also not innocent, but you tell yourself you’re only going to the wedding because your mother asked you to, so you might as well have a little fun while doing it. And anyway, Joel sure doesn’t seem to mind.

Picked a suit yet? Or r u going in a flannel?

Funny. Picked one that goes well with your dress.

Pic pls??

I’m working. Sorry, sweetheart.

The nickname feels somehow more solid in text than it does in conversation. It’s not a slip of the tongue, he took his time to type it out on his phone, probably with his forefinger, using his other hand to hold the phone.

When the wedding is a week away, your mother starts stress-baking, and asks you to bring Joel one half of the carrot cake she made. You think about asking her how one person is supposed to eat half a cake, but consider your chances of Joel sharing it with you higher if you keep your mouth shut.

When you knock on his door once again, it takes him a second to open the door. He’s drenched in sweat, his old shirt damp and his curls unruly.

"Oh, hey kid," he says with a surprised smile, his eyes flickering towards the cake. "What’s it this time, an uncle’s funeral?"

You snort, and he opens the door wider.

"Are you working out?"

"No," Joel say in a tone that suggests the idea is absurd, "I’m gardenin’."

You watch him lead the way to his kitchen, his broad back and thick arms making you feel a little squirmy. His answer suggests he doesn’t work out, and you wonder if he got so fit just from his job. You always figured contractors just managed the construction sites, but maybe Joel does the construction himself. You think you enjoy entertaining that thought a little too much.

"Can I see your suit?"

Joel glances at you, and you place the cake on his kitchen isle as he gets out two plates.

"No," he answers, a little gruff.

"It’s a common misconception, but it’s actually just the bride who shouldn’t show her outfit to her date," you tease, "the guests are allowed."

Joel scowls, and shakes his head.

"I don’t know anybody who talks back as much as you do."

"You might not know many smart people. I’m quick."

Despite himself, the corners of Joel’s mouth twitch into an amused smile, and he hands you a piece of cake.

"Come on, Joel, you got to see my dress, too," you try again, almost begging now.

"You’ll see it on Saturday."

"Why?"

Joel clears his throat, but you don’t let him off the hook, just chew your piece of cake in silence while you wait for him to answer.

"Cause it’s…it’s ridiculous. I’m not a suit guy."

He’s shy, you realize, maybe even insecure about it. You wonder if he fished out the last suit he wore from the back of his closet, probably still with 80s shoulder pads.

"Now I’ve got to see it," you decide, and when Joel sighs, you know you’ve won. He glares at you for multiple seconds, not breaking the eye contact. Then he shakes his head again, and leaves to get it.

When he returns, he hasn’t put the suit on like you hoped, but you’re relieved to find a classic black suit jacket and pants draped over his arm. You take it from him, holding the jacket up and nodding appreciatively.

"This is nice," you tell him honestly, "no flared pants or fringes."

Joel laughs, the sound traveling up your spine and settling in your chest.

"I’m not that old."

You grin, and hand him the suit back.

"You’ll look really handsome in it," you say softly, because you can tell the idea of wearing it makes him uncomfortable, and because it’s true. You like the way he looks even in his sweaty old t-shirt, but in a suit he’ll surely turn heads. He looks slightly embarrassed at your comment, and smoothes over a wrinkle in the fabric.

He mutters something under his breath and gently drapes the suit over the back of a dining chair. "Wish I could go in a pair of jeans."

It’s endearing, and you wonder if Joel is unaware of how attractive he is. He’s certainly not one to make a fuss about his looks.

"Well, you’d just embarrass me, cause some crazy guy picked and bought a real fancy dress for me. We have to match, sorry."

Your words have the desired effect, and Joel chuckles.

"It’s not too late to bail, though," you offer, "if you’re just coming cause of me."

Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours.

"Gettin’ cold feet?"

You shrug.

"Mine were never really warm. Yours?"

"Toasty," he says softly, eyes still on yours. All of a sudden is a little harder to swallow you mother’s carrot cake.

"You’re still nervous about goin’," Joel says, and it’s more an assessment than a question. You shrug again.

"Why?" he asks, " ’S not about the dress, I saw how happy you were when I made the decision for you."

Something about that sentences makes your stomach flutter again. Make them all for me, you want to say, and instead shove more cake into your mouth. You chew slowly to give yourself more time to sort out the words in your head.

"I just find these sorts of things exhausting," you explain, "I hate figuring out what’s socially appropriate, you know, how much to drink, what jokes to make, when to laugh, what to say and not say."

"I hope ya don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but your family sounds like a piece of work."

You laugh, and watch Joel’s eyes get all crinkly with amusement at your reaction.

"They’re alright," you say honestly, "they’re normal. I’m just sensitive."

"They put that idea in your head?"

That shuts you up. It’s just a quick remark from Joel, but it hits home, and the smile freezes on your face.

"Sorry," Joel says quietly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t my place–"

"No, don’t worry," you say quickly, "you’re right. They’re still normal, though. Usual amount of uptight and judgmental, I guess."

Joel watches you, and it seems like he’s thinking about something. When he speaks, his words are almost tentative.

"You can stick to me, if you want to. You can…ask me if you want a second opinion on what’s socially appropriate."

Your stomach swirls. You swallow and nod.

"I think that might be a relief," you say honestly, and try hard to ignore the pull of want in your stomach.

"Alright," Joel says, and as if it’s an inside joke by now, you answer.

"Alright."

***

He does pick you up at nine on Friday. You parents seemed slightly surprised Joel is taking you to the hotel in his car, but when you asked your mother what the point of going with him was if he still spent most of his time alone, she seemed convinced. You aren’t sure why you felt the need to convince her of anything in the first place, but you try not to think about it, when your doorbell rings. You spent the night at your parents’ place for convenience instead of in your apartment, so that Joel doesn’t have to drive the extra couple of miles. Your father opens the door before you can, and pats Joel’s shoulder.

"So, you’re taking my little girl to the wedding," he says, holding up one finger in a mock-scolding. Joel laughs, but you wonder if it sounds slightly strained. He meets your eye and nods in greeting. You nod back.

"Do you have your suitcase?" your father asks.

"Yeah, it’s right here."

You go to grab it, but Joel is quicker.

"I got it," he mutters, and you try hard not to stare at his arms bulging under the weight, not in front of your father.

"Careful, Miller, don’t be too much of a gentleman, or none of her collage boys will stand a chance," your Dad jokes.

"Oh, I won’t be," Joel drawls. You turn towards the door to hide your blush – you’re sure Joel didn’t mean anything by that comment, but that flutter in your stomach is stronger than ever, and you almost clench your thighs together. Joel doesn’t seem to notice anything, just carries your suitcase to the door.

"See you there, Dad," you say, "where’s Mom?"

"Rearranging the snack box," your Dad answers, "I’ll tell her you said bye. See you there kid, don’t let Joel drive like a lunatic."

Joel is about to quip something back, but you practically shove him out the door, your fingers digging into his biceps. He can barely tell your father goodbye before you close the door behind the two of you.

"Rearranging the snack box," you groan, "they’re so…so…so not chill."

Joel chuckles.

"I ain’t got a snack box, I thought we could make a stop at Burger King or somethin’."

"Finally," you answer, and open the trunk of his car so he can put your suitcase inside, "a man with sense."

***

"So, what do I gotta know about your family? Anyone I should avoid?"

You grin and turn up the radio a little.

"Don’t bring up vaccines with aunt Ingrid, in fact, just don’t bring them up at all. Steer clear of politics, unless you’re pro-life and think gay people shouldn’t get too close to kids, but if that is the case, steer clear of me."

Joel laughs.

"Got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. No politics or human rights, got it."

"Don’t ask uncle Jules if he has children. He does, but it’s…complicated."

"Who’s uncle Jules again?"

"My Dad’s brother. Bald guy with a beard. Don’t call him uncle, though."

"No callin’ people uncle, no questions about family, or politics. Geez, I’ll have to think of some conversation starter."

You chuckle and suddenly feel ridiculous for making such a fuss about attending a family wedding, when Joel is going to have to navigate dozens of people he’s never met before.

"I think showing up there with me as your date might be the starter for most conversations you’ll have," you say, not quite managing to keep the amusement out of your voice.

Joel clears his throat.

"Right, well, I’m sorta hopin’ they won’t dwell on that too much so as to not make things awkward."

"Oh, they’ll make things awkward," you answer, amusement evident in your voice, "but honestly, I think that’ll be the fun part. I wonder if aunt Susie will hit on you, she hits on everybody’s spouses."

Joel shoots you a glance.

"You were worried enough about a dress to consider not goin’ at all, but showin’ up with your Dad’s friend is the fun part?"

You admit, when he puts it like that, it sounds illogical.

"Those are two different things, though. They’ll judge my dress regardless of what I wear, I guarantee you someone will make a comment about it. If you hadn’t helped me, I’dve spent the night wondering if I should’ve gone with a different one."

"You don’t don’t think you should have gone with a different…date?"

You glance over at him.

"No," you say earnestly, "it was never a question of who to go with. I wasn’t gonna go with anyone else, had you said no."

"Right," Joel says, and changes lanes.

You’re quiet for a while, watching the scenery outside your window, but Joel seems to keep thinking about what you said.

"Why does it bother you so much? Whether they like your dress or not?"

You sigh, and he looks over at you briefly.

"You don’t gotta tell me, sweetheart, I was just wonderin’."

You pick at your fingernail.

"No, it’s alright. I guess I just…dislike not living up to expectations. I can deal with it if things are out of my hands, you know, but if my family is questioning my choices, I start to question them myself. It’s the difference between…being late because my flight was cancelled, and being late because I overslept. If it’s out of my control, it’s fine."

Joel hums, and it’s quiet again in his car. The radio is playing Mother’s Little Helper softly in the background.

"I think you’ve made solid choices," Joel says after a moment, "You don’t gotta…doubt yourself so much. I always got the feelin’ you knew what’s right for you, except for those boys I watched climb up and down your drainpipe at night."

You blush at the mention of your teenage hookups, but Joel chuckles. His words mean something to you, though you’re not sure how to tell him.

"Yeah, well, I’m good at overthinking," you say quietly, and Joel hums.

"Cause you’re smart. Dumb people don’t question themselves."

You smile.

"Thanks, Miller."

Joel switches lanes again, and nods.

"I mean it, kid, you’re doin’ just fine. ’N if you need help at the wedding, you come to me and ask for it."

"Alright," you say softly.

***

When you arrive, there is a blur of hugs and kisses and half-shouted greetings between aunts and nephews, cousins and grandmothers, fathers and sisters. Your family isn’t necessarily big, but they’re loud and restless, so you feel relieved when your parents pull you and Joel to the side right after you step out of the car.

"What took you so long?", you Dad asks, but keeps talking before you can tell him about the Burger King break due to a lack of a snack boxes in Joel’s car. "Anyway, we’ve got a problem. They didn’t know you guys aren’t really dating, so they gave you a double room instead of two single ones. We shouldn’t have put your names down together on the attendance list for the wedding, but I was thinking Joel and I can take one room, and you and your mom the other one!"

He’s clearly pleased with how he solved this dilemma, and it takes everything in you not to grit your teeth. You love your mother very much, but living in a single room with her is sure to drive you completely mad.

"Oh no," Joel says, "I don’t wanna cause any trouble. There’s a motel down the street, I’ll just get a room–"

"No way," you answer immediately, momentarily forgetting your parents, "you’re my support at this thing. You’re like my therapy dog. If anyone sleeps at that crappy motel, it’s me."

Joel actually snorts.

"Right, like I’d let ya. Place looked way too sleazy. You’re sleeping in the hotel your cousin booked, end of discussion."

"Fine," you answer, narrowing your eyes, "but so are you. You’re a guest, and I’m a good fucking host."

You hold his gaze, even when he shakes his head in something close to annoyance.

"You’re not the host, you’re a guest yourself. And anyway, it isn’t socially appropriate to decline someone who’s offerin’."

He’s telling you to give in, let him make the decision for you. In any other situation, that thought would get you all tingly.

"Well, I’m offering to share with you, so don’t decline," you say, crossing your arms in front of your body. It feels a little childish.

"Alright," Joel grumbles, sounding defeated, and looks at your father. "Your kid’s a piece of work."

Your parents watched your discussion quietly, and you can see mild distaste on their faces at how you talked to their friend, but for some reason it makes you want to grin. Usually it stresses you out when your parents aren’t satisfied with your behavior, but in this case it fills you with a strangely giddy feeling – if only they knew the sort of things you tell Joel about your family. It would turn those frowns into shouts.

"I’m sure we’ll find a solu–"

Joel’s quicker than your father, and waves him off with an easy hand.

"Ah it’s alright. Piece of work, but good company."

There’s an amused glint in his eyes and you frown at him, half contemplating kicking his shin.

"I’m a piece of work? You’re the one who–"

Your mother’s eyebrows furrow and you fall quiet. For some reason you don’t want to let on just how close you and Joel are these days. You don’t want your parents to see Joel doesn’t mind your bickering, that he does it, too, that it’s not harshness, but barely disguised tenderness underneath the irony. Joel’s eyes are on your face, but you don’t look at him.

"It’s only two nights anyway," you grumble, and Joel nods.

"That’s settled, then. I’ll get the suitcases."

***

You’re rooming with Joel Miller. For some reason you didn’t fully consider what that entailed while you were arguing about it with him – you’ll share a bathroom, possibly a bed. A blanket. You understand your mother’s frown now, it’s certainly strange for you and Joel to be so fine with this situation. You make a mental note to mention only doing this so Joel isn’t lonely to your mother.

"You sure you don’t mind?" Joel asks you when you step into the elevator – your room is on the third floor.

"Depends. Do you snore?"

Joel doesn’t answer, but after a second he shakes his head, though more to himself than as an answer to your question.

"If you’re uncomfortable with this, I really don’t mind staying at that motel," he continues, and you watch him play with the little button on the handle of his suitcase.

"I’m not uncomfortable," you answer, "are you?"

"No."

You don’t know what else to say, so you fall quiet again. Joel seems oddly conflicted, but you don’t blame him, he surely noticed your mother’s expression when you decided to share the room.

When you get there, Joel opens the door, lets you step in first, and you hoist your suitcase inside. It’s a light room, airy curtains, a big double bed that looks cozy. You’re relieved to see it’s big enough for things not to get awkward between Joel and you, and thankfully, there’s two blankets and pillows.

"Which side do you want?"

Joel’s voice is kind, like he really wants you to pick, and you smile.

"Window," you say, the decision coming easily for once. You didn’t consider which side Joel would prefer and picked the other one, you just chose the one you wanted because you were able to hear in Joel’s voice it’s what he wanted you to do.

"I’m gonna change and then I’ll have to say hi to my family," you say, and don’t manage to keep the annoyed tone out of your voice completely. Joel plops down on his side of the bed with a quiet grunt, and watches you.

"You’re not looking forward to the smalltalk," he says in that way of his that is less question and more statement. It spares you from having to answer, but you still sigh.

"No, not really. They’ll ask a million questions about my degree, it’s like nothing else interests them."

Joel’s eyes are still on you, as you open your suitcase and pull out different shirts and pairs of jeans, suddenly realizing you brought too many options.

"Wear that one," Joel says when you hold up and consider a shortsleeved blouse with a flowery pattern, "looks real pretty."

You take the blouse and grab your favorite jeans to change into, glad to finally change out of your sweatpants after the long drive.

"I’ll deflect the conversation when they start talking about your degree," Joel says, crossing his arms, "I’ll mention my age or somethin’."

It makes you laugh, because the idea is so absurd – that talking about your fifty-something year old date would be more comfortable than talking about university.

"Thanks," you say genuinely, "you’ll be the topic of conversation, by the way. Hope you don’t mind gossip."

Joel smiles an easy smile and shrugs.

"Ah, you heard your mother, I’m a loner. Gossip don’t affect me."

You know he’s not being honest – with his connection to the groom, any gossip about his controversially young date is sure to reach his colleagues’ ears, but you’re grateful for his support in this. He’s risking his own reputation just to make this event less dreadful for you. You smile at him, and slip into the bathroom to change.

***

You can see your family from a distance, sitting on some sort of terrace, and you can tell some of them are looking over at you, assessing yours and Joel’s form already. You groan, and tuck your blouse into your waistband.

"Don’t worry," Joel says quietly, "you look great. ’N I picked the blouse anyway, so it’s on me."

You nod, and Joel nudges your shoulder with his softly.

"Cheer up, kid. Won’t be awkward, I got you."

You believe him. You trust Joel to handle the smalltalk with your own family, which should make you feel pathetic and childish and weak, but it’s so easy to let him take the reins. He leads you over to them with a gentle hand on the small of your back and a polite smile on his lips.

"Hey guys," you say, waving awkwardly when you’ve reached the terrace, "this is Joel."

You’ve got to hand it to your family, they’re being polite. You can see their eyes move over Joel’s crowsfeet, his hand on your waist, his flannel shirt, and for a second you feel nervous, but Joel seems so at ease, the judgement pearling off of him like drops of water. 

You hug people, Joel shakes hands, says hello in that gruffly charming manner of his, there’s names being exchanged, and during all of it he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his left hand on your back, lets you know he’s there for you. It feels like a secret somehow, even though it’s not – but you’re tricking your family, and they have no idea what your relationship to Joel is really rooted in. They look at the two of you and see something intimate, sure, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s intimate in a different way.

"So what do you do, Joel?" one of your aunts asks him, when you’ve sat down – Joel pulling out your chair for you.

"I’m a contractor," he says, and throws his arm around your shoulders. You want to grin when you watch a dozen pairs of eyes follow the movement. Under the table, you nudge Joel’s foot with your own and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

They ask him more questions, the sort of superficial things most people think will conjure up an accurate image of the person they’re asking, and you’re more than amused by how Joel deflects them easily with that southern charm, but without backing down. The entire time, his thumb draws circles on your shoulder. You welcome the touch – you know it’s partly to keep up the show of dating you, but nevertheless it’s soothing, real or not. You wonder what Joel gets out of this charade – you get to fool the people who regularly make you feel inferior, you get to have some sort of entertainment at an otherwise boring event, but Joel doesn’t. He seems at ease, though, talking to your uncle about his business, fingers toying with the collar of your blouse at the nape of your neck.

"And how did you two meet?"

Your aunt’s question is sickly sweet, her judgment barely disguised. Her outrage makes you want to laugh and yell at the same time, because it’s not your well-being she’s concerned with, it’s etiquette.

"Oh, I’m friends with her parents," Joel says easily, "known each other ages."

It takes everything in you not to snort at the way your aunts eyes widen, and you’re sure Joel’s cough is really a well disguised laugh.

"Yeah," you say once you’re sure you’ll be able to control your voice, "he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen."

After that, someone hastily changes the topic, and when no one is looking, you throw Joel a grin. He winks at you, and doesn’t take his arm off your shoulder when you lean a little closer to him.

***

"You guys going to the beach, or the city?"

Your father smiles at you, squinting against the sun, backpack already slung over his shoulder – your parents are clearly doing the latter. There’s still time before dinner, and your family decided to split into two groups – you’re not sure which one to join. You look up at Joel, and your eyes meet. He holds your gaze for two seconds, and you don’t need to say anything.

"The beach," Joel decides, looking at your father again. "Could both use a bit of nature after that drive."

You say goodbye to your parents and are grateful for the few moments alone with Joel before joining the others for a walk down the beach. It’s what you would have picked, if you had to, but Joel didn’t need you to pick. Just like with your blouse and dress, he made the decision for you, and even though they’re completely mundane choices, it seems to lift a weight off your shoulders. You can just exist around Joel.

"That okay with you?" he asks you now, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Yeah," you answer, "anything you pick’s okay with me."

It’s more honest than you necessarily wanted it to be, but you find it hard to care when Joel seems so tuned into you. He watches you, and nods.

"Do you think that’s strange?" you ask, all of a sudden worried he finds your need for a lack of autonomy revolting, or pitiful. Joel’s eyes are glued to yours, when you look up at him.

"No," he says softly, "I think you’ve been made to question yourself way too much. Creates stress and pressure I’ll gladly take away if I can."

There’s no judgement in his voice, just acknowledgement. You look at your shoes, then back at him again. You aren’t sure what to answer – you know it’s a strange conversation to be having with your parents’ friend. Before you can answer, Joel does it for you.

"Look, don’t overthink it. This weekend you don’t gotta worry about anythin’, alright? I’m takin’ the reins."

You probably shouldn’t find it as easy to accept this as you do, but then again you probably shouldn’t have brought a man more than twice your age to a family wedding, so you might as well go all in. Joel’s taking the strain. You can just nod and go along with it. For the first time in a long time, you feel oddly silent. Steady.

***

The beach is beautiful and you and Joel take off your shoes and socks to walk barefoot along the water. The steady sound of the waves and the salt in the air makes you feel calm. Your family is close by, walking in little groups, chatting and laughing. You’re enjoying just walking quietly with Joel, but after your conversation with him, you really wouldn’t mind talking to your family either – Joel understood what you were trying to tell him, and offered to take your worries and doubts away from you. There’s no responsibility weighing heavily on your shoulders, and suddenly it seems easy to show your religious aunts your tattoos, and even defend the degree you chose. Joel’s got your back. He’s got your choices, your decisions.

"You’re quiet," Joel tells you over the sound of the wind. You watch it mess up his hair.

"I feel quiet," you say, "in a good way."

Joel hums, and you’re reminded he’s a man of few words, too.

"What you said," you start, voice uncertain, "about them making me question myself. It’s not…they don’t mean any harm."

You watch your toes dig into the wet sand as you walk, soft, cold waves rolling over them in a steady rhythm.

"Yeah, no-one ever does."

You glance at Joel and back at your feet again.

"It’s just…I know I’ve been talking shit about them a lot, but I don’t want you to think they’re bad people or something."

Joel’s eyes are trained on a seagull landing on the sand close by when he answers.

"I don’t think that, I don’t even know ’em. Your parents are good people, and from what I’ve seen, they’re good parents, too."

You nod.

"Still, even if something is well-intentioned, doesn’t mean it can’t have negative repercussions."

You frown, thinking about his words, and Joel sighs.

"I don’t wanna criticize your folks, God knows I’ve made mistakes with Sarah. But I see you constantly tryin’, you know, always workin’ to please them. Even if it comes from a place of wantin’ the best for their kid, I don’t think it should be like that. Parents should be workin’ to make their kids proud, not the other way around."

His words punch the air from your lungs – his assessment of your relationship to your parents so perplexingly correct, you don’t know what to say. And then his immediate acknowledgment of what you feel in your heart, and don’t have the nerve or guts to voice. You feel your eyes begin to prick, and it’s not the sand or the salt. You swallow hard, feel Joel’s eyes on you.

"Hey now," he mutters, noticing your tears, "I didn’t mean to make that happen, darlin’."

The pet name seems to rip something open inside of you, and your tears start to spill silently, your face unmoving. Joel reaches out for your tentatively – the lines between what’s acceptable have blurred. It’s okay for him to put his arm around you to make fools of your family, but this feels different. You decide you don’t care anymore – you want to feel his warm body against your side, you want him to wipe the tears from your cheeks with his huge palms, you want to hear his voice whisper in your ear. Something about Joel Miller soothes an ache inside of you you didn’t even realize needed soothing at all, but now that you’re aware of it, you can’t help but give in completely. 

His gentle palm on your arm is all you need, a clumsy but warm gesture of comfort, and you lean against him, your face against his collarbone. You know your family can see you, they’re close by, walking ahead or behind the two of you. You find you don’t mind – if anything, this will fuel the hoax of the two of you being together even more.

Joel is hesitant at first, but your tears seep into his pullover, and when you inhale shakily, he starts to stroke your back. You hear the sea, Joel’s heartbeat, someone laughing and screaming, possibly your cousins.

"I’m sorry kid," Joel says and rests his chin on the top of your head, "it’s alright. You’re alright."

"S-sorry," you mutter, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

"Don’t gotta apologize. Did I hit a nerve?"

"Yeah," you answer quietly, not stepping back from Joel, just resting your face against his chest. You’ll take what he’s willing to give you, for as long as he is.

"I like it when you choose for me," you whisper after a minute. Although you’ve talked about it before, it feels different to admit this pressed against Joel’s big, warm body. "I really like it."

You feel Joel inhale and sigh, his hand still patting your back softly.

"I know, darlin’. I know."

"It’s weird."

"It’s unusual."

"You’re not, like…grossed out by me?"

Joel holds you a little more tightly.

"No, of course I’m not. Jesus, no. Why would you think that?"

You shrug, and Joel brushes the back of your head with his hand.

"You want me to make your decisions for you this weekend?"

He has been hinting towards that, inching closer to the realization, but he hadn’t put it quite that way before, and you feel something in your belly stir at the directness of his words.

"Yes," you whisper, "please."

You feel him nod, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.

"I gotta know what that entails, kid. We gotta…have a conversation about this."

You don’t want to do that – you haven’t had to explain yourself to Joel this plainly before, he always seemed to just get it, even the things you don’t say.

"Tell me what that means to you," Joel asks you gently. It’s not phrased as a question – already he’s doing it so perfectly, not giving you the choice to decline answering, but deciding you will. It’s easy, this way. You inhale again, and close your eyes for your confession.

"I…I just…I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about. What to listen to, what band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about, what to not joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and…and who to love and how to tell them. I think I just want someone to tell me how to live my life, Joel, because so far…I think I've been getting it wrong."

He’s quiet, and you think you’ve said too much, made it too weird, and for a split second you feel like running, but then Joel looks down at you, and brushes one stray tear away with his thumb.

"I want you to put on your socks and shoes, again," he says softly, and you feel relief wash over you in synch with the waves. "Can you do that for me?"

You nod, and bend down to get your socks, all the while feeling Joel’s eyes on you.

"Good," he says when you’re done, and gives you a small smile. Your head feels blissfully empty.

***

You catch up with your parents and the rest of your family before dinner, where they hover awkwardly just outside of the doors to the dining room in an old, renovated stable.

Joel keeps his steady hand on your waist, a sign of belonging to your distant family, inconspicuous to your parents, and a clear gesture of comfort to you. He looks handsome in his dark jeans and dark green knit pullover. You’re used to him wearing flip-flops and a grease-stained black tee, gardenhose in hand, but he cleans up nice. You feel your family’s eyes on the two of you as you approach and lean into Joel’s touch a little more.

"Heya," your Dad says with a smile, and immediately shows Joel a book he got in the city, something about cars you can’t be bothered to look at for longer than two seconds. Joel seems interested, though, and when you move to talk to one of your aunts, the hand on your waist tightens. You could easily go anyway, but his touch makes it clear he doesn’t want you to, so you stay, letting the car-talk wash over you, oddly at peace with everything. Joel throws you one look and his thumb starts tracing circles on your waist. It feels like a reward for doing as he said, and the thought makes you feel light-headed.

Eventually you all make your way to the dinner table, and Joel pulls out your chair for you, not sitting down until you’re seated. It makes your stomach flutter, and you can see your aunt watching him, apparently having noticed his good manners, too.

You flip open a menu, trying to decide on a drink – you’re not sure if it might not be too risky to start drinking alcohol this early in the evening, your tongue might become a little too lose, especially among this group. You look over at Joel, and when he notices, he subtly points to Cherry Coke on his own menu, tapping the word once, and you think he must remember you drinking the sticky-sweet stuff all summer as a teen. You give a small nod, to show him you understand, and flip the pages of your menu to look at the food.

"The salmon is supposed to be delicious," your mother is telling your father. She turns to Joel and you, and smiles.

"What are you two having?"

Before you can open your mouth, Joel closes his menu.

"The lamb chops," he answers simply, and when your eyes meet, it punches the air from your lungs. He looks proud, satisfied, like nothing pleases him more than to see you do as he says.

"Yeah," you say quietly, "lamb chops."

***

Dinner is perfectly nice, the lamb chops and your cherry coke are delicious, though you switch to wine after Joel asks you if you prefer red or white and then orders a glass for each of you. From time to time, he brushes your back with his hand when your parents aren’t looking, and even though you don’t get a minute to talk just between the two of you, you can tell he’s making an effort to be present and attentive.

Your younger cousins leave the table to play outside after a while, and you wish you had a few your own age to raid the bar with, as Joel seems to be stuck in a conversation about contracting with your uncle. You drain the last of your wine, your foot tapping rhythmically against the table leg, and you suddenly feel a hand just above your knee, effectively stopping your movement. Joel’s palm is huge as it burns a warm imprint into your skin, squeezing your leg slightly. It’s like a quiet acknowledgment of your restlessness, and enough for you to feel an odd calm wash over you. Joel seems to have realized you want to go to bed, or at least to leave the table and these boring, useless conversations. He also holds the power to decide whether you will or not, so you don’t have to worry about being rude at all. The ball is entirely in his court. You sigh in strange contentment and Joel’s thumb starts moving as a response, his eyes glued to your uncle’s face, nodding and answering whenever it’s appropriate.

After around a quarter of an hour, their conversation seems to fizzle out, and Joel glances down the table. Half the people have left, either to put the kids to bed, or to rest themselves after a long day of traveling. Joel’s eyes meet yours, warm and piercing, and he gets up from his chair, hand slipping from your thigh. Your uncle is talking to your parents now, and Joel waits a beat so as not to interrupt them.

"We’re goin’ to bed," he says when there’s a pause in their conversation, and you nod, getting up, too.

"Already?"

Your Dad sounds surprised.

"It’s eleven," you say, stifling a yawn, "and God knows Joel could use a bit of beauty sleep."

He scoffs and you grin, which makes your father chuckle and shake his head.

"Don’t let her give you hell, Miller. We can still switch rooms if this little union has turned sour."

It’s clearly a joke, but the idea of sleeping in a different room than Joel is distinctly unpleasant all of a sudden, so you chuckle.

"Don’t worry, Dad, still sickly sweet."

You hug your parents goodnight, and Joel promises your uncle to continue their talk the day after, and then, finally, he’s leading you back outside and towards the actual hotel building. His hand is a ghost on the small of your back, not quite touching, but guiding. You breathe in the cool evening air as you step outside and sigh. The change in temperature is more than welcome after the noise and buzz in your head.

"Alright?" Joel asks, voice quiet.

"Yes," you say, and suddenly feel shy about the decisions he made for you throughout the evening. "Sorry about…you don’t have to…I mean, I can just pick my own drinks and food tomorrow."

Joel is quiet for a second, but his hand doesn’t leave your back.

"Was it too much?"

You don’t answer, don’t know how to tell him it was perfect and not enough at the same time, that his hand seems to be burning a whole into the fabric of your blouse, that you want him to decide to take it off of you.

"Jesus," Joel says, interpreting your silence as confirmation, "I’m sorry, kid, I thought it’s what you asked me to do back at the beach, but if I got that wrong, I’m rea-"

"You didn’t," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word a little. "Don’t apologize, please. Don’t make this into something…weird or, I don’t know, something to feel guilty about."

Joel falls quiet.

"I hate feeling guilty," you add after a stretch of silence. You can feel Joel looking at you.

"You don’t gotta," he says, shaking his head when you shrug, "no, sweetheart, I mean it. I’m tellin’ ya not to feel guilty."

You shudder, you can’t help it – Joel’s tone has an air of finality you can’t resist. As if Joel pressed a button, you feel the emotion seep out of you. He’s still watching you, and you feel your cheeks burn up. You know it’s a little sick, a little depraved and twisted to want Joel to act like this.

"You know," Joel says suddenly, "when Sarah was ten, you two begged your Dad and me to take you to buy you these headbands you wouldn’t shut up about. They had them in purple and green. Sarah chose the green one, but you just couldn’t decide, you stood in front of that damn shelf for half an hour, until your Dad said he wouldn’t get either if you didn’t pick one."

You don’t remember the shop, but you do remember crying on the way home, Sarah petting your arm and lending you her headband the next day.

"Your Dad didn’t mean bad," Joel continues, "probably thought it was a valuable lesson, but you just needed someone to tell you purple suits you, or green goes with your shoes, or whatever."

You’re still quiet, walking beside Joel in the dark, not quite believing he noticed and cared enough to remember such an innocent incident years later. After a while, you swallow.

"I don’t remember buying that headband," you say softly, "or…not buying it, I guess."

"Why was it so hard for you?" Joel asks, voice sincere "to pick one, I mean."

"I…I’m not sure," you answer, not looking at him, but at your feet moving over the cobblestones. "I think I…I think I learned pretty early on a wrong decision could make people angry or disappointed. By not making one at all I just…disappointed myself, you know? Turning the reaction inward, or something."

Joel hums, and contemplates your words for a while.

"Your Dad, does he…did he…if you’d picked the wrong color, would he have gotten angry?"

You glance up at him, see a slight frown on his face, his muscles pulled tight, and you understand what he’s asking.

"No," you say softly, "no, it’s not like that."

Joel visibly relaxes and nods.

"Sorry," he says with an exhale, "didn’t think it was, but geez, that’d you’d be worried about his reaction to the goddamn color of a headband…"

You sigh.

"I don’t know why I’m like this," you say so quietly, you’re not sure Joel hears, but his hand on your back squeezes slightly, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I wanna please everyone all of the fucking time. It’s pathetic."

"It’s not pathetic, it’s empathetic," Joel argues, and you frown.

"I got no backbone," you say softly, saying out loud the worst you think about yourself to another person for the first time. "I’m a pushover and a narcissist who can’t handle anyone not liking them, as if I’m the centre of the fucking universe."

Joel stops walking, you sigh almost petulantly, and before you can keep walking, Joel’s hand catches your arm.

"Stop," he says, and without thinking about it, you do. He’s frowning, dark eyebrows pulled tight and casting a harsh shadow over his face.

"I don’t want ya sayin’ shit like that," he tells you, "don’t want ya thinkin’ it either, for that matter."

You don’t know what to answer, except that you do, so you just stare at him.

"Were you a pushover when you argued with me until your parents were pissed, just so I wouldn’t sleep in that shithole motel down the road?"

You look at your hands, and pick at your cuticle.

"Answer me, sweetheart," Joel says, and you can hear the order in his voice.

"That was different, it didn’t have anything to do with me," you say, and Joel shakes his head, as if in exasperation.

"Course it didn’t, it was completely selfless. Just like you don’t want to upset your grandma when she sees that little tattoo of yours, or your parents when you pick a career they don’t like. You’re too goddamn nice for your own good. Too empathetic."

 You can feel his gaze glued to your face, but you keep staring at your thumbnail, until Joel sighs again.

"You think a narcissist would have worried about your dress stealin’ your cousin’s show?"

You shrug, aware what Joel wants you to say, but unable to do it.

"You think a narcissist would have sprinted across that shop to stop me buyin’ it for ya?"

"I’m still mad at you because of that," you say softly, and despite himself, Joel’s mouth softens into a smile.

"A narcissist," he repeats, voice dripping with irony, "and I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy."

"Even if you’re right," you say finally, "I don’t think you can separate concepts like that, you know, egoism and altruism. It’s like, if you donate money, do you ever truly do it to help, or do you do it because you like thinking of yourself as someone who helps?"

"You’re overthinkin’ this, sweetheart. It ain’t philosophy. You had an occasion to buy a pretty dress, and considered your cousins’s feelings – that’s kind. You’re…you’re good."

For some reason that makes you swallow, your throat thick. Good. You don’t think of yourself as a bad person per se, but sometimes being kind does feel like making amends. Joel thinks you’re good. He called you empathetic, nice, got angry when you disagreed. Your chest feels a little warm.

"You can’t see inside my head, Miller," you say, finally meeting his eyes, as he’s towering over you. "You don’t know my intentions."

"You’re not as mysterious as you think, kid," Joel answers gruffly, "why are you so adamant about makin’ yourself into some kind of super villain?"

"I’m not," you answer, cheeks flushing, "I just…"

"Just what?"

You shrug, don’t know yourself what you were going to say, and Joel raises his eyebrows.

"You’re a good girl, a really good person, you always were. So kind to Sarah when you were kids, and now that she’s in Boston, you’re kind to me, just so I’m not lonely."

"Ah," you answer, face heating up, "that. Well, to tell you the truth, Joel, this is one of those times where altruism and egotism are…congruent."

Joel stares at you, and your stomach flutters.

"That so?" he asks quietly, unmoving and still staring at your face. Your neck grows hot, and images of him telling your father what you said rush through your head, of him being uncomfortable, of him seeing you as a substitute daughter and being freaked out by your attachment to him. You swallow, don’t answer, look at your hand again. Suddenly there’s a finger on your chin, and Joel’s lifting your face back up to meet his eyes.

"I’m not makin’ that decision for you, sweetheart," he says, face serious, but a with hint of something in his voice that wasn’t there before. "You ask for it yourself, or you don’t."

His warm hand lingers on your chin for just a second longer, and then he crosses his arms in front of his body. You two continue walking, as if you’re not headed to sleep in the same bed, as if Joel didn’t put his skin to yours in a way that felt new.

***

You’re slightly embarrassed when you’ve changed into your pajamas, which consist of an old pair of pink shorts, and a Micky mouse shirt much too big for you. When you leave the bathroom, Joel is lying on his side of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, a grin spreading across his face when he sees your outfit.

"Nice," he says, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

"Well, I didn’t know I’d be sharing my bed, did I?"

Your voice is close to irritated, but for some reason it makes Joel’s smile widen, and you scoff.

"Unless you’ve got silk pajamas packed, your humor is misplaced."

You walk over to your suitcase and get out your face cream. Joel keeps watching you and seems to have no intention of brushing his teeth any time soon.

"I like it," he says after a beat, and your eyes shoot up to meet his, your knees still pressed into the carpet next to your suitcase. "Suits ya. That blouse is real pretty, but you were tuggin’ on it all evening."

"Yeah, well," you mutter, rubbing the cream into your skin, "I got it for occasions like this one, cause it’s modest."

"Your Micky Mouse shirt is pretty modest," Joel answers, mouth still twitching, "should wear that tomorrow in case you have second thoughts about your dress."

You snort and look down. Micky’s face is all wrinkled, the print faded from how often you’ve washed it.

"I want you to wear something you like tomorrow," Joel says quietly, and you look up. He’s still watching you, voice steady. "Before the ceremony, I mean. Wear somethin’ that feels like you."

It’s a decision he’s making for you, and you swallow.

"Okay," you answer, voice cracking on the last letter. Joel nods.

"Good."

Joel gets up to brush his teeth and change, and you get comfortable with your book while you’re waiting. You know it should feel awkward, being with him like this, but even though your stomach gives a pleasant leap whenever you think about the man in the bathroom, you’re not nervous. Yes, you’re sleeping in the same bed as Joel, but the conversions you’ve had ever since you asked him to take you to this wedding feel much more intimate than this physical closeness.

When he slides under the covers next to you, smelling of three-in-one shower gel and toothpaste, you turn around to face him, one cheek smushed against your pillow, something in your stomach tugging.

 Joel turns his head to look at you, and smiles.

"Comfy?"

"Yeah."

"This ain’t too weird for ya?"

"No," you say, "not too weird."

Joel nods, and takes a gulp from the glass of water on his nightstand. You watch him slide his reading glasses away from the edge, so that they won’t fall to the ground during the night, and think of how he got you the dress you wanted, how each nudge and decision he made for you was always in your favor, always meant to give you pleasure or make things easier for you.

"Joel?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you enjoy…I mean why aren’t you you freaked out by…making my decisions for me and, you know, picking my clothes and food and all that?"

Joel is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have asked him that, but then he sighs, and looks at you again.

"When I took you dress shoppin’, you looked at those dresses the way you looked at the headbands when you were a kid," he begins to explain, "I don’t care about the dress, sweetheart. But I could tell you’dve gone with one you thought everyone else was gonna like, and it wouldn’t have been the one you wanted. So I helped you pick it, just like I should’ve helped you pick a headband."

Joel’s eyes are warm and understanding when you swallow, and for a second, he lifts his arm as if to reach out to you, but then he drops it onto the covers. You want him to pull you towards him the way he did at the beach, but you know it would mean something else here, alone in a bed.

"I don’t tell people what I told you," you say quietly, "about my family, and my indecisiveness."

Joel watches you with an unreadable expression.

"Whatever you wanna tell me," he says gently, "is safe with me."

You take Joel Miller by his word, when you lean towards him, shuffling close to him, until you can feel the heat of his body through both your blankets, and you can see the hesitation in his warm eyes. You trust he’s telling the truth about keeping your secrets, when you arch your back so your lips reach his, and you brush your mouth against his, his beard tickling your skin. It’s soft, and a little clumsy, until your lips part, the fire in your stomach catching, and Joel lets out a groan right into your mouth. 

Finally, he kisses you back, warm lips coaxing yours, his big hands coming to rest on your upper arms, and tugging your body towards his. It’s exhilarating to feel how strong he is, to hear his gruff voice not in words but in little sounds of desire for you. Before you can press your hips to his in a reckless moment of need, Joel breaks the kiss, and your eyes open. His pupils are dilated, his mouth is red and shiny with a mixture of both your saliva.

"Jesus," he says quietly, hands still on your arms, "Jesus, kiddo."

You feel nervous, but as so often, the decision lies with Joel, and that makes everything easier. You were honest with him, stripped yourself bare, right down to the skeleton of your want for him and all of the depraved thoughts you have, and now Joel can do with that what he wants – you’ve offered him all you have to offer and feel your limbs relax at that thought. Joel’s thumb starts drawing its familiar circles, his eyes glued to your face.

"I think we should sleep on this," he says after what feels like a long time, "but, God, I wish I didn’t."

The corners of your lips pull up into a smile.

"It’s your choice," you say, and watch Joel swallow – you think this might be affecting him just as much as you.

"You shouldn’t give me that much power, sweetheart," he breathes, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gonna make me go mad with it."

You lean into his palm, which is now cupping your face, and Joel sighs.

"Go to sleep now," he mutters, and the disappointment is dulled by the pleasure of doing as he says. Instead of moving over to your own side of the bed, you rest your head on Joel’s chest, and after a sharp inhale, he drapes his arms over you, pulling you against him and holding you securely.

"Good," he whispers into your ear, making you shudder, and you're almost certain you hear Joel chuckle softly above you.

***

You wake at night, Joel’s arms still wrapped around you, though limp with sleep now. He’s breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling under you as if you weigh nothing, as if you haven’t been lying on top of him for hours. You feel a little bad for crushing him like this, and move away slightly to lay down right next to him, but his arms tighten around you as soon as you pull away, and he keeps you locked in his iron grip, still unconscious, his eyes closed. You can smell his aftershave with your face resting high on his chest, can hear his heartbeat and the air rushing in and out of his lungs. His arms are like a cage around your body, and instead of waking him up, you give in, closing your eyes again, one of your legs sliding between Joel’s. You feel something in your stomach ache pleasantly, but you’re too tired to examine the feeling, just let Joel’s steady breathing and scent lull you into darkness again.

***

The sun pours into the room like honey when you open your eyes again, this time alone in the big bed. You can hear water running in the bathroom, then a quiet cough. Joel Miller is getting ready after holding you all night, even through his deep sleep. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around, so you just press your face into the pillow and inhale, smell his sweat and shower gel, his laundry detergent.

"Mornin’," Joel says quietly, and you turn around to face him. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of clean, black jeans. He looks excruciatingly attractive, all solid and masculine and warm.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

You nod, unsure of how to address the shift in dynamic between the two of you in the daylight.

"Did…you?"

Joel hums, still leaning against the bathroom door and watching you. Your eyes flicker towards his chest, and you think of the way it felt pressed against your face at night, how his arms wrapped around you so securely. You swallow, and Joel’s eyes track the movement.

"Do you…want to go have breakfast?" you ask timidly, your voice cracking.

Joel shakes his head, and you start picking at your thumb again. You’re not generally awkward around him, but nobody told you how to deal with a situation like this, with you father’s best friend after you kissed him.

"No, I wanna talk about last night," Joel says, and you can’t stop a little groan escaping your mouth.

"Joel, look, I don’t…I didn’t mean to…I was caught up because you understand me so well, and you smell so good, and I just…I acted on instinct, I didn’t think, and if I made you uncomfortable, I’m really really sorry."

Joel is so quiet, you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you, or walk out of the room and tell your father, but the feeling of his arms tightening around you keeps reappearing in your mind, so you push your worries aside. Joel didn’t have to hold you the way he did.

"Instinct, huh?"

You flush, and look at your hand.

"I…yeah."

"’S a hell of an instinct, sweetheart."

You sigh, and nod.

"I know."

"Your father’s goin’ to behead me with a dull axe if he finds out about this."

Despite yourself, a chuckle escapes you, and your stomach flips pleasantly. Joel runs a hand over his beard and walks over towards you, his hair still wet from his shower.

"He’s never been the dull axe type," you argue, "he’ll try to outsmart you with words, though."

Joel snorts, and for a second you feel bad about making fun of your father when Joel so clearly would have the upper hand in a fight, but then Joel cups your face in his massive palm and you stop thinking all together.

He hums thoughtfully, as if contemplating his options, his eyes drifting over your face, and you don’t dare say anything, scared of spooking him when he’s so close to finally giving into this weird tension.

"I’m not doin’ anything while we’re here," he finally says, and you sigh. The disappointment must show on your face, because Joel’s mouth twitches under his beard.

"Not while I’m a guest," he adds, "wouldn’t be right."

"You’re not a guest, you’re my date," you argue, Joel’s hand still cradling your face.

"Yes, the date your mother picked to distract me from the fact that my daughter moved across the country. Who is your age, by the way."

You know he’s saying it to stress the absurdity of the situation, the reason why he can’t kiss you again, but his words make your stomach flutter instead of deterring you.

"I’m not a kid," you mutter, realizing it’s the most childish thing you could have said.

"Jesus," Joel answers quietly, shaking his head. "We’re goin’ to have breakfast now, before I…"

And he lets go of you, steps back, runs his hand over his beard again in that nervous habit of his, and even though it feels like you somehow turned liquid in his hands, you manage to get up.

"You know, we could just skip breakfast," you suggest, "order room service. Nobody would miss us if we –"

"Get dressed," Joel interrupts, watching you with his jaw clenched tight.

***

It feels different, walking with Joel to meet your family for breakfast. He still puts that calming hand on the small of your back, you still tease him the same way you did before, but there is a new tension between you now, as if you’re each holding on to one end of a rubber band. You wonder if it’s going to snap.

"Mornin’," Joel says, smiling at your parents, and you try hard not to let it show on your face that you kissed their 50-something neighbor just last night. When your mother smiles at you, you’re sure it must be visible in your eyes, that any second now she will start yelling. But she just asks you how you slept, tells you how comfortable she finds the beds and that the water pressure of the showers is just perfect. You agree, indulge her in her good mood.

After a couple of minutes, you look towards your father, and find that Joel is staring at you, face carefully neutral in a way nobody else would notice. You give him a tentative smile, and his jaw clenches again, but his expression softens.

During breakfast, he doesn’t put his hand on your thigh like he did the night before, no matter how much you pathetically bounce it just to get his attention. He keeps talking to your uncle again, and you would feel hurt by how clearly he’s trying to maintain distance between the two of you, if you didn’t catch him looking at you whenever there’s a break in the conversation. You wish you were able to read his thoughts, then wonder if he thinks you’re pitiful, and are glad you can’t.

When you’re almost done with your coffee, a waiter comes over and asks everyone to pick something for dinner – meat, fish or a vegetarian option. Your parents start telling a story of the best fresh fish they ate last time they went on a holiday, as you open the little folded menu and read the options.

You can feel Joel’s eyes practically burning a hole in the side of your head, even thought his hands are carefully kept to himself. Then he lifts up his hand just slightly and points to the fish on his own menu, clearing his throat. Your stomach flips again – whatever it is you’re doing, he’s still willing to do it after you kissed him. You close the menu, and smile.

***

The day passes in a blur of playing with your little cousins, talking to various family members, helping with your cousin’s bridal makeup (mostly, you just hold the mirror, which you’re grateful for – too much pressure to actually apply anything on her big day). Joel keeps his distance, charms your family with that twinkle in his eyes, and keeps looking at you wherever you are.

When you’re pushing your little cousin on a set of swings, there he is, sitting on a hotel garden chair with one of your aunts and looking at pictures she’s showing him on her phone. He nods and smiles, seems to answer when appropriate, but you just know it’s boring him to death. Whenever your aunt looks down, his eyes find you, and you grin at him, giving him a thumbs up. He shakes his head just slightly to himself, but you can see his smile even from this distance. It makes you feel warm inside.

In the afternoon, everyone retreats to their rooms to get changed for the ceremony, and you feel your stomach jolt at the thought of finally seeing Joel in the suit he refused to put on for you before. You meet him at the front of the hotel, where he and several of the younger children are kicking a ball back and forth. They laugh when he cleverly dodges their little feet, and then kicks it through their legs. He laughs, too, ruffles their hair, lets them beat their little fists against his legs when he tricks them again.

"You like him."

It’s your aunt, and she caught you watching Joel, a subconscious smile on your face. You glance at her and look at your feet, then shrug.

"I thought it was some rebellious streak to drive your parents up the wall," she admits, and you snort at that, "but I guess you’ve never been the type to do that."

"No," you say softly.

"They don’t mind?"

You don’t want to lie to her directly – a conversation like this, one on one, feels way different than some vague excuses and stories when fifteen people ask where you met.

"I don’t think they know…how close we are."

Your aunt smiles and nods.

"Well, looks like they’ll have to get used to it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you."

Her last words make your stomach flutter, but it’s the beginning of her sentence that makes you think. Your parents, having to arrange themselves with a choice you made for yourself, one they deem foolish or wrong or even immoral. The idea is almost preposterous – and thrilling. All these years, you were the clay holding your family together, molding yourself until you fit into all the little cracks and rotten cavities. Now it might be their time to soften and adjust, regardless of whether it’s because of Joel or not. You’re tired of being so shapeless.

When Joel spots you, he lets the kids score one more goal, one he could have easily saved, high fives them, and makes his way over to you with a smile on his face.

"Hello, coach," you say, as your aunt makes her way over to the children. "You’d better take a shower before you put on that suit."

He scoffs at you, but there’s that irresistible twinkle in his eyes again.

"You know, my aunt recons my parents could get used to…this."

"Jesus," Joel says and frowns. "I think they’d sooner tell you to join a biker gang."

"Maybe I should," you say, and Joel chuckles. "I’ll save that idea for the next family event. Funeral, maybe. Would be a talking point, wouldn’t it?"

"That what I am? A talking point?"

His voice is teasing, but you immediately regret your words – because he’s not. He got you the dress and he lets you talk about your family, and he doesn’t look at you any different for it.

"No," you say softly, looking up at him, "you’re not."

He doesn’t answer, but you think there is something like relief or satisfaction on his face, though he hides it well.

***

Getting ready with Joel feels weirdly domestic, but comfortable, as if you always share a space like that. He showers, puts on his slacks and a white shirt to wear under his dress shirt, then runs his hand through his hair and leaves it be. You’re glad, you like him best like this anyway.

While you apply your makeup, Joel watches you from the bed, the door to the bathroom wide open to let out the steam. For a moment you let yourself imagine a life in which you always share a bedroom, in which Joel Miller watches you get ready in the mornings, but you ban the thought from your mind, because it’s stupid and reckless and you can’t afford to fall for him.

"Y’look real pretty," he says after you come out of the bathroom in your light blue dress, your hair soft and tamed for once. Your stomach flips, both at the compliment and at how handsome Joel looks in his simple white shirt and black pants. He’s not wearing a tie, but he added light blue cufflinks to his sleeves – a detail that undeniably binds you to him, if only for one evening. He watches your eyes flicker over his form, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, and you remember how self conscious he was about the suit.

"You look…hot", you say honestly, before you can change your mind, and watch Joel’s cheeks flush a bright red.

"Don’t say shit like that," he says, hiding behind his frown, but he uncrosses his arms, and shakes his head. "Hot…"

The first button of his shirt is undone, and you have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from  the skin that peeks out, can’t look at his hands either or you’ll see his silver watch on his wrist, and definitely won’t let yourself look at those dress pants, held up by a simple black leather belt.

"Let’s go," Joel mumbles, when you’re done trying and failing not to ogle him, and you grab your purse, slip into your shoes, and find Joel staring at you, when you turn around. He’s waiting by the door, but doesn’t open it when you walk over to him. Instead, he lifts his hand up, strokes the back of his hand once over your cheek, eyes trained on your face, and your skin burns.

"We picked a good dress, sweetheart," he says, you’re pleased that he’s pleased, but more than that, you like how he said we. Not a choice he made for you, but one you made together.

***

The ceremony is beautiful, and although you complained about your family to Joel a lot, you cry as soon as you see your cousin in her dress. Joel puts his arm around your shoulder, stroking your arm in a subconscious, comforting way. You lean into him, let yourself revel in the closeness without wondering what anyone will think – every eye in the room is glued to the bride and groom.

"You want a drink?" Joel asks you when people start to get up, talking in little groups. You hope your makeup isn’t all runny from your tears, but before you get a mirror from your purse, Joel cradles your face and wipes his thumb under your eye gently, just once.

"There," he mutters. The movement was quick and caught you off guard, your stomach fluttering uncontrollably. You’re usually better at keeping the butterflies in check.

"Yeah," you say, a second too late, "I gotta get drunk."

Joel chuckles and together you leave the venue, his hand on your waist, holding you tighter than he did during the day. There are tables set up outside in the sun, decorated with flowers and white tablecloths. People are catching up and laughing, basking in the joy of your cousin and her new husband. Joel leads you to the bar, and before you can look at the different drinks, he orders two Gin Tonics.

"There ya go," he says, handing you a cold glass, and you clink them together, before taking a sip. It’s refreshing, the sun burning your skin just slightly, and you enjoy the bitterness of the drink. It tastes like Joel ordered it, it tastes like him.

"There you are," a voice behind you calls, and Joel steps half a step back from you. "Weren’t those the most beautiful vows you’ve ever heard? I still remember when she was just a baby, and now she’s married."

You mother smiles at you and Joel, then at your father.

"Found the booze already, did you, Miller? Bad influence on my little girl," he just says, laughing and looking younger in the sun. Joel clears his throat, and smiles, but it’s forced.

"Well, anyway, we’d better find grandma," your mother tells you, and off they go. Joel exhales and looks at you. You know the comment about being a bad influence on you threw him off, but you smile at him.

"Get me drunk, then," you say softly, and despite it all, Joel smiles back.

***

In the heat, it doesn’t take long for you to become tipsy at the very least, you really shouldn’t drink gin to get rid of your thirst, but it tastes so good, and Joel watches you so intently. You’re sitting at one of the tables, listening to the music blaring from the speakers, your foot conveniently brushing Joel’s leg every time you move it to the beat of the song.

"We’re gonna dance," Joel says when you’re done with your first drink, and you snort.

"Right," you answer, "we’re gonna dance."

Joel doesn’t break the eye contact, just raises one eyebrow.

"Wasn’t the whole point of going to this thing together not having to dance?"

"It was before you enjoyed the music so much," Joel answers, and you stop moving your foot.

"I don’t dance," you say, frowning now, "and neither do you."

Joel takes a long sip from his own drink, emptying the glass. You watch his throat as he swallows, then sighs and looks at you thoughtfully for a few moments.

"I want you to dance," he says quietly, his gravely voice soft all of a sudden, "with me."

Something in your stomach comes alive – it’s one thing, sitting next to him when he points to a dish on his menu, but his eyes on yours as he practically orders you to dance make you feel all fluttery and hot.

"Okay."

"Good," Joel says softly, and you swallow, try hard not to let it show on your face how much your stomach jolts at his words.

The song is some romantic ballad you remember listening to as a teenager, and you can’t imagine Joel dancing at all, least of all to a song like this, but he gets up and holds out one hand. There are more people on the dance floor, swaying to the music, laughing, some kissing. The idea that Joel and you would join them is so absurd, you almost giggle, but Joel wants you to dance – so you’ll dance. You’re dimly aware he isn’t doing this for himself, but because he noticed your foot, but you pretend not to have made that connection.

His hands find your waist and you wrap yours around his neck a little awkwardly, and he sways you to the music. You’re surprised to find he moves with a certain grace you never would have thought possible, but you give a little sigh of relief when the song changes into something faster and upbeat. Joel notices, and chuckles.

"Havin’ fun?"

You suddenly are, and you didn’t expect that at all. There’s more people joining you now, as you sway your hips and grin up at Joel.

"Yeah," you say over the music and laughter, "think you should get me drunk more often, Miller."

Joel laughs, and gently guides you to your right to let a couple you have never seen before pass. You move easily under Joel’s hands, the insecurity about being seen dancing wiped from your mind by the fact that Joel told you to.

Joel’s forehead is slightly damp by the time the fourth song ends and your feet are starting to hurt in the shoes you’re wearing, so you wrap your arms around his neck again, and pull him towards you.

"I want another drink," you tell him, your mouth close to his ear, and he flinches slightly.

"No need to yell, sweetheart," he says, but turns towards the bar anyway. He takes your hand to pull you through the crowd, and your stomach does a sort of somersault. Joel Miller, holding your hand. Before you can think better of it, before you can worry about your parents seeing you, or Joel becoming angry or distant, you intertwine your fingers with his, and hold on tight. Joel turns his head to look back at you, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t say anything either, not while there’s so many people so close, but he squeezes, just once. Your knees become slightly weak, and your cheeks start to heat up, but the gin was strong enough for you to stop caring about your nervousness.

When you’re at the bar, you grin at the barkeeper, hand still in Joel’s, slightly dizzy from the drink and the heat and all the spinning and swaying.

"One sex on the beach, please," you say, then look directly at Joel with a mischievous smile.

"Jesus," he mutters, then turns to the barkeeper. "She’ll have a beer. Bud. One for me too, please."

"No, she’ll have sex on the beach."

You giggle at your obvious innuendo, and the barkeeper smiles. Joel shakes his head.

"Look, I don’t want her throwin’ up all over her dress, she’ll murder me in the mornin’ if I let that happen."

"Beer it is, then," the bar keeper says with a good natured wink at you. You frown at him.

"I’m an adult and I ordered a–"

Joel squeezes your hand again, and you look at him with a slight pout – his eyes are slightly amused, but there’s a stern expression on his face.

"Okay," you say, "okay okay okay, Miller. Whatever you want."

His eyes stay on yours a second too long, then he lets go of your hand and hands you one of the sweating, ice-cold bottles. You take it, put it to your lips and take a swig, all while looking directly into Joel’s eyes. The way you press your lips against the rim of the bottle is a little too calculated, a little too sensual, and Joel watches your movement with a tense expression on his face.

"Christ, kid, I’m gettin’ you water next," he mumbles, watches you swallow, then smile up sweetly at him.

"Whatever you want," you say again. Joel doesn’t answer.

***

The two of you drink your beers at the end of row of tables, and you’re glad for the moment of quiet – the music isn’t as loud here, and the beer is so cold, you get goosebumps. Neither of you is talking much, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence – as always when you’re with Joel, you’re at ease.

"– why they let her bring him, I really don’t."

Two of your great aunts are sitting at a table close by, completely oblivious to your presence.

"Yes, he’s old enough to be her Daddy."

"And so gruff looking!"

Joel looks away, but you’re sure he must have heard – there is nobody else at this wedding they could be talking about. His expression is unreadable, but his knuckles are white around his beer bottle, and you’re half afraid he’s going to shatter it.

"I don’t understand why she’s interested in him," you aunt continues, "but I was just waiting for her to do something like this, you know. She always was so sensitive, no wonder she has to compensate somehow."

You swallow, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

"Come on," Joel suddenly says, a deep frown on his face, and he gets up. You follow him, you don’t want to hear the rest of what your family has to say about you behind your back.

"Excuse me," Joel asks politely, when you pass the two elderly ladies. They scooch, so you can squeeze past them, neither of them saying anything. You don’t look at them, but take Joel’s hand in yours again.

"I’m sorry," you say, when you’re at a safe distance from them, no risk of being overheard, "I’m sorry for what they said about you, Joel–"

"No," he shakes his head. "They ain’t wrong about me. Are about you, though."

His face looks so kind, so sorry for you, you feel like crying. You won’t though, not when you’re on what is practically a date with Joel Miller. You won’t let them ruin this night.

"I wanna dance," you say instead, and finish the last of your beer, before putting it on a table close by. "I wanna dance with you, Joel Miller."

He doesn’t argue, lets you drag him onto the dance floor again, and this time you stand close to him, closer than you should, this time you bury your fingers at the back of his neck in his hair. Joel looks hesitant, his hands on your waist tentative.

"Sweetheart," he starts in an apologetic tone, and you know what’s coming – they were right, your parents are here, you’re drunk, this is reckless. You squeeze closer, until you’re all pressed up against him, your heart hammering right against Joel’s chest. You really are tipsy now, but you don’t care. You lean up, trying to reach Joel’s mouth with yours, but he holds you steady at your waist.

"No," he says softly, "you’re doin’ it to piss of your family."

He’s not entirely wrong, so you let up, but you stay close to him, and after a couple of minutes, his thumb starts drawing circles on your skin, the way he did all throughout the weekend to soothe you, even before you kissed him and turned this into…whatever it is now.

"Let’s do shots after this," you say with a smile, "lets vomit all over their ugly fucking clothes. They want me to fuck up this party so bad, I’ll fuck it up. Gotta compensate somehow."

"I think you’ve had enough, kid," Joel says, his voice just slightly concerned. "You’ll have a headache tomorrow."

"Oh, you’ll pace me," you answer, "given that you’re old enough to be my Daddy."

Joel’s thumb stops moving on your hip, and you smile up at him, which only makes his frown deepen. There’s something else there, too, something you recognize from when you kissed him, from when he saw you in your dress, from when you told him about your family for the first time. 

"I wanna kiss you," you admit, "again."

The word tastes delicious in your mouth, your reminder that you have before, that Joel didn’t stop you, that he kissed you back.

"You won’t," Joel answers sternly, and you don’t even think about arguing with him, not when he’s using that tone. The same tone he used to tell you which dress to get.

"Okay," you say softly.

***

Joel does pace you – he doesn’t let you do shots, instead he gets you water, tells you to drink it all, and once again you chug it while looking directly at him, then smile sweetly and watch him shake his head in a mix of exasperation and amusement. After a while you tell Joel you need the bathroom, and when he leads you there you wonder briefly if he thinks you’re too drunk to find it on your own, or if he hates the idea of being alone at this party as much as you do. You’ve sobered up throughout the night, all that water Joel practically poured down your throat seems to have worked.

There is a line in front of the bathroom, and you wait with your grandmother and Joel – an awkward constellation, the silence is thick enough to cut.

"Your dress is awfully low cut, honey," she says after a while, and your eyes meet Joel’s just briefly – told you so. "You’re such a pretty girl, but that just gives the wrong impression."

"And what impression would that be?" you ask, but you don’t want to fight. Their age allows your family to say whatever they want to say, even if it’s not candor, but unprovoked opinions you tell yourself don’t matter anymore.

"I picked that dress," Joel says after a moment, and your grandmother nods.

"Of course men would like it," she says wisely, "but as a woman you have to be above that sort of thing."

You sigh, and Joel puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"I like this dress, grandma. It’s not 1850, Joel won’t fall into fits of lust if he sees my ankle."

"He can see a bit more than that, honey."

You make a gesture between a shrug and throwing up your hands, as if to say, well, I tried.

"He’s gonna have to take it off, then, if it’s that awful," you mumble so quietly your grandmother can’t hear, but Joel does. He looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face, and your cheeks go slightly red – you didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, didn’t mean for it to sound so straightforward.

"Stop harassing her, Mom, this is how kids dress these days," a voice behind you says, and suddenly your mother is right next to you, your father not far behind. Although her words are intended to help you, they sting – that’s all your choices are to them, a product of your youth and the times you live in. God forbid you, an adult, wear a dress because you think you look pretty, it must be because it’s what everyone your age would wear.

Joel’s hand leaves your shoulder, and for a second you’re afraid your parents heard what you said about Joel taking off your dress, but they proceed to talk about the wedding, laughing and joking. You clench your fists, digging the sharp edges of your nails into your palms as hard as you can. It feels like being 12 all over again, their comments that aren’t necessarily ill-intended or mean, so you can’t really be mad about them, the way they don’t even notice they upset you.

You feel a very soft touch on your arm, barely there, just a brush of a finger from just above your elbow, down to your fist. Then it’s gone again, and although you don’t dare look at Joel after he touched your bare skin in front of your parents, you will your muscles to relax, knowing it’s what Joel meant to tell you with his touch. Your fingers unclench, and you feel distantly relieved at the absence of pain in your palms.

You know how reckless it is to be so into Joel, you know nothing good can come of it, but you don’t remember the last time you spent this much time with your whole family and felt so seen by someone at the event. For a second you envision kissing him here, on the dance floor, in front of your parents, and you know for once it would be a choice you wouldn’t question or be made to feel ashamed of.

You tried to, just hours before, and Joel stopped you, because you did it to piss of your family. He was right, in that moment you wanted to give them something worth criticizing, if they must criticize all of the time. But this time it’s different – you want to kiss Joel because he doesn’t think you’re a narcissist, because he sees your anger disguised by politeness and doesn’t think it’s ugly.

You turn to him, steadfast in your decision.

"I’m really tired," you say quietly, "we could just go upstairs, I can use the bathroom there."

Joel studies your face for a second, then nods.

"Alright," he agrees, and you turn around to your parents with a newfound confidence.

"I’m gonna use our bathroom upstairs," you tell them, "we’re going to bed anyways."

"Of course, honey, you go to bed," your mother answers and gives you a quick hug, "but Joel, why don’t you stay? You’re not her chaperone."

It’s a joke, you know it is, but it almost makes your blood boil. After your mother asked you to spend some time with Joel as a favor, after you’ve had to deal with judgmental stares and comments all night, after both you and Joel were insulted by your own family behind your backs, they still have the nerve to talk over you, disregard what you said, pretend you’re a child in need of supervision. You open your mouth, surprised by how ready you are to give them a piece of your mind, but Joel’s fingers brush your waist, squeezing gently, and he smiles at your mother.

"I ain’t the kinda man to stay at a party if my date’s leavin’," he says, and although it’s not particularly rude, there is an edge to his voice, a certain tone that suggests he’s sticking to you out of a kind of loyalty they weren’t aware of, and that he is unhappy with what your mother said. You watch your parents, see your father’s eyes flicker down to Joel’s hand on your waist, and although his expression is unreadable, and he doesn’t say anything, you feel triumphant. There you go, you want to say, someone here is willing to take me seriously.

"Good night, Dad," you say, give him a hug, too, and suppress a smile, when Joel’s hand returns to your side as soon as you step over to him. He smiles down at you, and shrugs out of his suit jacket.

"’S probably cold out, put this on."

You do, all too aware of your parents looking at you, all too aware that for some reason Joel doesn’t seem afraid of them noticing your closeness anymore. You thank him, and he says good night to your parents, ever friendly, but decidedly choosing you. His scent envelops you when you walk away together, the warmth of his body still stored in the fabric of his jacket now warming you.

***

You inhale deeply, push the air from your lungs into your mouth to puff up your cheeks, and sit down on the bed. Your feet hurt from spending all night in your fancy shoes, and your mind won’t stop running circles around the comments your family made. You wiggle your toes, watch them move under the fabric of your tights, then look up at Joel again.

"You look worried," he comments, reaching up to his throat to pop open the first two buttons of his shirt. You can’t help but stare at the skin that it reveals, slightly shiny with sweat.

"That was…a lot."

Joel hums, and slips out of his shoes, too.

"I think you did well."

A glowing feeling builds in your chest, and you can’t help but smile, looking at your fingernails.

"Didn’t throw any drinks into anyone’s faces, so I guess it’s a successful night."

Joel chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. He sits down on the foot of the bed, still watching you, looking excruciatingly handsome in his button down and slacks.

"That, too, but more so…you didn’t let them talk down to you. Didn’t just agree with your granny, you know? Stood your ground. ’M real prouda you."

There it is again, the pull in your stomach whenever Joel seems to really see you, and before you can think about it, you move over to Joel, until you’re sitting right in front of him, his broad body turned towards you, you kneeling on the white sheets. Joel’s eyes move over your face, down to your dress, your legs in those itchy tights you can’t wait to get out of.

"Did it help?" His voice is soft. "Me tellin’ you what to do?"

You nod, unsure of where this is going, nervous and so content at the same time. This is Joel, the same Joel who held you at the beach and ordered for you, who picked out your dress. He’ll know what to do, he’ll know what’s best.

"I don’t want you to stop," you admit, eyes wide and staring into Joel’s, "when we get back home. I wish we could just…"

You don’t know how to finish that sentence, aware that what you truly wish for isn’t in the cards for you and him, not while he’s your parents’ friend first. Joel sighs, but doesn’t answer. No me too, no we can’t, not even a nod or head shake. A man of few words, Joel Miller.

"You got my number," he says after a few beats, "can…ask for my help, y’know, when you’re pickin’ out headbands."

Without you being aware of it, your face splits into a smile, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. The kindness Joel offers even the sickest parts of you is unmatched, and you’re unsure what to do with it.

"Hey now," he says and puts a soothing hand on your shoulder, "don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry."

You stop, because Joel told you to, your body by now accustomed to answering his command. With a shaky inhale, you calm yourself, and swallow.

"Sorry," you mutter, but Joel shakes his head.

"What’s got you hurtin’?"

The question is so blunt, so heartfelt.

"Nobody else…gets this," you explain, "it’s lonely."

Joel hums, and his fingers start moving on your shoulder, stroking your skin gently, soothingly.

"Don’t have to be anymore, kid. My door’s always open."

He’s close to you, and when you meet his eyes, there is static in the air between you. Something changed, between telling him about your family and him lending you his jacket, something shifted. It’s palpable, real electricity.

"Tell me what you need," Joel says quietly into the silence, because he can feel those unspoken things, because he knows there is something you need in the first place. It’s easy to tell him this time, without embarrassment or shame.

"I need you to tell me what to do," you whisper, scooching closer to him, his hand still lingering on your shoulder. You watch him swallow, aware that with any other man seeing how your words affect him would gross you out, but with Joel it just makes that pull in your stomach stronger. Joel doesn’t answer for a long while as he’s staring into your open, waiting eyes.

"Lie back," he orders quietly, voice gravelly and low. You feel a pang of want in your stomach so intense it’s almost painful, and your mouth goes dry. Joel watches you move, shuffle out of his suit jacket until you’re just in your dress and stockings, then lie back on the pillow, eyes still on him. You’re quiet, waiting for his next instruction, your mind blissfully empty.

"Good," Joel praises you, and your eyes flutter just briefly, giving away how much this is affecting you. Joel chuckles, and gets up from the bed, turning to face you fully, looking broad and handsome and very safe.

"You enjoy that, huh?"

There’s no condescension in his voice, just acknowledgement and warmth. You nod, and Joel smiles.

"Take off your tights."

You do, letting them drop onto the floor next to the bed, Joel still standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. He looks casual, relaxed, not at all like he’s watching his friend’s daughter undress herself because he asked her to. He moves over to you, and puts one broad palm on your bare leg, his fingers slipping under the hem just slightly.

"This will have consequences," he tells you seriously, "you aware of that?"

It’s the adult, responsible thing to have a conversation about what’s happening between you too, but you wish he would just get on with it.

"I am," you answer a little breathlessly, as Joel’s thumb is drawing circles on your skin and driving you crazy.

"You ready to face them?"

The question is laden with all you shared with him before: are you ready to do the thing your family would disapprove of the most, head high and without giving into their judgement? Two months ago, you wouldn’t have been. The idea of their disappointment would have swallowed you, the look on your father’s face as he noticed Joel’s hand on your waist paralyzed you. But it’s almost like a flip switched inside of you through Joel’s consistent understanding, and suddenly your grandmother’s outrage seems almost funny to you. You want this. And you’re ready to stand in for what you want, without shame.

"Yes," you breathe, "I really am, Joel."

You can see on his face he believes you, the way his crowfeet grow more pronounced with something like pride, and pleasure flushes your whole body, seeing how much your answer pleases Joel.

"Come a long way, sweetheart," he says, his hand moving upwards just slightly, pushing the hem of your dress up. You keep yourself from trembling under his touch, hanging onto the last bit of dignity and restraint you have left.

"’M real prouda you," he says again, the muscles in your stomach flexing at his words. "Now why don’t you tell me what you want me to do to ya?"

You’re no good at that. What you want is to take whatever Joel gives you, to follow his every command and let your mind go quiet in the process. But he’s commanding you to think about what you want yourself, so you dig your front teeth into your bottom lip and furrow your eyebrows just slightly.

"I…um…"

Joel waits, his hand patient and gentle on your leg.

"Remember I told you not to feel guilty?"

It’s not guilt, per se, but something distinctly feminine, something taught and learned over years. Just lie back and take it, the first time always hurts, women don’t finish as often as men do. You haven’t thought of sex as something meant to firstly fulfill your desire, as irrational as it sounds. It was a means to satisfying a partner, your own pleasure a nice side effect. Joel is telling you to leave that in the past, to really think about what you want and tell him without shame.

"I want you inside," you whisper, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribcage with anticipation and the thrill of giving into your need. "And I…I like it when you talk to me."

At those words, Joel’s eyes seem to grow dark, you watch his pupils dilate in real time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your calf.

"Attagirl," he mumbles, and the heat in your stomach peaks. Joel stares at you for a moment. "Turn onto your belly, sweetheart."

You do so without hesitation, without wondering what he’s going to do, and let your cheek sink into the pillow that smells so much like Joel, your calf still enveloped by his massive palm. Joel hums, and then his touch is gone, only to reappear on your back, his hands teasing the satiny, light blue fabric he picked for you to wear. He runs his fingers from the small of your back up to the nape of your neck, and you can’t help but shudder when he grazes your bare skin.

"Let’s get this pretty dress off of ya, hm?"

He pops open the two tiny buttons at the very top, smoothes down the zipper to reveal your bare back. You’re about to be naked in front of a very much dressed Joel Miller, and the thought is exhilarating more than frightening.

"Looked so goddamn beautiful all night," Joel mutters, "wearin’ the clothes I picked. Jesus, you’ve no idea what that does to a man."

You can’t help the whine that escapes your mouth, when Joel’s hands dig into your muscles, kneading them softly and turning your body into liquid.

"So tense, baby, gotta relax f’me."

 "I’m trying," you answer softly, and Joel chuckles.

"Know you are, know you are. Doin’ so good."

You close your eyes and let Joel touch you how he pleases, your brain quieter than you can remember it being with a man before him. There’s no fear of what he’ll do if your attention slips, no worry about putting on the right act for him either. Just Joel, his warm hands on your back, and your sore and needy body.

Joel helps you turn around and out of the dress since it doesn’t unzip entirely, moves your arms and legs how he wants so it’s off within a few moments, and you’re lying there on your back in front of him, wearing nothing but your nicest pair of panties and a soft bra to match them.

"Fuckin’ hell," Joel mutters more to himself than to you, eyes raking over your body. You remember the instinct to feel ashamed at his scrutiny, vaguely register you should cover yourself up, but the pride and pleasure triumph. He sees you, and he likes what he sees, in more ways than one. So you shimmy your hips into a sexier position, trail your fingers up your stomach and watch Joel’s eyes follow them. You squirm with need when you notice a very visible tent in Joel’s slacks.

"Alright?" he asks, voice kind and patient, like it would be okay if you weren’t.

You nod, slightly overwhelmed and Joel’s brows furrow just slightly.

"Use your words," he says softly, making your stomach flip.

"I’m alright," you answer softly, your eyes on his. Joel drags his fingertips over your stomach, following your own hand and building the tension and anticipation. You try hard not to visibly clench your thighs together.

"You gonna do as I say?"

He knows the answer. You know he does.

"Yes," you breathe, the feeling of his fingertips trailing over your ribcage bordering on overwhelming. He hums.

"I want you to tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice thoughtful, "will you do that for me?"

"Yes," you say again, your own hand absentmindedly coming up to wrap around his tan forearm, eyes glued to his rolled up sleeve, that silver watch Sarah gave him catching the light with every movement. Joel’s eyes follow yours, and you wonder if he registers how big his palm looks on your skin. If he wanted to, he could touch your bra with his thumb and your panties with his pinkie. The thought makes you squirm.

"I want you to touch yourself," Joel says softly, fingers dipping only just under the waistband of your panties, and you will your hips to stay put, even though you’re one command away from humping his hand like a dog in heat. You flush at his words, the idea of it so lewd and obscene, so intimate. It’s one thing to let him fuck you, to offer him some sort of utility, but to have him watch you get off yourself – it’s everything sex isn’t, not with the people you were with before.

"I…I don’t…"

Your voice trails off, and Joel watches you for a few moments, your pink cheeks, heavy eyelids, the goosebumps on your skin.

"You don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want to," he says, voice soft, "but if you do want to, and it’s just your pretty little head tellin’ you not to, I want you to think twice about sayin’ no."

You listen to him, and think about the feeling in your gut. You’re nervous about letting him see something so private, but not because you don’t want him to see, but because he does. He wants to see your pleasure, and so far it’s something you pushed down for other people, not just during sex. It’s easy to give into him when you realize this, and you feel something crack open inside of you, something primal and unashamed.

"Okay," you answer, voice still a little timid, but with a newfound conviction. "Anything you want."

Joel smiles at your words, but you’re aware he’s telling you to do this for your sake more than his. He wants you to feel good about feeling good.

Before you can move your hand to obey, Joel moves closer, leans down and presses his hand right next to your face, his face close to yours. You can feel the heat of his breath on your lips and shudder.

"Good girl," he says softly and presses his lips to yours. You kiss back willingly, eagerly, but he breaks the kiss all too soon, and finally sits down on the bed next to you, facing your half naked body.

"Go ahead, pretty girl," he mutters, "show me what you do when I ain’t around."

You flush, but do as he says, dragging your fingers down to your panties and slipping them in.

"You leave those on when you touch yourself?" Joel asks with a nod towards your underwear, and you shrug and shake your head at the same time. He chuckles.

"Take ’em off, then."

You swallow, and slowly drag them down. A string of your wetness connects the fabric and your pulsing core, and you flush a deeper red, the sight obscene.

"Christ," Joel mumbles, "all that from some pettin’ and a kiss."

"It’s from what you...from hearing you talk," you admit timidly, sitting up slightly to slip off your panties completely. You look at Joel and his dark eyes are glued to your wetness, but when he notices how nervous you are, he strokes your cheek with his knuckle just once.

"Look so pretty," he tells you, "just how I imagined."

That makes your brain short circuit and your eyes flutter closed at the image of Joel imagining you naked, of him wanting you as badly as you want him.

"Keep those eyes on me, sweetheart," Joel orders, and you open them again, the tension somehow doubling as soon as your eyes meet.

"I’ve never done this in front of someone," you admit, your hand awkwardly hovering over your stomach.

"Tell you what, you touch yourself for just three minutes, and then I’ll take over."

It’s absurd. It should not be sexy to have him time you touching yourself as if you’re running a race, but something about it makes you squirm and clench around nothing. When Joel looks at his watch, you almost moan, and tentatively press your middle finger against your aching clit.

"There we go," Joel mumbles, watching your hand move, "doin’ good, sweetheart."

You want to close your eyes, but Joel told you to look at him, so you watch him watch you touch yourself, his gaze flickering to his watch every once in a while. You don’t slip any fingers inside, just tease your clit, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind, and after exactly three minutes, he leans down to reward you with a kiss.

"All done, baby."

You’re lightheaded with want, the embarrassment not quite gone, but distant. When Joel props himself up onto one elbow, his other hand finding your stomach again, you sigh. He’s looking right into your eyes, when he drags his hand lower and lower, until his fingers find the place you just touched yourself, so much bigger than yours. He presses down lightly, teasingly, watching you bite your bottom lip and arch into his touch.

"Hips stay on the bed," he says softly, just to watch you obey, pressing a kiss to your temple. He starts rubbing slow circles, unhurried and practiced, and already you feel the pleasure building and building inside of you. You whine softly, craning your neck for a kiss, and he obliges, his beard scratching your skin and mouth swallowing your sounds. You try hard not to twitch under his touch, which is both so intense and torturously slow.

When the muscles in your stomach start clenching with your impending release, you can’t help yourself and press into his hand, chasing the pleasure, but Joel presses your hips into the mattress with the heel of his palm, never stopping the movement of his fingers. You’re close, so close you feel your jaw slacken against Joel, sigh into his mouth – and suddenly his touch is gone. Instead, his hand starts rubbing your side soothingly, your promise of release fading again.

"Joel," you whine, "what the fuck."

"Language," Joel scolds with a chuckle and kisses the corner of your mouth. "Patience is a virtue."

You nip at his lower lip, not harsh enough to hurt him, just so he registers your discontent, and Joel laughs a quiet laugh right into your mouth. Despite his amusement, his fingers return to your core, gathering wetness and rubbing once again. A whimper escapes your mouth when he finally prods your entrance teasingly, without real pressure, just to make you want it.

"You gonna lie still?"

"Y-yes," you sigh, "yes, I promise."

Joel hums, and pushes in just slightly, just so that his fingernail is barely inside of you.

"Gonna bite me again?"

"No," you answer, "no, Joel."

He pushes his finger inside of you, curling it upwards instantly, and you mewl.

"That’s alright, sweetheart," he mumbles, "I can handle your bitin’. Know it’s frustratin’."

But he makes no attempt to stop his teasing, sliding his finger in and out of you slowly, and curling it just enough to make the pressure inside of you keep building without intending to let it snap. Absentmindedly you move with him, and Joel stills his fingers. You whine, but stop moving, and he presses down on that spot inside of you again.

"Attagirl," he mutters, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

You’re close again embarrassingly soon, and even though you try not to let it show to trick Joel into letting you finish, he notices the way you flutter around him, and stills his hand once again, letting your orgasm drift away.

"Fuck," you whine, frustrated and so turned on you think you might get there if he so much as blew on your swollen clit.

"Shhh," Joel soothes you, adding another finger, the stretch delicious. He gazes into your open eyes, watches you as he makes you feel so good you could cry.

"Easy," he says, when he feels your stomach tense up with effort – whether to come or not to come, you aren’t sure anymore. "Easy, baby. Relax for me."

You close your eyes and this time Joel doesn’t object, as your whole body goes limp and accepts Joel’s power over it.

"Good," Joel mutters, "that’s real good. You come when I tell you to."

And suddenly you don’t fight it anymore, don’t try to race him there, just lie there with Joel’s thick fingers pumping in and out of you almost lazily, pleasure coming and going as Joel chooses, making your brain go all fuzzy.

"Sweet girl," Joel mutters, "just had to give in, huh?"

You don’t bother to answer, just open your mouth for him when he kisses you.

"Think you’re ready for my cock?"

You almost, almost come. He slips his fingers out of you completely when he notices, and your hips chase his hand, but the feeling is gone again, although it was close enough to taste. Joel chuckles, and it’s just a tiny bit mean, but it makes you even wetter.

"Think you are, huh?"

"Yes," you say, and run your hand up his massive arm, "please."

"So polite," Joel mumbles with a smile, but he finally moves to unbutton his shirt and you watch him through heavy eyes. He smiles down at you, no trace of embarrassment as he’s revealing more and more of his skin dusted in age spots and brown hair. He’s strong, soft in all the right places, and you want to worship his belly with your mouth.

"You look…so sexy."

Joel laughs, and shakes his head, deflecting the compliment but looking a little smug, a little proud, as he lets his shirt drop onto the floor and moves to open his pants. You sit up, and reach for his hands, looking up at him questioningly.

"Go right ahead, sweetheart," Joel says, and you pop open the button and slide down the zipper, eyes glued to his bulge. He gets up to slip out of his slacks, the outline of his cock even more pronounced in his boxer shorts. He looks big. You swallow.

"Don’t you worry," Joel mumbles when he notices, and slides down his boxers, too. "We’ll make it fit."

His cock is hard and an angry red, long and thick and slightly curved, and he hasn’t shaved. With anyone else, you would have preferred it if he had, but the graying hair at the base of his cock makes you lightheaded with lust. He looks so manly, in the primal, safe sense of the word.

His fist wraps around himself as he’s climbing on top of you, pumping once, twice, a little groan of pleasure escaping his lips and you reach down to bat his hand away, to return some of the pleasure he has been giving you. He lets you, even though your hand covers much less of his length, and pushes into your hand as you drag it over him.

"Hips stay on the mattress," you tease softly, and Joel laughs, his eyes all crinkly and warm.

"One more comment like that ’n I’ll force you to the edge five more times, sweetheart," he threatens, but the amusement is evident in his voice. Still, it makes you clench and flutter to know he could, to know you’d let him. Joel takes your wrist in his hand gently, and pulls your hand away from his cock, then aligns it with your entrance.

"Breathe in," he says softly, looking right into your eyes, and you do, staring at him unblinkingly and holding the air in your lungs.

"And breathe out."

As the air rushes out of you and you relax, he starts pushing into you. The stretch is painful in the very beginning, but you sigh in relief when the head of his cock is inside and Joel gives you a moment to breathe.

"Look at you," he mutters, nudging your nose with his, "takin’ it like a champ."

You wiggle your hips and Joel keeps pushing into you, the stretch making your eyes fall closed again. It feels like your body is making room for him in a way you didn’t think possible, like your insides are parting for Joel Miller’s cock. He groans, and with a snap of his hips he’s inside of you entirely, his wiry hairs pressing into your mound. The head of his cock is nudging that spot inside of you, pressing against it insistently even though Joel isn’t moving. You mouth at his neck, tongue darting out to taste his sweat and suck on his skin in an almost soothing manner, as your body adjusts and relaxes.

Joel starts moving in and out of you after a few moments, changing angles with every thrust, until a whine escapes your throat. He keeps fucking into you like that, pressing against your spot with every thrust, eyes staring down into yours.

"That it?"

You mewl, when he gives a particularly sharp thrust and Joel chuckles.

"Yeah, that’s it," he coos.

His hands start moving over your skin as you claw at his back and biceps, teasing your sides and ghosting over your nipples still covered by the fabric of your bra. He forces his hands under your body and unclasps it with ease, then pulls it away from your body and drops it. His eyes flicker down and he puts a large palm over your tits, groping and squeezing, then pinching the nipple just short of painful. 

"Perfect fuckin’ tits," he mumbles, rolling the pebbled nub between his thumb and forefinger, making you arch your chest and moan freely. Again, the pleasure starts building, and you think Joel might be distracted by his own this time. More than anything you want to please him, though, so instead of chasing your release, you clench around him and focus on not letting go yet.

"Close," you groan, your body rocking with Joel’s deep thrusts, and he stills inside of you, letting you breathe into his mouth.

"Good girl," he mumbles and kisses your lower lip, "so good for me."

Just those few words would be worth not coming at all, you think, though Joel starts moving again when he’s sure it won’t make you come. His hand moves from your tit up to your throat, wrapping around it loosely. You feel so small under his massive palm, your windpipe and major arteries and spine all fitting into his hand like you’re a blade of grass. He squeezes softly, just enough to cut off the blood flow for a second or two, then relaxes his hand again. Your eyes roll upwards, and you bite your lip.

"Yeah?" he asks, waiting for your permission, and you nod.

"Yeah," you sigh, and your eyes widen when he squeezes again, all the while thrusting in and out of you. This time he squeezes for a couple of seconds more, and although it takes a little more effort, air still rushes into your lungs. When he releases your throat and the blood floods your brain, you moan, and feel Joel’s thrusts go slightly more erratic in response.

"Look at you," he mumbles, pressing his hips into yours, his whole weight on top of you. You whine and feel his hand close around your throat once more. This time his grip is unrelenting and stronger, and there is no oxygen rushing into your lungs, just stillness and quiet. You feel yourself go slightly dizzy, watch Joel’s warm eyes glued to your face, and feel your mind go entirely quiet.

"That’s it," Joel praises, "you breathe when I say you breathe."

You’ve never been closer than now, hearing those words, and when Joel releases you to let you suck in air desperately, you almost, almost come. But once again, he stops moving, lets you teeter on the edge and pull back, your brain fuzzy and overwhelmed with the sudden rush of blood and oxygen.

"What do we say?"

You groan into his mouth.

"Thank you."

"Good girl."

Joel’s thrusts start getting sharper, even deeper, and you know it can’t be long now. He keeps squeezing and releasing your throat, keeping you deprived of oxygen and letting it flood your brain again with the smallest movement of his hand.

"Need me to decide that, too?" he asks breathily, his voice rough and slightly broken, "need me to pick out that dress ’n tell you what to eat? Even when to breathe?"

You nod under his hand because he’s once again tightening his grip around you, rendering you incapable of speaking, and you clench around him. He feels it, thrusts harder.

"Yeah," he mutters, "don’t gotta worry about anythin’. I got you, babygirl. I’ll decide."

Your stomach cramps up with the effort of holding off your orgasm until Joel gives you permission, and when he finally lets you breathe again, he brushes the shell of your ear with his lips.

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It feels like your earth shatters, your vision going white, or maybe your brain just can’t register what it’s seeing, as you pulse around Joel, and shake under his broad body, your stomach exploding with pleasure. He fucks you through it, his thrusts so unwaveringly deep he presses into your clit every time. You shudder and whine, suck in air, come completely apart in Joel’s capable hands, and vaguely register him forcing his cock as deep as it will go, and then pumping you full of his hot spend, holding it there as he fills you up.

His thrusts slow after a while, then he slips out of you, and kisses you gently, softly, his fingers stroking your neck soothingly. You’re pliant and fucked out, entirely boneless.

"My sweet girl," Joel mumbles against your lips, "that what you needed?"

You nod, your eyes and limbs heavy as he brushes your cheeks and nose with his lips. He lies down next to you, muscles completely relaxed, and pulls you close against him. You can feel the mess you both made between you legs and distantly think you should clean yourself up, but you’re too tired, too satisfied, too blissfully happy. Your limbs are heavy, and your mind still when you kiss Joel’s chest, his hair tickling your face softly. He hums contentedly, a deep rumble in his chest.

"’M gonna fall asleep," you mumble against Joel, and he strokes your back in response, his arm draped over your side.

"That’s okay, sweetheart," he mutters, and you feel him kiss the top of your head. "Okay if I clean you up?"

You hum in agreement, yawn, and try to scooch even closer to his sweaty body, press yourself against him as if you will fuse with him if you just try hard enough. Joel’s arms around you tighten and you give into your blissful exhaustion.

A very special thanks to my friend @daryltwdixon who was my beta reader and helped me with my English (fuck this language) <3 she also came up with the idea of Joel making reader thank him for letting her breathe again after choking her, so now I’m making you all thank her. Love u, May, thanks for the help <3