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CAN’T NOBODY LOVE YOU (LIKE I’M LOVIN’ YOU)

summary: You’ve been scared of intimacy since you can remember. So, what happens when Joel — your father’s best friend, and the only reliable parental figure you’ve had in your life — catches you in a rather compromising position on halloween? And, then, what happens when Joel finally decides you’re in for some tough loving? warnings: potentially dubcon. smut. daddy kink. read at your own risk!

(aaand we’re back! this is quite easily my favorite thing i’ve written so far. it’s very self indulgent. i hope you enjoy! reblogs are always appreciated:) — title song is “can’t nobody love you” by the zombies!!! but the song i also recommend is “hot burrito #1” by the flying burrito brothers, which for obvious reasons i could not use as the title lol. it’s perfect tho so have a listen!)

You don’t know how to feel now that Joel has actually caved. Now that he’s allowed himself to feed on your desires. Or, rather, what you thought you desired.

You felt grown when you were pursuing Joel. A dirty albeit grown, adult girl.

But now? You felt anything but that.

Joel.

Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man, Joel. Your dad’s buddy, Joel — beer buddy Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

Fuck. Joel? Really?

It started with a look. A volatile little smile on your birthday — your pink frilled cake, sticky vanilla frosting, and eighteen teensy candles glaring. Holding eye contact with him for far too long to be considered friendly; hoping he’d catch your gaze to see what was written all over your face. “I’m legal, Joel.” Joel was never stupid. In fact, he was always too observant for your liking. Catching you guilty-as-charged on your porch and knowing you just smoked your first joint. Or finding you drinking his beer at an ungodly hour and somehow placing it immediately to your impending graduation. Your least favorite: your red eyes, and Joel’s hug following suit — you and your dad were fighting, Joel figured.

He knew you were a good girl. Really, Joel knew the purity of your nature better than you’d observed yourself. Your peeking lace, flirty little smiles and that awful pout you developed after your first semester at college never fooled him. Nope, not one bit.

Joel knew you were a virgin. You were a nervous thing. Always have been, always will be. It’s in your nature, he’s decided. It’s your biological coding. Knew it since you were just a girl. You were the same with boys your age; hiding at the adult table instead of mingling and doing who-know’s-what with boys like the ‘Felder’s’ eldest son or worse, that punk Scott. Not that he thought of you in that way yet, but it was just something he observed. Your meekness. Your quiet demeanor. The way you were totally uninterested in boys in such a way that your own mother began to worry. “You know, at her age? I was onto my seventh boyfriend. Seventh! These kids are living in a different age, I suppose.”

So imagine Joel’s surprise pulling up to the bar that night to see sweet thing you: pressed against a brick wall, leg wrapped around some loser with your hand tangled in his hair?

Maybe it was his fault to blame. Snooping where he didn’t belong. He knew you would be here. In fact, he had, yes, admittedly followed you to the very bar you’re stood outside of.

But could you blame him?

You’re his responsibility. Your father’s only daughter, his best buddy’s only child, now under his care while you were home for the holidays. It doesn’t matter how old you are. That you’re “an adult”, as you keep reminding him, or that you “know what you want.” You aren’t old enough to know any better, he’s surmised, but Joel does — for you. Joel is sure you must have been as equally disturbed upon seeing him. If not more. He isn’t subtle about it. He doesn’t wait for you to finish whatever the hell you were trying to start. He simply slams his truck door shut — half surprised the red herring of his faulty engine hadn’t sent you running, knowing you could tell when Joel was over just from the sound of it creaking into your drive away. But, alas, you’re occupied. He marches as silent as the still air outside toward the outline of your silhouette, where you’re shielded by this…. stranger, this random boy, this—

Joel fishes in his pocket and shines his flashlight on the both of you.

You’re the first to pull away. You jolt as you snap your head up toward Joel with wide-eyes, your doe eyes illuminated in the white harsh exposition of his flashlight.

“Fuckin’ hell.” This was a scene that could kill a man. You — good grades you, star pupil you, sorority chair member and babysitter you — barely dressed in your white babydoll and fucking bunny ears. And how ironic is it that you, caught in a disgusting act, gawk at him with faux innocence; donned in lacey white to match the part. And he would’ve sought you fit for it too, if not for your swollen lips and the smudge of lipstick on your chin. Not to mention the random boy currently swearing at your side.

“Get your ass inside. And don’t make me repeat myself. You hear me?” you hesitate for a moment — still wide-eyed and still frozen under the horrible blaring glare of his hand held torch. You’ve never felt so dirty and vulnerable in your entire life. Joel growls a deep exhale and shines the light closer toward your face, blinding you and causing you to stumble back against the cold wall behind you. “You fuckin’ hear me? Scram, kid. Inside. Now.” And you know he isn’t playing any games when he begins to count.

“One….two…” you run into the bar with your hand hovering behind your ass as though you were some child nervously escaping a spanking. You would laugh at yourself if you weren’t so frozen in an all consumable humiliation. Joel has half the mind to slap the kid that was just eating your face off but he regresses. He knows it wasn’t the boys fault; if anything, it was more likely yours. While he held your good girl disposition near and dear to his heart, he had noticed your recent rebelling streak.

It was unnatural and awkward. Coming in the form of wearing dresses so short that you couldn’t even jump out his truck without flashing him; copious frills of red or pink or his personal hell, white, and he couldn’t stand it. He wondered if college had taken the dear girl he watched you grow into only to snatch you away and morph you into a lady. A femme fatale. Seductress. Promiscuous like your sorority sisters. But, no — you were still shy as ever at neighborhood barbecues and still ignoring Scott Felder with the same fervor you had when you were seventeen. And so to see you like this? He hadn’t a clue what to do with you.

It could’ve been ten or twenty or even thirty minutes, you weren’t sure, but finally, you hear that unmistakable noise of heavy toed boots clang against the bar floor, and there he is. Making an appearance after all. For a moment, you were scared he had stranded you here. Or, worse, called your father.

But instead, Joel locks his sight on you and slowly approaches. It isn’t hard. With your ridiculous costume ears still perched on your head. He pulls out the bar stool next to you and immediately waves down the bartender.

He keeps a tab open. You sit in silence as he nurses his second beer, listening to the screeching noise of his obnoxiously loud sighs as you’re sat shaking on the grimy bar stool beside him. Waiting for something. Anything. A shake of his head. A snarl. You’re even finding yourself pleading for his dreaded lectures. But, alas, he only sits there. Wordless and your stomach churns in anticipation for when his fuse finally implodes. It ignites slowly. A small, subtle look your way. Disappointment. Burning hot and sparking clear as day on his face. Then, and you couldn’t ever predict what he would say, but he meets your eye and mumbles: “And here I was, thinkin’ you were a virgin.” You would say Joel has been a pretty consistent figure in your life. He’s just been there. You can’t ever really remember when he came onto the scene or when you started to respect, and equally fear him, more than your own old man. And well, you would say you’ve come to know him pretty well. You like to think you have a firm understanding of his attitude. You know what makes him temperamental, what he enjoys or doesn’t, observed enough to guess what he would find humorous or instead flat out shun. You know he’s a secret prude. Brave in a way your father never was, chastising you for skirts he deemed too short, “two finger rule, sweetheart, c’mon. You know this.” Blushing when the ‘grownup’ table makes a dirty joke. Usually about his lady of the month. Then lecturing you when he finds you peeping, tutting: “this is a grownup conversation, young lady. Eyes and ears to yourself.” You remember the first time you saw Joel in a new light: condensation dripping down large fingers. That smirk highlighted by handsome lines of age and sun that weathered his skin. Tan flesh and jeans a bit too tight to really fit him properly. That scolding look of his, always pointed your way. But in all your years of knowing Joel, nothing could have ever prepared you for this. Joel Miller who damn nearly had a heart attack when you brought your senior year prom date to greet your father, and Joel — of course. You never knew him to have the gall. The nerve. The obscenity to call you out. “Thought you were a virgin.” You choke on your own spit. Half-laughing-and-half-gasping as you try to squawk a retort that just gets stuck in your throat. He takes a large gulp of his beer. You watch his adam’s apple bob around his sip, stupidly stuttering and now burning in a feverish blush. “What!-what, what…” he peers at you through his peripheral. “Wh-at? So, so— so virgins aren’t allowed to kiss now, is that what, huh?” You are just so defensive. For no good reason; he’s the one who caught you in your indecent act. Though, you don’t deny what he’s said either, and a tiny sick part of himself is slightly relieved — for your dignity, of course. “I ain’t ever know one to kiss like that, that’s for fuckin’ sure.” “O-kay, Joel. How about you try and stay out of my business, and you won’t have to know a damn thing. Does that work for you?” Ouch. Well, look at that. You’re embarrassed. Good, he’s thinking. You should be. You ought to be. But there’s something more, something slightly sinister bubbling below the surface. You’re humiliated, maybe. Pissed at him, even. He’s wondering why you haven’t yet asked him what he was doing at some college bar, but he suspects your unease has you tattered. “Quit bein’ ugly with me, kid. It’s my job to be lookin’ out for you, and I won’t — while you’re under my roof—”

“I’m sorry, under whose roof?—” “Don’t go talkin’ back to me. I won’t have you actin’ this way so long as you’re stayin’ here. You hear me?” You can’t decide whether to laugh or yell at him. “You’re aren’t my father, Joel. It’s not your job to do anything!” Your shame has brought your claws out; hissing and scratching and clawing deep into wounds you have no business deepening. There’s a falter in the beat of the room. A stutter. A sliver of light peeking onto skeletons long hidden inside your closet. You knew it was the wrong thing to say. It felt awkward, somewhat heavy like a lie on your tongue, and the suffocating air weighing heavy between the two of you concede’s that he knows this too. His face reads as surprisingly amused, and you suspect that’s the reason why. You’re just lashing out. Growing pains. All little girls go through this phase. He’s been waiting for this, really.

“Alright.” He groans as he stands up. Arm raising to scratch at his greying scruff and his flannel raises slightly — tan skin exposed, happy trail peeking from above his slacks. “I’m takin’ you home. Your dad ain’t back yet,” you don’t miss how he lingers on that word. Dad. Spitting it at you. “And frankly, I don’t want him seein’ you like…” his eyes rake down your frame and you feel just as exposed as you did under the glare of his flashlight, “this.”

He may as well have gone and called you a whore. You want to lash out and really give him something to be shocked at. Treat him like you do with dear old dad when he tests your patience and see how he likes it.

But really, you’re nervous at how Joel would retaliate. You and your father aren’t afraid to yell; you know that with every argument, while a silent lull may fall for however long it takes, your relationship would eventually return to its flawed resting point. But Joel? — he classes your low points differently. He yearns for the confrontation, because he enjoys the punishment. The lesson in it. You give him an inch? He’ll run it any which way from Tuesday just to turn it into a some sort of paternal marathon. You would call him a sadist if it didn’t mean you would have to acknowledge what that would make you. Really, sometimes, you wonder, if it isn’t the reason him and his own daughter are so distant. Or, rather the reason why she won’t speak to him. You never really saw Sarah growing up, with your age gap, but you could see how Joel’s life motivation could be his very own fatal flaw. He constantly needs, wants, longs to teach teach teach. He knows best. His way is the best way. “Don’t be mad at him,” your father would tell you when Joel first started taking it upon himself to solve your tantrums himself. “You know how it is for him. He’s just bein’ a dad, ‘s all. Saves my ass the trouble, that’s for sure.” You try to remind yourself of this when you and Joel make it back home. Any slight buzz you had lingering is strikingly gone — dissipated completely enough to leave you so sober you’re shaking. From the cold air, or from your repentance, you aren’t sure yet. Joel notices. “You’re shakin’,” he observes, but he doesn’t sound concerned. In fact, there’s that same amused twinge from before. The lesson. He wants you like this, all to teach you. “It’s cold.” You whine, and he sighs at your tone but with a small smirk in tow. Is it cold, or are you stood half-naked in a kitchen where you used to play with your barbies? “C’mon.” He nods his head toward the dimly lit staircase and you follow up behind him as he begins his slow ascend, leading you down the hallway to your bedroom. He turns on your bedside lamp and opens your drawers. Rummaging through them as you stand in the corner, still shaking, until he finds a clean pair of pajamas for you and lays them on your bed. Folding them, neatly. “Get changed.” He mumbles. “I need to — I need to shower, first.” You feel dirty. You’ve felt dirty since you let that boy kiss you outside that awful dive bar. You weren’t even sure why you did. It wasn’t you. He wasn’t even your type. You weren’t half as drunk as you usually get on nights out, but truthfully, it had little to do with the alcohol and more with the nagging voices of your friends and boys you wouldn’t let pursue you on repeat. Taunting you. And for what? Grimy. Bad. Even more so, the moment Joel saw you in that state. “Then shower.” You hoped that the cold water and the harsh rubbing of your skin would clean you of more than just your caked-on makeup. But it doesn’t. You feel just as awful as before, and Joel doesn’t offer you any consolation. He’s as quiet as you are; silent when you meekly pass where he’s perched on the edge of your bed. You fetch the pajamas he had laid for you. And when you remerge, creaking the door open an inch, he’s still there — waiting. Head tilting at the open door when you meet his gaze with a small smile. You continue doing whatever it is you were doing, seemingly spraying something into your hair. Citrus and brown sugar. The smell of you. Fresh, clean, warm, sweet. He should get going now. Really, he’s probably overstayed his welcome. Your father could be back. Sat downstairs, nursing a beer. Watching television. Thinking you’re dead asleep. If he was even wondering that at all. You watch as he lifts from your bed and gingerly wanders toward where you’re spraying all sorts of concoctions into your hair, his frame lurking behind you.

Taller. Brooding. Unsure.

Pausing in the doorway until he’s making eye contact with you in the mirror. He shakes his head, low and disappointed, and tuts at you. Slowly moving toward the other end of the sink before beckoning you over to where he’s stood with a call of his fingers. You follow — barefoot padding across the cold tiles to reach him.

He sighs. Hums, even. Tilting his head at you and scanning his eyes down your expanse like he’s examining you. Wanting to see how sorry you are.

“You don’t have to stay here, Joel. With me. It’s late.” The concept of someone staying up for you, up with you, is foreign. You feel awkward standing across from Joel, unsure how to handle the onslaught of attention; wearing pajama’s he picked out for you and you hate that you’re secretly comforted by even the small semblance of tenderness it holds. “You seein’ that boy?” he finally speaks, and you can’t help but shyly smile and shake your head. “No.” You’re grinning now. Almost giggling. Cheeky. He wants to give your cheek a curt smack and wipe that smile off your face. “No?” He’s smirking back at you. You slowly shake your head. He’s lulled you into thinking that you are equal. That since you are smiling, and he’s smiling, that now you two are playing. But you should know by now — Joel’s never been one to bark without a bite. You step ever so slightly closer to him. You could blame it on shaky legs or that burning taste of tequila still lingering in your mouth, but it’s just you. The bathroom is dimly lit, and Joel’s still smirking, and so he thinks maybe you must be feeling brave. Surely, if you’re being this brazen with him. “I didn’t even know his name.” You whisper. Smiling, still, albeit sheepishly. Beads of water dripping down the expanse of your cheekbones and wet hair clinging to your shoulders. Joel doesn’t say anything.

His expression doesn’t even flinch. He just hooks his ankle behind your calf, causing you to stumble closer to him. You catch yourself before you can fall, making quick balance by placing your palms on his chest. He hums — gently, and ever-so-slowly inches his startlingly large hand out toward you. You can feel him softly catch the droplets trailing their way along your jaw, grazing his knuckles down the edge of the bone.

To your confusion, the head-rush of the moment is dulled by the clanging of miscellaneous items on your counter, until you realize what he’s doing. He’s searching for something.

Digging through your sink caddy before pulling out your — toothbrush? You watch as he squeezes a dime of toothpaste onto its pink bristles. His knuckles are still resting fleetingly along your cheekbones. You would convince yourself that this was your deluded imagination, if not for the jarring sensation of his hand outstretching and covering your entire jawbone in one tight clamp.

Both from the sheer force of his grip, and in a gasp of surprise, your mouth opens and you’re about to retort — Is he really going to?— “Open wide.”

Your effort is useless.

He gives you no warning before almost gagging you on your own toothbrush. Shoving it uncaringly into your mouth, letting the plastic stick clang loudly against your teeth and poke at the plush flesh inside. This is . . . humiliating? You silently pray it’s not spit you can feel slightly dribbling onto the handle of the brush, surely going down his hand, and you whine in embarrassment — it’s muffled in the clumsy attempt of brushing your teeth — and you try to shove his hand away, but he only grips your wrist with the other; absentmindedly bracketing your hips and pressing you against the sharp porcelain digging into your behind.

He laughs at you. “Gotta get you clean,” he tuts, and you burn both with mortification and in the revelation that he must surely now see you as you do yourself. Dirty. Ruined. Once the child, now the inevitable woman. “Joel,” you gurgle, slightly laughing in awkwardness. The mint is causing your eyes to water as you try to shove him harder, with no avail. “Stop.” He catches your wrist once again and presses it hard against your chest. “Be good.” Now this — this is just —

Humiliation. Joel’s never touched you like this. He’s never gripped at you, or ever, ever been rough with you.

Really, now that you really come to think of it, you’ve never much felt the graze of Joel’s flesh against yours.

Sure, you’ve felt his frame against yours in tear-soaked hugs. Or felt the calloused graze of his knuckles when passing you the clandestine beer, or maybe felt the accidental knock of his knee brushing yours in sweaty lawn chairs at neighborhood barbecues. But Joel has always treated you so . . . delicately. Only touching you unless absolutely necessary. Avoiding it, even: his hand hovering above your waist in photographs, rejecting your requests of retying your bikini top, reacting as though you’ve burned him in accidental moments of your body swiping past his. Okay, now? Well this just feels oddly intimate. You must be making it weird. You’ve stopped thrashing and now you’re only sat complacent, blushing. At Joel. You hate the feelings you can feel begin to stir deep in your gut. It’s hot fierce and you’re sure he can see it, or at the very least feel it in your quick pulse. But this is already weird. Joel is brushing your teeth. For you. While laughing like it’s the highest form of entertainment he’s had in all his fifty-so years of living. And — are you shaking? Seriously? Are you that unsure on how to act in the presence of such a man acting as casual as he does during errands? It’s only Joel. But he’s a man, nonetheless. You could count on your one hand the amount of times you’ve ever touched one, and so, yes, you’re shaking. Maybe it’s part adrenaline, too. Your nervous system grappling to accommodate that this is Joel. Touching you so openly, even if it is to manhandle you. His other hand moves from its tight hold on your jaw to create a makeshift ponytail of your hair, pushing your head gently toward the sink

“Spit, honey.” You can barely speak with both the toothpaste swishing in your mouth and between your stifled giggles, toothpaste foam clumisy escaping and now you’re laughing, fully. “There she is. You feelin’ better now?”

“No! You just — you?” You’re hysterical. He snorts at you, secretly relieved to finally see a smile appear on your face after all of your pouting. You’re not off the hook just yet — his seething disappointment still brewing — but the melody of your laughter quells the bitterness even for a little moment. He sighs when you giggle and hide your head in the crook of his neck because this is the little girl that he fondly remembers. Maybe you just needed a reminder, too.

On his flannel collar, you can smell the lingering remainder of the cigarettes he must have snuck out on his lunch break whispering to you. It mixes with the smell of his musk. His natural scent, and a spray of that cologne you could sniff out with a blindfold. Sweet, yet notably masculine — honey melded with boozy tobacco — like that whiskey he stashes below his kitchen sink. Nostalgic in a way that reminds you of summer; Joel’s cigarettes burning the dewy grass of your lawn, sweltering nights spent in his garage, your favorite cherry red ice pops he kept in his freezer just for you, skin sticky with chlorine, cicadas and early dawn, the taste of beers you shouldn’t be having and looks you shouldn’t be giving. You’re sat on the counter, Joel stood between your legs, and as your head tips up, you can recognize the exact second Joel resigns. The moment he remembers who you are to him, and who he is to you.

“Alright. I better, um. I best be to gettin’ sweetheart. I’ll be speakin’ to you in the mornin’, you hear me?” He goes to step backward, away from where you’re sat, away from your pajama clad body. Skimpy and short, too short and he needs to step away from the girl that deep down doesn’t belong to him. Not with his best buddy’s blood running through you. Away from the little girl he’s known for far too long. Your small ankle hooks around his calf.

“Why do we have to wait for the morning?”

He’s stunned. You’ve stunned him. Peering up at him with doe eyes and he’s — he’s shocked.

And intrigued?

“It’s way past your bedtime young lady. And frankly if I stick around, well. . .” he scratches the greying scruff speckling his jaw. He’s as close as he was before. Close enough to where he has to dip his head down to look at you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.

“Well?”

He sighs, softly, and inches slightly closer. His face is beside your ear now. He drops his voice into a gruff whisper. “I’d say some things I shouldn’t.”

Your eyebrow quirks and the corner of his mouth lifts into a shy smirk. “Not like that, kiddo. It’d be mean. I’d say rude things to you, and I don’t wan’ to. Wanna save it for the morning. Give us a second to cool off, y’know? Take a breather. Go from there.” He pats your shoulder. Joel Miller, always so level-headed.

It’s time to go. Really, it is.

You gnaw your bottom lip between your teeth as Joel begins to tread through your quaint bathroom and toward the door of your bedroom. You should let him go. You shouldn’t say anything else. You’ve already forever changed the trajectory of your relationship with Joel — but in the same sentiment, what is there to lose? “I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle hard conversations.” Even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, lit only by the single glass lamp at your bedside, you can faintly see when Joel’s expression changes.

“Can you? Nearly done scared you off at the bar. Didn’t I?” You watch as it sours, his eyebrows furrowing. You’re beginning to test the little luck you have left for the night, but you’re either willingly ignorant, or simply don’t notice. You push either way.

Stupid, little naive girl. “Because you treat me like a child! You — you never treat me like I’m a grown up. You treat me like I’m still little. Like I’m.” You suck in a sharp inhale. “Like I’m Sa—“

“— Don’t you finish that sentence. Fuckin’ hell. You pitchin’ a hissy fit? Is that what this is? I interrupt your little play date,”

“Oh my—” You really should’ve stopped talking a long time ago. But you can’t seem to find a way to switch this side of yourself off. You’re frustrated — you’re embarrassed, still so abashed and there’s nothing more you want at this moment than comfort; but you don’t deserve that. Definitely not now. You may as well be itching for punishment with the way you’re rambling your mouth at Joel. “Shut it. You shut your mouth.” Joel raises his voice and you flinch. Both in the fear of your father potentially hearing a glimpse into your altercation, but also for you. You don’t know what’s gotten into you, and theres nothing you can do but watch as Joel drags his hands down his face. Sighing and shaking his head before storming up to you. Raising his pointer finger right in your face, his own scrunched and angry. Albeit, he inhales a single shaky breath.

“You’re right. You ain’t Sarah. I failed her. I was too soft with her. Too weak. Too lenient with shit I shouldn’t have been. Too — too goddamn proud. And so help me God, I will not make that same mistake with you. You hear me girl? When I speak, you listen. Goddamnit.” You’re frozen. Stuck in place and somehow the distance between you two has become even shorter. He’s almost breathing down your neck. Seething and huffing with no regard for your space. You don’t know what to say. Choking on a sharp breath that you didn’t even realize you had been holding. “This is — Joel, I’m not… you’re not my… I don’t need you to—”

“What? You wanna be my friend? Is that what you’re askin’ for? For us to be fuckin’ friendly?”

His nose brushes against your own and it’s so beside him, entirely uncharacteristic for him to be this close to you; undeniably too enraged to recognize the lack of distance between you. “Hm?” “No, you’re not listening to me—“

“You keep runnin’ that mouth at me and I’ll show you just where it gets you, little girl.” You’re appealing to the ugliest parts of himself now. Playing right into his game of cat and mouse. The perfect pawn on his chess board. You know all the right buttons to press and you aren’t even sure if you do it unwillingly.

“I’m sorry Joel.” You whisper so quiet and so sweetly that it nearly stops him in his tracks. Almost breaks him from the frustration he feels toward you. Almost. “I know you are babygirl. I know you are…” And for a fleeting moment, you have your Joel back in the room. The Joel you’ve always known. The only person you know that looks at you with starry eyes and protects you like you’re as delicate as fine china. He carefully cups your cheek before sighing, looking down toward the ground in an attempt to recalibrate. To cool off. To get a grip of himself. To act like the adult he is. The role model you deserve. But. . . Have your shorts always been that short? Really — he doesn’t mean to look, his eyes just snagged on a fleeting glimpse of the smooth expanse of your legs, and now he’s perplexed. Why would you even own shorts that tiny? What purpose do they serve? Other than to appease. To appeal. To impress.

‘Two finger rule, sweetheart.’ Joel can feel himself begin to flush; his temper is brewing again. Hadn’t he taught you better than this?

You gulp. “Joel?”

“I know you’re sorry. But sorry ain’t ‘gonna cut it this time, kiddo.”

“No, please don’t—” please, anything but tell your father.

“I think we oughta try some tough love.” “No!—” you scramble toward Joel; reaching out toward him in an attempt to get him to stop. To not go downstairs. To not tattle to that man about your bad behavior. To not bring him into this. But in that same second, Joel hunches over you, grabbing your wrist and pinning it behind the small of your back.

He pulls you against his sturdy chest. Shushing you. Telling you to “be quiet, goddamnit,”tightening his grip on your wrist when you begin to thrash — kicking at him, trying to free yourself from where you’re held against him, “stop being so squirrelly, kid. Stop. The fuck’s gotten into ‘ya?” You don’t stop, too confused and frightened to do anything but flail like a fish out of water; gasping like you were gurgling for air when you feel the sudden force of your body colliding with the solid plush of your bed from below you. You register the pressure first. The immense weight of Joel above you, all broad muscle mass, pinning you with the full heft of his bulk into the mattress. “Stop,” he growls, and you can feel the warmth and softness of his lips graze against the shell of your ear.

The noise and clatter inside your head goes silent — everything coming to a static standstill as you finally take a single slow, albeit wheezed, breath. You quell beneath him. “Good.” He whispers. “Good girl.”

Joel has you bent over the edge of your bed. Joel.

Joel.

“You ain’t gonna like this one bit. I’m sorry, honey. But you gotta learn somehow.” You can’t register anything he’s saying because you can feel him. Against you. Pressed against your behind.

Oh. Oh.

You think of what to say but fall short. Instead, you lay still. Waiting. Your heart pattering so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

And then, you yelp; the resounding smack! of his palm shocks through your body. The small of your back where your flesh melts into its heart shape burns. Sending you up the mattress to get away from it.

He’s just hit you. No — he’s just spanked you.

“What the—”

Before you can even begin to comprehend, let alone retort, his palm hits you even harder. So hard that the sound rattles you and rings in your ears.

His hand swats you again, and again, and again. You can barely distinguish the noise of him grunting with each move, watching as his face scowls when you peek your head back.

And then, his smacks hit lower,

lower,

and once more, lower.

Right over your most intimate part. All yours.

And now, partly his — with his palm cupping you there for a split second before pulling away instantaneously when your head whips around to meet his gaze.

His brows are still settled low on his face, with his eyes squinted at you and mouth twisted into a disgruntled scowl.

But beneath it, you can see his guilt rising. His unwitting abdication of you revealing to him in an instant. You, slightly bent over your frilly bed. You, gawking at him so bewildered he’s surprised you haven’t slapped him back. You. You. By him. Joel. Joel.

Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man. Your dad’s buddy, Joel. Beer buddy, Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

Joel who loves you as his own.

Fuck. Joel. Really?

You feel fractured in two. Dichotomized between the part of you that feels sickened, almost. Frightened. Pure and untouched being corrupted in a split second.

And, equally, by the part of you that doesn’t feel that way at all. The fraction of you that feels wanted. Finally desired. Worthy. Worthy of Joel, worthy of his touch, worthy of his attention. His failed attempt of feigning composure a signal of how much you’ve meant to him this whole time. Of how much you can be wanted. To be loved so much by him that he cares for you in every sense of the word. The tiny, insidious part of you that felt jealousy toward those that Joel unconditionally loved. Wishing you were in their place.

Sarah. Admittedly, you hadn’t seen this coming. But it wasn’t as though you hadn’t wished for it. Like that one time in Joel’s garage. When your father was passed out inside, left asleep on the couch with his beer left warming in his hold, you hiked your skirt a few inches higher; sat alone with Joel in his old camping chairs and demurely playing a game of one sided footsie with him. Joel was talking at you about something monotonous. Some old lecture. And maybe it was nothing. Really, it might’ve been mostly your imagination. But you swore there was something different about the way he peered up at you — not just anger for your silly game of footsie despite urging you to pay attention, but real hunger — (you pulled your foot away in an instant.)

Joel staggers back, your stunned expression mirroring his own. You’re still frozen in position as you watch him pace in the small space of your bedroom. Nearly knocking over your dainty jewelry and makeup stashed on your porcelain vanity, swearing loudly when he inevitably does, his hip bumping your pink perfume bottle in his moment of frantic realization. He hinges down, gently placing it back in its position before settling his attention back onto you.

“I—” your eyes lock momentarily before he twists away. “Sit up for me” he murmurs with his back facing you. You’ve never seen Joel so frazzled. So out of his own willpower. You hesitate for a beat longer before gradually turning your body toward where he’s stood with his hand in his heads, perching yourself on the edge of your bed. Your hands are politely placed on your lap despite your ass still burning red beneath you.

Joel is victimized by his own puzzle of sorts too. Pulled between his rational self that loves you innocently like his own. Wanting nothing more than to watch you succeed — build your career, have a family of your own, grandchildren, visiting your old man Joel. The white picket fence you deserve. The happy ending he’d give anything to see you have. To be the one stable role model in your life, waiting at your every beck and call. The only thing a man like him is good for. The only thing he lives for. But beneath it all lurks that ugly, ruined, most selfish inner part of himself fueled entirely by his bloodlust. His nauseating thirst to teach you and have you and protect you like his own kin. Greedily ravenous to claim you in every way he can without his blood running through your veins, without his last name belonging alongside your first. To teach you every lesson he can mangle his way into. To put his love into you. Make it stick.

He cautiously walks toward you. The room is so silent that you can hear his knees creak as he hinges to sit docile beside you. You aren’t sure which version of him you’re with, and you aren’t sure which one you want. “That wasn’t right. I’m sorry sweetheart. Shit. I’m sorry. That was too much, kiddo. I know.” He finally braves a glance at you and swears under a loud sigh. “Hey. Hey. Look at me, kid.” He holds your face in both of his warm hands. “I’m sorry, honey. That ain’t right of me to do to you. I know, baby.”

But if it wasn’t right, then why are your insides all tangled up? You hate to admit it but you’re ignited. And judging by the stiff sensation pressed against your knee, you bravely assume Joel feels it too. You gawk at him. A little coquettish without really thinking about it. Slightly blinded by your impulse and batting your eyelashes as kittenish as you can without being obvious.

But Joel knows. He always does. He doesn’t have a sixth sense, he just has age. Knowledge. Power over you in the form of sun-weathered wrinkles and a body shaped by years of hard work and callouses to prove his determination cause of providing for his family. The same hands that are delicately bracing your face having brought women pleasure for decades longer than you have existed and fixed your nightstand when the hinges broke. ‘I’ve got decades on you, little girl.’ “Oh.” He faux’s a puzzled look, but you know that he’s well aware of your situation. “Oh? Is that how it is?”

You break your silence. Gulping embarrassingly louder than you intended to. “Joel—”

“You liked that, didn’t you?” You go to retort, shaking your head and aimlessly stuttering. Joel stares at you wordlessly, his mouth slightly agape and scanning your face, his two hands still cupping your cheeks gently. Slightly disgusted at your gall. At how you mirror his own. ”That was supposed to be a punishment. You weren’t supposed to…like it.”

“I’m . . . sorry?” You’re scared your heart might lurch out of your chest when you recognize the expression on his face. Hooded eyes and lips pressed in a tight line. The one you’ve only seen once before, in his garage. Starving. “You’re just a kid. Just a goddamn baby. You shouldn’t…we shouldn’t … this ain’t right.” And yet, your faces are a hairbreadth apart.

His eyes darken; he’s onto you. His mouth melts against yours hard, so hard that you would think your lips may bruise tomorrow if you even had time to think. You can feel him everywhere. Pawing at every inch of your bare skin that he can access and gripping, tightly. Soothing the red flush of your behind with a fierce grope. You gasp, but Joel steals it as an opportunity to satiate his appetite; deepening the feverish kiss by stroking his tongue against yours. You can’t do anything but mesh your lips just as hard against his, clumsily trying to match his fervor until you feel his hand slither to the waistband of your shorts. Teetering at the lace edge.

“Joel… I don’t know if… I’ve never….” he pulls away to catch his breath, the both of you panting into each other’s mouths, his forehead pressed against yours as you feel his capable fingers toying with the delicate lace of your waistband. He steals another kiss over your panting mouth. “I know, kiddo. Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll make it so good. I promise.” His knuckles accidentally graze right over where you’re most sensitive and you gasp, bucking your hips up absentmindedly in response to his touch. He smirks. “So responsive. Nobody ever touch you here? Really?” You know he knows the answer, but he just wants you humiliated — willing, shaking shake your head ‘no’ just so he can groan; biting the delicate junction of your neck and nipping at the soft skin there. Nudging his fingers a bit harder into that sensitive, untouched spot and you writhe embarrassingly beneath him.

“Wait…” Without a word, he slowly tugs down the thin cotton of your shorts. You hear him suck in a sharp inhale at the sight of you almost bare, all for him. Joel silently wishes he felt even a sliver more of guilt at the sight of your white ruffled panties. His best buddies daughter. Complete with a tiny bow at the center. But he doesn’t. If anything, it just confirms what he’s always known; that you’re his — — The only reason he’s kept that bastard around as company. For the promise of you. To be there for you. Like the time he drove ten hours to your campus for parents weekend when your father said he was too busy. A date, if he remembers correctly. But Joel didn’t mind the drive. He groans. It’s a deep, guttural noise and you blush. You were half expecting Joel to be more collected, more detached, but what would you know. Heat bubbles in your gut all the same as your hips buck once more. Joel eyes you like you’re something to eat. Biting the bone of his knuckle as you lay there, watching him, coyly, pressing your knees together in an attempt of preserving any semblance of your dignity.

In a split second, Joel’s head lowers to be level with your thighs. Gently spreading them apart to gain closer access to you and mouthing over the cotton material of your panties without a second thought. You whine, legs kicking out as you feel Joel’s mouth soil your panties even more than they already are. ”O-oh,” you try to push his head away, yet clamp your legs around his head in the same effort, overwhelmed at all of the sudden contact, but he just grips the backs of your knees — deepening his soft kiss over your still-clothed mound. You don’t know how to respond to the newfound pleasure except to try and squirm away, to which he simply hovers his head above you, replacing his mouth with a sturdy rub of his fingers, watching as your legs jolt and immediately kick at his shoulder blades; trying to squirm away from the pressure by scooting your body up the mattress. Joel tuts softly, grabbing the backs of your knees and heaves you back down toward him until you’re prone beneath him, legs forced to pliantly widen around the breadth of his burly torso. He pins you there by his hips, bearing his full weight onto you until you feel his pelvis against yours — meeting your core in a deliberate, brief grind and smirking when you twitch beneath him. “You gonna let me touch on you or you gon’ keep beatin’ me? Hm?” He does it again and you shiver.

“I’m not— I’m — stop being so — dramatic,” it’s hard to form a sentence with Joel is continuously rolling his hips against yours, not when you can feel just how hard he is. How he’s heavy against your core and you can’t believe that this is Joel.

Almost as if he could read what you were thinking, which would be feasible with the way you’re shuddering beneath him, he leans in for a greedy kiss, open mouthed and messy, before humming into the shell of your ear. “You feel that?” he punches his hips against yours to emphasize his wanting and your breath hitches.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he nips your earlobe, rocking against you once more to let you really feel the heft of him. To remind you of his brute size, to make sure you don’t forget that mounted above you is a man. Strong enough to have you crushed into the mattress with no effort, large enough that your legs are forced to part almost painfully wide to accommodate his virile size, old enough that he has the crows lines to prove it and an age that means you could’ve been calling him daddy and mean it. “You gon’ be good for me now?” you nod against your better judgment, exhaling a shaky breath as he lifts to slither his hand to the waistband of your panties. “You gonna let me see you?” he whispers, teasing you by faking a tug of your underwear just to snicker when your legs immediately clam.

“C’mon, darlin’. Don’t be like that. Spread ‘em legs for your old man.” You don’t, still shaking, not even budging the tense press of your knees when Joel tries to pry your legs open himself. He hums in contemplation. “Let’s get those trainin’ wheels off. How ‘bout that? How ‘bout this?” his calloused fingers trace their way along your abdomen to the edge of your cami top, rubbing the exposed skin where your top has rucked up, leaning down to kiss your navel gently. He peers up at you beneath hooded eyes when your hips shift. “Hm? What’dya say?” “O-okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, letting him slowly pull your shirt up the expanse of your torso and audibly groan at the sight of you exposed. Your bare breasts all his to leer at and he licks his lips, pinning your wrists beside your head when you reflexively go to hide your chest. “Fuck,” he murmurs beneath his breath, reaching out to rudely grip at your chest and smirking when you whine. Biting the flesh of your breast and groaning even louder. You shift uncomfortably beneath him, the burning of your core getting harder to ignore, and you buck your hips into nothing. Joel meets your restlessness with his fingers once more, rubbing small circles onto where you’re most sensitive.

“Joel—”

“— Let me make you feel good.” And this time you don’t oppose when he starts to tug your panties down, stealing a look between your legs before you can try and close them again, forcing your legs open with a rough grip on your knees and swearing, whistling lowly and you try reach out your leg to kick him in humiliation. “Dirty girl. You’re wet.”

You tuck your lip between your teeth. “Just… do something.”

Ignoring you, he continues his ogling; staring at you between your legs as though you weren’t there, reaching out to give you a curt smack over your core just to see how you would react. You yelp and squirm, trying to kick him once more and he laughs.

“Joel…” you’re getting fussy now. Rubbing your feet against the mattress and gnawing at your bottom lip, waiting for him to just stop scrutinizing you and do anything.

“Shh, baby. I’ve got you.” Tentatively, he finally touches you. Your breath hitches when he gently brushes his fingers against where you’re most sensitive. Pressing a bit harder when he sees your toes begin to curl and your eyes widen. “Pretty little pussy.”

“Stop—”

“Anyone ever touch you like this?” he asks you so casually that it sounds almost clinical. Like he isn’t currently touching you harder just to see you react in a way that makes his dick hard. “N-no,” you whine, leg jolting when he momentarily speeds up his motions, pressing harder onto your bud and rubbing tiny circles there.

“No? Really?”

“Fuck - oh! - off.” He chuckles, seemingly amused before he’s pulling his hand away and hooking them under your thighs to position himself between your legs once again. Lowering his head, blowing against where you’re bare to make you shiver.

“How ‘bout this? Anyone ever do this?” Joel peers up from between your legs, fixating his gaze onto yours and leaning to lazily kiss you right over the center of your core.

“Oh!” you yelp, the sensation of Joel’s mouth overwhelmingly hot against your clit makes your knees desperately try and clamp together. Joel wanted to tease you a bit. Bring you apart with his tongue. Play with you. But hearing you keen at just a measly kiss has his head spinning and cock hard — he ruts against your frilly sheets like a teenage boy, his large hands gripping the sides of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. Groaning at the taste of you and kissing and laving his tongue against your clit like a man starved.

It’s lewd. You’re so wet that you can audibly hear the squelches of where you meet Joel’s hot mouth and it’s obscene. Mortifying and mind-blowing. Your legs shake and hips spasm, but Joel just pins his forearm against your hipbones, holding you in place and shaking his head against you.

You try to bite your lip to keep your sounds at bay, but it’s no use — that unfamiliar build in your stomach creeps faster and faster and you’re moaning, too turned on and bewildered to stop yourself. Joel pulls away. Grinning when you whine, your chest heaving beautifully and Joel is possibly the hardest he’s ever been. Which is shocking, considering his age and that little blue pill he keeps on his nightstand.

“Why,” you whimper, hips squirming at the sudden lack of contact and Joel just laughs at you.

“Patience, sweet girl. Gotta get ‘ya ready.”

Ready? Oh. Ready.

Your attention is abruptly brought to the front of Joel’s jeans. The seemingly hefty bulge presses at the denim seams, so large that the fabric is taut and you gulp. If Joel senses your hesitation, he doesn’t say anything. He just wordlessly reaches his hand back between your legs, using your distraction to press a single bulking finger right between your folds.

You cry out, the stretch of his one finger being equal to two of yours and it burns. “Hurts—” he’s hovering above you, pinning your knees open with his own, mouth ghosting over yours and breathing down your neck. Kissing you softly on your jaw when he feels your tight, dripping cunt envelop him to the knuckle. “Fuckin’ hell. This all for me?” his finger presses impossibly deeper, curling and beneath the fullness, you’re starting to feel blips of pleasure beneath — sparking in bursts as he keeps curling his finger inside of you; gritting his teeth at how tight you pulse around his digit.

“Asked you a question darlin’,” he hums low into your ear, beginning to properly thrust his finger into you and smirk when your breath hitches, hips bucking into his touch. You can feel your slickness down your thighs and you burn in humiliation at the thought. Without warning, Joel tries to push in a second finger — groaning when your walls refuse him entry, clamping so tightly around his finger that he has to grit his teeth as to not come right there.

“Relax, baby. Ease up a bit, kiddo. Shit — fuckin’ stranglin’ my finger, ain’t ‘ya?” “Sorry. Jus’ feels really…!” you cry out once more, rutting your hips when his thumb comes to softly press at your clit. Your whole body shakes, and for a moment, you relax just enough so that Joel is able to push a second finger into you. His forehead presses against yours, thrusting two of his fingers into you and curling with no remorse. “Feels good, huh?” “Uh-huh!” you grind your hips back against his hand, feeling him stroking that spot inside of you that your measly fingers could never reach on your own. Your eyes roll back, your hand flying out to grab Joel’s wrist when he begins to move his fingers even faster and harder inside of you; you keen, your entire body tensing and back arching up and he impossibly slots a third digit into you, his wrist continuously circling and you — are you crying? ”So-full,” you whine, and sure enough there’s tears running down your cheek. He wants to tell you to just wait until he finally has his way with you, if he’ll even fit, but you’re clamping around his fingers so tightly that you’re unmistakably about to come. You feel beside yourself, the foreign noises you’re making registering but failing to register over the overwhelming heat coursing through your body, your toes curling and legs shaking.

“Wait-wait-wait-it’s too much… Joel!” he ignores you, curling his fingers into you with a crazed fervor that leaves you gasping, you weakly try to push his circling wrist away but it’s no use, your wrist limply falling to your side.

“Thaaats it, sweet girl. I’ve got you.” And, then, it violently crashes; your mouth slacking and body bowing as it spreads through you, searing white hot as you sob against his hovering mouth.

Your legs flail as it just keeps going, his fingers still moving inside of you and you cry out. “I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Da-” he has half the mind to cut himself off. You can barely register it over the crushing haze you’re in, your legs still twitching in the after effects of what is monumentally your first ever orgasm.

“What?” you timidly squeak, eyes still closed and panting for air, opening them to see Joel licking the fingers that were just inside of you, before watching as he palms himself over his jeans, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark, eyeing you beneath him with a predatory, hungry stare. Your mind goes blank. “Are we gonna…” you whisper. Shaky leg lifting to press your foot demurely against where the denim tents, and he groans, gripping your ankle and pressing a soft kiss to the skin there.

“Fuck?” he replies, curt and lewd and you blush, covering your face with your hands as if you hadn’t just cum all over his fingers. He smirks, and only now have you noticed that he’s still fully dressed and you’re completely bare beneath him.

“Dunno. Don’t know if you’re ready for that. You’re just a kid.”

“No… I am,” you whine petulantly and he tilts his head at you.

“You gonna be a big girl for me?”

You nod your head, hands grabbing at his rattled flannel to try and take it off yourself. “Yes. Yes, yes, I swear. Please.” He swats your hands away, peering down at you with a smirk in tow at your babbling.

“Oh, so she can be polite.” You’re reminded of all the times Joel tried to grill your please-and-thank-you’s into you. Not that you weren’t a polite, meek girl, you were, just not always with him — slacking on your manners at neighborhood barbecues and having to remind you by hovering your plate away from you, “what d’ya say?”, only passing it to you when you grumpily rolled your eyes and mumbled “please, sir.” You don’t dwell long on the queasiness that follows. Slowly, Joel lifts his shirt— his large biceps that he’s built from decades of construction and handy-work raising above his head to reveal the tan, built, albeit slight pudgy body that you’ve seen countless of times in his garage or by the lake, but never like this. Hulking over you and overwhelmingly man. Your eyes linger back on his face. Painfully handsome; his crows feet are a homecoming — cornering his soft, dark eyes — that sweet puppy-dog stare.

His salt and pepper scruff. Curling strands of greying hair. Saccharine tobacco. Humid southern air. The leather seats of his classic truck. “Alright smartass. Who sings this?”

Then, he moves to his belt, deft fingers pulling the leather through the loops and tossing it somewhere in the midst of your room, tugging his jeans down until he’s just in his boxers and then — oh.

He’s big. Not that there’s any history to compare him with, but it’s undeniable. You gasp at the sight, your eyes flickering to where he’s exposed himself. It looks almost sore. The thick tip of him dripping. The sight is vulgar. You gulp. Not quite sure what you were expecting, but the fat length of him and greying tuft of hair (even there!) an unrelenting reminder of his maturity, age, and above all, authority over you.

He examines your every reaction carefully, fisting himself for a moment and hissing upon the brief contact. He moves closer and forces your legs to spread to accommodate his bulking size; his body is so much larger than yours that your inner thighs burn at the stretch.

“That’s…are you sure that’s gonna… fit?” You whisper sheepishly and he barely hides his cocky smirk, hovering above you and pressing an achingly tender peck against your forehead, stroking the top of your head delicately before meeting your lips — unlike the other kisses; slowed and passionate. Intimate and gentle enough that it feels like conversation. He slots his lips against yours once, twice more; I love you, let me put my love into you, like this.

“We’ll make it fit. Always worryin’ your pretty little head, aren’t you darlin’?” With your hips forcefully splayed beneath him, he grabs himself and begins to line up his cock to where you’re embarrassingly wet. You squirm at the sensation.

“Always worryin’. Always stressin’. Poor baby.” He teases you, baiting you into holding your breath to see you buck your hips in anticipation as he traces your slit with his painfully red tip.

“Just need some lovin’, don’t-ya?” He slots the head of his member against your opening. Forcing the bulbous tip slightly inside of you and you gasp at the intrusion.

“Y-yes. Please.” Love me.

“Biiig stretch now, kiddo. It might hurt a little. But I’ve got ‘ya, okay?” You nod eagerly, lifting your head a bit to try and see him begin to enter you painfully slow, the both of you gasping, he leans against your forehead, tilting his own gaze downwards to watch alongside you. “Wait—it hurts,” you yelp, the stretch of merely the tip of him inside of you already barely manageable; he halts, trying to distract you with languid, tender kisses up the expanse of your neck. Trying for his own sake to think about anything about how tight you are. About how sacred this is. Your first time, your innocence, now his to shape. His little girl. All his. “Gotta let me in, sweetheart. Let me show you how to make love, baby.” You desperately wish that phrase would send your spine crawling rather than arching, his old man theatrics in any other scenario surely earning a snort from you, but instead, awfully, you whine, trying to spread your legs further to make space for him despite the stinging pain inside betraying you. Cautiously, he begins to move again. Pushing his length ever-so-slightly deeper until your heat has swallowed him halfway, your hips squirming in discomfort. Beneath him, you’re whining in bursts of piercing pain. You’ve never felt so full. Sweat is dripping between the two of you, his large arms bracketing your trembling frame and all you can see or think or feel is Joel. You peel your eyes open just enough to make eye-contact with him from above you, his silhouette impossibly broad and backlit only by the warmth of your bedside lamp, and by the glare of streetlights fluttering through your lace curtains.

He stares at you like he’s in disbelief. His eyebrows pinched and mouth slightly agape, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your own gasping mouth when he somehow gets even deeper — a sharp, shaky cry escaping you as he finally bottoms out. His hips finally flush against yours. He meets your wail with a groan of his own, slumping over you and inadvertently pinning his hipbones hard against the most sensitive part of you.

You try scramble away, clawing the sides of your bed, and then Joel’s bulking arms, but it’s no use — Joel’s full body weight presses against you. Fastening you to the mattress and any slight movement hurts; the thick weight of him splitting you open for him heedless of your aching. “It’s too much — you’re too much — too deep, Joel, you—”

“I know baby, I know. Hardest part is over. Just,” he gulps when you clench around him, nipping the skin of your jaw to keep him from thrusting into the wet heat of you. “Just gotta-fuck-trust me now, darlin’.”

“It hurts,” you subtly shuffle again to try and feel any bit of comfortability but it backfires — shooting a twinge of pain back through your spine and you cry out once again. Joel stops you by bearing even more of his body weight against you, tutting softly at your naive defiance and whispering gently in your ear. “C’mon, baby. Be brave for me. Don’t hurt yourself now.” He drags his knuckles against your pinched expression, leaning in for another doting kiss against your mouth. You feel his fingers trail their way down the expanse of your stomach to brush soft circles against your bud, caressing you there in hopes of distracting you from the ache. Pecking kiss after kiss and sighing contentedly when he feels you begin to slacken, just barely spasming around him and he shivers. “You feelin’ any better?” “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. Your hips jerk against Joel’s, but this time, you gasp — not in pain, but at the fleeting feeling of Joel’s thick moving inside of you. It aches, but the brief movement forces a meek moan to spill from your lips.

“Startin’ to feel good?” You nod again, bucking your hips experimentally and the both of you groan at the feeling. You do it again, huffing at the blips of pleasure when you feel the slight drag inside of you.

“Yeah, I think so…I think,” your hips move once more to consolidate what you’re about to ask for. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Can you, please, um, I think I’m ready.” “Y’sure?” And when your heel lifts to dig into the small of his back, he doesn’t question you again.

“Please.” You whisper, your saccharine voice breaking when he meets your tiny jolts with a single, lethargic thrust — carefully pulling his hips away until only the tip remains inside of you, then driving the entire length of him back inside with a deep roll.

You keen, back arching off the mattress despite Joel’s entire weight melded against you; writhing under him as he starts actually fucking into you with fervor, rocking the length of him into you and grunting in your ear.

If his fingers made you feel full before, this was an entirely different ballpark. You could almost swear you could feel every vein of his shaft and throb of him inside you as he fills you impossibly deeper.

“Joel,” you whimper, head tilting back and he latches frantically onto the expanse of your neck, biting so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning, but all you can care to think about or feel is Joel.

“Shh, baby.” He coos, using all his willpower as to not rut desperately into you, and to think about the old man that could very well be downstairs; passed out or just now clicking the door open. His calculated pace falters for a beat when both of your legs wrap tightly around the bulk of his lower back, meeting his languid pumps with a grind, moaning and squirming when he grazes against a spot you never knew to exist within you. His hips snapping against yours roughly and you nod eagerly.

“Yes, Joel. Feels good now, Joel. Joel,” you cry his name out like a mantra, “more. Please. Joel. Please. Pl—” “Fuck,” he growls, his hand clasping over your mouth and gripping the sides of your jaw, squeezing so tightly you almost bite your tongue. “You ‘tryna wake up the whole goddamn neighborhood?” You shudder, eyes rolling back and Joel’s careful composure is slipping — the sound of smacking flesh ringing through the room as he begins to really give it to you; brutally plunging into you and grunting with every erratic strike.

Your whines are stifled under his palm, and you’re so wet that you’re dripping — leaving a mess over Joel’s thighs and stomach.

His knee hikes up to position your leg open in a way that fills you even more, the stretch burning deliciously and you can’t do anything but take him, his pace unrelenting and bulk pinning you in position as you spasm. “That’s it, honey.” And then, he fucking leans even closer, hovering his face less than an inch away from yours, locking his gaze directly into yours and make-shifting a kiss over his hand — right over where your mouth would be under the current suffocation of his palm.

It’s getting too much. You’re bonded to the bed under his crushing weight, the feeling of him splitting you open sending tremors through you. You’re too full. He’s too deep. He’s hitting that same spot over and over and sending violent shivers through you. You try to tell him to stop, he’s too big, it’s too much, but it’s no use — his hand remains the same, fixed over your mouth, and you’re positive you’re drooling. “Thaaat’s the spot, hm?” He can hear your hiccuped moans beneath the muted suffocation of his palm. You can feel every drag of him inside of you. “Doin’ - fuck! - doin’ so well for me, ain’t ya?” He’s really starting to lose it now. Your heat tight as a fist around him, clenching wildly, and he can’t help but slump even more against you, groaning unabashedly into your ear. Going insane with how perfect you feel. How perfect you are. His sweet, precious girl. All his.

“Brave little girl.” His hips are slamming frenetically. “Doin’ so well for your daddy.”

Your eyes shoot open to meet Joel’s disheveled stare, eyes wide and his hips pause on the deepest part inside of you, holding right against that sensitive cluster of nerves and your hips frantically write against him.

If you were any less depraved as a girl, if you hadn’t held that awful void inside of you for so long, maybe you would’ve pushed Joel off of you. Told him to fuck off. Called him a creep.

You could try to blame it on Joel’s virile stature, curse it as irresistible, but you know he’s the only person that can patch that cavity. The only one you want to.

You sob — rolling against him in a frenzy and whining because yes. Yes. You want to tell him yes. The word growling out of him ringing true like a depraved piece of a puzzle slotting into place; his hips meeting yours desperately as he rocks into you again. Your hand clutches onto his wrist as you nod. Yes. He eases his grip over your mouth, weaving your lips together instead in a bruising kiss.

You’re whimpering unabashedly into the kiss. “I know, honey. I’ve got ‘ya. Daddy’s got ‘ya. Tell me who your daddy is.”

You might not be able to face yourself when dawn arrives, but right now, it feels too good to deprive yourself of what feels right. What settles into your bones like tantalizing belonging.

“You,” you whine, chasing his mouth to steal another zealous kiss.

“Say it. Shit, honey, you feel so fuckin’ perfect.”

“Ohmy-” his pace is the most merciless it’s been since he first entered you. Slamming against you ruthlessly and you can feel that coil begin to tighten.

“Who’s your daddy?”

“Joel—” You’re on the precipice. He can feel it. Clenching around him and he’s surely going to follow behind soon.

“Fuckin’ say it—”

“You! Daddy. Daddy. Daddy, please!”

“That’s right.” He growls, and your head is spinning with adrenaline. “Think that boy could do this to you? Be what you need?” He slows his thrusts into deep, passionate drives into you. “Be your fuckin’ daddy? No, baby. I’m your daddy, ain’t I? Shit, y’needed this. Needed a man. To make love to you.

“Yes. Daddy.” Nothing could drag him away from this moment. From you. Your sweet scent. Vanilla and soft whipped musk of you. Your heady skin. Your beautiful disposition. Holding his breath just looking at you. Dreading the release building in his gut because he knows he’s made his grave, and he’ll have to lay in it come daylight.

Your entire body seizes; arching and shuddering at the electricity convulsing through you. White sparkling light littering your vision as you clamp tightly around his length, quivering and keening at the shockwaves.

“I’ve got ‘ya. Thaaat’s it, sweet girl. Daddy loves you.”

‘Let me show you how to make love.’

Your mouth is agape, wordlessly clawing at his back to try and pull him even closer to you, trembling as he fucks you through it.

The first blush of daylight is creeping through your lace curtains, spilling silhouettes of the intricate netting across your bedroom floor. Still too early for the birds to sing yet. Delicate filigree shadowing the span of Joel’s skin, muted rays of light beginning to infiltrate your room and dimly light corners of your room.

“Daddy loves you. Fuck. ‘M close, baby. Shit. Shit.” He growls into your ear, rutting into you madly and your legs tighten around him.

“Please.” He tries to shrug you off him, head spinning with the fogginess of his imminent release, but you flash him a blissed out look; eyes glazed over and pressing a painfully delicate kiss against the junction of his neck.

Sweet thing you.

You’re still convulsing beneath him, frantically grinding your hips against hiss. “Please, daddy. Love you. I love you. IloveyouJoel—” His entire body weight slumps against you. Your bodies melding and shuddering against each other as you milk him through his orgasm. You can’t get close enough. Wanting to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

He groans; gruff and virile and Joel. All him. Spilling into you like he belongs there. Like he has the right to. His little girl. “I love you, daddy. I love you. I love you.”

And for a moment, breath gasping into each other’s mouth, and dawn-light lurking behind outside, you and Joel can play pretend.

Pretend that you are his, no matter how short lived.

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