my house of stone, and your ivy grows

he paws at your tits above him, leaning up and suckling on a nipple to cover a particular moan while your pussy keeps gyrating. feels so fucking naughty, so dirty to fuck like this, desperate like virgins touching each other for the first time. but this might be the hundredth time, and he’s lost all composure all the same. feels the milky drips of your fluids combined getting his sheets so messy, making wet noises audible to anyone near his room now as it goes in and out. joel sighs to catch his breath like he’s running a marathon, sweating everywhere while your pussy does delicious delicious rounds on him. he never needs lube, never needs condoms with your birth control. gets to fuck you good and whisper in your ear about breeding every damn time, to the point where he’s sure any sex he’s ever had won’t ever top this.

the bed knocks against the wall a bit more obvious now. joel is breathing hard, smothered in your tits. thrusting up so hard his balls smack right up against you so goddamn good. the slick sounds of his entering and exiting your body repeatedly are embarrassing now. slippery sounds of wonderful friction he was dying for while he was jerking off earlier. his eyes roll back comically exaggerated, lost and drunk on that pussy while you ride him just barely quiet, barely suspicious enough. if no one was home he’d be talking filthy, praising your stroke game, praising your pussy. the home he wants to be buried in to stay warm and whole forever.

just when your pending orgasms feel like they’re coming closer and closer, that ridiculous pattern of his bed knocking oh so subtly against the wall with every fulfilling hump, you and joel hear footsteps. see a hallway light turn out, causing both of you to freeze while you’re sat down on his dick. joel tries to steady his breathing, shaky finger coming back up this time to your lips, biting the back of his own palm while your pussy does teasing little squeezes that make him want to lose it.

the footsteps thankfully head to the bathroom, closing the door and filling up a glass of water from the tap. joel has his ears open to hear the whereabouts as those little footsteps make their way back out to the hall after the flush of a toilet. joel wants to scream. wants to turn you over and pin you down so your fucking ass is bent up in the air, spank it while he fucks you so deep and so quick you can’t do anything but keep bending those little hips for him and scream. but he can’t. he’s throbbing inside you while you practically cockwarm him, your own pussy walls thumping around him like you couldn’t wait to keep bouncing too. joel is petrified it’ll be tommy, knocking on his bedroom door to investigate the filthy noise. or sarah, maybe coming to his bedroom for an emergency. joel thinks of the worst scenarios in his head, as much as he can use his head, while he’s nuzzled inside the heaven he can’t wait to fuck. to grip and bust his nut deep down inside. have you leaking his cum on his sheets….

next thing you both know the footsteps were heading downstairs, opening a cabinet or two for a late snack it sounds like, before they’re heading back up and shutting their door to their room closed. and joel exhales hard, bumping his hips back up immediately to keep the slipping and sliding going, heaving while your juices have multiplied during the wait. dripping so nasty down the veins on him. joel bites down on your shoulder when you resume your bouncing, clenching and wringing him so good, little gentle whispers in his ear of couldn’t wait for a fuck tonight huh, needed this pussy extra bad, baby?

joel nods and nods, again and again humping and meeting you in the middle for maximum friction. the bed is still a little noisy, but joel knows he’s fucking finished by now, and after you’re both done it won’t fucking matter.

he hums in your ear, pressing your hips down to take him as close as you could possibly be, feeling every hot pulse and every drip of arousal falling between you two.

m’cummin, m’cummin inside. mmmm, needed this so bad. needed you tonight.

you pet the bed head of hair that’s become a disaster on his head, squeezing your muscles to drag his impending finish out, ultimately shoving your palm over his mouth before a loud curse could escape, and you feel it begin to run between your legs. streams so thick he’s closing his eyes and shooting you full of what felt like pints of warm cum. you stroke the light hairs on his chest and ride him through it before you’re tightening on him yourself. feeling his pubic bone brushing so good right up against your clit, and feeling so good and full of that big ass dick. the bed squeaks makes a little more noise but he just coos you through it, says it’s okay baby, enjoy that dick, cum all over me, mmmhm. not caught this time.

you push his cum out in the midst of your clenching, a sticky naughty mess of evidence of your midnight escapades while catching your breath together. the bed no longer bumping up against the wall, wet noises no longer drowning out the beats of filth. he lies his back down exhausted, taking you with him while your mess drools together on your parts.

can’t spend the night. they’ll see me leave in the morning, you whisper to him.

I know. just lay with me a sec.

think they heard?

I’ll find out in the morning. can’t really stay quiet when I’m fucking that pussy, can I, joel hums. tilting his head for a kiss.

you’ll get to have more later, when they’re all gone.

mmmhm. I’ll call you. after I re-wash these damn sheets, he raises a brow with a teasing grin at the soaked pool staining where your laps had met. two of his fingers go down and play with the mess between your thighs, feeling your shared cum still softly oozing out. you dip your hips into his touch, sprawling out for him to play a little longer before the sun comes up. joel takes his invitation and starts to fuck you good with the help of his leftover cum.

Over the last few months, Joel had let you rest your hand on him during movie night. You enjoyed this closeness with him so much, that you started looking for excuses to do it more often; scheming and planning when and where he might let you do it again.

You’d started asking Joel for night drives when you couldn’t sleep. And how could your old man say no? So he’d mumble a tired, deep “Okay, baby. Let Daddy scoop ya up.” And he’d carry you in his sleepy, sedate embrace, light as a feather, through the house and out the front door; not letting you down until he’d had your little tush hovering over the truck’s passenger seat. Joel would settle you down with the big puffy blanket you’d brought; tucking it all the way up to your neck, just the way you like it; and strap you in. Your sleepy eyes would track him around the hood and internally you’d purr at the anticipation and excitement of getting to be close to Joel for another stolen hour.

When he sat in the driver’s seat, Joel eased you down on your side; gentle hands guiding your head into his lap. You shivered as he carefully gathered your hair, and set it down around your chest.

There was an extra deliciousness about being with him in the car when the streets were quiet and the roads were empty. The intimacy of being alone in public… the lullaby of the moonlight, and the comforting warmth of his hand on your arm, or your hip; swept you away.

The night sky was dark, except for distant stars, and the soothing yellow street lights that stuttered through the windshield; shone down onto you.

You loved laying in his lap in the truck too, because the way he sat with spread knees while driving, meant you had more access to him. You’d rest your head in his lap, and slip your hand between his thighs; cupping that sweet bulge. It was intoxicating to have him in your hand like this… just two thin layers of fabric between you.

About thirty minutes into your drive, Joel pulled up to the 24 hour donut drive-thru, and got you your favorite donut, and a sleepy tea with extra honey.

The sweet sugar kissed your tongue, and the sleepy tea sat heavy in your belly; warming you from the inside; making you feel extra cozy and snuggly while sandwiched between your Daddy and your blanket. So you didn’t even realize that as you tucked back into Joel’s lap for the drive home, you caressed your thumb soothingly across the base of his cock and balls. Joel’s hips lifted slightly off the seat, and he stifled a groan.

“Shit, babygirl, careful where you’re touching.”

You sat up, groggily concerned; rubbing your eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

Joel adjusted himself, then cupped your chin. “No, y’didn’t. It actually felt good. But I’m not supposed to feel like that when my sweet girl touches me.” His eyes met yours. Soft. Yet firm. “I need ya to be careful to not pet Daddy’s special parts. Kay?”

You nodded, blinking your eyes closed and you laid back down in his lap.

But something was wrong- something changed. “Daddy? What’s wrong with your… parts? It’s not soft anymore.” You sat up once more and looked at Joel. There was… something in his eyes you couldn’t place. Not pain, but- something…

“Yes, Baby. Uh… Remember the birds and the bees?… Daddy’s penis has to get hard, in order to fit inside a vagina. When those special parts get touched the right way, they get hard. S’normal. Nothing’s wrong. It’ll go away in a few minutes.”

The hesitance in your face, pushed Joel to say, “Go ahead and lay down. Just- careful with your hands.”

And you agreed; but that sound Daddy had made when you touched him, sounded like he enjoyed it more than he was letting on. And boy did you wanna hear him again.

So a minute later, you gave the tiniest swipe against what you assumed were his balls- and he hissed and shifted his legs beneath you. His cock twitched beneath your temple.

“Damn it, sweet thing. If you keep that up, I’m gonna need you to sit on your side of the truck til we’re home. Can’t let ya do that.”

His boundaries made you upset. “Why not, Daddy? You make me feel good feelings when you touch me. Why can’t I do the same for you?”

Joel closed his legs and pulled you to sit upright; tucking you into his side.

“That’s because the way I touch you is platonic. I don’t touch your special places.”

You sighed; tired and defeated. “Why can’t we just do it? Why is it so bad? If we love each other, why does it matter? We’re not hurting anyone!”

You heaved a big sigh, and Joel kissed your head as he turned onto your street. “There’s some things, called morals, and they’re beliefs that are held by a community, or a state, or country- and they help guide people’s behaviors, and decide what’s good and bad. And in our society, romantic love in a family, isn’t okay.”

“But it’s love, Daddy! How can love be wrong if we both feel it? Who are we even hurting?”

And god damn it, you had a point. Your clever arguments and mental acuity, pushed his mind to the edge of every counter argument.

“I hear you. I know.”

The rest of the drive was quiet; Joel holding you in his arm, at his side, while he silently took the left and right turns that brought you home.

To your utter surprise, Joel carried you in the house, and set you on his bed. Then you watched him slip out of his pjs and drop his boxers on the floor.

“Daddy?”

“Get under the covers, baby. I want you warm,” he purred at you. You quickly tucked your legs in; then held your breath as he joined you in bed; and laid on his back; keeping his special parts out for you to see.

“You made some good points in the car, princess. So if you want to love on me when we’re at home, then that’s okay with me. But you absolutely must swear, that you’ll never tell anyone about this. Ever. Not even once.” He held your gaze, sizing you up. “Can you keep that secret, sweetheart?”

You thought for a moment, then nodded.

“I need you to say it.”

You swallowed; butterflies exploding in your stomach. “I promise. I’ll never tell.”

Joel held your eyes for a few more seconds, before agreeing. Then he laid back on the bed; exposed just for you.

“Well, he’s all yours, angel. Have at it.”

As you scooted closer and leaned over his hips, Joel put a hand on your back. “Just know, that this is for you. So when you want to stop, we stop. If you don’t enjoy touching Daddy, we don’t ever have to do it again. Got it?”

You licked your lips. “Yes, Daddy.”

Soft!JoelMiller who has a thumb to your clit to ease the stretch, drawling praise like "thats it.. Easy does it baby" "there you go.. Jus' breathe alright, i gotcha"

Mean!TommyMiller who instead lets you relish in the sting. Who smiles pittifully when your eyes grow glassy and you whine, tutting and cooing. "Shhh, shhh, shh, no tears, baby" "awh honey, s' alright, you can take it"

Soft!JoelMiller who's work-worn palms cup and kneed soft flesh. It doesn't matter where, or even when. It could be your thigh as he sits beside you or the plush swells of your breasts as he works you up, its never harshly done.

Mean!TommyMiller whos hands always find you with intent; hot, possessive and wanting. Digits digging into your hips, swat down on your ass, grip at the flesh of your tits.

Soft!JoelMiller who's always checking in on what you want, on making sure nothing feels wrong. "S'it feel good like this? Yeah? Dont need more?" "legs gettin achy babygirl? Need a switch up?"

Mean!TommyMiller who instead follows your moans and desperate grasps. Who keeps pace when you react and slows when you dont, shifting your body however he feels fit. "Awh look at them tears.. S' good aint it honey" "ah ah, you want more you gotta tell me, keep makin them pretty sounds"

Soft!JoelMiller who eats you out like a man starved, who derives any and all of his pleasure from being the giver of your pleasure. Whos favorite place is suckling and lapping between your thighs, wether hes crouched or your on his face. He just loves it

Mean!TommyMiller who instead chooses to drop or spit globs of saliva onto your clit, who works it in with his thumb or the head of his cock. Who, when he eats you out, does so with the intent to make you shake- make you sob and tug harshly at his dark curls while his hands hold your thighs open; swatting them if you try to close up.

Soft!JoelMiller who asks, near pleads, to fill you up. Even if you'd already agreed prior, he needs to hear you say it. Needs to see that look in your eye and feel the squeeze of your cunt.

He’s been your dad’s friend since forever. He’s seen you at every age, every birthday, every holiday. He’s the one who stopped at the store for your favorite snacks on his way to your dads. The one who heard about the boy who kissed you behind the bleachers at eighteen— and the one who noticed when there weren’t any other boys after that.

He’s always known you were good. Not just sweet to your father, but good: the way you blushed, the way you carried yourself. Joel never asked, never needed to. He could tell. Virgin. Untouched. That’s why sometimes his glances lingered too long, why he let his eyes drop to the swell of your tits when you leaned over, why he’d look away quick but not quick enough. Because he couldn’t really believe that you were one. How could you be one when you were that beautiful?

Your dad laughs like he’s trying to shake the walls down. It runs up the stairs in warm little waves, bourbon-thick and late, Joel’s lower rumble braided through it. You brush your teeth with the bathroom fan humming, stare at your face a little too long—flushed from the heat, from the noise, from the particular way Joel’s voice sticks to the skin—then kill the light and pad down the hall.

Your room is cooler. Quiet. The faint thud of ice in glasses below. You tug an old tee down over your bare legs and fold yourself into the bed. Friday nights like this usually end the same way: your dad pours too much, Joel refuses the drive across town, takes the guest room, locks the door, the house sleeps.

But you can’t. Not with the echo of Joel’s yes sir and no sir and the soft-fond way he told your dad, You always were a mean drunk, James, and the care in it, and the way he looked at you earlier, not at you, not really, but past you, like it hurt him to let his eyes sit there for too long.

You roll to your back and watch the ceiling and let your thighs slide together. It’s been bad lately—the restlessness. The canopy of summer heat, the way every brush of fabric feels like a secret. You think about his hands (wide, blunt fingers, scuffed knuckles that know a wrench from memory) and you immediately shove the thought away like you’re shooing a fly.

The house creaks. The voices go slower. A chair scrapes. Their footsteps on the stairs—your father’s heavier, the stumble that means he’ll be asleep in five. Joel’s comes after, careful, the way he is, like he worries about waking the house even when no one’s sleeping yet. Your door is mostly shut, the guest room two down from yours. His shadow cuts the hall for a second, then the latch clicks and—quiet.

You try to think about something else. You try to think about nothing at all. You kick the blanket to your knees, drag it back up, throw an arm across your eyes, shift, sigh, ache.

Eventually the hand that’s been pretending to just adjust the hem of your shirt stops pretending.

You slide your fingers under cotton and find yourself like you always do: hesitant, tentative, circling where it seems to help, too light or too fast or both. You know how to take the edge off. You don’t know how to do it right. Every time you think you’ve got it, the spark scatters and you’re back at the start, frustrated and hot and too aware of your own heartbeat.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making sound. It’s not like anyone would hear. Still.

Down the hall, Joel lies on his back in the guest room and stares at the faint square of streetlight at the window and tells himself to sleep. He’s good at telling himself things. He’s good at should and don’t and leave it alone. Tonight, none of it sticks.

He hears it before he knows what it is. A soft, sharp little sound, cut off quick. Instinct makes him hold his breath. That’s not pipes or wind or the house settling. It happens again—barely there, like a hiccup of a whimper, swallowed as soon as it’s born.

His name isn’t on it. Still, his body recognizes it, some brutal and unkind piece of him already standing at attention like: there.

He’s up before he decides to be. Bare feet on cool wood, palm to the frame when the floor wants to complain. He tells himself he’s going to the kitchen. He tells himself your dad might have left the back door unlatched. He tells himself to turn around.

The slice of your door is thin as a blade. He doesn’t mean to put his eye to it.

He does.

You’re moonlit and messy, sheet trapped at your knees, shirt pushed high, one hand fisted at the collar like you’re trying to hold yourself in place and the other—he swallows—between your legs, fingers clumsy and stubborn. Your mouth is soft-open, lips damp. He’s never heard you make those sounds. He’s never let himself wonder.

He thinks he’ll back away. He doesn’t. He leans his shoulder to the wood like it can hold him up.

Wrong, he thinks. Every bell in his head clanging. Jesus, wrong. Turn around. Go back to bed. Close your eyes.

You gasp a little when your fingers catch right. He catches himself groaning under his breath, so low it hurts.

And then you turn your head just enough and see him. Not his face—just the bulk of him, the outline at the crack, the weight of him in your doorway like a craving you didn’t order but got anyway.

The noise you make isn’t loud. It might as well be a gunshot. What the hell was he doing there?

“Joel—”

It’s all you manage. He expects the next part to be go. He expects no. He expects the angry, righteous version of you that has every right to exist. None of it happens.

He opens the door instead. Steps inside. Soft click behind him.

The room shrinks around him. He doesn’t come all the way to the bed at first. He gives himself a second to see you properly and you watch him have to take it: throat working, jaw clenched, hands flexing like they don’t know what to do.

If you tell me to leave, I will, he doesn’t say. If you say stop, it’s done, he doesn’t say. It shows anyway—tight in his shoulders, careful in the way he stands there and waits.

You can feel your pulse in your mouth. “I… I didn’t hear you.”

“I know.” His voice is so low it feels like another body in the room. “Door was open.”

You swallow. “Are you… okay?”

His mouth tips, nothing like a smile. “Not the word I’d use.”

“What word then?”

He finally lets himself move. He comes to the side of your bed and sinks to the mattress like he’s afraid to make the springs talk. Up close he smells like clean sweat and old soap and the echo of bourbon on someone else’s breath. He puts his hand on the quilt and not on you, and it takes every atom of your self-control not to nudge your hip into his knuckles.

“Show me,” he says, and the way he says it makes whatever shame was scurrying around your ribcage go silent. “Show me how you make yourself feel good.”

Heat stamps under your skin. “Joel, I—”

“If you don’t want me here,” he says, careful, measured, “say the word and I’m gone. I mean that.” His eyes find yours and hold. “But if you keep me in this room, baby, you do what I tell you. You hear me?”

The last gasp of panic tries to get a foothold and fails. You hold his look and nod, faint as a breath. “I hear you.”

“Words,” he says. It’s not harsh. It lands like a hand on the back of your neck, centering. “Say it.”

“I want you here,” you say, voice small and steadying as it goes. “I want you to watch.”

Something in his face flinches, like you hit him with it. It smooths to resolve.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the way he praises you for that little obedience flips a switch you didn’t know you had. “Hands where they were.”

You drag your palm down, under the hem, shyer now that he’s watching, but you do it. He watches your fingers try the same circle you’ve been making for months, that prickly almost-pleasure that always runs away when you chase it too fast.

His brow pulls. He shakes his head once. “Mm-mm. You’re not doin’ it right.”

“I—It’s how I…”

“Yeah,” he says, soft, not mocking, “I can tell. Won’t get you where you want to go doin’ it like that.”

Your cheeks burn. You want to hide. You don’t. “Then… show me.”

He exhales like you just told him he’s going to live. He slips his hand under the blanket, rests it light on your inner thigh. Just weight, just heat. You shiver anyway.

“First thing,” he says, sliding his fingers up slow until they meet the crease where your leg and hip join, “you don’t rush it.” His calluses whisper the path, lingering, making nothing out of you until you’re shaking with it. “You think you want this”—he ghosts across your clit and you gasp—“so you mash at it and it runs from you. Don’t chase. Invite it.”

“I—how?”

“Let me.” He looks up at you like he’s asking for something he shouldn’t. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and then it feels like not-enough, and you push up on your elbows and say it like you mean it. “Yes, Joel. Please touch me.”

The sound he makes belongs in the dark. “You ask so damn sweet.”

He eases your hand away. His replaces it. He doesn’t go straight for where you want him; he skates around, between, slides through wet and hums low like he can taste you just from his fingers. He circles, lazy-sure, and presses down so faintly you could cry.

“That’s it,” he says when your hips roll to find more. “Let it ask.”

“Ask?” You can’t help the little laugh in the word, dizzy with nerves and want.

“Your body’ll tell me what it needs. I’m listenin’.” He drags in tighter circles and watches your mouth fall open, watches your chest lift, watches your thighs try to clamp around his wrist. “Keep ‘em open.”

You try to relax them. He rewards you with a little more pressure, just enough to make your eyes flutter.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, and then gives you a command in the same breath like a tide turning. “Slower. Breathe with it.”

You match your breath to the way he moves you. He chases the breath with rhythm, spirals you outward and back again until you’re hot everywhere and the bed feels too small.

Then his fingers slide down, not inside, not yet. He teases your entrance with the pads and the slick sound he pulls from you makes his head drop. His chest rises against the mattress edge like he’s swallowing his own moan to keep it quiet.

“Joel—”

“I know, baby.” He strokes up again, circles, down again, and each pass makes the one after feel better until you’re twitching under his hand. “You’re doin’ good. Let me… yeah. Right there. Don’t run.”

You don’t. You try. You’re trying so hard you forget to be shy. You arch into it and whimper and he murmurs, “That’s it,” like each little sound is something he asked for and got.

“Gonna show you something,” he says, and you nod, dazed. “Gotta ask again, though. Let me inside?”

You blink at him, dizzy on the precipice. “W–Will it—”

“Just my fingers,” he assures, eyes gentled. “Not gonna take anything from you except what you wanna give.”

You nod. “Yes.” Then again, stronger. “Yes.”

He presses one finger in slow, careful as surgery. You go wide-eyed at the stretch—new, odd, so much and somehow not enough. He pauses, knuckles barely slipped past the first kiss of you, and waits. The burn melts to a full, glowy pressure. Your jaw unclenches. You exhale.

“Good girl,” he praises, and sinks the rest of the way with a groan that he bites off halfway. “Tight little thing.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach drop the way they do. They do.

He curls, patient, teaching you the shape of him. He finds a rhythm that doesn’t scare your muscles; long, slow, learning strokes that make you gasp at places inside you you didn’t know existed. He keeps his thumb gentle on your clit—enough to keep the hum alive, not enough to tip you too soon.

Then he adds the second finger, and your hands fly to his forearm on instinct. He’s so thick there, so solid; you hold on like he’s going to take you somewhere you won’t be able to walk on your own.

“Eyes on me,” he says, and when you fight to open them he’s already looking, already there. “Don’t you look away when I make you feel good. Want you to see it.”

You breathe like you’re learning how. “Okay.”

He gives you the curve again, that curl at the front wall with the pad of his finger dragging perfect, and you choke on it.

“That’s the place,” he tells you, voice rough. “You feel that? That’s mine now.” He presses again and you make a helpless little noise that earns you a quick, ragged laugh in the back of his throat. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Your legs shake. The bed squeaks once, loud enough to make panic crackle between your ribs. Joel goes suddenly still, his whole body listening. Down the hall: silence. A deep, freighted snore from your father. Nothing else.

Joel’s shoulders drop. The hand not inside you moves, smoothing your hip, and you’re shocked by how tender the gesture feels.

“Breathe,” he whispers, eyes back on yours. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” The tiny sound you make trying to say yes is embarrassing. He looks like he could drink it.

“Gonna make you come,” he says, like a vow he has never broken, “and you’re gonna ride it, not run, and you’re gonna say thank you after, because I taught you and I’m real proud of how good you listen. Understand me?”

It’s so dirty it makes another pulse of heat wash through you. “Yes, sir.”

The word hits him like a hand. His jaw loosens and for a beat he looks stunned, then something mean-sweet flickers behind his eyes and his mouth crooks and he speeds his thumb a hair and curls his fingers just so and you—break.

It’s not like before. It’s not like anything. It’s bright and shaking and you feel it in your belly and your throat and the soles of your feet; you clutch his arm and sob out a muffled sound you’ve never heard yourself make. He keeps you there. He keeps you there. He talks you through it like a man with both hands on the wheel driving you out of a storm.

“That’s it, that’s it, look at me, that’s my girl—don’t hide your eyes—fuck, you’re so pretty—there you go, ride it out, ride it—good, good, good—”

When you come down you realize you’re panting, damp hair sticking to your forehead. He hasn’t moved his fingers yet; he’s watching you carefully, the kind of careful that reads as respect. When your body stops flinching around him, he slides them out slow.

You whimper at the emptiness. He swallows like it takes effort, like he wants to put them back because you want him to.

He looks at his hand like it’s not his. Then he lifts his gaze and something flares. He shifts, drops to his knees at the side of the bed like prayer.

“Joel,” you say, weak, already falling.

“Gonna taste you,” he says. He doesn’t move an inch until you nod. “Say I can.”

“You can,” you whisper. “Please.”

He fits himself between your knees and nudges them wide with his shoulders and drawers a hot, wrecked breath over you that makes you jump. And then he puts his mouth on you, open and slow and reverent in a way that feels like a lie coming out of a man that dirty, except it’s not; it’s real, it’s his tongue and his lips and the soft hum he makes when he finds where you’re sensitive now that you’ve come once.

He eats like a man who built the table. He uses his mouth like he’s been dying of a thirst he has to hide and now he’s alone with the well. He flattens his tongue and licks you like he’s laying paint, broad and sure. He focuses where you need, then leaves it and you whine and he comes back with a chuckle that slides into a groan.

“Sweet,” he mutters into you. “Goddamn.”

Your hands go to his hair and then stop midair because you don’t know if you’re allowed. He saves you from the uncertainty by catching your wrists and planting them on his head.

“Hold me,” he orders, voice muffled, and you do. He moans like you did him a kindness.

He teases you to the edge again and when you start to climb he changes his touch, gentler for a moment, letting you settle before he builds you back up. You realize he’s teaching you—what it feels like when it’s too much too fast, how to breathe through it, how to ask for more. He hums a question into you.

“More,” you gasp. “Please—more.”

“Good girl,” he says, and gives it.

The second time is quieter, deeper. Your hips roll to his mouth, your hands flex in his hair, tugging and pulling, and he anchors you with one arm slung over your thigh and belly at the same time, keeping you open for him, keeping you honest. You feel him groan against your skin and the vibration pushes you right over. You go wet and soft and shaking and he tongues you through it, patient, lazily greedy, like he’ll be here as long as you need.

You twitch when you’re too tender. He eases off, kisses the inside of your thigh—just once, soft, the press of a mouth that shouldn’t be where it is—and rises. He braces a forearm on the mattress and breathes, eyes shut like he just walked out of a storm and needs a second to recognize the road.

You’re staring at his mouth when he opens his eyes—wet, slicked with you, and he licks the taste away and looks pained with how much he loves it. The thick bulge pressed awkwardly against his fly is impossible to ignore; he’s hard, he’s been hard, and he’s not once touched himself.

“Does it… hurt?” you whisper, staring before you can stop yourself.

He huffs out something like a laugh and like a curse. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“Joel…”

“Don’t you worry about me,” he says, soft but stern. “This was about you.”

You flush. It feels like a gift you don’t know how to carry. “I… thank you.”

His eyes close. It humbles him. It kills him. He swallows and nods like you just knighted him.

“Say it again,” he asks, hoarse.

“Thank you,” you say, and it lands in the room like a secret you both promised to keep.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt and eases it down, careful, modest now that he’s ruined you. He tugs the blanket over your hips. He doesn’t kiss your forehead, though you can feel him want to; he puts his palm to the sheet at your hip instead, warm through the cotton, a stand-in for a softness he isn’t allowed.

“Listen to me,” he says, and his voice is back to that guiding tone that made your body obey. “Next time you touch yourself, you’re gonna be patient with it. You’re gonna breathe like I showed you. You’re gonna go soft at first, then press, then back off. When you feel it building too fast, you’ll slow. You’ll ride it. You’ll think about my hand and how I did it. You’ll think about my mouth. You’ll think about me tellin’ you how.”

You can’t do anything but nod. You’ll think about me. As if you hadn’t been already.

“And you’ll keep your eyes open,” he adds, gentler. “Even if I’m not there.”

You whisper, “Yes.”

He stands like it hurts. It probably does. He looks at you long enough to burn a silhouette of this into his skull, then finally drags his hand down his face like a man trying to wipe himself clean. He glances at the door, at the hall beyond where your father sleeps.

“I shouldn’t have come in here,” he says, not apologizing, just stating a true thing he hates. “But I’d do it again.”

He turns. His hand hits the doorknob and pauses. “If you need me to stop comin’ round—if you feel different tomorrow—you say it, and I will. I’ll make excuses your dad’ll believe.”

You sit up on your elbows and the world teeters and rights itself. “Don’t make excuses,” you say, and it’s not brave, it’s just honest. “I don’t want you to.”

He groans like you pulled the stitch. “You’re so good.” It kills him. Truly.

“I—”

His hand lifts. “Don’t. Don’t say more. That’s enough to get me through the night.”

He slips out and draws the door nearly shut, the slim gap he first looked through gone. You lie there in the hush, pulse loud as a radio, his scent in your sheets like a bruise.

Down the hall, Joel closes the guest room door and stands with his back to it like somebody might try to break it down. He breathes until his heart quits trying to leave his chest. He puts his palm over himself and winces, not because he’s delicate but because he’s been holding the line until it cut him.

He tells himself not to think of your sounds. He fails. He tells himself not to think about the way you said sir like it belonged to him and to you and to that room and to nobody else. He fails worse.

He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands and laughs once, quiet and broken, at the version of himself with a steady jaw who used to believe you could turn away from everything you want and live. Then he gets up, goes to the sink, fills a glass, gulps it, empties it, runs the faucet until the pipes knock, waits for silence again.

When he climbs into bed, he shuts his eyes and sees how you looked looking back. Opens them, sees the blank ceiling. Shuts them again, finds you anyway. He breathes through it. He bites down on his knuckle to keep from saying your name out loud. He takes what hurts and makes it his.

You lie awake and do as you were told: breathe, don’t chase, be patient with the feeling that rolls through you like a tide still dragging you toward him. When you finally drift, the last thing you know is not guilt or fear but the remembered weight of his palm through the sheet, the firmness of his voice when he told you what to do, the soft-proud way he said good girl like it was the first true thing anyone had given you in months.

Morning will come and make everything ordinary again. Doors will open, coffee will brew, your dad will say Christ, my head, and Joel will answer Yeah, well, that’s what you get, and he’ll rinse a mug and not look at you for three whole minutes like it’s penance, and then he’ll look and the world will tilt the same way it just did. None of that is now. Now is the hush after the tide, the ache and the glow and the lesson set in your skin.

Now is the part where you close your eyes and keep them open, both at once, and learn what it means to remember with your body.

note: i’m ovulating. okay? tend to push out a bit more joel smut when i’m this way…. lord help me. this is gonna have three parts by the way. and of course, maybe some drabbles if i wanna revisit these two. but omg i write way too much. i like to have easier things when i’m having a bit of writers block on some of my series. it helps get the creative juices flowing. i might just pile up a few in the drafts and post them throughout the remainder of the year because this is way too much. you guys, i literally stay up all night writing. someone take my device from me. this isn’t healthy!! but i love it. shhh!

“you’re such a— fuck…” you struggled gripping onto abby’s navy blue sheets, she chuckled low at your scrambled words.

“you can’t even get the— ah— words out, you sound… she took a long pause bucking her hips harder into you, the tip of her strap kissing your velvety walls, “mmm, you sound stupid”

she threw her head back moaning overly loud, “you’re so mean to me, i don’t— mm, i don’t like it” you confessed rolling your hips onto her, the base of the artificial member was now coated in a white milky substance and evenly spread out across it when she moved her hips in and out of you.

“i— oh my god… don’t like the way you speak to me”

“abigail— you suck in air, eyes fluttering open and closed “fuck you— don’t call me—shit” your feet hung slung over abby’s shoulders, her calloused hands roaming up and down your thighs, creating marks from how hard she’d grip “—don’t call me that” she mumbled eyes rolling back into her head.

she hated how good you looked right now, taking her like your life depended on it, she hated how stupidly smart you were, she hated how good this felt, and most of all, she fucking hated you.

your walls fluttered around her, making you grab the cotton sheets off the corner of the twin mattress, “you’re such an asshole, what— shit— what did i do?” you managed to spill, choking out inaudible curse words and moans.

and the truth is, you didn’t do anything, you got a girlfriend, and abby, abby didn’t like that. 

it was one sided, all of this, is one sided.

abby shook her head moving faster, and faster, bellowing out grunts, “you’re so prissy— and, you act like the world— damn it— revolves around you..” she answered, digging her nails into your skin.

“abby…” you bit your lip watching abby’s baby hair stick to her forehead “fuck you, abigail” 

abby’s hips started to sputter, and your pleasure began to drip down your ass and create a large puddle  beneath you, “you don’t hate me— look the mess you’re making…” abby says, letting one of your legs go to take two fingers and rub your puffy clit.

“s’good— please, don’t stop” you babble, gripping her forearm, causing the tight circles she  had going in your clit to slow down, “—you look like shit” she spat at you taking her thumb to wipe the tears and mascara that had dripped down your face.

your legs began to tremble as your hand finds abby’s abdomen in an attempt to slow her relentless pace “fuck— abigail m’ gonna cum!” you plead desperately scratching at her forearm.

abby groans softly leaning down to your ear, hips still moving at insane speeds “stop fucking calling me that— ah” 

before you could snap back at her your orgasm washed over you in ripples, clear liquids poured out from your entrance as abby’s hand removed from your clit and the strap left you. 

abby crawled off of you taking off the harness she laid beside you. still and quiet. “you’re so fucking annoying” she says out of breathe, sitting up on the bed.

“fuck you, abigail”

abby turns her head hand trailing down your marked thigh”you wanna?” she cautiously ask smirking, “you’re seriously insane” you whisper under your breath.

“i hate you so much”

you move your thigh over causing her hand to slide off “you hate me so much you can barely breath”

abby narrows her eyes at you and before she knows it, the words are slipping out her mouth already.

“i hate you so much that i started to love you” 

a/n:: idk, i like thsi smut😼😼 im gaining my spark back @inlovewithkhloe would be proud🥹