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Daddy Qin Che | 6.2k words dilf qin che takes you in off the street, and he resists his desire for so long that when he finally gives in, he's feral

cw: daddy kink (seriously, he's a father figure), age gap (no age mentioned but mc is 20s and he's 40s in my head), size difference, belly bulge, pussy inspections, guilty dilf, sloppy and messy and deranged

You'd been alone as long as you could remember. You owned nothing but whatever you could fit in a small worn backpack you found in a park years earlier, and no one had ever loved you. Every day was a fight. That’s how he’d found you: in an alley on the n109 zone, gripping one of the shoulder straps of the bag carrying all your worldy posessions, and screaming at the top of your lungs. Every single day was a fight.

He watched you thrash and scream, anchoring yourself down, using your entire body weight to resist. Your attacker drags you along behind him for a few metres, like your desperate fight was nothing but a mild nuisance, and then, when he’s had enough , he turns and raises a knife to end your fight once and for all. A red mist scoops him off his feet and into the air, and your scream is abruptly cut off as you fall back hard into the pavement, gripping your backpack in your arms.

When your rescuer leaves the shadows and approaches, you scramble backwards, clutching that little battered bag like it contained riches. He crouches down. “I won’t touch your treasure, sweetheart. I’ve got more than enough of my own.”

Months pass, and then years, and it becomes less and less clear why the silver-haired man—who could kill without lifting a finger and had the reputation to match—deigned not only spare you from certain death, but to drag you back to his cave and give you a home. And a home was what it was. You'd have been happy if he did truly like in a dark dank cave, as long as it was safe and secure, but you'd very quickly learned that was not what was on offer.

He was decades your senior and struck fear in anyone who was unfortunate enough to find themselves before him. He was also wealthy enough to obtain anything his heart desired, and you—a nobody, with nothing to offer him at all—found yourself living under his roof, under his care, and slowly realising you might be the one thing in the world he treasured above all else.

"Isn't it pretty?" you ask, twirling your flowing skirts for him again.

"Mm," he hums, leaning back in his lounge chair. "Very pretty."

"It's almost too pretty to wear..." You smooth your hands down over the delicate bodice, a pretty pale shade of pink. "What if I spill something on it?"

"I'll buy another," comes his lazy reply. He takes a swig from his glass, and you catch the broken skin across his knuckles.

You take a few small steps and fold yourself onto the carpet at his feet carefully, being sure not the tear the pretty skirt. "Why?" you ask, looking up at him.

His brows twitch. "Why not?"

"What if i ruined that one too?"

"You think I can't afford to buy a thousand more?"

You fiddle a little with the delicate lace. "But you buy me so many pretty things."

He looks down at you, a silver lock falling over one of his dark red eyes. "You've noticed," he says, amused.

You lift yourself up onto your knees and shuffle forward slightly, enough to rest your hands on his knees. His fingers tighten on the glass and then relax. He lowers it to the small table beside him. "What do you want? You know I like when you just ask."

You shake your head. "I don't want anything."

He cracks, his lips curving into a small smile. "Oh?" His head tilts a little.

You shuffle your knees along the carpet a little more, forcing his knees apart to make space for you between them. "Nothing you can buy," you clarify.

When you look up at him, his eyes are fixed on one of your hands, resting on his thigh.

"What happened to your hands, daddy?"

His eyes snap to yours. You'd used the word for the first time only a few months earlier. You'd been nagging about something, trying to get your way. It'd slipped out without thought, and you'd both frozen in place in the seconds afterwards. Then he'd relented to your demand and made no mention of it. So again, and again, you'd hung off his arm and 'please, daddy?' had slipped past your lips, and you found yourself entirely unable to stop. It felt right. And it seemed to work in your favour, too.

You reach for his hand so you can inspect his knuckles. "Why haven't you healed them?" you ask.

"They're a reminder."

You tilt your head in question, a habit you'd picked up from him without notice.

"Someone said something today that I really didn't like, and I want to remember how much I hurt them.” He takes his hand from yours and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. "So I don't go back and kill them. I need them alive for now."

"Is that why you kept me? You need me alive for something too?"

He laughs. It jostles you a little against his legs. Then his muscles relax, and it's clear that's all the response he'll be offering.

You stare at a precariously loose button at his navel, frustrated in your years' long failure to understand why someone like him would take in, and spoil, someone as entirely useless and insignificant as you.

"Tell me what you want that I can't buy," he asks after a moment of your silent brooding. "You're pouting."

"Tell me why you saved me."

He looks immediately amused, which makes your mood worse. "I only helped a little."

You close the final gap between your body and the edge of the lounge. You’re now well and truly wedged between his legs. "Answer me properly or I won't talk to you for a week."

His head tilts. "A whole week?" He smooths down your hair. It feels a lot like being soothed with a pet on the head, as if you were a needy dog desperate for their owner’s approval.

Your mood worsens. "A month."

His lips twitch, a clear attempt to hold back a smile. "Now it's getting serious." He pats the armrest. "Come here."

When you hesitate—stubborn resistance he was all too familiar with—that same red mist that had killed your attacker all those years ago gently scoops you up and drops you exactly where he'd instructed you to sit. He gathers your legs and tucks your feet between his thighs, keeping you securely balanced on your perch beside him.

You expect him to take his hands off you and let the way your feet wedge under one of his thighs be your security. He hardly ever touched you unless absolutely necessary. It was such a rarity that you’d long since concluded that he didn't like to be touched in general. But one of his hands stays wrapped around your bare calf now as he starts to speak. You indulge in the rare treat.

"I was passing by, and I heard your screams. It was clearly an unfair fight. Didn't I do what anyone would? I'm not a monster, am I, sweetheart?"

You frown. "No, you didn't do what anyone would. You took me home and put me in the biggest room here and bought me anything I asked for."

His lips curve and his fingers tighten a little around your calf. "Aren't you happy here?" His thumb moves against your skin under your skirts, caressing. "With me," he adds.

"You've helped other people... in unfair fights."

"Mm."

"But you didn't bring them home."

"No."

"So why me?"

His hand moves up enough to brush against your underskirts, just below your knee. "Sometimes... I come across things––things that catch my eye––and I decide I want to bring them home... and keep them… and make them mine. You know I collect shiny things."

You lift your feet from between his thighs, and before he can intervene, you fall into his lap. His hands hover awkwardly in the air for a moment, like he'd been about to catch you and either failed to get their fast enough or stopped himself. You know him so well, that you know his next move will be forcibly removing you. And so, just as his muscles twitch—

"Am I a shiny thing then, daddy?"

Success.

He's still.

You reach toward his face. His hand snaps up to grip your wrist.

“Your hair is in your face,” you grumble.

His wrist loosens, freeing you, and when you gently move aside the hair that falls over one of his eyes a little, it reveals the glow forming—the same glow you'd seen the first time that word slipped past your lips and every time since.

"Yes, little one. You're shiny. Hop off now."

His voice distracts you from the allure of that red glow. You tilt your head. "Why?"

"You'll damage your dress."

"You can buy me another."

He doesn’t respond, and that loose shirt button catches your eye again. You focus your attention on it, rolling it between your fingers. It's so loose it causes the fabric of his black dress shirt to part a little, giving you a peak of his belly underneath. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count. He had a habit of strutting around the place with a towel around his waste. You could imagine how he must’ve looked when he was closer to your age. You imagine all that muscle that sits on him like a bulk and brute strength now might’ve been a little leaner. He would’ve always been tall, but maybe not quite so… big.

"I am happy here... with you." Your shyness isn’t disguised in your voice at all, so you decide you should be brave and look at him, to make sure he understands you mean it. But when you do… your fingers slip, snapping the thread and tugging that little button completely free. You gasp. A tiny little breath of air. An involuntary response to the blazing glow looking back at you—brighter than you’d ever seen it before.

"I won't hurt you, baby," he says, clearly interpreting your surprise as fear.

"Your eye."

"Mm, I know. You should get off now."

"Why does it do that?"

His brows twitch, then his lip, and then his hand resting beside you—like a shock travelling through his all his nerves. "Please, get off," he says finally.

You're transfixed: by his eye, by the tension in the thighs you rest on, by the uncharacteristic plea that escapes his lips when you know very well he has the power to lift you from him, both using his muscles or his evol.

Adjusting in his lap a little, you lean closer, like getting a better look might reveal the secret to his glowing eye. It draws you in, tempting you with its secrets. "It happens when I call you daddy," you mutter, problem-solving aloud. "Is it like a mood ring? Are you happy or angry?"

His chest rises and falls more rapidly than usual, and you're almost ready to jump off, thinking maybe he was in pain. But then, "...Happy," he confesses.

You can't help the grin that lights up your face. You fall into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He's tense, and his arms don't wrap around you in return, but after a moment, he relaxes. "You never said," you mumble into his neck. "I thought you were embarrassed... or that you hated it..." Nuzzling into his neck, you find yourself quickly rambling. “Doesn’t it feel so right? It felt like I was yours all along. I never knew it was possible to feel this safe, and loved, and… happy.”

He's quiet, and your chests rise and fall together, and the dress you were in love with minutes earlier now feels like a big mess of fabric serving no purpose but to cordon you off from him. You want to be closer.

You nuzzle into his neck some more, inhaling his scent—his warmth and protection and safety and love... love... "I love you, daddy," you mumble.

He's still... and quiet... and then he turns, and with his lips against your temple, he inhales deeply.

You sit up so you can see his face again, trying to stick as close to him as you can. "Do you love me too?"

"Mm, more than anything."

A spark of heat shoots through your body: pure joy. You rock a little in his lap, keeping your arms around his neck, securely latched on. His expression doesn't match yours at all. He still looks a little pained, and it makes even less sense now than it did before.

"What's wrong?"

"Go get ready for bed, I'll come say goodnight."

You frown, and your fingers play with the hair at the back of his neck, much like you had with the lace on your dress and the button on his shirt. "Are you sick?"

"No."

Your fingers still. "You don't like me touching you?"

He doesn't answer.

You arms drop from his neck. "Are you... You just said... You don't love me?"

His hair falls back over his eye. "I love you."

"But I love you and... I want to be close to you... and touch you. So... you don't love me the same?" You fiddle with the edges of his shirt where the button should’ve been holding it together. His bare skin peaks at you, and you slip one little finger past the gap. The moment your finger meets his warmth, his hips jump so violently you're forced to grip onto his shoulders for support.

"Daddy loves you," he breathes as his chest rises and falls heavily. He almost sounds… afraid? It's such a foreign tone for him that you're stunned into silence. "I want to touch you and be close to you, too. So much. So, so much. It's not right. I can't touch you, mm? And you shouldn't touch me."

"Why?"

His hands grip the armrests. "That man I still need alive—the one that said something I really didn't like—he’s only alive because I have self-control. Lots, and lots, and lots of self-control. He said something about the thing most precious to me in this world and he's very, very lucky that I’ve spent so many years building all that control. As are you."

Your brows pull together, and you blink rapidly, processing.

He leans forward a little, arms still pinned beside you. "Daddy wants to do bad things. Bad things to men that mention your name..." His nose brushes your neck. "...and bad things to you." He falls back. "So I can't touch you, and I need to leave my knuckles bloody. Those are the rules."

Your heart flutters rapidly with the revelation he feels the same way. You're so fixated on that, that you entirely skip over the part where he says he can’t. Can't isn't the same as want. And all you care about is the want.

"Touching me isn't a bad thing,” you mutter, doing your best not to pout.

His hand balls into a fist, then it relaxes. "I'm too old for you, you know that.”

"But I love you."

"Those are the rules,” he says again, final.

"So only someone younger can touch me? I should just go find someone my age without your stupid rules?"

He leans forward. He’s large enough that you have to look up at him, even as you sit perched on his thighs. "No," he says simply, calm, final. "Daddy can't touch you, and neither can anyone else."

"That's not fair."

He moves to touch your lips, pausing just before he makes contact. Control. "Don't pout."

You grasp his wrist before he can lower it again. "What about me touching you? That isn't in your rules. Besides, you can't tell me what to do."

"Go to bed."

"No."

"I can make you."

"But you haven't." You wiggle in his lap. "You keep telling me to get off, but you haven't even tried to make me. Why haven't you made me get off, daddy?"

You bridge the small space between his hand and your lips, placing a delicate kiss to his broken knuckles. "It would be easy. I’m so much smaller than you. You could make me get off you, and you could make me stop touching you, and you could lock me in my room and never look at me so you never think about doing bad—"

"Go to bed."

His hand is relaxed in your grasp, a passive limpness that lets you select the finger you want and guide it to your mouth. It brushes your lower lip. "It's okay, daddy. I understand. It's not bad if you don't do anything, right? You don't have to touch me." His finger rests between your lips as you speak.

He watches as you part them a little and touch it with your tongue.

One little kitten lick: a test. Then another. And then, slowly, you guide his finger into your warm mouth. It rests on your tongue for a moment, and then it twitches, a slight press down into your wet warmth. Approval. Your lips seal around him, and you suck, and twirl your tongue around him and gently guide him in and out.

He watches, transfixed. Having his attention entirely on you was enough to have you giddy any other day, but right now... it's enough for you to squirm... to make a little sound with his thick finger filling your mouth. His fingers are so long that you can’t manage the whole thing. At one point, you try, and when you gag a little, he tries to pull away. It’s more a reflexive flinch than any real attempt to stop you. You know you could never fight any actual attempt to take back control.

He lets you catch his hand. “Sorry, daddy. It’s too big. I just wanted to try.”

As you resume your mission, his chest rises and falls in heavy uneven breaths. Any second he could stop you. You keep reminding yourself that he could stop you without so much as a twitch of a muscle. Still, he says and does nothing. Even as you begin to roll your lips in his lap, still suckling on his finger, making small sounds that vibrate through his hand. He says nothing. He basks in your wet warmth, a captive audience and a passive participant.

When you're done with one finger, you start on the next, and in a patient game of wills, you suckle and whine and rolls your hips… until finally, he speaks.

"You're wrinkling your dress."

You pull his thumb from your mouth with a pop. Did he want you to stop? You knew he didn't care about the dress. You’d thought it was in the way when you climbed onto him. It was a barrier between you. Surely he didn't mean...

"Should I... take it off?"

"To look after it."

You nod, joining his game of pretend. Ignoring that he'd just told you he could buy you a thousand more. Hesitation halts you just as you start to climb off him. Was this a trick? Would he stand and hurry away and never give you this chance again?

That unruly lock of hair still flops down over his face to cover his eye. He doesn't grab you when you reach to move it this time. And when you do, his eye is impossibly bright. A silent reassurance, you keep your focus on that glow as you climb backwards off him and reach for the small hook and zip at the side of your bodice.

You gain confidence the longer he sits there, unmoving. There's no sign this is a trick. So by the time you manoeuvre out of the dress and leave a pile of pale pink fabric at your feet, you're practically trembling with anticipation.

Standing before the man that rescued you, far older and wiser and stronger, you've never felt more vulnerable. Even on the night he rescued you, your adrenaline kept you protected from this feeling: like you might be prey.

Your hair tickles your bare nipples as it falls over your shoulder, and you are grateful you at least left your underwear on when you rushed to try on your pretty new dress.

He sits there, knees parted, eyes tracking up and down your body like he's studying, inspecting. His hand drops to his thigh, flat. He doesn't lift it again. It’s not an inviting pat. That would leave no plausible deniability. But you know what he's asking anyway.

This time, when you crawl onto him and settle onto his warm thighs, there's no barrier of tulle and puffy skirts. You can settle right up against him. And he's warm. So, so warm. That's what he's always been: warmth and home and protection. So you wrap yourself around him, pressing yourself as close as you can, and you bask in him.

Just for a little while.

You can't even bare to move away when you speak, letting your lips brush against his skin where you rest in the crook of his neck. "No one's ever cared for me before. I only ever remember being alone. You're more than I ever even dreamed of." You nuzzle into him, humming with contentment. "You're so good to me, daddy."

"You would be in bed right now if I was good to you, sound asleep, not… naked in my lap."

"But I like it. It's what I want." You kiss his skin gently, a brush of your lips more than anything. "Don't you like it? Aren't I pretty?"

His shoulder jostles you a little, enough to tell you he's lifted his arm and then placed it back down again. Control. You sit up so you can see his face, attempting to prompt an answer from him.

He has that pained look again.

You brush your hair over your shoulder, preventing it from covering you at all. Then, keeping your eyes on his face, you cup your breasts in your hands. "They aren't pretty?” You pout. “Is there something wrong with me?”

His eyes are stuck on yours. He hasn't let them drop. They flutter and he blinks rapidly a few times, like he might have dust or an eyelash in them.

"Daddy? Won’t you check my titties for me? Pretty please?"

He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and his eyes drop.

You let your thumb flick over your nipple, then your remove your hands and lift yourself up on your knees, bringing your chest up closer to his face.

They're so close, his warm breath tickles you.

He’s still. You bask in the feeling of his breath against you as you wait patiently.

Then, "Let daddy check..."

His hand lifts from it's position on the armrest, and you're sure he'll hesitate and move away again. He cups your breast with the tiniest pillow of air between his skin and yours, like he's imagining the weight of it in his palm.

His lips part, and his brows furrow. Pain.

"It's okay if it's me that touches..." you mutter, and without giving him a chance to move or process your intentions, you fall slightly forward, meeting him. His hand hardly so much as twitches as your breast rests in his warm palm. His fingers press a little firmer with each breath you take, lifting your chest, filling the spaces between his fingers.

Then, in a little moment of impatience, you grab his hand and press it against you properly, squeezing. "It's me touching," you breathe as you guide his hand over you. He lets you, and it makes your head spin. "You're just checking for me. Just making sure I'm all healthy. You’re the best daddy in the world."

He makes a sound. It might be a word. You miss it, distracted by his thumb. It moves. He swipes it across your nipple.

"...Need to check."

You hear him this time. It's a mumble, almost slurred, and then he's tugged you closer and his wet lips are wrapped around you. You're dizzy, incapable of processing the reality of his hot warm mouth suckling at your tits like he's hungry. He's gripping you now, firm hands holding you close and squeezing and groping at your tits as he alternates between each one.

"My sweet girl," he slurs. "Letting daddy taste your pretty tits... so, so sweet..." he hardly gives himself time to breathe. His tongue laps at you in apology each time he sucks a little hard––each time his teeth make small indents into your skin when a growl builds in his throat and culminates in a desperate bite.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he devours you, attacking your tits with his mouth in a carnal brutish frenzy. You shiver and tremble as the cool air hits where his spit glazes your soft skin. You hold his head against you, fingers tangling in his hair. Words pass your lips in broken thank yous and pathetic little pleas.

He's so relentless that when he eventually detaches, he's entirely breathless, resting his head against you as he recovers. "I shouldn't..." he mutters. "I can’t..."

You lower yourself back into his lap and cup his cheeks in your palms. "Can I have a kiss?"

He shakes his head, half-hearted. "Can't..."

His glowing eye pulses, beckoning. "I want your tongue in my mouth, daddy. I want all your warmth." You lick at his lower lip, just with the tip of your tongue. "You always give me what I want..." Another lick. "You're so good to me."

The next lick comes with a surprise. His own tongue darts out, meeting yours, slippery and wet. You lick at him again, and he meets you. And then you rest there for a second, your tongue resting against each other, breaths mingling.

It's because it starts this way, that when your lips finally meet, it's all tongue and spit and mess. You lap at each other, and you imagine he might be convincing himself that this is too far departed from the textbook example of a kiss to be defined as such. He's not kissing you. He's playing with your tongue and your lips brushing together is simply an accidental consequence of this other unnamed activity. It alternates between this messy depraved licking and slurping, and a firm desperate invasion, accompanied with his hands holding your head firmly in position. You whimper as he fills your mouth, and a low sound rumbles from his throat in reply.

His hand wraps around your hip at some point, and he pushes you down against him as he invades your mouth. It seems he somehow gets bigger as it goes on. Like he grows into his full size as he loses his inhibition. You very quickly feel like your control over the situation is slipping away, and you find your muscles relaxing as a consequence. This was how it should be.

When he grips you at both hips, you're entirely pliable, and you let him roll you against himself with no resistance at all. The cold buckle of his belt reminds you how entirely clothed he is compared to your nakedness. "Can you feel daddy?" he breathes into your mouth. "There..." he grinds you against him, fingers digging into your skin hard. "Feel it..."

It must hurt. He strains up underneath you, confined by his dress pants. You nod.

"That's yours," he slurs against your lips. "Belongs to you, little one."

"Just for me?"

"Mm... Always gets like that for you..."

"Always?"

"Daddy has been so good, baby. For so long."

He pushes you back, down his thighs a little and you watch as he expertly undoes his fly and releases himself through it—belt still fastened.

He's leaking. You resist the urge to reach out and touch the drippy tip. He doesn't touch it either. It sits up against his still buttoned black shirt and twitches.

That's all the time you have to process seeing him for the first time before he's tugging you back up against him, cock trapped between you.

"Do you wanna know what daddy thinks about?" He kisses your forehead, and when you nod, he cups your cheeks and gently strokes his thumb against your warm skin. "When you wear your pretty dresses, and you're all happy and bouncy, you thank me so sweetly, I think about following you back to your bedroom and helping you take them off… and letting you thank me in ways you shouldn't..." He tugs you closer, letting his leaky tip smear a little wetness on your belly. "...You’d lie back and spread your legs and invite daddy inside your sweet little hole..."

“That sounds nice,” you purr.

He sighs, caressing your cheek. “You’d like that?”

You nod, eager. “Can we go to my bedroom now?”

A flicker of that same pained look, and then he’s scooping you up and carrying you through to where you slept: the only other room in the long hallway that led to his own. You couldn’t get to your room without walking past his own door. You’d always liked it. It felt safe, secure. Something you never had before he found you.

You’re jostled up his chest as he walks, and when you’re lowered back down a little, a firm warmth rests up against your ass. He pauses just outside your door. “Could just do it here,” he says against your temple. His voice is low, but it’s not quite a whisper. “Could hold you up against me and drop you down onto me. Maybe I’d carry you around like that, hm?”

You squeeze him harder, attempting to wiggle impossibly closer.

“I’ve thought about it,” he continues as he turns the doorknob, holding you against him with one arm. “So, so many bad things.” With a few strides into the room, he’s at your bed. “Let go.” You refuse, digging your heels into his back as you cling. “Don’t you want daddy to check your pussy? Be a good girl for me, hm?”

Slowly, you release, and he lowers you onto the bed and flips you onto your belly. The bed dips as he sits down at the edge, and then you’re being partially tugged over him. You rest on your belly with your elbows against the mattress, blind to the way he has your ass in his lap and his arm around your waist so he can position you exactly where he wants.

His big, warm hands move over your ass a few times—circular movements like he’s trying to warm your skin—and then they dig into you, groping and kneading. “Oh, baby. We should stop. I’m really too old for you. I’ve been so good for so long. I’m like your—”

“Dad?”

His hands pause, one finger resting on the strip of fabric covering your cunt. “Don’t say that.”

You push your hips back, seeking him out. “It’s okay, daddy. I belong to you. You have to inspect me like you do all your shiny things.”

His finger taps against your hole over the fabric.

“You took me home because you knew I belonged to you,” you continue as he silently prods at you. “I’m yours, daddy. Me and my pussy. Won’t you have a look?”

He continues stroking over the fabric. “Shouldn’t take them off,” he mutters. Then his finger slips beneath the fabric. “If we leave them on it’s okay.” He may as well be talking to himself. You’re too busy squirming and grasping at your blankets. He strokes and prods at you under your damp underwear, a blind investigation of your already slick and throbbing cunt.

He’s grabbing at your cheeks, pulling them apart. He’s muttering something. And then he’s tugging at the fabric until it bunches up and presses between your lips. He messes with it so much you may as well be entirely bare. It’s an illusion of safety. He plays with you until your hips are jumping in his lap and you’re begging for something. By the time he’s experimenting with the tip of his finger in your clenching hole, the underwear is entirely tugged to the side. “Sweet girl…” he sighs. “It’s trying to suck me in… it’s so naughty…”

You whine, “Hungry, daddy.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hungry.”

He settles himself at the side of the bed, kneeling, and tugs you closer. You’re still on your belly. “Fine if these stay on,” he mutters just before his tongue dips into you. That’s the only warning you get before he’s lapping and sucking and kissing your pussy like he had your mouth before. It’s starvation confronted. Desperate and ravenous. And the sloppy, shameful slurping sounds have you gripping the sheets and biting into your arm.

“This is what daddy needed.” His nose digs into you as he laps at you, and he grips your ass like he’s worried you might squirm away. “Don’t move.”

You obey. You’re jelly. You have no desire to move at all.

The soft clinking of metal and fabric hitting the floor joins the sounds of your shared heavy breathing. And then, without warning, a large, comforting warmth surrounds you. He lowers just enough of his weight onto you to prevent you moving at all. His breath tickles your neck when he speaks. “Gonna feed you now, baby. Just tell me what you want.”

You whine.

“Tell me,” he commands, a little rumble attaching to the last syllable. “You know I like when you tell me.”

You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m empty…”

“Poor baby,” he coos, kissing your cheek.

“Want… want you to fill me up, daddy.”

His finger prods at your twitchy entrance. “Here?”

You wiggle under him.

“Daddy always gives you what you want.” His tip pushes at you. He guides it around your mess, a slick mix of you and him. “Don’t I?”

You nod and grab at his arm. A little push against your throbbing hole. A groan. “You’re sucking at me, pretty baby. I feel you. Trying to pull me inside. Greedy little thing wants her daddy’s cock deep in her belly?” He sucks on your neck, rolling his hips just enough to play with his tip just inside you, teasing. “Your underwear is still on, don’t worry. It’s okay. This is okay.”

He bites into you as he finally presses inside, filling and filling and shoving your walls apart to make room. “Tell me it’s okay,” he gasps into your neck when he finally stills, smothering you inside and out.

“You’re inside me.”

He breathes heavily into your ear for a moment, completely still. Then he uses his arm around your shoulders and chest to pull you back up against him as he sits back on his heels. “Fuck... That’s right. I’m deep inside. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

You look down at the small lump in your stomach, evidence of his hot, thick presence inside you. “Love you.” It leaves you like a sob.

“Daddy loves you too, sweetheart. So, so much. Feel it. Feel how much he loves you, yeah? Can you feel it?” He drags you off him a little, lifting you like you’re weightless, and he sinks back in. Over and over again. You’re slack, pulsing around him as he moves you. “I can feel your love. Sucking at me and hugging me tight. Can feel how much you love me. Tightening up when I try and leave, hm? Daddy can stay inside you. I can bury my drippy cock deep inside you when I say goodnight, hm? You can fall asleep on daddy’s cock from now on, baby. I’ll look after you. I’ll warm you up inside too. Keep you nice and warm and cozy so you can sleep.”

He presses you back down into the mattress, and the way he grinds into you has you entirely non-verbal. Breathing is your priority. Catching your breath between sobs and whimpers and kisses as he turns your head and invades your mouth. Panting, broken, grumbled words make their way into your ears occasionally. He calls you his good girl. He tells you you’re warm and sweet and perfectly shaped for him. And you are.

Somehow.

He’s so big that you can’t imagine how he fills you so perfectly. But it’s the most perfect satiating fullness. He drives through your walls like he’d carved them out himself and was finally coming home. It settles it for you: he took you home because he knew you were his. Made just for him. You’d never question it again.

And when he’s on his back and bouncing you on top of him, he watches where you join and his eye glows through the damp silver hair that falls across his face. “Tell me what you want,” he groans out as he holds you down to his base and rolls your hips back and forth against him with an almost bruising force.

“Daddy’s cum,” you mewl.

His jaw clenches, and then he pulls you down against his chest and ruts up into you with an animalistic feral intensity. The sounds of your skin slapping together tells you just how impossibly wet and messy you are now. But it’s okay. He’ll fill you up with his warmth, and he’ll hold you to his chest and tell you he loves you, and then he’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could, like he always had.

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