Arvid

Art is not mine 19 I’ll mainly post about my cat

[quantumlethe]

The Big Bang Theory 3.17 - The Precious Fragmentation

This damn scene with Leonard and Penny has been a recent hyperfixation since rewatching the show. The embrace. I don't know what else to say, just look at that damn embrace.

Ugh I am a sucker for bed scenes like this fanfic writers can weaponize this.

[creekmotel]

[rightintheghoulies]

As Satan said 'You have to outlive your enemies'

[importantcatpics]

[importantcatpics]

[importantcatpics]

[mylittlestlamb]

bad idea, right? ⋅☆⋅

masterlist | ao3

pairing:Joel Miller x reader rating: 18+ tags: dubcon, roommates dad!joel, cheerleader!reader, college!reader, Joel is kinda pervy  so semi dark!joel, reader has boyfriend (not joel), daddy issues, manipulation, dumbification, teasing, mind-break, ddlg themes, fingering, possessive sex, rough sex word count: 4,397 summary: your avoid your roommates dad

“When I look at you, my brain goes ahhhhhh. Can't hear my thoughts like blah-blah-blah. I should probably, probably not. Seein' you tonight, it's a bad idea, right?”

•┈┈┈┈⋆⋅☆⋅⋆•┈┈┈┈⋆⋅☆⋅⋆┈┈┈┈•

“Joel.” He corrects, a little harshly, as his eyes snap to meet yours, seemingly annoyed as his annoyance melts into a soft smile, features relaxing on something undetectable. “Or you can call me dad, don’t mind it.” 

Before your mind can turn on any clarity, he continues, “Y’ain’t got one of those I heard, don’t mind bein that for you. Could be a lot for you.”

Homecoming weekend, one of the biggest weekends at your college. Also hosted during the same week of parents’ week, allowing parents to experience their child's college lifestyle and end it together at the big game. 

This also meant the week where you avoided being anywhere but in your shared apartment with your college roommate. 

She’s great, she’s smart, kind, giving; it’s her dad that worries you. 

You first met him on moving day when Sarah had run up to embrace you in a hug so tight you felt you might explode, introducing you to her dad, Joel. Joel Miller. 

It shocked you a bit; you expected him to be much older, but Sarah informed you he had her at a young age. 

The issue as well was that he was handsome. Wore some flannel with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows to reveal his burly forearms, some white top that showed the top of his chest hair, jeans, boots. Greying hair pushed out of his tanned, freckled face, where his eyes hard set on you, seeking something you still can’t decipher. 

“H-hi, mister um, mister miller,” You fumbled over your words, your tongue too fat in your mouth as your face reddened with embarrassment, grateful that Sarah didn’t notice, already headed to the truck reading ‘Miller Brother Construction’

He didn’t say much, only raised a brow, then with a small twitch of a smile as you could feel his gaze set in on your blushing cheeks, “Call me Joel, darlin’.” 

Deep southern twang in his throat only weakened your knees a little more as you clutched the moving box in your hand, grateful for your perky mother who appeared behind you immediately introducing herself and jumping into conversation with Joel, allowing you to flee the scene. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t aware of how the moving process worked, and neither was your mother, as Joel rolled in with a hand truck, finishing dropping off Sarah’s things upstairs as you barely made a dent in carrying your own boxes up, one by one. 

“Need s’me help?” Is offered by a gravely Texan voice in passing as you stack another box onto the living room floor, completely exhausted, sweat gathering at your forehead as you shake your head, ready to decline his services, refusing to embarrass yourself more. 

“That would be sooo great, Joel! Thank you.” Your mother speaks instead, in pristine condition, having opted not to help you carry anything, insisting she’d be more useful watching over the items so they don’t get stolen. 

“We just don’t have anyone to help us- her dad left us when she was five…” She follows him out, her voice disappearing down the hallway. Mortified that she’s giving your life story to some man met about an hour ago. 

“Think your mom likes my dad,” Sarah jokes, beginning to unpack a box. 

“She likes any man that moves,” You shrug, used to her maneater antics, causing Sarah to laugh a bit. 

“How funny would it be if our parents dated?” Sarah continues, picking up a box to take it down the hall to your shared bedroom. 

“Be hilarious.” 

Once unpacked, your mother insisted that you all get a drink to celebrate being roommates. Thankfully, Joel declined, saying he’d take a nap before the drive home, which left just the three girls. 

“Fuck, forgot my ID,” You mumbled as soon as you got to the lobby. 

“Go on, we’ll wait for ya,” Sarah mentioned, before jumping back into conversation with your mother about something. 

It was then, after heading up in the elevator, that you opened the door, expecting to see Joel sleeping on your couch, sprawled and sleeping. Instead, once you made your way down the hall, you saw him standing there, back turned, hands in your dresser drawer. 

“Joel?” You questioned, a sliver of anxiety up your spine. He could've thought it was Sarah's stuff, an honest mistake. 

“Hm?” Is all he offers in return, slipping something out of your drawer, into his front jean pocket before turning over to you. 

That similar expression worn when he first saw you is enhanced in a more sinister way, your eyes looking down where a piece of the stolen item hangs out of his pocket. Lace. 

Your eyes snap back up as a gulp forms in your throat, avoiding eye contact as you spot your wallet there on your desk, reaching and grabbing for it, murmuring about how you forgot it before turning around and leaving as quickly as you arrived, opting to take the stairs down instead of the elevator, needing to be away from him and fast. 

Luckily, the two women don’t notice your facial expression and easily continue their own conversation. 

The door was loud when it slammed behind you when you entered. You wondered why he didn’t scatter, hold any shame for what he was doing. Or did he even feel shame? Maybe he wanted to get caught. 

You pushed those thoughts, insisting you didn’t want to know, refusing to ever know.  

. 

.

.

Gratefully, Sarah is organized, noting the days her dad would be here during parents' week on your shared calendar in the kitchen. It also helped to stalk her location to make sure there would be limited interaction between the two of you. 

The thought of seeing Joel again makes your stomach swirl with nausea and a hint of desire. Throughout the past month, you’ve found yourself struggling with the basic thought of him. 

His voice, his scent, his mighty presence… his hands in your underwear drawer. 

You shove him into the creep category; it’s only logical. Despite how your heart beats like a rabbit's in your chest when you think of him, it’s easier to reduce him down to that. 

You stayed out of Sarah’s way Thursday & Friday, knowing Joel would be here, busying yourself at the library or bar, happy that you’d be cheering at the Saturday game, the day he’d be leaving. 

Luckily, you made it through Thursday & Friday without interaction, despite Sarah insisting that Joel wanted to take you both out since your mom couldn’t make it. You declined, politely, mentioning that you had studies to attend to, which seemed to do the trick. 

Saturday consisted of you getting ready at a fellow cheerleader's apartment, nerves wracking around excitement to perform, that’s soon met with disappointment, a deja-vu-like manner, realizing you don’t have your student ID. What can get you into the building. 

You check Sarah's location, grateful to see she’s already at the stadium, rushing home to grab it. 

You push the door open hurriedly, shutting it behind you to see the man you’ve almost successfully avoided this whole trip. 

Jean covered legs spread, glass beer bottle perched on his lap in some dark T-shirt with his hair styled in the same manner from when you first spotted him. 

Joel. 

You can feel the air punched from your lungs as his eyes catch on you in confusion before a soft smile appears on half his lips, “Long time no see.” 

His voice drips with honey, like he’s tempting you. Beckoning you in with a siren song in the form of a southern accent, “Nice get up y’got on.”

You forgot you were even in uniform, a faltering smile worn on your face as you awkwardly grab at your arm, self-soothingly rubbing there as his eyes brazenly observe you, moving over your chest, stomach, legs, checking you out. 

“Thought… thought you’d be at the game with Sarah…” you laugh, nervously, avoiding his gaze as your knees knock a bit. 

“Headin’in later, she wanted to meet up with some friends,” He takes a swig from his beer, still openly checking you out, his head tilting to the side as he does. 

You take that as your sign to leave, get what you came from as you turn on your heel towards the bedroom, “Just um, just forgot my student ID.” 

You hear him then, hear him stand once raised off the couch, your pulse quickening as you try to search for your ID, remembering you had it in one of your jacket pockets as you pull it out, only to turn and see Joel in the doorway, blocking your exit. 

“Look mighty pretty in that,” He gestures to your outfit, his eyes having darkened from where they were light earlier, his lip slipping between his teeth as he folds his arms over his chest, torn between something.

“Mister Miller-” You start, wanting to know what this is, what’s going on. It can’t be what you think it is. Sarah is the purest person you’ve ever met… He….He is not. 

“Joel.” He corrects, a little harshly, as his eyes snap to meet yours, seemingly annoyed as his annoyance melts into a soft smile, features relaxing on something undetectable. “Or you can call me dad, don’t mind it.” 

Before your mind can turn on any clarity, he continues, “Y’ain’t got one of those I heard, don’t mind bein that for you. Could be a lot for you.” 

You open your mouth to speak once more, desperate to know if this is just a sick dad joke, desiring to question his intentions before he starts again. 

“Go on… show me somethin’.” His hand scratches at his beard, casually, as if he hasn’t just said some of the most abhorrent things you’ve ever heard.

“W-what?” You blink back your confusion, feeling slightly dumb throughout this conversation, finding it difficult to keep up with the man before you. 

“Show me a move. Didn’t get the college experience, wanna see what the fuss with cheerleadin’s all about.” His shoulders rise and drop, still blocking any form of exit you have. 

“Joel. What are you doing…” You finally get the nerve to clarify, despite your voice coming out cracked and hoarse, confusion wracking your brain as he looks to you as if you should know. 

He laughs, sweetly. You don’t quite understand how something that sounds so lovely comes from someone so barbarous. 

“You that innocent, darlin’? Ain’t a virgin is you?” It's manipulative; you can sense it. You’re a big girl, you know when someone's doing it, but you can’t help but lean into it. 

“No…” You cross your arms over your chest, like a frustrated child, irritated that you even granted an answer to that crude question, not knowing why you feel you have something to prove to him. 

“Well, to answer yer question, kinda always had a dream to fuck a cheerleader… had Sarah pretty young n’ didn’t get the college experience.” His eyes finally find yours and set deep, looking, reading your reaction that you don’t know how to return. 

You don’t know how to say or what to say, if you should reject him, call him disgusting, it’s above you. A piece of you even empathizes with him, knowing he gave a part of his life up to give to Sarah. 

“Whatdya say? Make an old man's dreams come true?” His deep voice cuts in through your internal battle as he’s stepping in, past the threshold, closing the door behind him, as if your silence is answer enough, inching closer to you as you take steps back until your body meets your bed.

Your eyes dart around the room, wondering if you should grab a weapon. Would he hurt you? He’s just a dad… a dad approaching you as if you’re a startled horse, taking soft, calculated, measured steps. 

“This isn’t right…I- I have a boyfriend,” Your head shakes to the side, finally being able to form a rational thought in his presence. 

You’re aware you’re both adults, but something about it isn’t okay. It’s not good. Your own mother has a crush on him, and his daughter- you’re the same age as Sarah. Plus, you’d been seeing a boy for about three weeks now, and finally made it official - wouldn’t be fair to him. 

“Don’t go talkin’ yourself out of this- saw that look on your face day I met ya, you want this.” He shakes his head, mimicking your nods in a teasing manner before a smile breaks out over his face once he’s over you, trapping you between his body and the bed. 

His hands cup around your face, warm & dry, tugging you up to look at him, where one tear slides out of your eye and down your face, his features soften despite his intentions, “I got you, baby girl, just gotta trust me.” 

Your mouth parts open as he leans down, expecting to feel his lips, but instead, his lips find the tear, kissing gently before his tongue comes out to swipe at it, tasting you there. 

“Gon’ have some fun, baby,” He murmurs against your cheek, beard brushing the soft skin there before his lips find yours in a hungry, aggressive kiss that has your faces crushing against one another. 

You whimper at the force of it, his hands holding your face tightly to him as you taste the beer in his mouth, legs locking as you allow yourself this, hands going up to grasp at his forearms for support. 

You feel him inhale, take in your breath as your mouth gasps open, not having expected this. You should say no, you think. Stop, tell him to stop, but his beer-stained lips have yours as his tongue slips into your mouth, opening you wide to receive him as he tastes the remnants of the gum you’d been chewing earlier. 

You feel his hands release your jaw, moving down to explore your body as they grip at your neck, urging a soft, whiny whimper before they land at your waist, your stomach, sliding down your body to your thighs. 

You’re aware you could break away now, push him off now that he doesn’t have you in a mighty hold, but you decide against it. 

His hand moves from the outer part of your thigh, drifting inward as his thick fingers force their way between your legs, feeling up and up until they connect with your covered pussy, urging a unique sound to fly out of your mouth.

“Joel!” you scream in return, attempting to cover it up, feeling a mortified shame knowing your current lover couldn’t make you feel the way Joel is as he maps your cunt, running his fingers over the folds and swirling at your nub that has you grasping onto his shoulders for support. 

It’s unexpected, his attention there. Boys your age often opted for their own pleasure and focused on that… the last thing you’d expected was to be touched by someone other than yourself. 

“Can feel it, darlin’, feel you soakin’ up my fingers through these shorts,” He chuckles, a deep rumble above you that dives you deeper into your own shame & humiliation, knowing he’s probably done this with Sarah’s friends before, this isn’t new, and you should stop it. 

You shouldn’t be one of his playthings…but the way his fingers feel rubbing deep circles on your clit only causes moans to leave your throat as your eyes flutter in ecstasy. 

You can hardly form a thought in this state, not realizing that your shorts are tugged, effortlessly as they slide down your legs and pool around your ankles, the air catching on your dripping cunt as Joel hums above you in realization, the only thing grounding you being the press of Joel and the cool air below you. 

“No panties, baby? Thought you’d wear those lacey ones…” He teases as you want to react, want to tell him how perverted he is for stealing those, for making a mess of you, but his fingers find your folds, earning a deep groan from you as your head tips back at the contrast of his rough fingers against your petal-like pussy. 

Without warning, his fingers move from your nub down and push into your entrance, two thick, hefty fingers forcing their way into your tightness as you clench down on them in mortification, earning a loud cry as you grip him tighter. 

“Oh my god,” you whine as he pumps them there, spreading them a bit to spread you below as you blink back tears, your head loling to the side.

“So damn tight. This all for me, baby?” He continues, panting above you, your toes curling as his fingers find a different angle. “Yeah, yeah, it is.” 

His fingers pop out of you and up in one motion before pressing to your lips, pushing past them as you gag, confused, still stuck in that high of being finger fucked. 

“C’mon, be a good girl for daddy, suck.” He coos softly, his deep voice now delicate. 

You aren’t sure what switches in you, what light is flicked on that makes you want to be a good girl for him, his good girl. But it’s turned on as your tongue wraps around his fingers, sucking eagerly, tasting yourself there, hungry and turned on by your pleasure. 

You have never tasted yourself, but you can’t help but do it now, licking his fingers clean as he pops them out of your mouth and into his, your brows scrunching on something you can’t decipher as he gets some of your spit on his beard as he does. 

“Turn ‘round, face down, ass up,” He instructs, unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans. 

You can’t help but remain still, not knowing if this is actually going to happen, if you’re actually about to fuck your roommate's father, makes you let out a strange, silly laugh, feeling properly out of your mind. 

“Hey-” He grabs your face with one hand, fingers gripping into your cheeks, peering down into your soul as his eyes search yours, brows going up irritably, not wanting a challenge, “Do it.” 

You do. You turn and crawl onto the bed, revealing yourself totally as you bend over, your skirt displaying your full backside without your shorts underneath, as you rest your head on your forearms, arching your back to give him the best angle of you. 

“That’s it, that’s daddy’s baby girl,” He coos from behind you as you hear his jeans drop to the floor, knowing that if anyone were to speak about themselves like this, you’d be disgusted, but something about him, about Joel, makes you want to please him. Makes you want to hear his praises. 

You hear him, hear the tug of his cock and the sound of the watch on his wrist every time he pumps himself, “Hell of a pussy you got, baby doll, fuckin’ purdy.” 

It’s vulgar, it’s gross, but you can’t help but roll your hips, your feet flexing behind you as you know he’s looking right at your presented holes, all his, all for him. 

You feel him then, that poke, that poke that jolts and sends you forward a bit, rethinking this whole interaction as his hand meets your hips, pulling you back to him as his tip nudges your entrance. 

“C-condom?” You whisper, realizing you would never fuck a college boy without one. You don’t know about Joel, though. 

“Don’t need that princess, need to feel my girl.” He hums as his tip catches on your silk wet entrance, pushing in there as your teeth sink into your hand, feeling your hole expand with the press of his hearty cock. 

It’s a miserable type of pleasure, being expanded slowly but surely by Joel, feeling his mass bully and create space against your gummy soft walls that hug and squeeze around him, clenching as he pushes and pushes until you both meet your limit, feeling his thighs on you and the curl of hair at the base of his cock. 

His pace is ruthless once he’s started, hips rocking back and forth on precise thrusts, his hands digging into the meat of your hips as he pulls you back to meet the slam of his thrusts, baffled screams sounding out into the mattress as you cry. 

Truthfully, you’d never been fucked in such a manner. To fuck boys your age meant to mostly be in control and finish after a minute, but Joel, Joel is a wild man as he finds his fill in your burrowed heat, coated in your slickness made just for him. 

“Wha’s wrong, baby?” He starts teasing after you begin wailing uncontrollably, hoping neighbors don’t hear and complain, his cock staying pressed deep in you as he offers two more deep thrusts. 

“College boys ain’t fuckin you like this? Boyfriend ain’t fuckin you like this?” He mentions softly above you, still taunting you as if he genuinely means it, like he’s asking a real question. 

The lewd sounds of your ass slapping against him make you feel shy as you bury your face where he can’t see, not ever experiencing yourself in this state, unaware of how you look. 

A harsh slap of your ass alerts you then, your head shooting up as you gasp, feeling his palm print buried into the skin, “Asked you a question, now.”

“No-I-oh god-,” He picks up the pace a bit, almost nuzzling that sweet spot no mans ever made it to as you try to find your words, “Joel, no, no, no one has.” 

“Poor baby,” He continues, a deep groan settling into his chest, as his arms reach under you in between your thighs, feeling at your swollen nub there as your legs begin to shake, “Let daddy do it. 

It’s unbearable, the press and fill of his magnificent manhood that spreads and fills you like no other, the way pressure is released with the soft maneuvering of his fingers below you, you feel yourself begin to drift out of your mind, wanting to be his, wanting you to make him yours, drooling a bit onto your bed.  

It’s not you, it’s whatever's happening to you that has you pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts, moaning into the pillow as your eyes roll back in your skull, needing him to know you want him, you want this, that you’re all his and he can do whatever he wants. 

“Just a lil doll for me, ain't you? Lil fuck doll? This what you always wanted, huh?” You can hear him smile from above you as your pushes and his thrusts meet each other on a beautiful rhythm that has him matching the flow with his fingers below you, a symphony in the bedroom. 

“Just needed a daddy to make it all better for you, ain’t that right, sweetheart?” He continues as his hips jolt a bit, his precision getting looser with each thrust, as you can feel something building within you, your thighs clattering as you lick at your hand. 

“Need daddy to handle it? Make it better?” His pace is relentless as his grip tightens on your hips so tight you think it might bruise, his balls plapping against your skin as they swell with desire. 

“Uh-huhhh….” You garble in slow blinks, ready to finish it off. 

“Use your words.” He demands, spitting it from above you, not taking your response as valid as you blink back your desire blindness. 

“Need daddy to handle it.” You whimper, feeling it then, feeling truly what he is to you and how he makes you feel, like no other, as you clench around him unforgivingly, a cry sounding out between your lips as you grasp blindly for something, feeling Joel's hands come out from behind you as he takes both of yours in his, palm pressed to the back of your hands, interlocking the fingers as he keeps his momentum. 

He presses his full body to your backside, feeling him get in as deep as possible, hitting that sweet gooey spot that has you unraveling as his strong, warm hands ground you, your pumping orgasm feeding through every nerve of your body as the sounds escape from you, your body shaking with desire. 

He doesn’t speak, going into his stoic disposition as you feel him then coat your cunt with his orgasm, flushing your core with his seed as he groans from above you, pressed as deep as possible, hands gripping yours with strength that has you faltering below him as he collapses over you. 

His warm body weight is placed somewhat over you as you find the last of your shared orgasms, crying softly into the bed as he finishes his own in deep, bellowed moans. 

You think the world stops, maybe time stands still in some corny way you’ve seen in romcoms. If someone were to ask you your name, you wouldn’t know the answer. All you know is Joel, his deep breaths behind you, the press of his warm skin… just Joel. 

Soon, you think, time has escaped you, he’s off of you, murmuring some mentions of praise as your shorts are slid up around your ankles and over your ass, straightening out your skirt to the best of his ability, maybe attempting to make you like new. 

You feel him press two kisses to your temple, then, a softness contrasting the brutal fuck from before, humming there how good you’ve been to him… it only makes you want him to use you again.  

“Thank you for taking care of this old man- made all my dreams come true.” He murmurs from behind you, his beard scratching on your face as you want to tell him he did the same for you, that he could do it again. 

Words fail you when he says he’s late to meet Sarah, asking if you’ll be alright, which you return with a soft nod, your heart breaking on the disconnection between each other.

You can’t say much, finding it hard to speak. You only find the strength to murmur, “Bye-bye, dad.” 

Luckily, you have just enough time to fix your makeup and get to the stadium, your mind eventually coming back to you about fifteen minutes after having the daylight fucked out of you. 

You ignore the questioning of your fellow cheerers once you arrive, still not totally in your true self. With every cheer on the field, you can feel yourself leak more of Joel from you, unsure if it’s disgusting or rewarding. 

Eventually, the team wins, allowing you to make your way to the locker room to see a text from Sarah. 

celebration dinner @ Gino’s Dining! 

on my dad lol #brokecollegegirls

 hurry up were waiting!

tag list: @taniamiller @alitaar @meowmah @shrewdreader @he-is-the-destined @biagaloree

[chaos-istheonlyway]

Inosuke: so when i was a piglet-

Tanjiro: *confused*

Zenitsu: you mean a baby?

Inosuke: *completely ignores* so when I was a piglet

[theelectricdreamsofddx]

Hey, wanna make music? Yeah? Got a buncha money? No? Well that's perfectly fine, check this free stuff out:

Vital - A powerful wavetable synth, my personal favorite VST synth, very easy to figure out creating new synth sounds, with the help of the plenty of tutorials that are out there for the plug-in. (There are paid versions but they are completely unnecessary to get 99% of the features of the plug-in.)

Synth1 - A classic piece of synthesizer software.

Pendulate - An interesting, chaotic synth that you can make weird little sounds with.

Native Instruments' free plug-ins - Various cool VSTs, including the Komplete Start pack.

The Free Orchestra - A set of orchestral instruments for Kontakt Player (see previous link).

BBC Symphony Orchestra Discover - More orchestral stuff! This one has its own player so you don't have to download a separate VST to use it if you don't want to.

Magical 8bit Plug - A chiptune plug-in, intended for producing sounds like that of 8-bit systems like the NES and Master System.

Genny - A synth VST made to emulate the soundchip of the Sega Genesis/Mega Drive.

MT Power Drum Kit - A nice rock n' roll style drum kit plug-in.

This guy's weird VST collection - 6.4 gigabytes of weird VSTs, including some you might know, like Delay Lama and MeowSynth!

sforzando - A free player for soundfont files.

Musical Artifacts - A resource I mainly use to find soundfonts, on which you can find other various things as well.

Kilohearts Essentials - 30 effect VSTs including reverb, delay, compression, pitch shifting, transient shaping, ring modulation, phase distortion, and more.

Xfer's freeware VSTs - Exactly what it says on the tin, including the one and only OTT compressor.

Illformed - The good ol' dblue Glitch 1.3, Crusher, Stretch, and TapeStop.

Hysteresis and Fracture - Two interesting glitch effects, one being a delay and the other being a buffer.

Codec - A cool digital audio degradation effect.

Le Phonk - A slick distortion plug-in.

MAIM - An effect that mimics the sound of MP3 compression.

Soundly Shape it and Place it - One is simply an equalizer VST, the other is an effect that emulates a speaker (ex: a radio) and a space (ex: a cave).

Fresh Air - An effect that adds high end information to your sounds, to provide brightness.

ValhallaSupermassive - A combo reverb and delay plug-in that sounds quite big.

UnplugRed - A collection of various interesting VSTs, most of which have free versions.

Chowdhury DSP - I can't personally speak for all of these but their tape model effect is great for some lo-fi style effects.

TAL-Chorus-LX - A thick sounding chorus, good for "retro" sounds too.

Polyverse Wider - A great effect for widening sounds up, really simple too with only two controls.

Freesound - A good audio file resource, mainly for foley recordings.

Cymbatics Dubstep Starter Pack - A little sample pack with some good drum and synth samples.

fishmonger drum kit - A pack of samples from the album 'fishmonger' by Underscores!

WangleLine's sample packs - Free samples put out by my awesome mutual WangleLine!

aaand I might as well include this set of drums I made a while back :P

As for DAWs, it's been a long while since I've used anything other than FL Studio (not counting Audacity, which I still occasionally use for specific purposes), which, while being the only one I can directly recommend, is paid. However, I've heard good things about Reaper which has a "free trial" that you can technically use forever, akin to WinRAR. Additionally, I've also heard some good things about Waveform Free.

[kennystrator]

Kennystrator is allergic to joy again, what's new

This trend (I hope it’s still relevant) is so neat visually I knew I wanted to do something with it. I also saw someone else post theirs as a gif so I figured out how to do that too

Handwriting the entire note to block it out was definitely a choice I am glad that I made. :,)

[vinnyvamppp]

Only The Tip of Madness

A/N: Did anyone ask for this? no. Anyway... here's my take on Will Graham and common Tumblr situationship escapades. (Titles a double entendre lol)

Warnings: NSFW, Rough Sex, Semi-public Setting, Dry Humping, Power Play [Sub/Dom themes], Dirty Talk, Begging, Canon-typical Psychological Tension, Mutual Obsession, Toxic Romance Undertones, Porn W a Plot, Alcohol Use, Crime Scene Mentioned, and Will lowkey being unwell.

Synopsis: You should be chasing killers. Instead, you’re chasing Will Graham. Curiosity twists into temptation, and temptation into something far filthier when late nights and shared cases blur into lust. And you can’t look away — not from his mind, not from the fragile, feral way he lets you closer than he should. In the end, maybe you’re just as mad for wanting him.

WC: … it’s long… like 8k words long.

Will Graham x Fem!Reader

“He tastes like loneliness, and you’ll drink it every time.”

When you step into the dim coroner’s office, the first thing you see is him. Will Graham stands at the examination table, his eyes fixed on the corpse, hands hovering with the tentative reverence of someone both fascinated and disturbed. “Jack must’ve sent you,” he says without looking up. His voice is quiet, a little rough. “Will Graham.”

You offer a stiff nod. “Yes. First day.” Your gaze flicks to the body, but your attention keeps pulling back to him—his focus, the way he leans into silence so intimately as if it’s second nature. The sight is too heavy; you catch yourself watching him instead. His words ring in your ears, and your fingers curl around your arm for steadiness. He notices, and you’ll later realize that he always notices.  “I don’t bite,” he murmurs, mouth twitching at the corner. “You can come closer.”

You move to his side, eyes lingering on the corpse. Pity catches in your chest, and your fingers brush the case file before pausing on the victim’s nails, trimmed nearly to the root with a raw pink. Will’s glance cuts sideways, a short stare at evidence most wouldn’t have noticed. “Intentional,” he says. “Maybe to hide something. Or maybe just control.”

“And you?” you ask, voice low. “What do you see?” His silence is heavy before carefully saying, “Everything. Too much.”

You study him openly now, curiosity edging toward something darker. The stories about him—his empathy, his unraveling—whisper at the back of your mind. “Jack told me to observe you. Learn from you.” That earns you the faintest huff of laughter. “So you’re here to watch me fall apart.”

“Or help,” you counter quickly, folding your arms. “Think of me as a trainee. A friend, even. Not an experiment.” His eyes finally meet yours. They're cold, startlingly blue, and searching through shaky pupils. He tilts his head as though testing the shape of your words. Then, softer than before, he says, “It won’t be dull,” with the slightest bounce of his eyebrows.

The room feels smaller suddenly, the corpse between you almost forgotten. You break the moment first, pulling back toward the desk chair, trying to regain your composure. But his gaze follows you, unblinking and unsettling in a convoluted sense that made you want to stay.

You leave him to his work, heels clicking across the tile, and the glass door shuts softly behind you. For a moment, Will just stands there, still bent over the body, but his mind is no longer on the corpse. He exhales through his nose, steadily, trying to shake off the pull of your eyes on him. But it lingers.

You noticed the nails. Most don’t, most look away, but you didn’t. That unsettles him more than the corpse.

Will trails his focus back to the body, forcing the shift into empathy. He lets the room fall away, lets his imagination become the killer’s hands. He breathes with the victim, then breathes with the one who ended them. His pulse climbs. The images swarm fast and sharp. It’s always too much. And in the middle of that storm—your face interrupts. Curious, unafraid, and studying him. It makes his throat tighten.

He presses both palms against the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten. He can feel the unraveling at the edges of his mind, the slow slip Jack warned him about. And now—now there’s someone new watching.

The next day, you found him again in the morgue, standing too still before another body. Will’s eyes were shut, his breath shallow. You’d heard whispers of what it looked like when he worked, but watching it was something else entirely. His fingers twitched, his shoulders tight, as though he was caught between inhabiting the victim and the killer.

You didn’t move. Jack had warned you that he prefers silence. But when his eyelids fluttered, and his body trembling like he’d brushed against something jagged inside his own mind, your fingers curled into your palms. Every instinct told you to step in, but you didn’t.

At last, he exhaled—a shudder that emptied him out. His eyes opened, unfocused, until they landed on you by the doorway. For a moment, he looked almost startled. “What did you see?” you asked quietly. Will dragged his gaze back to the corpse, voice thin but certain. “The wounds don’t match the hand. Right-handed strikes, but the killer’s left. Victim fought—wasn’t supposed to be them.”

The heels of your shoes clicked against the tile as you approached. You studied the jagged lines across pale flesh, trying to picture the chaos. “So it was a mistake.” He tilted his head, brows knitting. “Or collateral.” The air between you seemed to thicken, the body just an excuse for the gravity drawing your attention to him. You chewed your lip, then pushed forward anyway. “If it wasn’t the intended victim, who was?”

Will leaned back from the table. He was restless and pacing. He tapped two fingers against his temple, muttering to himself about motives, witnesses, wrong place at the wrong time. You watched him move, it was sharp and unmoored, your arms folding tight across your chest to steady yourself.

When his words spiraled into silence, you sighed softly. “That’s why there’s an investigative unit, right? We’ll find the pattern.” That earned you the faintest ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had came. You made for the door, but couldn’t help glancing back. “It was… good to work with you again, Will.” Your tone slipped warmer than you intended. He didn’t look at you, eyes still fixed on the body, but his answer was quick, quiet, and edged with something unreadable.  “Until next time.” The morgue air still clung to you when you slipped into the break room. Beverly Katz was bent over a file with her usual sharp grin, Alana Bloom cradling a mug of coffee between manicured hands. You lingered a moment before asking the question already burning your tongue. “What’s his deal? Will Graham.”

Beverly’s eyebrows lifted. “Jumped in fast, huh? He’s… good. Too good. Gets inside their heads until he forgets how to get out again.” Alana gave her a warning look, then turned to you with something softer. “He’s fragile. Brilliant, but fragile. Don’t push too hard. He breaks easier than he looks.” You nodded, though the words only added to your interest. Fragile. Brilliant. Too good. Your fingers drummed restlessly against the counter, replaying the sight of him trembling, then snapping into clarity like the crime itself was pulling his strings.

Later, when you stepped outside into the fall air, the chill hit your skin like a reset. You should have been unsettled. Instead, the memory of his raw focus lingered, catching at you like the aftertaste of something dark and addictive. The house was dark except for the glow of a lamp and the shuffle of paws across the floor. The dogs clustered around him, restless mirrors of his own unease. Will sat on the edge of the couch, hands steepled in front of his mouth, weary eyes crinkling above that wry grin he gave his pets.

He’d carried the morgue with him, like always. The corpse still lay in his head, skin pale under fluorescent light, breathless and still. But overlaid on top of it—unwanted and persistent—was your face. The way your voice asked, What did you see? It stuck like a burr. And whenever he’d try to claw it away in his mind, barren nail beads stared back at him. His jaw clenched. He could still feel the tremor in his hands from earlier, the way the images had almost swallowed him whole. He hated when anyone watched that. Jack, Alana, and now you. But instead of shame, the memory left something else, something he didn’t want to name.

Will leaned forward, elbows braced to his knees, trying to breathe through it. He scratched one of the dogs absently behind the ear, comforting himself in the simple rhythm. The animal pressed closer, so unbothered and trusting.

He envied that. But his mind circled back again, inevitably, to you. The faint warmth in your tone as you left: It was good to work with you again. He’d heard the slip of excitement under it, however unintentional. And now he couldn’t shake the question—Were you here to help him? Or to study how fast he’d fall apart?

By the third morning, a rhythm had set in. You’d appear in the lobby around the same time he did, coffees in hand, notebook tucked under your arm. Sometimes you caught his glance as you passed him in the hall. Sometimes he pretended not to look. Either way, you knew he noticed.

He never said much, not at first anyway. Just watched you out of the corner of his eye when your heels clicked past the morgue. A distraction… No, an intrusion more so. Today, you found him in the autopsy room, sleeves rolled up, staring at the body like it was a mirror. He didn’t look up until you laid two thin files on the counter.

“Two cold cases. Overlaps in the reports,” you said, voice casual, though your pulse betrayed the anticipation of catching his attention. Will blinked, dragging himself back from wherever he’d gone in his head. He took the file gingerly, scanning the pages. “Consistent injuries,” he murmured. “But the gap between them…” He trailed off, frowning. “Regular intervals,” you offered. “Could be intentional. A way to avoid suspicion.” His mouth twitched. “Or a game.”

“If it’s a game, it’s a long one.” You leaned closer to the table, unable to resist needling him. “Almost… indulgent.” Will finally looked at you then, brows knitting. It wasn’t anger, exactly—more like he was trying to place you, figure out what you wanted from him. He didn’t answer, just let silence stretch until you broke it by moving to the computer.

Beverly drifted in with a tray of samples, her eyes flicking between the two of you. “You two look busy,” she teased, half-singing the words. Will’s jaw tightened, but you ignored it, typing in addresses and mapping out the victims’ last known locations. “They’re all within fifteen minutes of each other,” you said. “Different neighborhoods, same hunting ground.” Will’s expression softened, just slightly. “Good catch.” The praise was so spare it should have meant nothing. Instead, it lodged in your chest like a hook.

Your eyes met his. They were emotionless, yet brimming with something restless underneath. It made you falter. “Should I tell Jack to send patrols?” He shifted uncomfortably. “No. Too visible. He’ll smell it.” You nodded, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered. Pretending you weren’t listening for crumbs of approval. “Then I’ll leave it to your team. I’m just… observing.”

“Observant enough,” he muttered, a thin edge of sarcasm sharpening the words. But when he added, “You should sit in on the meeting tomorrow,” it came out hesitant, almost reluctant. You smiled at that, a cheeky thing, letting him have the last word as you backed toward the door. “Good night, Will.”

He looked down, muttering something that sounded like “’Til tomorrow” as though the phrase tasted foreign in his mouth. You left him with the corpse. He stood in the morgue far longer than he needed to, staring after you when he thought no one would notice. The silence closed in, and for the first time in months, he felt a strange anticipation for morning.

That night, he dreamed of corpses again. Only this time, you were there, standing at the edge of the scene, watching him like you always did. Like you were supposed to. He couldn’t forget. The room smelled faintly of chalk and old coffee. Will stood at the blackboard, his scrawl jagged and frantic, diagrams of movement and injury crisscrossed with hastily drawn arrows. He muttered to himself, the words more for the dead than the living. —

You slipped into a seat near the back, notebook open. Not full of neat case notes—more half-legible scribbles, fragments of his phrasing, the curve of his thought patterns. He noticed almost immediately. Your presence was becoming harder to ignore. “Don’t hover,” Will said without turning, his voice tight. “It makes me feel like a lab rat.” You tapped your pen against the notebook. “Then don’t treat me like a clipboard. I’m supposed to learn something from you.”

That made him pause. He turned, brows furrowed, as though weighing whether you were mocking him. Then he sighed, the tension loosening slightly. “You don’t need to watch every tic and twitch. I’m not a manual you can memorize.”

“Maybe not,” you said evenly, “but I can pay attention. Sometimes that’s enough.” Something flickered across his face—annoyance, maybe, but softened by a reluctant trace of recognition. He rubbed the back of his neck, chalk dust smearing faintly across his knuckles, and went back to the board. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. — The conference room was colder than usual, sterile light glinting off the steel table. Jack stood at the head, files fanned before him. Beverly leaned back in her chair, tapping a pen against her lip. Hannibal sat with immaculate posture, suit pressed, hands folded like a cathedral.

Will slouched at one end, restless already. You took the seat beside him, closer than you meant to. His eyes flicked to yours, a quick glance that didn’t quite land, before darting back to the file in front of him. Jack’s voice broke the hush. “New victim. Twenty-five. Female. Sex worker. Same injuries as before. Found in a vacant lot outside Baltimore.”

A photo slid across the table. Will stared too long. His fingers twitched once, then flattened against the page. Jack pressed. “Will?” Will’s eyes closed. His voice came low, rasping. “She wasn’t killed there. He… prefers privacy. Somewhere he can work without distraction. The wounds—” He faltered, jaw tightening. “They’re intentional. Torture. He was looking for something.”

The room fell still. Beverly tilted her head. “Looking for what?” Will’s breathing went uneven. His hand flexed against the table as if steadying himself. You leaned forward slightly, voice cutting through the quiet. “If he’s working undisturbed, he’s somewhere hidden. Underground, maybe. The sewers filter everything—blood, waste. No clean-up, endless places to vanish.”

All eyes shifted to you. For a moment you regretted speaking, but Will’s gaze caught yours—there was approval there, faint but certain. “Possible,” he said, his voice steadier now, borrowing strength from your words. Jack nodded, seizing on it. “We’ll have teams map the sewer access near each crime scene.”

But it was Hannibal who spoke next, voice soft and measured, each syllable deliberate. “A predator who seeks such a lair… is patient. He waits. Chooses not only his victims, but the canvas for his violence.” His gaze moved briefly, too briefly, to you, then to Will. “A game of control.”

Something in his tone made the back of your neck prickle. It was too smooth, too staged. Everyone else nodded as though it was gospel. You, however, found yourself frowning faintly, unsettled. Beverly flipped through the file. “So, wrong place, wrong time? Victim wasn’t the target?”

“Not exactly,” Will muttered, voice distracted. His eyes had gone glassy again. “She tried to run. He brought her down hard—knife from above, jagged, sloppy. He didn’t want her dead, not yet.” Jack exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. “I need answers, Will. Not maybes.”

Your hand tightened around your pen. “He just gave you an answer,” you said, your voice sharper than intended. The room quieted for a beat. “If she wasn’t the target, then someone else is. He’s escalating, and that matters more than speculation.”

Will looked at you quickly, gratitude flashing in his eyes before it was buried under exhaustion. Hannibal, however, studied you with quiet interest, his gaze steady in the way of someone who didn’t blink often enough. His mouth curved in something that might have been a smile, though it felt more like a warning.

“Insight,” Hannibal said smoothly, his eyes still on you. “Sometimes it comes from the most unexpected of places.” You forced yourself not to look away first, though unease crawled through you. It felt rehearsed, that calmness of his. Scripted and enttirely too polished for the blood-soaked reality on the table between you all.

The meeting moved forward, Beverly asking logistics, Zeller droning on about forensics. But you could feel both of them—Will, vibrating faintly with nervous energy at your side, and Hannibal, composed and still, dissecting the room with his eyes. And in the middle of it, you realized your own pen was shaking slightly against the paper. A tic you hadn’t noticed. A crack you didn’t mean to show. —Pov’s

You When Jack closed the file and dismissed the room, the tension didn’t leave with him. The others filtered out quickly—Zeller muttering, Beverly still scribbling—but the silence that followed was worse than the chatter. Hannibal’s voice lingered in your ears, the polished cadence of it. So careful, so perfectly phrased, it was almost soothing… even charming. But no one was that composed. No one should be. It unsettled you, the way he seemed to move through the world like it was already written. Perhaps it was just his intelligence that bothered you, you were always prone to jealousy.

Will He should have been used to it by now, the weight of expectation, the eyes that waited for him to bleed answers. But when you spoke up, when you cut through the quiet to shield him from Jack’s impatience, something jolted. It wasn’t gratitude, not exactly. More like panic, that anyone would bother. Your voice had been calm, but in his chest it echoed too loud, and he hated the way it warmed him even as it burned.

You You pretended not to notice his glance. Your pen tapped against the folder in your lap, restless. You shouldn’t have spoken; you knew that. What did it matter if Crawford doubted Will Graham? You weren’t here to play savior. And yet—your mouth had moved before you could stop it. You weren’t supposed to care this much.

Will He saw the way your jaw tightened after you spoke, the way you squared your shoulders as if expecting someone to snap back. You carried tension like a blade—ready to cut or be cut. He wanted to look away, but his eyes lingered longer than they should have. You weren’t supposed to care this much either.

You When Hannibal rose from his chair, his smile skimmed across the room, the creases in his cheek folding delicately. You still weren’t sure why you felt this way; his demeanor overshadowed his obvious attractiveness for reasons that shouldn’t matter. His gaze caught yours for a second too long; it was polite, placid even. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t, even when you returned the smile. There was nothing human about perfection that precise. He was an interesting anomaly. 

Will The scrape of Hannibal’s chair against the floor made him flinch. He hated that sound, hated the neat finality of it, like a door closing on something he hadn’t finished saying. But worse was the way his eyes immediately found you again. He told himself it was a distraction, nothing more, but the truth was worse in his eyes. He wanted you to look back.

You You didn’t. Instead, you busied yourself with the files, steadying your hands with careful movements, though the tremor beneath your skin betrayed you. You could feel him watching, and you hated that part of you that wanted him to.

Will Of course, he noticed. That was the curse of it. You were meant to observe him, but somehow, it was inverted—he was the one cataloguing your tics, your tells. He wanted to shut it out, wanted less of it. And yet, when it came to you, he only wanted more. —

The highway blurred past in streaks of orange lamps and black trees. Will’s hands clenched tighter on the wheel, knuckles white, sweat slicking the leather. He saw you.

Not in the passenger seat—not yet—but in the glass of the windshield, superimposed over the road the way Hannibal sometimes appeared. A ghost stitched into his vision. He blinked hard, and for a moment, it was Hannibal’s face instead. Then yours again, with lips moving with Hannibal’s voice, coaxing, prodding. “Say it, Will. You know what you saw.”

The wheel jerked. Tires screeched briefly before he corrected. His chest felt tight. He didn’t want to go home. The thought of the house waiting for him, empty and echoing, only made the visions worse. Almost without thinking, he turned down the side street that led to Hannibal’s office.

The lights were low, the space calm in its deliberate order. Books, decanters, the faint burn of wood polish. Hannibal rose as though he’d expected him all along. “You’re late,” Hannibal said mildly with a grin, though there was no appointment. Will sank into the chair, his breathing uneven. “Couldn’t… couldn’t quiet it tonight.” Hannibal poured him water, not scotch, and set it neatly on the side table. He didn’t press at first. Instead, he let the silence expand until Will filled it. “I keep seeing things I shouldn’t. Faces where they don’t belong.”

“Faces,” Hannibal repeated softly, like tasting the word. Will rubbed his palms down his thighs. “Someone new. It’s… distracting.” He wouldn’t say your name. He wouldn’t let Hannibal have it. Hannibal’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly, though his smile remained perfectly in place. “Distraction can be useful. It reminds us we are not machines. We form bonds. Some more valuable than others.”

Will’s jaw tightened. “Bonds complicate things,” he sighed. “And yet,” Hannibal murmured, leaning forward slightly, “you and I have one. A rare thing, built on trust. Do not mistake complication for weakness.” The words slid through the room like smoke. Will swallowed, guilt thick in his throat. He wanted to protest, but instead he nodded once, eyes closing briefly as though to hold himself together.

Hannibal didn’t look away. Inside, he acknowledged what Will had not spoken—the quiet rift between Will and the observer. A rift Hannibal could widen, or use. But for now, he guided Will back to their friendship, tightening the tether. Once at home, the glass of scotch burned his throat raw. He sat in the dark, staring into nothing, guilt knitted with craving. He hated that your defense lingered louder than Hannibal’s careful words. He hated more how much he wanted that warmth again, knowing it would do nothing but complicate things.

Alone, you pressed your palms to your eyes, but it was useless. Behind your eyelids, his face came clear as though waiting. Those glasses that framed his eyes, restless hands, the way he hovered near collapse. He was as potent as the alcohol you’d left untouched on your counter. You exhaled, shaky, unsettled. Neither of you slept well that night. — Weeks later, that same plaid button-up filled your vision. You tilted your head, a sly smile curling at your lips. “What can I say? I’m a curious cat.” Will’s eyes lingered longer than they should. You’d noticed that before—in debriefings, in stolen glances Jack had clearly caught. For a moment, you wondered if you haunted his thoughts as often as he haunted yours.

He gave a soft laugh, surprising himself. “Most people don’t like having their brains picked apart.”

“Most people aren’t me,” you countered easily, leaning just enough to close the gap. He mirrored the shift, barely perceptible, his voice dropping. “I’m… particularly interested in yours. The way it ticks.” His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

Your lashes fluttered, betraying you. You tried to play it steady. “And what makes you tick, Will?” The question hit too close. He stalled, eyes holding yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m already past the edge.” The words were so flat, so certain, they unsettled you. You stepped away, busying yourself with gathering your briefcase, though your mind still circled him like a moth around flame.

Will watched you cross the room, thoughts swarming inside him. He should’ve been relieved, but all he felt was the loss. With a sigh, you heard the door quietly click behind you, causing you to hastily shove papers in your bag. Here you were poking and prodding again. You caught up with him just as he slipped out of the morgue. Will didn’t look back at first, but his shoulders tensed—he knew it was you. “Heading to class?” you asked lightly, clutching your notepad like it was a ticket inside his world. “Always,” he muttered, then glanced sidelong. His voice softened, betraying reluctance. “You’re not scheduled to follow me there.”

“Maybe not. But you don’t exactly give tours. Thought I’d ask while you’re cornered.” That earned a flicker of amusement in his pale eyes. He sighed, already half-resigned. “I’m not a good guide.”

“Maybe I prefer the unpolished version.” Will hesitated at that, the corner of his mouth tugging like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Curiosity won out. He wordlessly gestured ahead, and you fell into step beside him.

His presence carried its usual charge. He walked quickly, clipped strides betraying unease, yet he didn’t tell you to leave. Somewhere between irritation and intrigue, he was becoming accustomed to the sound of your footsteps shadowing his. You followed him through the narrow corridors of Quantico, the smell of coffee and chalk dust clinging faintly to the air. Will’s posture was as it always was—half-withdrawn, half-braced, like he expected someone to strike him if he stood too tall. He gestured toward the lecture hall. “This is where I spend too much of my time. Teaching students how to think like monsters.”

“Doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. You say that like you don’t belong up here.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t. But Jack thinks otherwise. And enthusiasm makes people expect too much.” You leaned against the desk, arms folded. “I think you do. You’re too self-aware to see it.” His gaze flicked to yours, sharp but searching. “And you think you see what I can’t.”

“I notice things,” you said, smiling. “Mysteries have always been my weakness.” That landed heavier than you intended. Will’s stare lingered, unblinking, as though dissecting whether you meant the case—or him. He finally let out a slow breath. “Mysteries cut both ways.”

“Then maybe I don’t mind bleeding a little.” His expression faltered. For a second, the air between you shifted—less mentor, more something dangerous. He realized, too late, you were flirting. And worse, he wasn’t shutting you down. His laugh was quick, but bitter. “Then you’ve found the right company.” You smiled at that, though you weren’t sure if he meant it as invitation or warning.

You laughed softly at his line about mysteries cutting both ways, the sound bright in the empty lecture hall. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of being figured out, Will. That would make you predictable.” His eyes narrowed, the smirk tugging at his lips betraying both annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Predictable, hm?”

“Terrifying and unpredictable for them,” you teased, tilting your head toward the ghost of his absent students. “But for me?” Your grin softened into something quieter, more dangerous. “I think you want someone to keep up.” Will’s chest tightened. He should’ve deflected—dismissed you, scolded you, anything. Instead, his feet betrayed him and he took a step closer.

The space between you shrank. He could see the fine lines at the corner of your mouth, the steady rhythm of your pulse just beneath your throat. You weren’t afraid, though maybe you should have been. “What?” you asked lightly, though your voice dipped, quieter now. His jaw flexed. “You keep looking at me like you want to solve me. Like I’m…” He trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t make his skin crawl. “…a puzzle you enjoy being trapped in.”

“And if I am?” The challenge in your tone pulled something taut inside him. He leaned closer, almost unconsciously, until his breath brushed your cheek. His hand twitched at his side, fighting the urge to touch. Your lips parted, not quite a smile. But waiting.

Will’s gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth. The kind of second that could collapse into forever. But he froze there, trembling between restraint and surrender. “Don’t,” he rasped, though his voice betrayed the opposite. “Don’t what?” you whispered back, not moving away. The silence stretched until it was unbearable. He hovered there, inches from you, caught in the gravity of his own desire and dread.

Will’s breath hitched, his body frozen in that impossible space between retreat and surrender. For one raw second, he looked almost pleading, as though he needed you to make the decision for him. And so, you did.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls as you rose just enough to close the distance. His lips crashed against yours, hesitant for only a heartbeat before hunger overtook him. Will groaned low in his throat, the sound half-relief, half-ache. His hands—tentative at first—found your waist, gripping harder than he meant to, pulling you flush against him as though solitude might claw you away if he let go.

The kiss deepened fast. His lips parted under yours, and you tasted the faint trace of coffee and something sweet. His tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then greedy, searching like he was memorizing you the way he memorized crime scenes. You anchored him with the press of your hand at his jaw, grounding his trembling restraint. “It’s alright,” you murmured against his lips, your breath fanning across his cheek.

That reassurance nearly snapped another thread in him. His grip tightened, and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a sudden dominance that surprised even him. He walked you back until the edge of the desk pressed into the backs of your thighs. The movement wasn’t rough, but purposeful, like he was claiming, needing.

And yet, even as he caged you there, his body shook faintly, betraying how much he was surrendering. You felt it in the way his fingers pressed into your sides like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you still or if he was terrified you’d slip through his grasp. When he finally broke the kiss for breath, his forehead dropped against yours. His chest heaved, and his voice was hoarse when he whispered, “You don’t… understand what you’re doing to me.”

Your thumb traced the hollow beneath his ear, guiding him back down, steady as an anchor. “Then let me.” The words made him shudder. He kissed you again, slower this time but no less desperate, his lips dragging over yours in a rhythm that tasted like yearning and guilt tangled together. Every shift of his mouth said what he couldn’t: I want this. I shouldn’t. I need more.

The kiss lingered like static between you, heat and confusion pulling you forward until Will pulled away as if burned. His breath stuttered out, a flash of guilt darting across his face before he turned his back to you. “That—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “That was a mistake.” The words sliced clean, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. You stood there, still caught in the moment of it, until Will forced himself to move, gathering his papers, muttering something about needing air. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t afford to.

When the door shut behind him, the silence was almost cruel.

Later that evening, he sat stiffly in Hannibal Lecter’s office. The amber lamplight painted long shadows across the bookshelves, and the faint smell of smoked meat and polish filled the air. Hannibal’s gaze was calm, surgical like. “You look troubled, Will,” Hannibal said, settling into his chair with the ease of a man who had all the time in the world. Will’s fingers picked at the seam of his sleeve. “I’ve been… distracted. Can’t shake it off.” “Distracted,” Hannibal echoed, with the slightest nod. “By your cases? Or by someone within them?” Will’s head lifted, startled. Hannibal’s mouth curved in that faint, knowing smile, never too much, never enough to seem smug, but sharp enough to feel like a scalpel. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” Hannibal soothed. “And yet here you are, talking about it.” His voice lowered, almost hypnotic. “The mind clings to what unsettles us. Sometimes the attachment is a defense against loneliness. Sometimes… it is a longing.” Will shifted, feeling uneasy. “You make it sound like I’m weak.”

“I make it sound like you’re human,” Hannibal corrected smoothly. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “You’ve always feared connection, but that fear has been your greatest burden. Solitude gives you clarity, yes—but companionship, Will, gives you strength. Without it, the darkness consumes.” The words dug in, caging him. Hannibal’s presence filled the room, watchful and inescapable. Even as Will glanced away, he could feel the weight of Hannibal’s eyes, as though they followed him everywhere like they were guiding, observing, or judging.

By the end of the session, Will felt no lighter. If anything, he carried the unsettling impression that Hannibal hadn’t just understood him, he had marked him.

You hadn’t meant to wait for him outside Hannibal’s office. Not exactly, no. You told yourself it was concern, that the look in his eyes earlier had been too brittle to ignore. But the truth pressed heavier in your chest, you wanted to see where he went when he thought no one was watching.

When he emerged, his expression was flat, his movements precise, like he was holding himself together with a string. He didn’t notice your car idling a few spaces back as he pulled onto the road. You followed, far enough to pretend it wasn’t deliberate. Close enough to feel the thrum of his recklessness. Will’s grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, curled fingers digging back into his palms. The world blurred at the edges, headlights streaking into ribbons of light. And then… There you were. Not in the rearview mirror where you belonged, but beside him in the passenger seat. The ghost of your shoulder brushing his, your breath in the air.

He blinked, and you were gone. In your place, instead, was Hannibal. Ever patient, smiling, and eternal. The hallucinations pressed harder, crawling into his reality. He missed a turn, barely corrected. His chest tightened, his vision tunneling. By the time his senses cleared, his car was rolling to a stop in front of a sagging building on the edge of nowhere—the suspected killer’s lair.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember choosing. He sat there, headlights painting the warped wood, the hum of the engine in his ears, and felt watched. Not just by Hannibal’s voice echoing from memory, not just by the shadow of you in his mind, but by something darker, something waiting inside.

Your car rolled to a stop a short distance behind his. The place looked abandoned with black windows, rust clinging to corrugated siding, and the faint stench of rot even from the road. Will’s car sat there with the headlights still burning, but he didn’t move. He was just… sitting.

You grabbed your phone, fingers trembling as you called it in. “Possible location. Send backup now.” You didn’t elaborate—partly because you weren’t sure what you’d say. That Will had driven himself here like he’d been pulled? That you had followed him like a shadow? By the time Jack and the others arrived, sirens tearing through the stillness, Will still hadn’t moved. He stood outside the car, frozen, his eyes fixed on the darkened doorway. Like something inside had tethered him there.

“Will!” Jack barked, moving past you. “What the hell—?” Will didn’t answer. Not until the flood of agents surged forward, crashing through the warped entry. The commotion inside echoed loudly, with sharp shouts, the crash of overturned furniture, and a strangled cry. One of the agents stumbled out minutes later, blood streaking his face from a deep gash.

But then, dragged out in cuffs, huffing, was a wild-eyed killer. Mid-thirties, gaunt, hands twitching like he was still holding the blade. His eyes found Will through the chaos, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed. Two predators recognizing something in each other. The wail of sirens seemed to snap Will awake. He blinked, breath hitching, and the trance shattered. His chest rose and fell too quickly as he finally registered where he was.

You had to go in; regrettably, it was your duty. Inside the building, silence pressed like a weight. The smell hit first. It was like copper and decay, thick enough to cling to your tongue. You lasted only minutes before stepping back out into the cold air, stomach turning. But Will didn’t; he lingered. His flashlight skimmed over the walls, every surface painted with cruelty. Hooks hung empty. Blood streaked the floor in dried, flaking patches. It wasn’t just a crime scene; it was a museum of torment.

His hand shook faintly around the gun. He could almost see it, the killer’s work unfolding in flickers of memory that weren’t his own. The killer’s voice carried from the hallway where agents hauled him away. “They all scream. That’s the only way you get answers.” Will’s head turned sharply. His voice, when it came, was rough and strained, screaming utter nonsense.

“You weren’t just killing them. You were trying to make them tell you something.” The man laughed, a thin, jagged sound. “Some of them talked. Most didn’t.” Will’s grip on the gun tightened, trembling with restraint. It would be so easy. A single twitch of the finger, but the echo of Hannibal’s words held him steady. Companionship gives you strength. You were the one who pulled him back now; your presence just outside the doorway was a quiet anchor for him.

By the time the reports were written and evidence tagged, you found yourself retreating to your car. The flashing lights painted everything in harsh red and blue, agents moving like shadows through the night, eager to get home. You knew you should still be helping, but your gaze was fixed only on the doorway.

And then, there he was. Will stepped out, shoulders bowed, face caught somewhere between exhaustion and the daze of just surviving. Jack clapped him on the back with a gruff, “Good work.” Will flinched, muttering something in reply. He lingered as the scene slowly thinned, agents peeling away one by one. Beverly passed by with a tired smirk, tossing a look at you. “Get him home safe, yeah?” The words landed heavier than they should have. Because you weren’t planning on just getting him home.

The crime scene had bled itself dry. The sirens faded, the chatter of uniforms turned to silence, and the autumn night settled heavy over the lot. You sat in your car, engine off, with the headlights dark. You told yourself you were waiting for the others to clear out—but really, you were waiting for him.

Will hadn’t left either. He lingered by the treeline, as though walking into the dark might undo him. Eventually, his eyes cut to your car, catching you before you could pretend otherwise. For a long beat, he just stood there. Then, against his better judgment, he moved toward you. And against your better judgment, you got out.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice roughened by exhaustion but tainted with something else. “So are you,” you shot back, watching the faint twitch in his mouth like he didn’t know whether to frown or smile. He leaned on the side of your car, folding his arms. His presence carried that same mix of gravity and unease, but it was softened now, almost… familiar. “You should go home.”

“Then lead by example,” you murmured. His jaw worked. He hated how easily you could disarm him, and maybe that was why the next words slipped out with more bite than he intended. “You’re a distraction.” You tilted your head, savoring it. “Maybe. But you’re the one who keeps looking.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, but his pulse betrayed him. So, he tried again. “You’re a nuisance.” You smirked, a strained scoff caused your shoulders to jump. “Funny. You don’t sound like you mind.” The air thickened, words snapping like kindling until sparks caught. His hand curled against the cold metal doorframe, knuckles white like clinging to your car would be of any help. Your pulse thrummed as the distance between you shrank—not with steps, but with inevitability.

“This’ll ruin you,” you whispered. Will’s eyes burned with that restless, fractured light you’d seen in him since the morgue. His reply came quietly, somewhat bitter, but it gutted the night open, “I’m already ruined.”

Silence erupted, so quiet you could hear the wet squelch of your eyelids shutting. …

His mouth found yours in a rush of desperation, the kiss rougher, hungrier than anything tentative. You caught yourself on the car, your back hitting the metal with a thud, his hand braced beside your head. The hood was cold against your body when he pushed you up onto it, his weight closing the gap, grounding and consuming you all at once. Fingers tangled in hair, teeth clashing lips, the taste of copper and breath and need.

It wasn’t careful, nor was it measured. It was the collapse of every insult, every sidelong glance, every moment you’d both tried to resist. For once, Will didn’t retreat into silence. He pressed harder, like he wanted to memorize the shape of you in the dark before the guilt could drag him back under. And you let him—because you were just as greedy, just as human. The kiss should’ve ended on the first pull of breath, but Will didn’t let you go. His mouth moved with desperation, lips rough, teeth scraping, his stubble dragging heat against your chin until you hissed at the sting. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he could burn the taste of you into him.

The cold hood pressed through your clothes, biting your back, but the warmth of his body caging you there erased everything else. His hands roamed—hesitant at first, then greedy—fingers skating along your waist, up your sides, pausing as though asking for permission he had no real intention of keeping.

Your breath fogged in the night air, his joining yours in frantic bursts. The sharp autumn chill left your cheeks raw, your lips swollen, your chest rising with every stolen gasp between kisses. He pressed into you, hard and definitely undeniable. The metal beneath your spine vibrated faintly with the tension.

When his hips shifted, you felt it—that thick, insistent, straining bulge against denim. He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, like it embarrassed him to be this worked up. His hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, grounding himself in the feel of you beneath his palm. “Feel that?” His voice was hoarse, words rasped like they’d been dragged out of him. His forehead dropped against yours, nose brushing red from the cold. “That’s how much I want you. Right now. Here.”

The confession was jagged, almost incoherent. Followed by another kiss, sloppy and wet, your teeth clashing his again until he grunted. His other hand tangled in your hair, holding you there, as though he thought you might vanish if he loosened his grip. “I shouldn’t,” he muttered, though his body betrayed him, pressing harder, rocking into you like instinct had won. “But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

Your fingers found the hem of his jacket, pulling, and his breath caught. For a heartbeat, he seemed to falter—then something cracked in him, and he surged forward, lips crushing yours again. His body and soul were losing control. His tongue traced your mouth with messy urgency, stubble scratching raw patches along your jaw and throat as he marked you with nothing but hunger.

The cold gnawed at any exposed skin, his hands cold on your sides until they warmed from contact. Your body trembled, but whether from the weather or the need, you couldn’t tell. “Yours,” Will murmured against your throat, incoherent between kisses, like a confession and a prayer. “I’m yours. I want to taste you, feel you, bury myself in you.” His voice cracked on the last word, raw and unpracticed, like he hadn’t spoken desire out loud in years.

He pressed harder against you, grinding his clothed arousal into your hip with an unsteady moan. The shape of him was obvious now, thick and straining against the right his jeans, and the sight alone had you clenching your fingers in his shirt, dragging him closer.

Will’s control wavered dangerously. One hand cupped your face, thumb dragging across your flushed cheek, while the other clamped down on your hip, holding you still as though you might dissolve into the night. His kisses grew wilder, wetter, more insistent, trailing from your lips down to the hollow of your throat where he bit lightly—enough to sting, enough to make you gasp.

The cold air made every inch of exposed skin feel electric. Your breath came in broken clouds, his chest pressing your back flat to the hood. He whispered, his voice fractured against your skin. “I need you. Please—”

It was begging, but not the kind of begging that weakened him; rather, it stripped him bare, showed you the hollow need underneath the profiler’s sharp edges. He was equal parts dominant in the way he pressed you down, and submissive in the way he confessed, unraveling for you in a place he should never have touched you. And he didn’t care. Not anymore.

The kiss broke only when oxygen demanded it—both of you gasping, lips swollen, chests pressed tight together. The metal beneath your back was ice cold, but Will’s body had you caged in heat. His hands tugged at your clothes with desperation, like each layer between you was unbearable.

Your jacket slid halfway off your shoulders, your blouse tugged loose from your waistband under his trembling fingers. The night air nipped viciously at every patch of exposed skin, raising goosebumps instantly, but it only made his touch burn hotter. When you reached for him in return, your nails skimmed the hem of his shirt, dragging the fabric up to expose a strip of pale skin. He hissed into your mouth as the cold bit him, then groaned when your palms splayed across the heat of his stomach.

He muttered, breaking the kiss to pant, his forehead pressing into yours. His voice was guttural, cracking with hunger. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… couldn’t stop thinking about it.” The confession ended on a groan as your hips lifted against his. He bucked forward instinctively, denim grinding denim, the thick strain of him pressing right where you needed him. His breath shattered. “I thought solitude was your thing, but look at you… clinging.” You could’ve teased more, but every insistent buck cut your air supply.

He gasped, his voice harsh as his lip trembled, his hips rutting again before he could stop himself. He kissed you again, rougher this time, your teeth clashing. His stubble scraped your chin raw, the sting feeding into the frenzy. One of his hands tangled in your hair, yanking your head back enough to drag his mouth down your throat. He sucked, bit, desperate for any reaction, his teeth leaving little shocks of pain that melted into pleasure.

“Do it harder, Will. Don’t hold back.” The words were barely audible beneath the sound of heavy breaths and sharp winds. “God, you feel so good—so fucking solid against me.” You moaned, and he lost himself to the sound—hips grinding harder, the friction crude and perfect. The cold made everything sharper. Your cheeks flushed red, your breath fogging in bursts between kisses, your nipples tightening beneath your shirt until even the brush of fabric was maddening.

His hands were everywhere. One gripped your thigh, yanking it higher against his hip, dragging you into his grind. The other clawed at your shirt until it bunched under your arms, baring you to the night air. His thumb grazed the peak of your breast through your bra, and he swore under his breath, almost reverent. He rasped, pressing his forehead into your jaw, his words muffled against your skin. “I shouldn’t—, I shouldn’t—but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. Please don’t make me stop.” he found you beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. It felt foreign.

Your answer was another grind of your hips into his, and that was all it took. He bit down on the curve of your shoulder, muffling a groan as he shoved his thigh between yours, pressing you open, making your skirt ride high against your hips. The friction built fast, it was sloppy, and all too raw.

He was rutting into you shamelessly, the outline of him thick and straining against his jeans, the rough drag making you whimper. He caught the sound, swallowed it with another kiss, messy and wet, his tongue desperate against yours. His words tumbled between kisses, incoherent but wrecked with sincerity.

“Want to taste you—” “Want to feel you—” “Want to bury myself in you, make you mine—”

Each one punctuated by another thrust of his hips, grinding into you like it was the only way he knew how to survive. His hand slid beneath your bra, fingers clamping around bare skin and fat, and your back arched, offering yourself up even as the cold air stabbed goosebumps into your exposed chest.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling, guiding him back to your lips. His moan was muffled but needy, almost broken, like he was begging you to keep him anchored even as he fell apart. The air was freezing, your bodies were flushed, and every inch of restraint he’d clung to was gone—left scattered across the hood of your car along with the clothes you’d both half-stripped away.

The first pop of fabric had his breath stuttering. He leaned down, bottom lip dragging against your chin, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was already messy, half-open, all tongue and hunger. His lips parted only long enough to rasp, before your fingers tugged the next button free.

You broke away just to taste the air around him, and he followed like a starving man, hands braced on either side of your hips. The weight of him pressed you back against the cold metal hood of your car. He groaned when you arched up, when the ridge of his cock met the heat between your thighs through too many layers. The sound wasn’t polite. It was guttural and  dragged out of him like he was in pain.

His jacket slipped first, shoulders shrugging it down in a clumsy fight not to break contact. You pushed it away, then skimmed your palms under his shirt until your fingers brushed his ribs. Lean muscle trembled beneath your touch—tighter than he looked under the lecture-hall tweed. Will gasped, sounding almost angry. “Don’t—tease me.”

But you did. You caught his lower lip between your teeth, bit just enough for him to jolt, then ground harder against him until the buttons of your slacks caught on his zipper. His whole body rocked with the friction, eyes squeezing shut, breath spilling in hot bursts against your cheek. Silence stretched for a beat, only the sound of fabric slipping, his belt buckle clinking, the wet slide of mouths reconnecting. Then his muttered grunts as your words echoed in his mind, like he was reliving this moment ten-fold. You tilted your hips deliberately, dragging his erection right where you wanted it. It was like he wanted you to acknowledge this moment. How it felt. How he felt. “I feel you.” Your nails pressed into his back through his shirt. “And I’m not stopping.”

His hips snapped forward, he couldn’t control the urge. The hood groaned and dented beneath you, metal biting into your spine, but it didn’t matter. The world had shrunk to Will’s weight, Will’s mouth, Will’s shaking hands finally yanking your shirt open to free the soft mounds of flesh that begged for attention.

His muscles flexed under your touch, lean lines shifting as he fought for rhythm, fought not to collapse into you. He tasted like sweat and salt when you kissed him again, and when you pulled back you watched him lick his lips like he needed to savor every trace of you he could steal.

The grind turned filthy, his cock straining hard against his jeans, dragging through the damp heat at your pussy. Each thrust had him groaning, breath catching, muttering fractured things against your neck. He didn’t finish the thoughts. He didn’t need to.

His hands were freezing, shaking, but the sound he made when he felt your body respond had you gasping harder than the touch itself. You tugged at his belt then, fumbling, the metal biting your fingers. He cursed when you freed it, when the jeans loosened and you pushed them just low enough to grind more directly against him. Now it was only thin fabric between you—your underwear and the damp front of his boxers, nothing else.

He shuddered at the contact, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading despite the cold. His voice broke on the edge of a moan, he cut himself off with a whimper he tried to swallow in your mouth. Your own sounds richoeting across the valley’s ever winding tree’s. The last shred of control snapped when your fingers tugged his waistband down. His jeans shoved awkwardly to mid-thigh, boxers following, and there he was—long, flushed, the base shadowed with curls that mirrored the unruly mess of his hair. It wasn’t neat, like him. The sight of him straining hard, already slick at the tip, had you dragging your nails into the hood of the car just to keep steady.

Will groaned low in his throat as the cold air hit him, hips jerking reflexively toward your cunt. “God—” His hand shot out, clamping your thigh and forcing your legs wider. The metal hood burned through your spine, and then he was grinding bare against you, no barriers left.

He didn’t ease in. He thrust hard, rutting, cock sliding over your soaked underwear until the friction made both of you whimper. The wet sound of it filled the silence, broken only by the scrape of his teeth against your jaw and the ragged drag of breath.

You tore your panties aside, fingers trembling, and his cockhead immediately caught at your entrance. The stretch of him even just there made you gasp aloud.

He pushed—slow at first, trembling with restraint—and then you pulled back. Just the tip. His groan was guttural, frustrated, chest heaving against yours. “Don’t—fuck, don’t do that—” His voice cracked, sharp with need. He tried again, hips rocking, only for you to hold him at the brink. Your lips brushed his ear. “Say you want me.”

He cursed, hips bucking helplessly against your grip. “I—Christ, I want—want all of you—please.” The word please sounded foreign in his mouth, desperate, torn out of him.

You let him slide deeper, inch by inch. His head dropped to your shoulder, a hoarse groan muffled against your skin as he sank into the heat of you. Every twitch of his cock made your walls flutter, clenching greedily around him. He bottomed out with a shudder that wracked his whole frame, then stilled, breath coming in harsh bursts of condensation in the frigid air.

He went silent, you could feel his jaw clenching against your skin. Then he moved and he wasnt gentle. He snapped his hips, grinding deep, dragging back only to slam in again until the hood beneath you squealed against its bolts. Every thrust knocked your lungs empty, moans spilling with the rhythm of his body claiming yours. His lips were firm when he kissed you again, open and wet, saliva smeared between both mouths as he licked at your lips. The sound of his hips slapping against yours was drowned only by his guttural moans, deep and primal, as though sex was dragging words from a man who never spoke them. Your bodies steamed against the cold night, breath fogging and breaking with every frantic thrust. Each thrust smeared wet heat between you, slippery and obscene, your slick dripping down his thighs. The faint clank of his belt buckle against the car's front bumper echoed every time he punched upwards. His cock dragged raw against you, every vein, every ridge forcing your body to mold around him.

Your thighs tightened around him. “You like using me as your little escape, don’t you?” you asked, voice losing its power. He groaned in response, thrusting harder, the creamy precum coating your lips, were vivid fluorescent pearls in the quiet night. His dominance peeked through now—his hand pinning your wrists above your head, his body caging you, the grind of his cock ruthless. But his eyes were wild and glassy, they gave him away. He wasn’t in control. He was begging your body to anchor him. Your body began sliding up the hood of the car, its vibrating metal loud from the friction. His breath stilled, the tight clench of your pussy ripping each regretted groan from his throat. His body trembled against yours, every shallow thrust cut short as you refused to take him fully, keeping him buried only at the tip. “Don’t run from me. You wanted this, now you take it.” Each drag of his cock along your entrance sent shocks of overstimulation through him, his hips jerking forward on instinct, his thighs quivering as though his restraint were fraying with every pass. The blunt head pressed just inside, slick and swollen, dragging through your wetness before slipping free again, teasing both of you to the edge of madness. He could barely meet your eyes, but the sight of you falling apart made him gnaw on his lip. You felt so good that he'd beg if you truly dared to stop.

Your arousal gushed down his length, coating him until the movement became obscene, each rut of his hips splashing wet heat between you. He groaned against your neck, but you held him there, forcing him to feel everything—the way your walls clenched around nothing, the way his own cock throbbed violently at the denial of deeper friction.

The torment made you gush harder, a sudden rush soaking the base of his stomach as your body shuddered with an unexpected spasm of release. The gush only made the glide messier, louder, until it was all slick squelches and the slap of his hips against your thighs. He nearly lost himself in that moment, his cock twitching, desperate to bury itself fully, but you kept pulling away just as the head slipped inside, dragging out the sharp, unbearable edge of his need.

Every withdrawal left him more wrecked, precum mixing with the flood between your thighs, smearing against your skin. He was pulsing against you, the head of his cock so swollen it looked painful, his body begging for more even as you guided the rhythm with cruel precision. Your restraint unraveled him, turned him inside out—until the line between your arousal and his own slick need blurred together, dripping freely onto the hood beneath you.

“You think you can torment me like that and not pay for it?” he panted, hips snapping. ““You don’t get to tease me like that and walk away unscathed. You’re—driving me—fuck—” You clenched around him, dragging your nails down his back, pulling him closer every time he tried to slow. He broke with it, groaning your name like curse. His body trembled, cock twitching deep inside you, and when you squeezed tighter, his whole frame jerked.

He came hard, spilling hot and messy, burying himself so deep you gasped at the fullness. His forehead slammed into your collarbone, muffled cries breaking from his throat as his release pulsed inside you, relentless, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Your own climax followed, ripping through you sharp and sudden, every muscle locking tight around him. You choked out his name, legs quivering around his hips, fingernails biting crescents into his shoulder blades.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just panting and gasping, with the smell of sex heavy in the cold night air. It’s like it hit you all at once. There was the faint musk of clean dog hair and pine from him. That impure smell of copper from either building or the whispers of the morgue he couldn’t seem to wash away—wafted in the air. It was a scent that made this feel more feral than a human. His cock twitched weakly inside you as he collapsed against your chest, sweat chilling fast against your skin. Finally, he lifted his head, eyes blown wide, lips red and raw. His voice was a hoarse whisper: “You’re going to ruin me.”

But he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, shuddering breaths fanning your throat, clinging like he needed to keep you there to survive the aftermath.

When he finally eased back, it was with reluctance, his hands gentle for the first time as he smoothed your blouse back into place, tugged your coat up to shield you from the cold. He looked like a man broken open, dazed, not ready to face what just happened. Silence settled between the two of you, cold arousal fluids sending waves of chills down your spine. “If you regret this, tell me now. Otherwise, I’m not letting you go.” your voice was soft, conflicted.

Instead of receiving a concrete answer, he whispered, “You’re freezing. Stay with me. Just for a little while longer.” Before stepping away, he pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then silence, before eyeing his surroundings. The slaughterhouse may have emptied, but the true carnage was here—on the hood of your car, in the ruin of Will Graham’s restraint. And in that moment, you weren’t sure if you were saving him, or sinking with him

It didn’t matter, not even as he stumbled away towards his car after wishing you a goodnight. Leaving you wiith the weight of him inside you, even in absence and the warmth of your love heavy against his shoulders. You realized then—if you were going to eat him alive, he’d let you.

While driving home you wondered to yourself if this would be mentioned in Will’s next encounter with Hannibal. Though, you shouldn’t expect too much. But it had you thinking…

“If Hannibal had been watching, I think Will would’ve let him.” A/N: This is incredibly long-winded (because I couldn't stop typing without suddenly having something else come to mind and needing to be added.) But hopefully, anyone who reads it will enjoy it. This will probably be my first and last Hannibal related post. (I love the series but I have no fanbase for it, unfortunately, and I don’t think I did it justice so!)

[gagged0ngore]

No, I dont have daddy issues

[gutsby]

Birds & Bees

Pairing: Sex Ed!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel explains how babies are made.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body parts—don’t like, don’t read.

Note: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” is a song by Journey 🕺🏻

Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.

Word count: 18.0k

Surely, it hurt.

It had to.

Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didn’t sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabin’s walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.

“Tommy.” The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. “Pleeease!”

It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Miller’s voice rejoin in turn:

“You fuckin’ love it, don’t ya, baby?”

No, clearly, your wife is in pain.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasn’t all that often you got to see Joel’s only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didn’t get very much of that with Joel.

He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.

Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, it’d been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a ward—you weren’t totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though you’d never been anything to any man before.

That was one of the drawbacks to being born and raised in the remote, post-apocalyptic world as you were: pure naïveté. Not knowing one thing by way of societal norms.

You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:

“Joel!”

The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.

Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.

And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didn’t think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.

Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.

“Fuckin’ sh—” he started, voice thick with sleep.

“Joel, hurry!” you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. “T-Tommy’s hurtin’ Maria! We need to help.”

A low groan sounded in Joel’s throat—not entirely unlike the one that you’d heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a moment—and shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.

And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.

“Just listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-I’m serious.”

You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.

Honestly, you probably didn’t even need to do that—the room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joel’s breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, then—

“Ohhhh, fuck me! Tommy, it’s—shit!” Maria whimpered.

“You asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundin’ ya, huh?”

Tommy’s words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.

“See?! He—He’s hittin’ her! We gotta g—”

Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.

You hadn’t realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joel’s, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you could’ve sworn you felt a…lump?

“Fuck,” Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.

“What—” he panted, “—are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

You blinked.

“So…go!”

“What?”

“Stop ‘em.”

“From what?”

“Fightin’, Joel!”

Now, it was his turn to blink.

He waited several seconds, then continued.

“Babygirl, Tommy and Maria ain’t…ain’t havin’ no fight.”

For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.

The ride home was awkward.

Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.

What he had come to suspect for the longest time—and what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul you’d known all your life until him had been your grandmother—was true. You didn’t know what sex was, or what it did.

Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. You’d been cross with him all that day.

“Venison and cornbread for supper. How ‘bout it?” He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.

Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.

You shrugged against him.

“Fine by me.”

Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldn’t see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.

He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that you’d been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.

He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.

Then you turned to face him.

The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seen—hell, it’d been years since anybody, but this…this was even worse, more jarring than he ever…

He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.

“Sweetie,” Joel started, low. “I think your, uh—”

“Will you just tell me?” you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. “Whatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think I’m…I’m…young, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!” Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joel’s resolve. “Ain’t like it’s my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.”

You were right.

Joel shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you could’ve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.

He must’ve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew he’d never seen this…thing once before.

Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.

“Well?” you said.

“Well,” Joel repeated, still floundering for words. “Wh—Well, y’know, I…see, I’ve—I’ve been…‘S’always been…”

Shit.

He was tongue-tied.

More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.

And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeans—even though, at his age, Joel couldn’t get bricked that quick if his life depended on it—he shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.

“I’ll…I’ll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?”

“Alright.” You started trailing behind him slowly.

You didn’t sound convinced. Joel wasn’t remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didn’t seem to see it.

You were as innocent and clueless as the moment you’d bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, ‘If they ain’t fightin’, what are they doin’?’

“Who gave you that dress, anyway?”

Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients you’d need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt

“Maria,” you answered, simply. “She let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. ‘S’nice, ain’t it?”

“It looks like something you’d wear on your honeymoon.”

After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.

Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:

“What’s a honeymoon?”

Joel couldn’t help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.

Innocence, too.

“Just a, uh…trip that folks would take right after their wedding,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Vacation.”

“Oh.”

For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realization—what the world was like before it all splintered apart—and neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.

Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.

“So this is what I’d be wearin’ after gettin’ hitched? Like…like Tommy and Maria did?” You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.

“Yeah. I mean…”

Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.

“…not immediately.”

When he had, you were right back beside him.

“Doin’ whatever we heard this morning, you think?”

The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.

Having sex, of course.

Why the hell hadn’t your grandma bothered to tell you?

“Yes,” Joel replied, stiff as anything. “That’s…part of it.”

“How much of it?”

“Well—”

“And why’d it sound like Maria was in pain?”

“Baby, that—that ain’t any real pain, I pr—”

“She was screamin’, Joel! Really hollerin’.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He absolutely hated this.

With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thought—‘I promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like this’—he balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.

Your brows pinched.

“So then, what were they—”

“—can’t do this right now, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naïve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.

“We can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.” Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didn’t slow.

And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.

“Whatever, Joel.”

Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.

Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age won’t be such prudes!”

It was the closest you’d ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.

He dropped whatever he was holding then.

With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words you’d just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.

“Darlin’.”

He wouldn’t get angry.

“Sweetheart. Sw—Hey. Look at me.”

That simply wasn’t in his nature. He loved you too much.

You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didn’t feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.

So what if he couldn’t be with you how he wanted?

He could teach you, and that would be enough.

Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.

“Fine. You wanna learn about sex?”

As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.

How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.

You didn’t even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.

It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.

“I, um…”

Huh.

“What?”

“It’s just…” you went on, sounding uncertain.

“Baby, if you can’t even stomach the word, I’d say we’d be better off saving this conversation for another day.”

That made you tense up again.

As if he’d just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.

Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.

“Joel, I—I want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.”

Well, shit.

Joel reckoned that had ‘pretty please’ beat all to hell.

Your words damn near knocked him sideways.

It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spot—he had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.

“And just where did you learn that word, young lady?”

Paternal condescension came too easy to him.

Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.

You shrugged before him. Hummed back.

“Dunno. ‘S’what Maria said, right?” you replied, eyes locking with his. “Moanin’, ‘Fuck me, Tommy, pleee—’”

“That’s enough.” Joel held his hand up to stop you.

What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.

“If I’m teachin’ you a thing…” he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. “I mean one thing, sugar, we’re only using the clinical terms, y’hear?”

Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew he’d need to keep some…distance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.

“Alright,” you said, tucking your legs underneath you.

Another beat of silence.

Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.

“OK…” Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. “Has anyone talked to you about the, uh…birds and the bees?”

“You mean dicks and vaginas?”

“Hey.”

Joel choked.

His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.

Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.

“Sorry. Penises and vaginas,” you corrected yourself.

Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: ‘Thin ice, kid.’

You weren’t going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.

So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:

“Yes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.”

You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.

“Pole goes in the hole, and—”

“How’s it fit?” you cut in.

“What?”

Joel’s frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.

“I mean…every time I’ve seen one, it’s, um…wormy.”

Wormy?

“Wormy?” Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.

And he couldn’t contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: “You’ve—You’ve seen a dick before?”

“Penis, Joel.”

“Penis.”

He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.

You peered up at him.

“Just yours,” you said. A little sheepish. “Once or twice.”

Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.

“You’ve—” Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, you’d caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.

Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.

“OK, well, what’s…what the hell’s ‘wormy’ mean?”

“I dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.”

“That’s—” Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. “Well, hon, it doesn’t stay like that. It…It gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.”

Not terrible.

Not perfect, but not terrible.

You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him

Damn that smile of yours.

Damn those gleaming eyes.

“Can you show me how?” you asked softly.

Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.

‘That ain’t right,’ was Joel’s first instinct, which he said.

Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didn’t seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.

“How come?” you asked. “It’s just teachin’, Joel.”

Too easy.

Joel swallowed and shook his head.

“No. Sweetheart, teachin’s a whole other beast from…from me showin’ you what I mean. You gotta know that.”

Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.

You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.

As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldn’t bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why he’d need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasn’t remotely prepared for what you ventured next.

You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.

Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.

Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruise—which you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attention—you said:

“Joel, look.”

He did.

He almost had to.

Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal

Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.

“How ‘bout me? Can you show it on me?” you whispered.

Joel didn’t have the bandwidth to mince words right now

Teachin’, touchin’, lovin’, squeezin’—he had that craving.

One look between your legs and the man would’ve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.

Your fingers wavered a little when you didn’t hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.

“Wait.” Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. “Sorry. I mean. You…you want me to show ya, sweetie?”

Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.

You were watching him closely.

“If that’s…OK,” you said.

Well, shit.

Nothing would make him happier.

Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.

Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:

“Is that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?”

Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.

You nodded.

You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.

Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didn’t give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.

“Right here?” he breathed, now level with your heat.

Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.

You didn’t know what you were doing then.

By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.

He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dress’s hem for him.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academic was what this would be.

“Anyone ever teach you about her?” Joel asked gently.

A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him he’d have to take this slow.

“Her?” you murmured.

“Yeah. Her.”

Joel wished his hands weren’t so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefully—cautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him forever—and then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.

Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.

You spread your thighs a little more.

“Private parts have…pronouns?”

That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.

“‘S’called a ‘vulva,’ baby.” Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. “This whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, y’know? But can you repeat that word for me?”

“Vulva.”

The word was foreign on your tongue. You didn’t seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.

“Just like that, baby. Good. Reckon it’s best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.” Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. “Now what’s this called? You already said it.”

“The…um, vagina.” With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for it—two tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.

You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.

“Joel.”

Then it felt like you were pulling back.

“What’s’a matter, baby? Everything alright?”

Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. I just feel…”

A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words

“Is it normal? I feel a little…weird, and…and…”

Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.

“Yeah, darlin’? What feels weird? Talk to me.”

At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.

A sigh escaped you.

“Joel, I’m…I’m just…sticky down there.”

You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.

Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.

Instead, he nodded up at you.

With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over him—towering, compared to his obeisant kneeling—Joel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.

“Yeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?”

It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasn’t something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.

“Means she’s happy,” Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties down—very nearly hearing the tacky sound.

Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academ—

“It hurts, Joel,” you said.

“Hurts?” Joel blinked once. “Where’s it—”

Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joel’s eyes widened.

“Right—Right here. It aches. Make it go away, please.”

“Baby—”

“Please, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?”

He did, of course.

He just never thought it’d include touching you half-nude

Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasn’t decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.

His lips were the first to give way.

They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your own—lower, and wetter, but still your lips all the same—and they didn’t hesitate. They formed an ‘o’ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.

Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.

The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joel’s salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.

‘Joel,’ you whined.

‘Joel,’ you pleaded.

‘Joel’ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.

Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didn’t waste time.

“That’s your clitoris, sweetheart.” Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. “Sensitive, ain’t she? Say ‘clit’ for me.”

Your jaw was slack.

Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:

“Joel…oh…oh…”

“‘Clit,’ baby. Say it back.”

Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.

Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.

He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.

“How’s about it? Got lots more ground to cover.”

You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.

“Cl—Clit. Can you kiss it again, please?”

And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didn’t make use of that mouth of his, fast.

He kissed your clit like he’d done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it up—to really hit your pleasure point and make you squirm—when another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition

“Ever heard of a thing called a ‘g-spot,’ baby?” Joel said.

You shook your head no.

With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadn’t slid down much since you’d let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.

“Watch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?”

“Where?”

“Inside you.”

“But I—why?”

“Feels good, trust me.”

Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didn’t press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legs—completely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps you’d hoped to replicate the sensation he’d given you, too, or you wouldn’t have moved so quickly.

Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldn’t feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.

“In here?” Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.

“Right there, baby. Push it in f’me if you can, alright?”

When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.

“It’s tight,” you whimpered.

“I know, honey, I kn—”

“I don’t like it.”

Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, you’d evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didn’t even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.

It hurts, you’d whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.

Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance then—even when you grimaced and groaned.

“You’re OK,” Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. “You’re alright, just stings a little bein’ stretched, huh?”

“Y-You said it would feel good,” you keened, mournful.

Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.

You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didn’t need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sitting—straddling—that spot. Joel stepped even closer.

His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied

“I said, I don’t—” you started, sharp.

“—know where it is. Lemme help you.”

Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly weren’t a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. He’d have to be quick.

So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared you’d had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.

It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give

Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.

Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.

“Oh, baby,” Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? That’s that special spot, there.”

Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.

It was like you weren’t quite sure how to answer for it—your body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.

Clearly, this wasn’t a pained hug. You wanted more.

“Remember what we call this spot, sweetheart?”

Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didn’t refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.

That wasn’t an answer, unfortunately.

Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.

“C’mon, darlin’, I know you ain’t forgot it already.”

Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.

Joel wasn’t letting you off that easy, though.

Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:

“Is this what we call your…clit, honey? Is that what it is?”

Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.

“N-N-No, this—this is it,” you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waiting—wanting to show him what you’d learned, as well—you were keen. “This is my clit.”

Pleasure must’ve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: ‘See? I’m really learning, Joel.’

A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldn’t contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.

Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he could’ve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lips—that was how thoroughly you’d softened him already. He loved it.

“Very good, baby, that’s your clit.” His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. “And what’s this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?”

Your brow furrowed.

Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.

“It’s…It’s my g-spot, right?” you ventured softly.

“Exactly right,” Joel cooed in your ear.

As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.

Joel was certain he’d never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.

He nuzzled your cheek.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

Another clench.

“Daddy’s girl.”

And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.

“Wh-What?” you stammered.

One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze

You were close.

Joel could hear it.

“Daddy?” you repeated, breaths ragged.

Of course, you’d never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in it—that feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.

He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.

Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: “Yeah. ‘M’not your old man, but that’s another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then that’s all it’s gotta be. Our own little special thing.”

Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldn’t control it.

Joel foresaw the question before it even arose.

“You doin’ OK, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”

“I—I don’t know. It kinda…sorta feels…”

“What? You got a funny feelin’, baby?”

You nodded.

His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around him—it didn’t surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didn’t even know what it was.

“That’s an orgasm, honey. ‘S’a good thing. Real good feelin’, if you just let it build and build for a little bit lo—”

“Wanna stop,” you hiccuped. “Feels like I’m gonna pee.”

Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than he’d ever known himself to be. You weren’t pushing him away; he wouldn’t force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.

Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.

“You’re not gonna pee,” Joel assured you gently. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t care. You know your pleasure’s the most important thing, right? ‘S’why I’m here, baby.”

It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.

“That’s makin’ love, y’know? Takin’ somebody’s pleasure into your hands and treatin’ them right. Makin’ it…good.”

“Makin’ love,” you repeated, just like you’d done for every other term he’d taught you that day. You drew in a breath

And, at the same time that Joel’s movements slowed with his speech—fingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feel—something stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement he’d had in ages.

Decades, maybe.

Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadn’t had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. He’d figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.

Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?

“Daddy,” you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. “Faster, please. I—I think that feels even better f’me.”

Joel couldn’t have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldn’t allow that. This wasn’t about him getting off.

He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after you’d taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.

That’s it.

This is for you.

“Daddy’s gonna take real good care of her,” Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “You just lie back an’ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?”

And you did.

When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, ‘What’s the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?’, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.

“Smart girl,” Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. “And what’s this little button called, baby? It feel good?”

You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:

“My clit. It—It feels so good when you do that, Daddy.”

“When Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?”

“Gives me that…funny feelin’ all over again.”

Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubt—that old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.

He tried to ignore it.

He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.

“And this?” he asked.

You told him.

He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:

“Th-That one’s my g-spot, Daddy. That’s—That’s—”

Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.

“That feels good, Daddy, please.”

Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.

He was much, much too old for you.

This was just a learning experience.

One measly orgasm and then he’d—

“Faster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.”

Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.

“Let it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,” he beckoned.

“Come? Where?”

“Here.”

And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didn’t squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hair—as if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while

Pretty girl.

Precious girl.

Daddy’s girl—you were everything, everything to him.

Heat flooded his jeans, and he didn’t even realize it.

It took him more than a couple seconds; he’d just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.

The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.

Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.

Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.

He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.

Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.

“Daddy.”

It sounded so sweet—still as innocent as ever.

You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.

He really, really needed to go.

“Are we gonna make love now?” Your smile was crooked.

Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.

He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.

“No. We aren’t,” he answered, pushing to stand.

He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:

“Lesson’s over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.”

The look you gave him then could’ve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.

“But—”

“Don’t talk back to me, neither,” Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. “Whatever happened today was teachin’, remember?”

You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.

You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.

“B-But, Daddy, I—I thought—”

His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.

“Ain’t nothing, honey.” He shook his head against the lie. “This was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine ‘bout it, best head into your room, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it.”

That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.

You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.

And, though he tried moving fast—pretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happened—he evidently couldn’t make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.

Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.

That hurt just about as bad as anything he’d ever felt.

He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:

“Daddy, please come back.”

Your body was abuzz from head to toe.

Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was another—both feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.

Though, really, you didn’t hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little ‘lesson’ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.

One moment being the most precious thing in a person’s eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you weren’t. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didn’t feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.

You wanted to hate him more than anything else.

You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when you’d sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hours—he’d offered to take you fishing that day, and you’d declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping you’d locate one that smelled the most like him.

One you could get off with, maybe.

“Ow,” you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.

You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps you’d been replicating since That Day—seeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each time—you stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.

Good girl.

Daddy’s girl.

‘S’what you are, right? All mi—

You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words he’d spoken to you just days ago? It wasn’t like you were wailing for the guy’s attention.

That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her life—weepy and needy wasn’t what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.

You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldn’t have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.

This wasn’t working.

After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didn’t feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You tugged Joel’s shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.

Your eyes scanned the room—for what, you weren’t sure.

You’d been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joel’s laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that should’ve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.

Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.

This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.

You rose from the bed and walked to it.

Maybe—most likely—you were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldn’t reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didn’t know what to touch.

What if you just…

Your brain didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.

Before you knew it—and damn, were you so, so stupid—you had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea you’d had in your life, then took it again.

You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.

It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadn’t the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for a…substitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joel’s worn, buttoned shirt.

You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.

But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldn’t budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.

“Just…go…inside,” you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joel’s thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasn’t such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.

“Hey, sweetheart?”

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.

Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.

A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.

You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.

Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.

For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.

Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadn’t gone near him in days, and the last things you’d said to him, apart from, ‘No, thanks’ when he’d asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, ‘Whatever’ and ‘Leave me alone.’

You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?

Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that he’d caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished you’d been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.

“Sittin’ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see ‘em,” Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. “Lupines, just like you like.”

You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.

“Thank you, Joel. I appreciate that.”

And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cagey—maybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouraged—Joel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.

“I’ll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, I’ll show you how to whittle. How’s that sound?” The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.

You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.

With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:

“I wanna try learnin’ on my own first. That’s what I’ve been doing, sittin’ here and admiring your handiwork.”

Lie.

“Get started in the kitchen, and I’ll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, um…push-cut technique I read about.”

Whatever that fucking means.

You’d heard Joel mention it maybe once.

In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldn’t notice that you weren’t wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.

“Well, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.”

Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife

If looks could kill, the man would’ve dropped on the spot.

Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldn’t budge an inch.

Joel held his project up to the light.

“See…whatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.” He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. “Wrist is always steady.”

Just shoot you in the head.

Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.

Then nothing.

‘This was wrong.’

“Wanna try it out yourself?”

Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.

Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.

“Gonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why don’t you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?” he pressed. He didn’t blink.

For a second, your world stood still.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Meanwhile, Joel’s was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion.

You didn’t think—probably couldn’t have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.

You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.

Joel’s expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that you’d retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.

Amused, even.

“I’m sorry,” you spit out. “It’s…It’s gross, I know. I’m—”

“—not mad at you, darlin’. Ain’t a thing to be sorry for.”

Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.

His expression softened even more, if that were possible.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, darlin’. This is my fault.”

You stood.

You didn’t wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.

Pleading with you gently.

“Baby—”

“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, all rancor and heat. “Quit callin’ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlin’, and whatever other name you think’ll make this all OK again.”

You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: “Wouldn’t hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!”

Joel’s expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind it—he wanted to reach out and touch you—but he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.

“Wasn’t nothin’…nothin’ wrong that you did,” he croaked.

“Was it?” you said, voice cracking in the same way. “Because you haven’t been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.”

“‘Cause I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done any of those things and…and stolen your innocence from you.”

“But I asked you to!”

“Don’t make no difference. ‘M’too old, and I shouldn’t—”

“—leave me to feel like I’m an idiot!”

“You’re not—”

“Like I’m broken and useless and stupid.”

You probably could’ve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joel’s expression only would’ve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.

He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.

“Baby, you gotta…” He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. “Believe me, ain’t none of that true. Wasn’t nothin’ you did—and you shouldn’t feel like you need to be usin’ my woodworking tools, neither…Should be somethin’…real.”

You couldn’t read his expression at the last.

Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.

“So show me,” you said. “Teach me.”

Your voice was weak. His lowered.

“You know why I can’t do that.”

Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a father’s, and didn’t budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.

And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:

“I stopped into town. Got you this.”

A little hand-held mirror.

You took it.

What for?

And you asked him that.

Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.

The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.

You took a seat on the bed.

Joel’s bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didn’t have to think about it.

“Like this?” you asked him.

Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bed—facing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered then—he scrubbed a hand down his beard.

He stared no lower than your collarbone.

You sat the mirror between your legs.

“Not here,” Joel said, jaw clenched.

The glass was rounded with a handle.

Perfect for holding it an inch away from—

“Baby,” Joel cut in, a little more choked. “I meant alone.”

“Then go.”

You were tired of feeling spineless—something naïve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didn’t change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didn’t want to see this, so be it.

You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.

The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.

She was pretty. Plush. Simple.

You’d never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had power—real, tangible power—inside it.

Joel’s mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.

His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.

Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.

For yourself, you corrected.

Your pleasure came first.

“Baby…” Joel trailed off.

He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.

Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.

“Darlin’—”

“What did I say about names, Daddy?” you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. “Don’t talk sweet if you’re not gonna treat me like it.”

You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that he’d be stood at the foot of the bed.

“‘M’always sweet on you,” he mumbled. “…ain’t I?”

“Maybe when you feel like it,” you countered.

You made a messy circle with your fingers.

Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.

“When you need it,” Joel rebutted once more.

His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.

Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.

Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you would’ve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.

A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after you’d seen it.

But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joel’s gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.

There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.

“Want Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?”

The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.

One inch.

One measly inch, and then they stopped.

That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.

“Daddy, ‘s’too tight. Can’t go any deeper.”

“An’ what did I teach you ‘bout squeezin’? ‘Bout keepin’ her nice an’ wet so the stretch ain’t so painful goin’ in?”

That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.

You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers you’d tried to push in wriggled

Joel grabbed the mirror.

“What’s this for?”

With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joel’s eyes slid up.

“Well?”

So this was a review, apparently.

You babbled, “My clit’s for—for makin’ me feel good.”

“An’ where else can you do that?”

“Here.”

Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didn’t have the grit to get it in.

“Here?”

So Joel did it for you.

With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.

He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no one’s surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joel’s was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.

And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.

With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joel’s finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping ‘o’ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.

He’d done this before, but it was your first time watching

You loved it.

You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. ‘Missed her Daddy, didn’t she?’ and ‘That’s it, open f’me’ made you dizziest.

Then Joel told you to strip down.

Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirt—luckily, you’d only done three or four—and you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.

It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, ‘Daddy, please,’ you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.

The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.

“This is…another spot,” he managed raggedly.

Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.

Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned

Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.

And what a gift it was to be told—shown—where to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasn’t so much a loss of control on Joel’s part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didn’t feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.

A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone

Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joel’s fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.

A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joel’s fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.

You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.

“M-More, Daddy,” you whimpered, greedy. “Please.”

No making sense of it then: you were desperate.

Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.

You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.

He was doing it again.

“Joel—” you tried his name, gentle.

“I—I can’t.” He shook his head. “We gotta stop.”

“But you don’t wanna. You’re just sayin’ that now.”

You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.

The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like he’d witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.

Groaned.

You must’ve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently

Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.

That hadn’t been your intention. You’d meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldn’t be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You weren’t sure what this meant, but you couldn’t help but recall the noise he’d made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommy’s place. It sounded eerily familiar—and you really hoped you hadn’t fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.

“I’m sorry!” you squeaked, yanking your hand back. “I’m— I— I didn’t mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?”

“Go—” Joel swallowed. Turned. “Go to your room, baby.”

Your heart sank.

You’d run him off again.

How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?

You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.

His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.

Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.

Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.

“Daddy!” you cried.

Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, ‘Are you alright?’ and, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

Something poked your stomach.

The reason that you weren’t able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joel’s lower half.

You pulled back. You stared.

Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.

He must’ve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that he’d been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you weren’t allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.

For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.

“Daddy?” And it was more a breath than a question.

Joel’s expression hardened, same as it had earlier—only this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.

“Darlin’,” he said, stern. “This is a grown man problem. Don’t want you havin’ to deal with none of it f’me, OK?”

“But I’m grown, too.”

You said it without thinking.

It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.

Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.

“Sweetheart—” he started to warn.

“Can I touch him? Just…just a little.”

Your voice was soft as you asked him.

Your movements were slow as you approached—you didn’t touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.

“One touch an’ you’re done. Y’hear that, honey?”

It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.

And it wouldn’t work—you were reaching out.

Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: this…thing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.

It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldn’t even reach your middle finger to your thumb—that was how thick he was. You probably should’ve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.

Joel let out another rumbling sound.

He pried you off by your wrist.

“There. You touched ‘im.”

“Daddy’s…penis, right?”

You knew that he’d taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.

And, sure enough, Joel’s irises were swallowed up.

His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.

“Yeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of ‘im.”

He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didn’t follow at first.

You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.

A grown man’s problem.

Not yours. Not now.

“Can’t even stay hard,” Joel said suddenly. Humorless. “Takes me more’n an hour on a good day. That’s why I say it’s a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.”

That made you bristle.

You stepped closer. “‘Little thing’?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t got nothin’ to do with your bein’ a full adult—which you are—but your experience. Years you got under your belt.” And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.

Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you little…

You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.

“That wasn’t no invitation, sweetheart—”

“I want you to treat me like I’m grown.”

And really, that was all you could say.

No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, ‘Treat me as an equal, Joel’ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.

For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.

Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.

“That what you want?” Thumbing at your cheek.

You nodded. You softened under that touch.

“C’mere, baby.”

C’mere.

Come to daddy.

The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.

Smiling.

“‘S’what I wanted to do this whole time,” he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. “Should’ve been the first thing I did—that’s how real folks do it.”

Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.

You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.

“Now where’s my sweet girl?”

That you could answer without words. So you did.

Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.

Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.

Gaping.

“Y’know what made him so hard, baby?” Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. “Tell Daddy.”

So he was still in teaching mode.

Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.

“A-Arousal,” you stammered. Swallowing. “Your penis gets big whenever you’re aroused, uh, seein’ something.”

“And what did Daddy see?”

Your face heated.

“Well…”

Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.

“You can tell me, darlin’.”

Another beat.

“Me?”

Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.

“That’s right. You made Daddy so hard,” he murmured.

Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joel’s lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.

In his fist, Joel’s length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.

“I’m an old man,” he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. “He don’t…stay hard for very long.”

You swallowed.

You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.

“Daddy…” you whined. You didn’t like to see him sad.

“Couple kisses from your pretty lips might wake ‘im up, though. Could ya…Could ya do that f’me, hon? Kiss ‘im?”

You didn’t think twice—you treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.

Joel groaned.

He cursed again.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised you, voice strained.

You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of pain—or what sounded like them to your ears—were really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, ‘That feel OK, Daddy? That…better?’

“Ten times better,” Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. “That—That’s what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?”

You cocked a brow at him.

Joel chuckled, “‘S’what it’s like, right? Lickin’ a lollipop.”

Hearing that, you couldn’t keep your lips from twitching.

Okay. Lollipop.

That made it more fun.

When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.

And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joel’s hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.

Your old man.

You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldn’t begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.

Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.

He twitched in your palm.

“Baby, how ‘bout you put Daddy’s penis in your mouth?”

He said it so soft—so ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of it—that you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.

“Like…Like this?” you stammered. Lowering.

You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.

You expected Joel to be put off—irritated, even.

But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as ever—his member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneously—he watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath

And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain

“Honey…” Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. “Darlin’, I’m—I’m— I can’t last.”

You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joel’s other hand was moving, too.

This one reached lower.

It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.

More squishy stuff.

It wasn’t…part of Joel’s dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.

“Y’know what’s in there, baby?” Joel murmured.

You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.

That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.

A soft chuckle, “Guess we never got to that part, huh?”

For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You might’ve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.

You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before you’d even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.

He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didn’t unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.

“Baby.”

You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.

He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.

“Yeah? What is it, Da—”

“We don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do, OK?” Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. “Hell, we can stop this right now. Save your—your, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you in—”

Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.

“If you say ‘age’ one more goddamn time, Joel…”

And it made you giggle, partly because you weren’t often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joel’s whole face as you said it: the guilt.

You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldn’t close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he looked…

“—scared,” you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. “Isn’t it my job to be freaking out? This thing’s colossal.”

You’d helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.

What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?

Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.

“Hey!” you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.

“That’s a big word,” Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. “‘Colossal.’”

“You’ve got a big dick.”

“Baby.”

“Sorry. Penis, I mean.”

Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his nose—with his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.

Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.

His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldn’t be outstripped by anything, it seemed.

Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.

“Y’know…” he trailed off, low. “Y’know how this goes?”

You did, sort of.

Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joel’s fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.

Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.

Not even just the tip.

“All of it goes in?” you asked him, gaze flickering up.

“All of it.”

Joel’s hips canted once forward, then once going back.

Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.

“Daddy goes in…” Another undulation. “…an’ out.”

Over the course of all your time observing Joel, you’d come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.

You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.

“‘Fore he can…‘fore he can move, or anything, Daddy’s gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.”

“Like you did with your fingers?” you supplied helpfully.

Joel winced.

“Well, a—a little like that.” And he paused to consider his words. “Except, uh…Daddy’s gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he might…well, there’s this stretch of skin he might…rip.”

“Rip?” You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.

Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.

“Ain’t that bad, I-I don’t think. You might not even have it. There’s just this thing inside of some women—a little tissue, I s’pose—called a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, and—and with everything else… stretchin’, y’know, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?”

You nodded, “OK.”

Joel lined himself up.

He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.

Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiver—was this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as you’d ever been.

You wanted to get the hurt over with.

“Put it in,” you urged, soft. “Go on.”

Joel’s lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.

“Ain’t that simple,” he mumbled back. “It ain’t…polite.”

For what?

You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directly—poking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.

Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head again—gentle, but insistent—and sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.

“That’s why, darlin’,” Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. “Only polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.”

And if you weren’t almost shaking in fear, you wouldn’t have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, y’know that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.

You trusted him.

Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.

Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.

“Just look at me,” Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. “Look at Daddy now, alright, baby?”

You did.

You nodded.

Joel pressed his hips forward, and—

“Fuck!” You swore under your breath.

It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joel’s length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.

“Keep going. Please,” you begged him.

Joel groaned. His whole body shook.

“Baby, this pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”

You must’ve felt like a fist to him—whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the man’s mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldn’t bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed

“Oh…oh, honey. Can’t hurt ya, little one,” he said, choked

“You won’t. I want it,” you murmured back.

As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.

Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought he’d never looked sweeter. Or needier.

You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joel’s most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongue—feel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.

“Right here, Daddy,” you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. “Show—Show me where it goes.”

You should’ve known that tapping into Joel’s pedagogical side would’ve stopped him on a dime.

And it did.

He blinked.

Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.

“Y-Yeah?” He leaned closer and blanketed your body.

You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.

“Please, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.”

Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.

He liked that a lot.

He’d give you exactly what you needed now.

And, in short order, that was what he did—lowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.

“Open for Daddy,” he said, without pretense or pause.

No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldn’t sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, ‘This is where Daddy belongs.’

“In—In my tummy, Daddy. Can feel ‘im in my tummy.”

“Yeah? Show me where.”

Joel’s hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.

You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.

“See Daddy there? All up in your guts?”

You did. You whimpered, “Uh-huh.”

Then, somehow, the man sank even deeper—what once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.

Joel let out a strangled sound.

“Feel—Feel Daddy here?”

As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way you’d felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.

You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.

Something more significant lurked under the surface.

“Your cervix,” Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.

Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasure—silly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joel’s neck and nodded your head, ‘Cer-vix.’

“You know where…babies come from, right, hon?”

That question stumped you for a second.

Slowly, you shook your head at him.

And, like the time not long ago when you’d told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.

“Well, this—this is what I was gettin’ at, darlin’.”

Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.

Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:

“The birds and the bees, I mean. This is…it. This is…”

Making love.

Making…

Joel didn’t even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.

“In here, ‘s’where a man stores semen. That’s—”

“The stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?”

The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s just what Daddy likes. Keep goin’,’ it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.

Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:

“Want it in me, Daddy.”

Joel choked.

Oh.

At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t name it.

You couldn’t place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joel’s body responded in kind, and he groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Daddy,” you squeaked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?”

Joel’s mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.

This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day he’d entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.

“Don’t—Don’t answer that,” he rejoined, hoarse.

“Please, Daddy. Please,” you whimpered back.

In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldn’t get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.

You didn’t need to ask. Joel didn’t need to speak again.

But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug him—tug him in, both between your arms and your thighs—it became readily apparent his resolve was shot.

His hips drew back and rocked forward.

His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.

No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldn’t take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always ‘my girl,’ ‘my darlin’,’ or ‘my sweet, precious baby’ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.

Joel’s did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed after—ropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.

How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyone’s guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak out—and, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.

Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“So, that’s how you do it.”

[thelhc]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[baeholic-deactivated20260306]

Request: hockey team captain! abby and gf reader whos a crybaby? size kink? and maybe argument sex?

ABBY is your college athlete girlfriend .ᐟ.ᐟ

cw // strap , rough smut , no aftercare (sorry not sorry) , very very rough , manhandling , hair pulling , doggystyle , cnc , dacryphilia , humiliation , degradation kink , slight humping , size kink used as physical advantage , consent is given , established relationship , dumbification

“Yeah? You really gonna cry the second we have a trivial disagreement?”

You could feel your cheeks flaming with humiliation. You hated your girlfriend at that moment. But there was something under that thick layer of hatred. There was deep, depraved arousal. And you hated that you felt that way.

The crotch of your panties were soaked— your thighs clenched together as if you were trying to feel the friction without having to reach down and rub yourself.

Abby didn’t notice at first— but when she wasn’t met with an answer, she looked down.

Then smirked.

Fucking asshole.

“Awww, did you get turned on when I talked to you like that?” Abby stepped closer. You took a hesitant step back. “Abby— don’t even—” your voice cracked.

“Don’t even what?” She taunted, her hand reaching down between your legs. She rubbed you through your pants. “What a dirty girl, hmm? You getting turned on from me calling you a fucking crybaby, is that right?”

Your eyes filled with fresh tears. “You’re such a jackass…”

“Oh, I’m so bad, aren’t I?” Abby asked, her voice softening with malice.

“You’re terrible,” you sniffled.

She just smirked wider, pinning your wrists above your head. You let out a whimper. It fueled her even more. She slid a leg between yours, forcing you to grind against her muscular thigh.

You bit your bottom lip hard, leaving imprints of your front teeth, your cheeks were so red you could put a tomato to shame.

Abby chuckled, “aren’t you the cutest little thing? Getting turned on from getting fucking degraded, huh? Didn’t know you had that in you, crybaby.”

You didn’t argue back. You knew she was right. You were sensitive and you did cry easily. But it wasn’t fair… Abby pushed you to your hands and knees on the bed and slapped your ass for good measure.

“Fuck, you really wanna do this while we’re arguing?” Abby murmured.

“I didn’t do anything. I’m just— you’re so bad.” You looked at the bed, eyes blurry with tears.

“Then why are you here with me? Hmmm? Why aren’t you pushing me away? Why aren’t you asking me to stop?” Abby cooed the last question.

“You’re…”

“Yeah? You like that, isn’t it?” She knew you did, and she only verbalised it to make you feel like the dirty slut that you both knew you were when it came to her.

“That’s none of your business.” You retorted.

“It’s my strap which’s ‘bouta be pumping in your hole, so of course it is my business.”

“You’re…” you swallowed your pride and words alike before finally uttering, “please, fuck me.”

You sounded adorable. Needy. Whiny.

Everything that made Abby want to give right in and fuck you silly.

She did.

She grabbed your hair, pulling it back till it strained your neck just slightly before she started pounding inside. The strap violently thrusted inside as your pussy gushed its liquids around it.

You were gasping for air, trying to say something that didn’t make much sense. Your words came out in wet sputters masking Abby’s smirk darken. She loved you like this.

Messy. Slutty. Helpless.

“Let go, slut,” she ordered, “the more you’ll squirm you’ll make it harder on yourself.”

Your pussy squeezed at that. “I—...”

Your tears soaked your rosy cheeks, sweat starting to slick your tits and pussy as she continued pumping inside.

She was animalistic when she was angry-fucking you and tonight was no different.

The headboard of the bed thudded against the wall, sure to have woken your neighbours but Abby wasn’t in a mood to care about that right now.

All she wished to do was make you cum till you were too tired to argue about… whatever it was you’d both been arguing about.

But at that rate?

At that rate, you were more likely to forget about it because of the way she fucked you dumber with every other snap of her hips.

𐔌 . ⋮ perma tags .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @chihirvs @sevikascumrag @blessupblessup @kkadoreme @wontilly @v1ck1sstuff @andreaaaxoxo @elliesngirl @angelz-void @ellz47 @sksksscarlet @luvelizaa @rawrspacecat @celinealways @joyispunk @qqueenpprincee @freakyjorker @macamilarofe @riotstemple29 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @defonot-mads @sevikahousewife @arealmissunderstood @thatoneloserdyke @loveforeviee @libbyofc @femmefawnforever @halle5s @nkeyaaa @sleeper4tonight @iloveclairo2016 @firefly-ace @rixieluvs @ladyybaby @wavesgocrash @collidewithdollface @kittiesdotcom @sevikasswifee @lesbainjoeburrowtruther @angelichimejoshi @keliamks @eden-weeden @vixenkii @frozenswedishfish @ash283719 @elliesfavtoy @neptunezxx @melanieeeeeeeeee2 @sera121212 @mikitheepen

[baeholic-deactivated20260306]

Request: hockey team captain! abby and gf reader whos a crybaby? size kink? and maybe argument sex?

ABBY is your college athlete girlfriend .ᐟ.ᐟ

cw // strap , rough smut , no aftercare (sorry not sorry) , very very rough , manhandling , hair pulling , doggystyle , cnc , dacryphilia , humiliation , degradation kink , slight humping , size kink used as physical advantage , consent is given , established relationship , dumbification

“Yeah? You really gonna cry the second we have a trivial disagreement?”

You could feel your cheeks flaming with humiliation. You hated your girlfriend at that moment. But there was something under that thick layer of hatred. There was deep, depraved arousal. And you hated that you felt that way.

The crotch of your panties were soaked— your thighs clenched together as if you were trying to feel the friction without having to reach down and rub yourself.

Abby didn’t notice at first— but when she wasn’t met with an answer, she looked down.

Then smirked.

Fucking asshole.

“Awww, did you get turned on when I talked to you like that?” Abby stepped closer. You took a hesitant step back. “Abby— don’t even—” your voice cracked.

“Don’t even what?” She taunted, her hand reaching down between your legs. She rubbed you through your pants. “What a dirty girl, hmm? You getting turned on from me calling you a fucking crybaby, is that right?”

Your eyes filled with fresh tears. “You’re such a jackass…”

“Oh, I’m so bad, aren’t I?” Abby asked, her voice softening with malice.

“You’re terrible,” you sniffled.

She just smirked wider, pinning your wrists above your head. You let out a whimper. It fueled her even more. She slid a leg between yours, forcing you to grind against her muscular thigh.

You bit your bottom lip hard, leaving imprints of your front teeth, your cheeks were so red you could put a tomato to shame.

Abby chuckled, “aren’t you the cutest little thing? Getting turned on from getting fucking degraded, huh? Didn’t know you had that in you, crybaby.”

You didn’t argue back. You knew she was right. You were sensitive and you did cry easily. But it wasn’t fair… Abby pushed you to your hands and knees on the bed and slapped your ass for good measure.

“Fuck, you really wanna do this while we’re arguing?” Abby murmured.

“I didn’t do anything. I’m just— you’re so bad.” You looked at the bed, eyes blurry with tears.

“Then why are you here with me? Hmmm? Why aren’t you pushing me away? Why aren’t you asking me to stop?” Abby cooed the last question.

“You’re…”

“Yeah? You like that, isn’t it?” She knew you did, and she only verbalised it to make you feel like the dirty slut that you both knew you were when it came to her.

“That’s none of your business.” You retorted.

“It’s my strap which’s ‘bouta be pumping in your hole, so of course it is my business.”

“You’re…” you swallowed your pride and words alike before finally uttering, “please, fuck me.”

You sounded adorable. Needy. Whiny.

Everything that made Abby want to give right in and fuck you silly.

She did.

She grabbed your hair, pulling it back till it strained your neck just slightly before she started pounding inside. The strap violently thrusted inside as your pussy gushed its liquids around it.

You were gasping for air, trying to say something that didn’t make much sense. Your words came out in wet sputters masking Abby’s smirk darken. She loved you like this.

Messy. Slutty. Helpless.

“Let go, slut,” she ordered, “the more you’ll squirm you’ll make it harder on yourself.”

Your pussy squeezed at that. “I—...”

Your tears soaked your rosy cheeks, sweat starting to slick your tits and pussy as she continued pumping inside.

She was animalistic when she was angry-fucking you and tonight was no different.

The headboard of the bed thudded against the wall, sure to have woken your neighbours but Abby wasn’t in a mood to care about that right now.

All she wished to do was make you cum till you were too tired to argue about… whatever it was you’d both been arguing about.

But at that rate?

At that rate, you were more likely to forget about it because of the way she fucked you dumber with every other snap of her hips.

𐔌 . ⋮ perma tags .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @chihirvs @sevikascumrag @blessupblessup @kkadoreme @wontilly @v1ck1sstuff @andreaaaxoxo @elliesngirl @angelz-void @ellz47 @sksksscarlet @luvelizaa @rawrspacecat @celinealways @joyispunk @qqueenpprincee @freakyjorker @macamilarofe @riotstemple29 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @defonot-mads @sevikahousewife @arealmissunderstood @thatoneloserdyke @loveforeviee @libbyofc @femmefawnforever @halle5s @nkeyaaa @sleeper4tonight @iloveclairo2016 @firefly-ace @rixieluvs @ladyybaby @wavesgocrash @collidewithdollface @kittiesdotcom @sevikasswifee @lesbainjoeburrowtruther @angelichimejoshi @keliamks @eden-weeden @vixenkii @frozenswedishfish @ash283719 @elliesfavtoy @neptunezxx @melanieeeeeeeeee2 @sera121212 @mikitheepen

[yourmum8609]

we girls are honestly simple creatures. we want one of two guys:

Dark, Sexy, Morally gray guy

pretty much exactly that lol

dark hair, nice eyes, scars, tall, you get the gist

super unaffectionate with else except her

spoils her like a princess

beats anyone up who looks at her AHHHHH

speaks another language (this is extremely important in bed)

Golden Retriever, Sweet, Handsome guy

literally the nicest guy in the entire world

loves cuddling, like cannot and will not go a day without it

kisses EVERYWHERE

also spoils you

constantly complementing you

is protective but not in a ‘you can’t wear that out’ kind of way

don’t break his heart istg