Synopsis: You love Aaron’s dominance a little too much and one night you finally get to experience it for yourself.
Content: 18+, smut, fingering, dominance, dirty talk, teasing, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, crying after orgasms (only in last paragraph)
Word Count: 1.7k
A/N: The criminal minds fixation has continued and dom Aaron weighs heavy on my mind
As the newest member of the BAU, having a crush on Aaron Hotchner shouldn’t have even crossed your mind. Who were you kidding? It was more than just a little crush and it wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon, definitely not with the way he was feeding into it.
Spanning over the next few weeks you’d noticed a few more subtle moments where Aaron radiated that dominance you’d come to drool over. Every moment you’d been playing over in your mind had been platonic at best. One night when the team returned from a marathon of a case, everything changed. You were beyond exhausted, barely keeping your eyes open. Everyone had already started filtering out and you were too tired to drive. You had planned to call an uber and deal with your car tomorrow, but that plan was discarded when Aaron offered to take you home. You tried to argue, but all it took was that firm tone of his and you were scrambling after him to his car.
By the time you got back to Aaron’s house, you were already nodding off and you woke up in his arms. It took a moment to process what had happened, letting out a surprised squeak as you did. Aaron had carried you all the way from his car into his house and he was sitting you on his bed. You tried to stand up, wanting to sleep on the couch so he could have his bed. As if he’d read your mind, Aaron lightly pushed you back down. “Sit.” He spoke in that same firm tone that always had you captivated. “Yes sir.” You said it without thought, cheeks turning bright red once you realized you had in fact said that aloud. “Sorry! That was.. I’m sorry.” You couldn’t make up much of an excuse in your still exhausted state. “Don’t be. It was cute.” Aaron replied with a little smirk. He tucked you into bed and you could’ve sworn he said “goodnight princess” as he did. You wrote it off, thinking you must’ve been imagining it as you drifted off to sleep.
You woke up the next morning in the tank top and shorts you’d packed in your go bag. In that moment, you realized Aaron had changed you into your pajamas. Your cheeks heated up again and as you sat up, they went even darker. Aaron was in bed next to you in only a pair of boxers. He woke up, giving you a little smile. “Good morning princess.” There it was, you hadn’t misheard the night before. You stared at him for a moment, at a loss for words. “I figure if I get a title, it’s only fair you do as well.” He explained, his lips curling up into that little half smirk of his. He did a stretch before moving to sit up, the smirk growing as he saw your wandering eyes. “You stare at me a lot you know, especially my hands. You think a fellow profiler wouldn’t be so obvious.” He was clearly unbothered as he teased you about it, but you were embarrassed nonetheless.
“Aww, you poor thing. Don’t get all pouty on me. Come here.” Aaron wrapped an arm around your waist, giving a little tug as a silent invitation to move closer. You didn’t dare fight him on it, gladly taking the opportunity to cuddle up in his side. “You seemed to have a rather interesting dream last night. Did you know you sleep talk?” He slipped his hand under your shirt as he spoke, his fingers delicately trailing along your bare skin. “I think sir, please don’t stop had to be my favorite bit.” You hid your face in his neck as he said that, unable to face him in all the embarrassment. Aaron used his free hand to grip you by the jaw, pulling you in to make you look at him. “Did I say you could look away?” As he spoke, he gradually got closer until his lips just barely grazed over yours. You made little stuttering noises, but no real words came out as he stayed so close you could feel his breath on your lips.
“Having a hard time using your words?” Aaron teased, gently brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “That’s okay, you’ve made it quite obvious what you want.” He let go of your jaw in favor of resting his hand on your thigh. “I believe it’s about time I show you what these fingers can really do.” He gave your thigh a little squeeze, letting his fingers run over your skin. “Let’s get these off first.” He pulled your shorts and panties down in one go, tossing them aside. “Much better.” He shifted and got himself positioned behind you, engulfing you in his touch. One of his hands moved down until his fingers met your center. His fingers glided over your soaking wet folds at an agonizingly slow pace and before you dared to push against him, his free hand gripped your hip to hold you in place.
“Can’t have you rushing me. That would just take away from the fun, don’t you think?” Aaron teased, tightening his grip on your hip as he spoke. Before you had a chance to respond, his fingers finally made their way to your clit. He slowly rubbed circles on the sensitive spot, moving in to trail kisses along your jaw as he did. It felt like ages passed before he slid two fingers inside you, curling them up toward the spot that drove you wild. You let out a breathy moan as your hips tried to buck up toward his touch. “Ah ah, I said no rushing.” Aaron teased, tightening his grip on your hip once again as he slowly moved his fingers out and back in to hit the same spot. “Aaron, please.” Your voice came out like a needy whimper, begging him for more.
“Aaron? What happened to sir? I thought we had a nice thing going.” Aaron spoke in that teasing tone of his, still moving his fingers in and out of you at a torturously slow pace. “Sorry— god, sir please.” You let out a whiny moan as his fingers continued to hit that same spot, leaving you that much more desperate. “Please!” You didn’t even recognize your own voice anymore, completely at his mercy. It was like a switch flipped all of a sudden, the agonizingly slow pace left behind and forgotten. Aaron’s thumb moved up to rub your clit as his fingers relentlessly pounded your pussy at a pace that couldn’t be described in words. The pleasure he gave was mind numbing and the sounds that came from you felt like nothing you’d experienced before. His fingers dug into your hip so harshly that you were sure he’d leave bruises and he was most definitely leaving marks on your neck with the amount of attention he’d put in each spot.
It didn’t take long before that all too familiar heat pooled in your stomach. You desperately clung to his arms, nails digging in as the feeling grew in intensity. “Please don’t stop! Please sir, I’m so close!” You pleaded with him and he gladly complied, except it didn’t end there. The heat in your stomach expanded until you felt like your entire body was on fire and your orgasm came over you in waves. Aaron didn’t stop once you’d finished, pulling little whimpering noises from you as you clawed at his arms. “Sir, please. Too much!” You whined, gripping at him desperately and squirming under his touch. “I believe you said don’t stop, didn’t you?” His breath landed on your neck as he spoke, trailing kisses all over the sensitive skin. “Yes but— oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” You cried out as a second orgasm suddenly washed over you, taking your protests along with it. You were right where you wanted to be, at the mercy of Aaron’s touch.
You’d lost count of your orgasms as the overwhelming pleasure continued. The overstimulation was torturous in both the worst and best ways. “Don’t know how much more I can take.” Your voice was whiny and weak, strained from the series of noises you’d let out. “Let’s see one more then princess. Just one more.” Aaron’s voice was soft against you as he kissed and nipped at your skin. With the overwhelming level of sensitivity you’d reached, it was mere moments before you came again. You could’ve sworn you’d screamed as your next orgasm ripped through you. You could feel your body shake from the overwhelming pleasure, riding it out until you fell limp against him with pathetic little noises escaping your lips.
You didn’t know what came over you as Aaron pulled his fingers out of you, but you did know that you were absolutely out of it. He wrapped the blanket around both of you, holding you close as you felt your body shake. You hadn’t processed what happened until you felt the wetness on his chest. You were sobbing into Aaron’s chest, clinging to him as you trembled. “I- I’m sorry. I don’t.. I’m not—“ You tried to form some type of coherent sentence but Aaron cut you off. “It’s alright princess.” He spoke in a soft tone, running his fingers through your hair. “You did so well taking all that for me. You don’t have to explain, I’ve got you.” Between Aaron’s soothing voice and his soft touch, you found yourself starting to drift off once again. “Get some rest princess.” That was the last thing you heard before you fell asleep.
I've just rewatched the latest episode of ctm and spoilers below the cut but-
something that really irked me in the sister veronica storyline (I will not be shutting up about this storyline because every other one has been reused to death on this show and this one really has me wondering what is going to happen) is how alone she is? No one was waiting to say goodbye to her. Sister Julienne was walking only to the post office with her. Shelagh came to see her at least but this also makes me think that everyone knew she was going. So where are the nurses? Sister Catherine? Following her discussions with Geoffrey, I think this really solidifies how truly lonesome she has found herself over the years because while everyone has found her to be overbearing, maybe she too had come to think that of herself like that in an attempt to stuff away this feeling she had. More than that, her faith (which to be honest, I always had questions over how truly devout she was but I think at the start she probably was very much so to actually go through with becoming a nun) which was her safety net also began to lose its stability. With so much of her faith being tied around mothers and babies but also *community*, I think that little void just cumulatively grew and grew. Her leaving by herself makes sense but it just makes it all the more sadder bearing in mind how she was initially presented to us and what we now know has been an ongoing inner turmoil she has carried with her.
Side note: she was also a midwife, but I don't really remember if it's ever mentioned why she switched over to being a health visitor but I feel like for the character, a good read could be that she thought she could be closer and more of an ongoing presence in some of these children's lives by ensuring their ongoing safety? Like what we saw with that one family this season. I haven't fully thought it out yet.
You just bought a new house that needed a lot of work. Luckily, your grumpy old neighbor was more than happy to fix everything—not because he was generous, but because it gave him an excuse to be close. To look. To stare. And you? Love the attention.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, hotgirl!reader, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), nipple play (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, filthy dirty talk, desperate!Joel, pervy!Joel, pathetic!Joel, age gap, Joel being down bad, obsessive staring, possessiveness, mild power play, teasing, so much cum (like he literally can’t stop), Joel not having sex in decades and it shows, Hot girl reader knowing she's hot, Joel being completely ruined by your pussy, and you loving every second of it
11k. Enjoy!
· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··
The house needed work. And probably a priest.
It wasn’t falling apart, but it also wasn’t move-in ready.
The kitchen faucet screamed whenever you turned it on, wailing like it had unfinished business in this world. The porch stairs were one strong gust away from sending someone straight to the ER- or the grave.
The back gate swung open on its own, which was either a poltergeist or just bad hinges, but either way, it sent an unsettling creak through the yard at odd hours of the night.
The lights flickered sometimes. The water pressure was unpredictable. The floors creaked loud enough to make you think twice before sneaking around in the dark.
But it was cheap. And it had potential.
And you?
You weren’t a DIY girlie, but you could figure shit out. Probably…. Maybe.
You did have a certain level of misplaced confidence that made you think you could tackle anything with enough trial and error.
The problem was—so far, it had been mostly errors.
Your first attempt at fixing the faucet resulted in a flood that had you sprinting to turn the water off before your kitchen turned into a slip-and-slide.
Trying to replace a light fixture nearly ended with you electrocuting yourself into another dimension.
And the less said about the unfortunate caulking incident of last Thursday, the better.
Still, you were determined. A little clueless? Sure. But determined.
You wiped sweat from your brow, standing in front of your latest challenge: the front door. It didn’t latch properly. It wasn’t quite crooked, but something was off. The hinges, maybe? You had no idea.
You just knew that a strong wind could blow the damn thing off, which wasn’t ideal for your safety or your sanity.
So there you were, kneeling on the porch, staring at a pile of tools you weren’t entirely sure how to use, the manual open beside you like it was about to offer some divine intervention.
You twisted the screwdriver in your hand, frowning at the misaligned screws. “Alright, bitch,” you muttered to the door, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
And that was when a shadow fell over you.
A heavy presence.
You turned, blinking up at the broad figure standing at the foot of your porch.
Joel Miller.
Your neighbor. Big, built, silent as the grave. Old as fuck.
You’d seen him around—on his porch, smoking, reading the newspaper, doing old people things and watching. Always watching.
Never introduced himself. Never waved. Never made an effort. Just sat there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes unreadable, watching the world pass him by.
Watching you.
At first, you thought it was your imagination. A trick of the heat, the way his dark eyes always seemed to linger just a little too long before darting away. But then, as the weeks passed, you realized it wasn’t just some coincidence.
Joel Miller was looking. A lot.
From behind the safety of his porch, through his truck window when he pulled into the driveway, stealing glances while pretending to tinker with something outside—he was always looking.
He wasn’t the type to catcall or whistle or let his jaw drop like some dumb, desperate idiot. No, but he did openly watch, with that brooding, set-jaw expression, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting the urge to jump.
A man seeing something he wanted—something he knew he couldn’t have.
And, honestly? It was kinda hot.
You love a pathetic man.
Pathetic in the way only a man like him could be- big and strong and old enough to know better, yet still sitting on his porch like some clueless teenager, hopelessly caught in your orbit.
Joel had spent his entire life working.
Calloused hands. Aching back. A routine as grey and dull as the pavement he walked on. He wasn’t a talk-to-women kind of guy. He was a build-shit-and-keep-his-mouth-shut kind of guy.
He had probably spent years without even thinking about sex. Not because he didn’t want it—fuck, of course, he did—but because who the hell would even let him?
The man was a relic.
Pushing sixty. Grumpy. Built like a man who had done nothing but work his whole life—because that’s exactly what he had done.
No wife. No girlfriend. Nothing.
He didn’t flirt. Didn’t go out. Didn’t fucking bother.
Just work, fix, sleep. Get off when he needed to—always alone, always quick, no one to fucking hear him.
That was life.
And then you moved in next door.
And Joel broke.
Because Jesus Christ.
You.
Soft and sweet and fucking perfect—so young, so pretty, so effortlessly sexy.
You weren’t just beautiful. You were something else entirely.
Something cruel.
With your tiny little skirts and tight little tops, walking around like it wasn’t a goddamn crime to be that fucking perfect.
Joel shouldn’t have been looking.
Knew he shouldn’t memorize the way your tits bounced when you jogged past his house.
Shouldn’t have let himself watch the way you stretched on the porch, or walked in those obscene little shorts, or sunbathed out back with your top straps pulled down—looking so fucking soft, like you were made to be touched.
Made to be ruined.
It was sick.
And he didn’t care.
Because at night, when his house was quiet and the only thing in his bed was his own hand, Joel let himself imagine what it would be like to pull you onto his lap or spread you open, bury his face between your thighs and never fucking leave.
To get his mouth on you.
God, he was so hungry for it.
And the worst part?
He was pretty sure you knew.
It was pathetic.
And he fucking knew it.
But he couldn’t stop.
And right now, his gaze was locked on you.
Or, more accurately—your thighs.
You were still kneeling, skin glistening in the summer heat, your tiny skirt barely covering anything. Joel looked like a man who had just seen God.
His throat bobbed.
His fingers flexed.
Then, abruptly—his eyes snapped up.
“Need a hand?” His voice was rough, all gravel and rust.
You tilted your head, dragging your gaze over him.
You smirked.
“I got it,” you said simply.
Joel didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
“…No, you don’t.”
And before you could argue, he was stepping forward.
Taking the screwdriver right out of your hand.
And just fucking fixing it.
Like it was nothing.
Like you weren’t even there.
· · ──𖥸
From that day on, Joel… kinda never left.
Not literally. Not in a way that you could call him out on.
But he was always there.
At first, it was little things. Fixing what you couldn’t. Offering a hand when you were clearly struggling. Showing up at the exact right time, tools in hand, that furrow between his brows like you’d personally offended him by even attempting to fix something yourself.
Then, it escalated.
Because you didn’t even have to ask anymore.
He was just there.
On your porch. In your yard. Pretending to check something in his truck but really just looking at you while you stretched in the morning, your tight little tank clinging to every inch of you.
The excuses started getting thinner, too.
At first, it was, “Saw the porch light flickerin’. Just figured I’d fix it before it got worse.”
Then, it became, “Just keepin’ busy.”
Then, no excuse at all.
Just Joel, lingering around your property, finding any reason to be near you, any reason to work himself into a sweat just for the chance to look at you up close.
Because that was his payment.
His reward.
Every little smile, every little laugh. The way your tits moved when you pointed at something needed fixing. The way you stretched just right, your little skirts and shorts riding up, flashing soft, smooth skin that made Joel’s head spin.
He didn’t even need you to talk to him.
Didn’t need you to flirt.
Just existing was enough.
So he worked.
For free.
Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?
You made him feel like some pathetic old pervert.
Standing around like a useless extra in the movie that was your perfect fucking life.
A washed-up, near-sixty-year-old loser with a bad back, a lonely house, and a dick that hadn’t worked properly in years.
And now?
Now, he nearly was hard all the time.
No blue pills. No coaxing. No thinking about some old porn magazine he had tucked away for emergencies.
Just your voice, your body, the way you smelled, the way you looked at him when you handed him a lemonade like he was doing something special—when all he was doing was fixing your fucking sink.
And the worst part?
He was leaking.
Like a damn teenager.
Hadn’t been this sensitive in decades.
And yet, here he was—barely keeping it together, feeling the way his cock throbbed and ached, fucking dripped inside his jeans while you leaned in, smiling, teasing—
“Thank you, Joel!”
Fuck.
That voice.
All sweet and grateful and warm, and it was fucking nothing. Just three little words.
And yet, his whole body reacted like you had just whispered something filthy in his ear.
Like you had just gotten on your knees, licked your lips, and told him
Sit back, Joel. Let me take care of you.
God, he was fucked.
So he mowed your lawn.
Fixed your AC unit.
Made sure the fence was latched, the gate was locked, the pipes weren’t leakin’.
And when he wasn’t fixing shit inside?
He was finding things to do outside.
Hammering shit that didn’t need hammering.
Cleaning tools that weren’t even his.
Anything. Anything.
Just to be there.
· · ──𖥸
Joel looked wrecked.
Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his broad shoulders sagging as he finally took a seat at the kitchen table he had just fixed for you.
His hands were rough and calloused, veins prominent, fingers flexing against the cool surface as he exhaled, deep and slow. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that clung to a man who had spent the whole day pushing his body to the limit.
And yet, even now, after hours of working himself to the bone, he was still staring.
Not at the food you’d set down in front of him, not at the cold glass of iced tea dripping condensation onto the table, not even at his own aching hands that had spent all damn day making sure every little thing in your house was perfect.
He was staring at your tits.
You noticed it immediately, of course. How could you not? Joel wasn’t exactly subtle.
His dark, hungry gaze stayed fixed on your chest, drinking in the way your tank top clung to you, damp with heat, the fabric just a little too thin, a little too low. His hands twitched every so often, like he had to physically stop himself from reaching out.
He barely responded when you spoke, offering little more than a grunt here and there, a slow nod, an occasional hum of acknowledgment. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because he was completely fucking gone.
And you?
You smirked.
Because this wasn’t new.
Joel Miller had been looking at you like this for weeks now, like a starving man watching a meal just out of reach, a man standing in the desert watching water slip through his fingers.
And he thought he was hiding it.
He wasn’t.
You leaned forward slightly, trailing a finger through the condensation on your glass, watching his Adam’s apple bob when his eyes immediately flicked down again, drawn like a magnet.
You waited. Let it stew. Let the tension stretch thick and heavy between you until you could practically hear the way he was grinding his teeth together, working his jaw, trying to think of something—anything—other than the way your tits were right there.
Then, casually, you spoke.
“You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
Joel didn’t move at first.
Didn’t even seem to register your words right away.
Just blinked, slow and dazed, before finally dragging his gaze back up to your face, blinking again, like he had just been pulled out of something deep.
“…Huh?”
His voice was thick, rough like gravel, his fingers flexing again before clenching into loose fists.
You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flick down to your own chest, then back up to him, pointedly.
“You like ’em?”
For a moment, Joel just sat there.
Silent.
Completely fucking still.
Then, finally, he exhaled. A slow, measured breath, dragging a hand down his face like he was collecting himself, trying to piece together a response that didn’t immediately give him away.
And then, voice lower, rougher, wrecked—
“…What’s there not to like?”
Oh?
That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did.
But it did.
The way he said it, low and warm and dripping with something dark, something dangerous. The way he looked at you when he said it, like he was memorizing every inch of you, like he needed to burn the sight into his brain.
A slow heat unfurled low in your belly, sinking between your thighs, pooling thick and molten as you shifted in your seat, pressing your legs together, suddenly very aware of how wet you were getting.
And Joel knew it.
Because his eyes flicked down for a split second, watching the way you shifted, the way your breath caught ever so slightly, and his fingers clenched tighter against the table.
And then, voice slow, teasing, stretching out the moment—
“Hmmm.”
You tapped a finger against your chin, watching the way his dark eyes tracked your movements, like he couldn’t help it, like he had no control over the way his body responded to you.
And then, soft and syrupy—
“You know, Joel… I feel kinda bad.”
Joel didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Just stared.
You watched the slow, deliberate way he swallowed, the way his whole body seemed to tense under the weight of those words, the muscles in his arms flexing as his fingers curled against the table.
“…Bad?”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“For letting you do all this work without paying you back.”
There was a beat of silence.
Joel’s fingers flexed. His breath stuttered, sharp and uneven. You could see the battle happening in his head—his morals, his age, the voice in his head screaming this is wrong, you’re too old, don’t do this—
And yet.
When he spoke, it was wrecked.
“…Can I just—”
Joel swallowed hard.
His voice dropped lower, raspier, barely even a sound.
“Can I just see you? Look at you?”
The words sent a jolt of something electric through you, made your skin heat, your pulse quicken, made that molten heat in your belly throb.
You smiled. Slow. Sweet.
Cruel.
"You wanna see me, Joel?"
His breath hitched.
His fingers twitched.
He nodded, almost absently, his mouth falling open, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.
You dragged your nails lightly up your stomach, over your ribs, the movement subtle, slow, making him watch.
Your hands went to the hem of your tank top, your fingers curling around the fabric, slowly dragging it up.
Joel’s pupils blew wide.
His lips parted.
His breath hitched.
And when you pulled it over your head, letting it drop to the floor, you saw it.
The way his fingers clenched so hard around the edge of the table that his knuckles went white, like he needed to physically hold himself back.
You sat there in just your bra, running your hands up your stomach, over your ribs, tilting your head slightly as you murmured—
“Like this?”
Joel made a noise that was almost a groan, almost a curse, a low, strangled thing that caught in his throat as his eyes devoured you.
He swallowed again, hard, blinking like he was trying to process what was happening.
Then—rough, hoarse, desperate—
“…Please. Everything.”
So you did.
You reached behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a slow, deliberate flick of your fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms before shrugging it off completely.
And Joel lost the last shred of restraint he had.
His breath hitched—a sharp, audible inhale, like he had just been punched in the gut.
His eyes dropped from your eyes instantly, dragged down like they had no choice, like the second your tits were bare, he was physically incapable of looking anywhere else.
And fuck.
The sound that tore from his throat was something low, deep, filthy— not even a real word, just a groan, guttural and needy, his lips parting, his tongue darting out, his whole fucking body reacting like he was a man who had been starving his whole goddamn life, and now?
Now he was looking at the best fucking meal he’d ever seen.
Because Jesus Christ.
Your tits?
They were perfect.
So fucking full and soft, high and round, plump little handfuls of heaven that he’d been imagining for weeks, and now? Now they were right there.
And your nipples—fuck.
They were already hard, tight little peaks sitting pretty, puckered and aching, begging for something—a touch, a mouth, something wet and warm.
They looked so fucking sweet, like they’d feel so soft, like they’d taste so good on his tongue.
Joel groaned.
A rough, heavy sound, his jaw clenching so fucking hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack, his entire body tensing like it physically hurt him to just sit there and look and not touch.
And then, voice wrecked, strained, barely even a whisper—
“Best goddamn tits I’ve ever seen.”
You smirked, slow and teasing, shifting slightly, making them bounce just a little, the movement so subtle, but his whole body jerked.
“Yeah?”
Joel grunted, a deep, broken noise, his breath stuttering, his fingers flexing.
“Yeah.”
His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.
His hips shifted.
And you noticed.
The way his jeans were tight.
The way a wet patch darkened the denim.
The way his entire body looked like it was straining under the weight of his own need.
And then, voice breaking, groaning—
“Thank you, Sweetheart.”
Your breath caught.
Because that?
That sounded filthy.
Low, wrecked, grateful.
Like just seeing you was some kind of mercy.
His thighs tensed. His hands twitched. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning, devouring, drowning.
You dragged your hands up your own stomach, slow and lazy, brushing your fingers over the soft curves of your breasts, rolling your thumbs over your hardened nipples, smirking when you heard his breath hitch.
“You wanna touch ‘em, Joel?” you murmured, soft and syrupy, voice dipped in honey.
Joel groaned, deep and guttural, like the question alone was enough to wreck him.
“Fuck yeah.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t fucking think.
His hands were on you before the words even fully left his mouth—grabbing, groping, squeezing like he was starving for it, like he’d been fantasizing about this for so long that the second he finally had them in his palms, he lost every ounce of restraint.
And Jesus fuck, his hands were big.
Rough.
Strong.
Decades of hard labor carved into every thick callus, every flex of his fingers, every hungry, greedy, desperate grab.
“Fuck, babygirl,” he muttered, voice wrecked, almost dazed as he kneaded your tits, rolling them in his palms, squeezing like he needed to memorize the way they felt—like he’d never get this chance again.
He groaned, deep and filthy, fingers digging in, rough fingertips brushing over your stiff nipples, making you suck in a sharp breath as heat licked through your veins.
“So fuckin’ soft,” he rasped, thumbing over the tight little peaks, watching the way your body reacted to him, your back arching, breath hitching.
Joel felt that.
“Feel good, baby?” he rasped, voice a low, guttural thing, dragging his calloused fingers over your nipples again, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, watching your reaction like a starving man watching a meal.
You swallowed hard, a shiver running through you, your thighs pressing together. Fuck.
Your nipples were so sensitive, tingling with every swipe, every flick, every dirty little touch of his rough fingers.
“Yeah,” you breathed, biting your lip, arching into his touch, letting him take what he wanted.
Joel groaned again, deep and needy, gripping your tits harder, pushing them together, squeezing, kneading, fucking obsessed.
His thumbs twisted your nipples, slow and deliberate, watching the way they hardened even further, standing up all soft and pink, looking so fucking suckable.
“Jesus,” he muttered again, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Look at these pretty tits.”
His fingers pinched, tugged, twisted just right—just enough to make you gasp, a soft little sound that sent a lightning bolt of pure fucking need straight to his cock.
He grinned.
A dark, hungry thing.
And then, voice gritted, thick with lust—
“Bet they taste even better.”
“Can I-”
Before he could even finish asking, you were already shushing him, already threading your fingers into his graying hair and pulling his face down, guiding him straight to where he belonged.
Joel went willingly.
Mouth first.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Joel yanked you into his lap, gripping you like you might disappear, like this was a dream he’d wake up from if he let go for even a second.
His knees ached against the floor, his back twinged in warning, but he didn’t give a fuck. Not when you were straddling him, warm and soft, tits in his face like some fucking gift from God.
His mouth sealed over your nipple, pulling at it with an obscene, wet suckle, tongue flattening before flicking, rolling, teasing the sensitive bud until it was aching, stiff, raw.
Just a wrecked, filthy groan, muffled against your soft, warm skin as he was sucking deep, sucking hard, sucking wet.
“Fuck yes,” he moaned into your skin, voice ragged, his breath hot and heavy against your breast.
He was loud.
Not in words—because words didn’t matter anymore.
But in the way he suckled, the way his lips sealed tight, how he groaned and slurped and moaned, every single sound of his mouth on you wet and obscene, filling the space around you.
His tongue swiped up, then down, then circled—slow at first, then faster, flicking against the stiff bud before pulling it into his mouth again, sealing his lips tight, sucking deep.
He couldn’t stop.
Didn’t even try.
His hands moved next, big, calloused fingers gripping your waist, dragging you closer, then sliding up to cup both tits in his palms, rough and desperate.
“Oh—fuck, Joel—” your breath hitched, the sharp pull of his mouth sending a jolt straight between your thighs.
He groaned—deep, guttural, filthy.
“Goddamn, baby—”
Then, harder.
His fingers squeezed tighter, thumbs brushing over your nipples, pinching the one he wasn’t sucking on, rolling it between his fingertips, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
You felt his breath stutter—like he was about to lose it completely—before he pulled off with a wet, sucking pop, spit connecting his lips to your nipple, slick and shining.
He stared.
Breathing ragged. Eyes dark, starving.
And then he dived right back in.
Latching onto the other like a man possessed, groaning into it like he was trying to drink from you, ruin you, consume you.
His hands never stopped.
He hugged you closer, pulling you right into him, pressing your tits together, mashing them up against his face, smothering himself in them.
“So fuckin’ soft, baby—” he rasped, licking, suckling, tongue dragging slow circles around your nipple before he sealed his lips and sucked deep again.
“So fuckin’ sweet—”
He switched between them like he couldn’t pick a favorite, couldn’t decide, couldn’t stop.
His tongue flicked, his lips sucked, his teeth grazed, sending shocks of pleasure straight between your legs.
Your breath hitched.
Your back arched.
Because he wasn’t just playing around.
This wasn’t just teasing.
This wasn’t some guy mouthing at your tits before moving on.
No.
Joel was staying here.
Lingering.
Drowning in it.
Like he could suckle your tits for hours.
And then, voice low, gravelly, wrecked—
“Baby…”
You hummed, already smirking.
He swallowed thickly, his fingers tracing absent circles against your ribs, his voice barely above a whisper—
“Lemme see you.”
Your smirk widened.
“See what, Joel?”
He groaned, head dropping against your shoulder for half a second like he physically needed to collect himself. His nose brushed along your jaw, leaving small kisses, hot breath fanning against your skin, and then—
“Sweetheart, please,” he rasped. “Lemme see that pretty little pussy.”
Your stomach tightened, heat flaring low, but you didn’t let it show. Not yet.
Instead, you stretched, slow and indulgent, arching just slightly, your tits pushing up against his chest. “Hmmm,” you mused, tapping a manicured nail against your lip like you were actually considering it. “You worked so hard for me, didn't you, Joel?”
His jaw flexed. His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, squeezing.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasped. “Don’t tease me like this.”
You tilted your head, tapping your chin, dragging it out just a little longer—watching the way his fingers twitched, watching the way his pupils were blown black with hunger, watching the way his hips barely resisted the urge to rut up against you like he needed something, anything.
Then, finally, you sighed.
“Alright, old man,” you murmured, shifting in his lap, the movement making him groan. “Take me to the couch.”
Joel nearly fucking growled.
His arms came around you instantly, strong, needy, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you. Not struggling, not even hesitating—because fuck if you thought he was too old for this, fuck if you thought he wouldn’t show you exactly what he could do.
He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious, his hands sliding over your body, down your sides, gripping your thighs, spreading you open just enough.
And then—his fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt.
Not pulling it down.
Just flipping it up.
Joel wasn’t breathing.
At least, it felt that way.
He couldn’t. Not with the way you were spread out in front of him, thighs parted, panties soaked, looking like the filthiest, prettiest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life.
And the worst part?
You knew exactly what you were doing to him.
The way you stretched lazily, arching just a little, making your tits push forward. The way your lips curled in that slow, knowing smirk when you caught him staring, like you were indulging him, letting him look, letting him take in every fucking inch of you.
And Joel—Joel was gone.
His hands slid up your thighs, slow, reverent, rough fingertips dragging against soft skin, feeling the heat radiating off you.
“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, dark, almost reverent.
Joel dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, gaze locked on the damp spot between your legs, so fucking dark, so fucking pretty.
His thumbs traced along the edges of your panties, brushing just barely over the damp patch at the center, groaning when he felt the way it stuck to you.
“So goddamn wet,” he murmured, almost to himself, shaking his head, his fingers flexing against your skin. “Been like this all night, little girl?”
You moaned, shifting slightly, watching the way his jaw clenched at the movement.
“Maybe,” you teased. “Not my fault you’ve been looking at me like that all day.”
Joel exhaled sharply, a low, ragged sound, his grip tightening.
Poor old man.
He was completely fucking gone.
“See something you like?” you teased, voice sweet, syrupy, making his jaw clench.
Joel exhaled through his nose, hands tightening where they rested on your thighs, fingers pressing in deep, like he needed to hold onto something, ground himself before he completely lost control.
“Baby,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice low and rough, thick with something desperate. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”
You laughed, slow and taunting, your nails dragging up the couch, watching the way his entire body tensed, like he was on the verge of snapping, like he was barely holding himself together.
“Am I?” you mused, tilting your head, watching him watch you.
Joel groaned, deep and guttural, his grip bruising now, his breath shuddering, his hips twitching like just the words alone were enough to ruin him.
And then—
He leaned in.
Pressed his face against your covered cunt, breathing deep, dragging his nose over the soaked fabric, his entire body shuddering, shaking, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.
And fuck.
He moaned.
You smirked. Moaned.
Because you knew.
Knew exactly what kind of power you had over him. Knew that Joel Miller—this gruff, brooding old man who barely spoke to anyone, who’d spent his life working, fixing, existing—was utterly wrecked over you.
And right now, he was on his knees, rubbing his face against your soaked panties, inhaling like the scent of your cunt was the only thing keeping him alive.
You loved it.
“Mm, you really like it down there, huh?” You moaned dragging your nails through his hair, watching the way his whole body twitched, the way he groaned against you, his nose pressing harder into the damp fabric covering your pussy.
Joel barely lifted his head, just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they were nearly black, lips slick with his own spit. His fingers flexed against your thighs like he was fighting himself—like he wanted to tear those panties off and bury himself in you, but he was holding back.
Barely.
“Like?” he rasped, voice wrecked. His tongue darted out, swiping over his bottom lip, like he was tasting the scent of you in the air.
He groaned.
“Pretty girl, I’m fuckin’ obsessed.”
You moaned. Tilting your hips just slightly, pressing up into his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his breath stuttered like just feeling your heat against his lips was too much.
“Oh yeah?” Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging. “Then show me.”
Joel didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t breathe.
He just acted.
His hands shot up, gripping the waistband of your panties, and for a second, you thought he was going to rip them off you. But no—Joel was feeling something nastier.
Instead, he grabbed the soaked fabric, pulled it tight against your cunt, wedging it between your slick folds, pressing the thin material right into your aching clit.
You gasped.
“Ohhh, fuck—”
Joel groaned, a deep, filthy sound from the pit of his chest as he rubbed the fabric against you, slow at first, then harder, pressing it between your lips, letting the damp, sticky material drag over your throbbing clit.
His nose dragged over the outline of your swollen pussy, mouth parted, tongue slipping out to taste the wet spot directly over your entrance, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking put in his mouth.
“Jesus fuck,” he growled. “S’soaked, girl. Look at this fuckin’ mess. You see this?” He rubbed the fabric in deeper, groaning at the way it stuck to your folds, the way your slick smeared against it, making it wetter, stickier.
You moaned, hips rolling, pushing against his mouth, chasing the friction.
“Joel—”
He growled again, gripping your thighs tight, keeping you spread as he bit down gently on the covered part of your clit, tugging with his teeth, rolling it between them through the fabric.
You gasped.
Your back arched, hands flying to the couch, gripping the cushions for some kind of grounding because—holy fuck.
Joel chuckled. Chuckled. A deep, perverse sound.
“Ohh, you like that, hm?”
He pressed his tongue flat against your clit through your panties, sucking at the damp fabric, like he was trying to drink you through it, humming like he could taste you, even with the barrier in the way.
Then—
His teeth latched onto the thin cotton, gripping the wet spot over your entrance, and he pulled.
A sharp, precise tug.
Dragging the panties against your cunt, making them slide against your soaked folds, pressing them deeper, wedging them between your swollen lips, rubbing everything.
You fucking whimpered.
Joel moaned against you, rutting his hips against the couch, pressing his nose right against your slit, inhaling, sucking, rubbing his face all over your cunt like a man starved.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, nuzzling you, his voice dripping with filth. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ warm, baby. So fuckin’ messy. Leakin’ all over these little panties—bet they’re ruined, huh?”
Your thighs shook. Your breath stuttered.
Your fingers curled tight in his hair, tugging, and he moaned again, loud, tongue slipping out to drag slow, wet strokes over the damp fabric, gathering everything before pressing it back against your cunt, making you feel how fucking messy you were.
His hands—those big, rough, work-worn hands—slid up your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open, thumbs pressing into your soft skin as he finally, finally hooked his fingers into your panties and peeled them off.
He groaned when they stuck.
When your slick clung to the fabric.
When he had to drag them down your legs because they were soaked.
And then—
You were bare.
Wet.
Dripping.
All for him.
Joel sat back on his heels, staring.
His fingers flexed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice deep and wrecked.
Then, dark eyes flicking up to yours, a slow, filthy grin stretching across his face—
“Oh, baby…” He groaned.
“I’m gonna ruin you.”
His voice was a wreck, almost a whisper, full of awe, full of filth, full of something desperate and hungry.
Because you were fucking perfect.
Your pussy was obscene.
Pink and swollen and glistening, folds spread, sticky and slick, so wet you were practically dripping onto the couch.
Your clit—puffy, throbbing—begging for attention, twitching every time Joel’s hot breath ghosted over you.
The dim light caught on the shine of your arousal, making everything look impossibly wet, messy, fucking ruined.
And Joel?
Joel was losing his goddamn mind.
His breath hitched, a low, wrecked groan ripping from his chest, his fingers flexing hard against your thighs, like he was physically restraining himself from lunging forward and devouring you whole.
“Fuck me.” His voice came out rough, strangled, barely even a whisper. “Look at that messy little pussy. S’so fuckin’ wet for me, baby.”
You hummed, stretching out against the couch like you had all the time in the world, arching just slightly making your tits look so good, making yourself even softer, even easier, even more of a temptation.
“Yeah?” Your voice was all gasped, all teasing, your hips rolling up just a little, just enough to make the slick between your thighs glisten in the low light. “You like her, Joel?”
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, eyes blown dark and wide, locked on your cunt like it was hypnotizing him, pulling him under.
He let out a rough, humorless laugh, shaking his head, squeezing your thighs just a little tighter. “Baby, I’ll never let go of her.”
That smirk stretched slow across your lips, your thighs parting just a little more, an open invitation, a silent dare.
Joel groaned—deep, guttural, painful.
And then he snapped.
His big, rough hands grabbed you, dragging you down the couch with no warning, tugging you toward him until your ass was hanging off the edge, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs, his face—his mouth—right where he wanted it.
And then—
A long, wet, messy lick.
Tongue flat, broad, dragging over your slit, catching every drop of slick, lapping it up, his nose bumping against your mound, his groan muffled as he tasted you.
And Jesus fuck—he growled.
“Goddamn, baby… this sloppy little pussy.” His voice was hot against your skin, his tongue flicking out to catch another drop of arousal, swallowing it down, his thumbs spreading you open even wider. “Fuckin’ drippin’ all over my face.”
You whined, hips bucking, but Joel’s grip slammed you back down.
“Uh-uh,” he rasped, dragging his tongue up again, circling your clit, teasing, groaning loud like he was tasting something sinful, something addictive, something he was never gonna get enough of.
His lips wrapped around the swollen bud, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, his tongue flicking, his nose buried against your mound, his face pressed so deep in your pussy he was fucking drowning.
And he loved it.
You were soaked.
Dripping.
And Joel wanted it.
Wanted every drop.
His tongue licked into you, fucking inside, groaning loud when he felt your walls clench, sucking your juices from his own tongue like he was drinking you, like you were feeding him.
And fuck—
His hips rutted against the couch, grinding, his cock straining against his jeans, so fucking wet, his pre-cum soaking through, his whole body wound tight like he could come just like this, just from eating you, from tasting you, from hearing the little broken whimpers spilling from your lips.
His fingers dug in deeper, pressing into the softness of your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you closer, burying his tongue so deep inside you it made your eyes roll back.
And then—
A rough, growled, wrecked—
“Goddamn, baby. Gonna fuckin’ stay down here.”
Joel was gone.
Buried between your thighs, tongue fucking into you like a starving man, like this was what he was made to do.
And fuck, maybe he was.
Because he was too good at it.
You moaned, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling, loving the way he groaned, the way his hips rutted harder against the couch, the way he needed this.
“Fuck, Joel,” you panted, voice thick with pleasure.
Joel growled.
He actually fucking growled, pulling you closer, spreading you wider, licking into you deeper, his tongue flicking, curling, sucking, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself back from humping the fucking couch like some desperate, pathetic thing.
And then—
Joel spat on it.
A wet, messy, lewd spit, right over your swollen clit.
And then?
He rubbed his face into it.
Like some depraved old pervert, moaning as he smothered himself with your slick, nuzzling into it, smearing his own spit and your arousal all over his lips, his chin, his nose .. damn nearly up to his forehead.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, breath hot, words slurred against your swollen folds. “Smell so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste even fuckin’ better.”
His tongue swiped over your clit, broad and firm, lapping at it like he was fucking thirsty, groaning when he felt you pulse, when he felt your thighs tremble.
He spat on it again.
And smeared it in.
Dragged his tongue through the mess, licking his own spit off your cunt like he was cleaning you up.
And fuck.
It sent a shock of pleasure straight through your body, a sharp, hot jolt that made your back arch, your mouth dropping open in a broken moan.
“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “I—I’m gonna—”
Joel knew.
Knew you were close, knew he had you teetering, knew you were about to fucking snap.
So he latched onto your clit, sucking, moaning, filthy and loud, his fingers bruising into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.
And when you came—
Oh, fuck, when you came.
Your body jerked, legs trembling, the orgasm hitting you so hard it stole the breath from your lungs, your vision going white, your whole body clenching around the pleasure, drowning in it.
And Joel?
Joel groaned.
Like he felt it.
Like your orgasm belonged to him.
Like he had just come from tasting you, from making you come, from hearing you cry out his name.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t fucking stop.
Kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking devouring, his tongue flicking over your oversensitive clit, dragging out every last aftershock, keeping you on the edge, keeping you throbbing.
And you—
You were shaking.
Body weak, legs useless, cunt aching for something more.
“Joel,” you gasped, breathless, still trembling. “I—I want your cock.”
And Joel?
He didn’t hear you.
Didn’t process it.
Because he was lost.
Lost in your pussy, lost in the taste, lost in the way you fucking shook for him.
His tongue dragged through the mess, lapping up every drop, swallowing you down like you were something precious, something he couldn’t afford to waste.
So you tried again.
“Joel,” you panted, tugging at his hair, trying to get his attention. “I want your—”
And he still didn’t listen.
Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept moaning against your cunt like he was starved.
So you had to rip his face away.
Fisting your hands in his hair, pulling him back, making him look up at you—
His mouth was fucking open, his tongue still flicking like he was trying to find you, like he was looking for your pussy, like he was about to dive right back in.
He was panting, breath heavy, wrecked, like he had just fucked you, like he was the one who had just come.
And then—
A low, desperate, ruined—
“Baby, please.”
Like he needed it.
Like he needed to go back.
Like he wasn’t done yet.
The smell of you. The taste of you. The way you squirmed and moaned, your fingers sinking into his hair, giving the softest little tugs that made his cock throb.
You hummed, dragging your nails lightly against his scalp. “You gonna stay down there all night, handsome?”
Joel groaned against your thigh, his fingers tightening where they gripped your hips.
“Would if you’d let me,” he muttered, voice rough and muffled.
You laughed, breathy and teasing. “Well…” You tugged gently at his hair, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to look up at you. “Maybe I want something else tonight.”
Joel’s head spun.
His stomach clenched, heat coiling low, thick and heavy in his gut.
Because you couldn’t possibly mean—
“Maybe,” you mused, trailing your fingers down his face, smirking. “You should fuck me instead.”
Joel went completely fucking still.
A full-body freeze.
Because, holy shit.
He hadn’t even considered it.
He hadn’t dared to.
Had been so caught up in this—this ritual, this worship, this sick fucking devotion of getting to lose himself between your thighs, mouth greedy and desperate, tongue messy and unrelenting—he hadn’t let himself imagine it going further.
Hadn’t even let himself hope for it.
But now?
Now, you were looking at him with those big, bright eyes, your lips curled in something teasing and wicked, your fingers trailing down his chest, and fuck.
It hit him.
Like a fucking freight train.
He was gonna fuck you.
Joel groaned, his head falling forward against your stomach, breath heavy, body shaking as his hands gripped your thighs, squeezing so tight it bordered on bruising.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Fuck. Baby.”
You grinned, delighted. “Yeah?”
Joel swallowed, lifting his head, his gaze burning as he looked up at you.
“Yeah.”
His voice was rough, wrecked.
“Then get up here, old man,” you purred, tugging at his shoulders. “Come fuck me.”
And, fuck, he was gonna.
Somehow, he managed to kneel between your legs, looming over you, broad and heavy and burning with something filthy and desperate.
Somehow, he managed to unbuckle his belt, yank his zipper down, pull himself free—
You hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t expected him to be this thick.
Because, fuck me.
Joel Miller was fucking big.
The way his cock twitched the second the cool air hit it, sending a slow, heavy bead of precome dripping down—hot and sticky, landing right on your stomach.
God.
Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching where they were still spread open for him, aching.
And Joel?
He was just watching.
Watching that glistening drop smear against your skin, dragging his fist slow along his length, squeezing at the base, like he was trying to calm himself down.
Not that it was working.
Because he was dripping.
Leaking all over you, precum slick and thick, dribbling down the fat head of his cock, smearing over the tip as he worked himself, his jaw clenched tight, breathing heavy.
His cock was—fuck.
Thick. So fucking thick.
Broad, heavy in his palm, his shaft veined and throbbing, dark with need, his swollen head gleaming wet under the dim light.
A thick trail of silver and black hair led down from his stomach, curling around the base—graying just like the rest of him, salt-and-pepper in a way that made your stomach tighten.
And his balls.
Heavy and full, hanging low, tight and aching with neglect, pulled up just slightly, like his body was already fighting to hold off the inevitable.
And Joel—Joel was losing his fucking mind.
Because fuck.
Your soft, pretty body sprawled out beneath him, tits still sticky from his mouth, your stomach slick with the mess he was dripping all over you, your thighs spread open, that sweet, soaked pussy waiting for him—his cock.
He groaned, low and ruined, watching another thick bead of precum slip from the head, drooling down his shaft, slicking up his fingers.
He couldn’t stop leaking.
Couldn’t stop fucking twitching, pulsing in his own grip, so hard it was almost painful.
His body was betraying him.
Decades of needing, decades of nothing, and now?
Now he was about to lose it over just this.
Just you, looking up at him like that.
Smiling sweetly like you fucking knew.
Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
Joel groaned, watching your expression shift, watching your eyes flick down to where he was gripping himself, your lips parting just slightly, breath hitching.
And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.
He smirked. Just a little.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Ain’t gettin’ shy on me now, are ya?”
You dragged your gaze back up to his, grinning lazily, voice smooth and teasing. “Nah, just thinking.”
Joel raised a brow, cocking his head. “Yeah? ’Bout what?”
Your lips curled.
“How the hell this thing’s gonna fit inside me.”
Joel growled.
A deep, guttural, feral fucking sound, his grip tightening around his cock, his other hand gripping your thigh, yanking you closer.
You giggled, delighted, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, his body pressing heavy against yours, his cock resting hot and thick against your belly, pulsing.
He was panting.
You could feel it, the heat of his breath against your cheek, the slight tremble in his arms, the pure need radiating off him.
“You’ll take it,” he murmured, voice rough and low, dangerous in a way that made your stomach clench. “You’ll take all of it, baby. Ain’t no way I’m not givin’ you every goddamn inch.”
Fuck.
You whimpered.
And Joel—he fucking felt it.
Felt the way you clenched around nothing, the way your thighs trembled, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.
Felt the way your body was begging for it.
“Joel…” Your voice was thinner now, breathless.
He smirked.
“What, baby?” He pressed against your entrance, just barely, the thick head of his cock stretching you the tiniest bit before he pulled away again, teasing, watching the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched. “You were talkin’ so much before. What happened?”
You whined.
Louder this time.
And Joel groaned, dropping his forehead against yours, shaking his head.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re so fuckin’ spoiled, baby.”
Then—
Joel pressed forward.
Slow.
Heavy.
Thick.
The swollen head of his cock pushed against your slick entrance, parting your folds, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. Your body clenched around him instinctively, the burn sweet and deep, making you gasp, your fingers digging harder into his shoulders.
“Fuck—” Joel groaned, long and drawn out, his forehead dropping against yours as he fought to hold himself back, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you knew there’d be bruises come morning. “Goddamn, baby… s’fuckin’ tight—”
You moaned at the stretch, the way your cunt swallowed him up, the way he felt inside you—thick and throbbing, pulsing against your walls, filling you more than you ever thought possible.
And fuck, he wasn’t even all the way in yet.
Joel was shaking.
Every muscle in his body drawn tight, his cock twitching as he struggled to keep himself together, to not just slam in all at once and lose himself in the hot, wet grip of you.
He was too old for this shit.
Too fucking old to be trembling like some desperate goddamn virgin, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, his breath coming in ragged pants as he forced himself to go slow.
But Jesus Christ—
You were so small.
So fucking tiny compared to him, your cunt squeezing around his cock like it was trying to keep him out, like you weren’t built to take something this fucking big.
But you would.
You had to.
Joel wasn’t stopping.
“Take it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked, low and strained. “You’ll fuckin’ take all of it, little girl. Gonna stretch you out real nice, make you mine.”
You whimpered, legs trembling as you tried to relax, tried to take him deeper.
“Good job, sweet girl,” Joel groaned, voice rough, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, spreading them wider, pressing his weight against you. “That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”
You clenched around him at that, and Joel felt it—felt the way your body squeezed him, the way your breath hitched, the way your back arched just slightly, like your body was instinctively trying to get more.
And fuck, that just about broke him.
His hips twitched, and suddenly, he was sinking deeper, forcing more of his cock inside your tight little cunt, and you gasped, nails raking down his arms as he stretched you even further, the feeling almost too much, too full—
But fuck, it felt so good.
“Joel—”
He groaned at the sound of his name falling from your lips, dark eyes snapping up to meet yours, pupils blown wide, his lips parted as he panted against your mouth.
“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice dripping with heat.
You couldn’t even form words. Couldn’t think past the way he felt inside you, past the way he was holding you open, filling you up, stretching you out in a way you’d never felt before.
“More,” you whispered, breath hitching, thighs trembling. “Please.”
Joel growled.
Deep and low, something primal and wrecked, and before you could process it—
He thrust forward.
Burying himself to the fucking hilt.
You choked on a gasp, your whole body jerking at the sheer force of it, the sudden fullness, the way he bottomed out inside you, his cock nestled so deep it felt like he was fucking splitting you in half.
Joel snapped.
The last thread of his restraint fucking gone.
“Fuck—” He groaned, hips jerking, grinding himself deeper, reveling in the way you squirmed, the way you moaned, the way your body clenched around him like you never wanted to let go.
“Goddamn, sweetheart—” His voice was all rough edges, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am?”
You could barely think, barely breathe, barely function beyond the overwhelming stretch of him inside you, the way he filled every inch of you, every nerve ending fucking screaming in pleasure.
Joel didn’t wait for an answer.
Didn’t need one.
Because he knew.
Knew you felt it.
Knew you loved it.
“Look at you,” he groaned, his lips dragging over your throat, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Made for this. Made to take my cock, weren’t you? You were askin' for this, huh? Teasin' me all these weeks?”
You moaned.
Loud and wrecked, your head tilting back, exposing more of your throat, and Joel fucking ate it up.
“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” he rasped, voice strained, his hips pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again, grinding against that soft, spongy spot inside you. “Like this little pussy don’t wanna let me go.”
You whimpered.
Because it didn’t.
Didn’t want him to go.
Didn’t want anything except more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he was stretching you open, fucking ruining you for anyone else.
And Joel knew it.
Could feel it.
Could see it in the way your body arched, in the way your nails dug into his skin, in the way you moaned his name like a prayer.
And fuck—
That did something to him.
Something dark.
Something needy.
Something possessive.
His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and you cried out, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and fuck, he loved that sound.
“Oh, god—i - you feel so good,” you cry, eyes fluttering shut, pleasure rolling over you in hot, heavy waves.
“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice full of filthy heat. “That what you want? Want me to fuck this sweet little pussy with my cock? Want me to ruin you?”
You gasped, back arching, nails dragging down his back.
“Yes—”
And that was all he needed.
All he needed to let go, to give in, to let the raw, aching need consume him.
Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, and then—Joel growled.
A deep, wrecked, guttural thing that ripped through his chest, and suddenly—he was moving.
Thrusting.
Fucking you.
“Oh—oh god—” Your back arched, breath hitching, body jolting with each sharp thrust, each desperate snap of his hips.
Joel fucking grinned.
“That what it takes, huh?” he rasped, voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. “A big cock to shut you up, baby? Hm?”
You moaned, head lolling back against the cushions, unable to form words, pleasure slamming into you so hard your mind went blank.
And Joel? He ate it up.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he gritted out, gripping your hips tighter, dragging you down onto him, forcing you to take every inch. “Too busy takin’ my cock to be a smug little brat now, huh?”
You whimpered.
And Joel groaned, eyes rolling back slightly as his pace faltered, his cock twitching inside you.
Fuck—he wasn’t gonna last.
Not with this.
Not with the way you were tightening around him, squeezing him like you wanted him to cum, like you wanted him to break apart inside you, wanted to milk every drop from his aching cock.
His breath turned ragged, hips stuttering, muscles tensing, and—
“Oh, baby—shit, I—I won’t—”
His voice broke.
He gritted his teeth, fighting it, holding on as long as he could, but you were so fucking tight, so fucking wet, so fucking perfect—
And then—
You clenched around him again, dragging him deeper, pressing your lips to his ear, voice all soft and sweet—
“Cum for me, Joel.”
And that was it.
Joel snapped.
His body locked up, cock throbbing as a strangled groan tore from his throat, his hips pressing flush against you as he spilled deep inside you, pumping you full, burying himself as deep as he could while pleasure crashed over him in heavy, burning waves.
His breath stuttered, his whole body trembling, nails digging into your skin.
Your body was still trembling, sweat slicking your skin, the heat between your legs thick and wet with the mess Joel had already left inside you. Your mind was still spinning, your breath uneven, but Joel wasn’t done.
Not even close.
He held you close, his big body still caging you in, his thick arms wrapped around you like he needed to keep you there, to pin you down, to claim you.
His lips moved against your damp skin, pressing soft, wet kisses against your shoulder, up your throat, nuzzling against the sensitive skin behind your ear as he let out a deep, satisfied groan.
But then—
Another pulse.
Another deep, warm spurt of cum filling you up, coating your walls even though you swore he had already given you everything he had.
Your breath hitched, your body twitching slightly as you felt it—felt him still throbbing, still leaking, still making sure every single drop stayed buried inside you.
“Joel,” you gasped, tilting your head back against the couch, your fingers curling weakly into his sweaty back. “You’re still cumming?”
Joel grunted against your neck, his hips giving a slow, almost involuntary push forward, like he was trying to press himself even deeper, to make sure it stuck. His lips dragged up to your jaw, warm and slightly open, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked when he finally muttered,
“Still got more for you, baby.”
Fuck.
Your stomach tightened, another wave of heat rolling through you at the sheer desperation in his tone, the filth in his words. You felt his mouth on you again, felt the rough scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, and then—
Joel groaned, his lips finally finding yours, capturing them in a slow, wet kiss. The second you moaned into it—
Another slow pulse inside you.
Another spurt.
Hot, deep, filling you up all over again.
Joel shuddered against you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, swallowing your soft whimpers as he rocked into you, his cock still buried deep, still throbbing, still giving you everything.
You broke the kiss first, tilting your head back against the couch, a dazed, smug little smile curling on your lips. “You really are an old pervert,” you murmured, voice teasing, breathless.
Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. His dark eyes were hooded, heavy with lust, filled with something possessive and raw as his fingers flexed slightly, keeping you in place.
“And you,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous, “are a fuckin’ menace.”
His hips rocked again, and you let out a choked little gasp as you felt just how deep he was still buried inside you, still stretching you, still keeping you full. He groaned at the sound, dipping his head to bite softly at your bottom lip before licking over it, tasting you, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy tease.
You melted into it, humming softly as you curled your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly.
Joel growled.
His breath was heavy against your lips, warm and ragged, his body shuddering slightly as the last waves of pleasure pulsed through him. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, then another just beneath your ear, his lips soft and warm and so different from the way he’d just fucked you—filthy and desperate and rough.
Now, he was gentle.
Now, he was melting against you.
His weight pressing you down, his hands smoothing over your hips, his fingers curling possessively around the softness of your thighs. Keeping you close. Keeping you his.
You sighed, shifting just slightly, feeling the thick heat of him settle inside you, the stretch easing, leaving behind a deep, satisfied ache. You were so full.
So stuffed with him.
And god, you could feel it—the way he was still throbbing deep inside, the way the sticky warmth of his spend was already beginning to leak out, thick and hot, slicking your thighs where you were still stretched wide around him.
You smirked.
“Hm,” you mused, tilting your head back against the couch, letting your fingers drag lazily down his back. “I really got forty-year-old cum inside me right now, huh?”
Joel groaned, shifting slightly, dragging his lips down the curve of your throat, nipping softly. “Baby, don’t—”
“What?” You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips slightly, making him hiss. “Just stating facts.”
Joel exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing where they gripped your waist, holding you still. “Not forty,” he muttered, his voice a low, grumbled thing against your skin.
You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Oh? My bad. Forty-something-year-old cum.”
Joel groaned again, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “And yet,” you purred, voice sweet and teasing, “you still came so deep inside me.”
His hips flexed, pushing deeper, and you gasped, arching slightly beneath him. Joel lifted his head then, dark eyes meeting yours, something warm and hungry and satisfied settling there.
“Damn right, I did.”
You shivered.
His lips curled slightly, his hand dragging down to rest against your lower belly, pressing there—right over the place where you were still stuffed full of him.
“Know how long I been thinkin’ about that?” he murmured, fingers flexing slightly. “Fillin’ you up like this?”
Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as he rolled his hips again, slow, lazy, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “Joel…”
His lips found yours again, slow and deep and lingering, his tongue sliding against yours in a soft, lazy tease. You melted into it, letting him kiss you slow, letting him take his time, letting him savor the taste of you, the feel of you, the warmth of you still wrapped around him.
When he finally pulled back, he looked at you for a long moment, his hand smoothing up your side, curling around your ribs, tracing absentminded circles into your skin.
“You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice softer now, rough around the edges but warm.
You exhaled, stretching slightly, feeling the way his body fit against yours, warm and solid and safe. You felt good.
Better than good.
A slow, satisfied smile curled on your lips. “More than okay.”
Joel grunted, pressing one last kiss to your jaw before finally shifting, pulling out slowly, carefully, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he felt just how soaked you were.
He sat back, dark eyes dragging over the sight of you—legs spread, pussy messy and glistening, his cum already beginning to leak out onto the couch. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and push it back inside.
Your smirk deepened. “Like what you see?”
Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”
You stretched your arms over your head, arching slightly, your grin widening. “Well,” you mused, voice lazy and satisfied, “if you die, at least you’ll die a very happy pervert.”
Joel rolled his eyes, reaching for you, tugging you onto his lap effortlessly, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.
You sighed, melting into him, pressing your forehead against his, your fingers dragging up the back of his neck.
Joel exhaled, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers flexing slightly where they gripped your hips.
Then, voice low, murmured against your mouth—
“Yeah, baby. Happiest I’ve ever been.”
· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··
...Hey y'all im back. Opinions and comments are greatly appreciated please PLEASE (please)
Summary: you tiptoe into Joel Miller’s home like a stray cat, always giving him a heart attack, always flashing those doe eyes, tear-spilled and aching, and making his heart twist. So he protects you—cares for you, cooks for you, calls you pet names. But that night feels different. Heavy. There’s an ache crawling through your body, one you don’t understand and can’t quiet. You try. You fail. And when you get caught—by the same man who just called you “kiddo”—you can’t help but ask him for help.
Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, age gap! (60s and 20s), pillow grinding, masturbation, really inexperienced!reader, one (1) light thigh spank, fingering, joel teaches you how to touch yourself with a mirror, soft!joel, like the sweetest Joel, he is super flustered, fluff, pet names, lot’s of praise, joel calls reader kiddo/kid, implications of abusive household, implications of abusive father, drunk father, outbreak, kind of dbf!joel but not really
A/N: if anyone can still remember this from the poll i made monthsss ago, you are a real one🤞🏻 but i loved writing this, it’s filthy but also so incredibly soft, sweet and joel is just a sweet old man :((( (he is alive and well) anyways, i hope yall enjoy this!!🫶🏻
“Jesus Christ, girl. Told ya not to scare me like this.” He huffs out, boots creaking on the old wooden floor as he turns to face you. “Sneakin’ up on me like a damn cat.”
The light outside is slowly fading, as his eyes scan you—quick, instinctive. He takes in the flushed skin, the way your dress hangs crooked on your frame, the tremble in your fingers. Then his gaze lands on your tear streaked cheeks, and something shifts.
His whole face tightens in worry.
“Did ya daddy say mean things again?” He pinches your chin in his hand, making you look up to him.
You can only nod, unable to speak—because if you did, you were sure the knot in your throat would unravel, and you’d sob, just like you did hours before coming to Joels house.
He softly coos, one arm wrapping around your body as he pulls you into his chest. “Oh, babygirl,” he whispers, resting his chin gently on top of your head. “I’m sorry.” Then he presses a kiss there, steady and long.
His words sink deep into your bones, steadying your heart—not with judgment, but with understanding and care.
“S’okey.” You mumble, burying your face into his flannel shirt further, taking in his musk.
“Hell, I probably stink, don’t I?”
Joel just came back from chopping wood. His hands were rough—calloused, streaked with dirt as usual. Sweat clung to his skin, glistening along his neck and brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The scent of him was musky, edged with pine and smoke, but also of course, a hint of sweat lingering behind.
You loved burying your head into his chest.
“Not really,” You mumble. “Can I stay here tonight?” You ask, pulling away from his embrace and locking eyes with him—the question making your cheeks all flushed, a hint of embarrassment behind them.
“We can’t keep doin’ this, bug.” Joel murmurs, finger twirling a strand of your hair. “You come back every single time, like a damn stray cat.”
You roll your eyes at that, but a smile tugs on your lips.
“What? it’s true. I feed her, give her some milk and she always tip toes into my house back and gives me a near damn heart attack.”
You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it all began.
Maybe it started when your dad and Joel, being neighbors, began visiting each other—trading food, clothes, medicine like good old friends. Or maybe it was when you and Joel started talking about everything and nothing, while you found yourself trusting him with things you hadn’t told anyone else. Then again, it might have been that night you tiptoed into his house without asking, desperate for a place to stay after your dad had been cruel to you again.
Even then, he never asked questions. Even then, he knew what you needed in that moment, as if he could read you.
They all say in town: Joel Miller is a rough, stern, stubborn, and gruff man. But you always saw the opposite. You saw the way his fingers shifted patterns on your skin, careful not to let his dry hands scrape you. The way he’d place a cold hand on your forehead and leave it there—steady and quiet—until your migraine melted away. You heard his voice becoming softer when he talked to you.
And then there were the quiet actions. Like replacing the kitchen clock with a quieter one, just because you once told him—without meaning to—that the ticking reminded you of the one in your father’s room: loud and fast.
Or how he never locks the door anymore. Always leaves the porch light on, so you know—you can come in, even if it’s the middle of the night.
You sometimes wished he was your father.
“I tell ya what. You help me with bringing those logs inside and then you can stay here.”
You nod, eagerly.
So, he gestures towards a pair of worn boots by the step—his, clearly too big for you, but the only option he’s got.
“Go on,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Slip into those. Ground’s cold.”
You glance down at the boots, then back up at him, one brow raised.
He sighs, already exasperated. “Why ya always gotta come barefoot anyways? Ya gonna catch a cold.”
You roll your eyes, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m fine.”
And before he can argue, you step past him, bare feet brushing over the cool stone, then the grass, then the packed dirt of his garden path.
Joel watches you go, but then shakes his head, chuckling. He can’t stay mad at you. Never.
The wood’s already stacked neatly near the shed, thick logs piled in a criss-cross pattern. You bend to grab one, arms wrapping around the weight of it, and carry it back towards the house. Joel moves the same, grabbing two—instead of one—and moving them into his house.
You come back for another, but as your foot shifts on the ground, something sharp presses into your sole. You hiss, stumbling slightly, and glance back at him.
He’s already shaking his head.
“Told ya to wear the boots, honey bun.”
You stick your tongue out at him, giggling as you hobble a step, then straighten and scoop up the log anyway. Joel smirks, eyes accidentally lingering on your legs as you walk back towards the house, the hem of your dress swaying with each step.
You’re halfway through stacking the last of the wood before Joel disappears into the hallway. You don’t think much of it—just keep moving, barefoot on the cool floor, arms full of logs that leave little flecks of bark on your dress.
When you place them down, and turn around, he’s back. Holding something.
A pair of thick, worn, brown socks.
He tosses them onto the couch, then goes to close the door to his garden. He jerks his chin towards his couch. “Sit.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sit down, kiddo.” His voice is calm, but firm. “You been runnin’ around barefoot like a damn forest sprite. Floor’s cold. You’re gonna catch somethin’.”
You roll your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”
Joel gives you a look—that look—the one that says, “I could bend you over and spank you,” and you know better than to argue. With a huff, you drop onto the couch, legs swinging slightly.
He kneels in front of you, knees popping—followed by that quiet dad groan he always makes as he lowers himself. His hand comes up, wraps around your ankle real gentle but firm.
You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.
“Quit squirming. Let me take care of you.”
You go still, cheeks flushing.
He slips the first sock over your foot, slow and careful, as if you’re something fragile. His fingers brush your ankle, your calf. He doesn’t look up, his eyebrows are pinched, concentrated
“Can’t have you gettin’ sick. Cold floor like this’ll mess with your stomach. You’ll be cryin’ to me about cramps in a day or two.” He murmurs.
You snort. “You sound like an old man.”
He smirks, sliding the second sock on. “Yeah, well. Old man knows how to keep you warm, bug.”
When he’s done, he pats your knee, then leans in—just a little and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Soft. Barely there.
Your stomach does a small flip. And your toes curl against the rug, like your body’s reacting before your mind can catch up. It’s just a kiss, soft and low on your ankle, but it sends something warm skimming up your spine.
Then he stands up slowly, “There. All better.”
You wiggle your toes in the socks, quiely recovering from the kiss. They’re too big, smell like cedar and laundry soap—just like Joel smells whenever he changes clothes. You don’t say thank you. You don’t have to.
Joel’s already watching you with that quiet, unreadable look—the one that says he’d do it all over again, every day, just to keep you safe.
Then he clears his throat, voice low and lazy.
“Whatcha want to eat, huh, hon?” You glance up. “We can make some pasta,” he adds, already turning towards the kitchen.
You hop off the couch, socks slipping slightly on the floor, and trail after him. “You always make some pasta.”
Joel shrugs, pulling open a cabinet. “It’s easy. And you love my pasta.”
You climb onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him move m—sleeves pushed up, hands steady, the taught rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. He grabs a pot, fills it with water, sets it on the stove.
“You gonna help or just sit there lookin’ all cute?” he mutters, not looking at you.
You grin. “I’m moral support.”
Joel snorts, tossing you a clove of garlic. “Then start peelin’, bug.”
So, you do. Slowly. While watching him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the kitchen and hums under his breath. The silence between you isn’t awkward…it’s warm. Familiar.
And when he brushes past you to grab the salt, his hand grazes your knee. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look at you.
But you feel it. And so does he.
Slowly, the air starts to smell like olive oil and tomatoes. The kitchen, warm now, feels like home—the kind you never had, but Joel made for you.
He glances over his shoulder at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re gettin’ more garlic on the floor than in the bowl, bun.”
You shrug, grinning. “You’re the one who made me help.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he stirs the sauce.
Then—suddenly—a knock on his door.
Your heart jumps. The garlic slips from your fingers, forgotten. You freeze, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat.
Joel looks up, brows furrowing. “Relax,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s probably just Tommy.”
But you’re already sliding off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, knowing what it could mean if your father finds you. You duck behind the counter, heart pounding, curling in on yourself like instinct. Joel watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself now. He walks to the door, slow and steady, and opens it just a crack. And the smell hits him first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Then the voice.
“You’ve seen my girl, Miller?”
Joel’s jaw tightens. Your father stands on the porch, swaying ever so slightly, eyes glassy, breath thick with liquor. His shirt’s half untucked, belt askew, like he got dressed in the dark.
Joel doesn’t blink. “Nah,” he says, voice flat. “I was home all the time.”
Your father squints at him, leans in too close.
“You sure?”
Joel’s eyes narrow. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You callin’ me a liar?” And hell, he could punch the shit out of him if you weren’t behind the counter.
There’s a beat of silence. Then your father scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and stumbles back down the steps, disappearing into the dusk.
Joel watches him go, jaw clenched, hand still on the doorknob, trying to calm himself down from the anger he is feeing. Only when the sound of retreating footsteps fades does he shut the door, slow and deliberate. The lock clicks into place.
He turns around.
You’re still crouched behind the counter, peeking up with wide, sad eyes. Your hands are clenched in your lap, shoulders drawn tight.
Joel’s face softens instantly, the anger washing away as fast as it came. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels besides you, his knees popping as he lowers himself down.
“You stayin’ here tonight,” he says gently, “Maybe even tomorrow.”
You don’t answer. You just throw your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. He catches you so easily, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you here. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “It’s alright now. Let’s keep cookin’, yeah? My tummy’s grumblin’”
You manage a small smile. He helps you up, steadying you with a hand on your back, and guides you gently back to the counter.
The garlic’s still there, waiting. The water’s boiling. And Joel—Joel is right beside you, like he always is, and always be.
—
The pasta’s gone cold, but neither of you seem to notice.
You’re sitting across from Joel at his little wooden table, legs tucked under you, fork still in hand.
Joel leans back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable look. You can feel it—the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap slow against the rim of his glass.
You set your fork down. Swallow hard.
“You know…” you start, voice soft. “I don’t really trust people. Not anymore.”
Joel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“But I trust you.” You look up to meet his eyes. “With everything.”
He shifts in his seat, like the words hit somewhere deep. He looks away, jaw tight.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t go puttin’ that kind of faith in me. I ain’t no good man, baby.”
You shake your head, voice steady now.
“Well… you’re better than my father.”
That lands like a stone in the room. Joel’s eyes snap back to yours, something raw flickering behind them. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say that won’t break the moment.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “That ain’t sayin’ much.”
You smile, sad and small. “It’s sayin’ enough.”
Joel exhales, long and slow. Then he reaches across the table, rough fingers brushing yours. He doesn’t grab your hand—just lets his rest there, close enough for you to choose.
And you do.
You slide your hand into his, and he closes his fingers around yours tightly. You expect him to let go, to change the subject.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts your hand slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, sweet, delicate, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head but never dared to do it for real.
Your heart warms.
It started with safety. With wishing he was the kind of man who could’ve raised you. But now, when he looks at you like that, and kisses you— you know it’s something else entirely.
And then there is another thing. The one where Joel makes you feel different. Not in your heart but rather…down there. Deep in your belly, where butterflies loom whenever you look at his calloused hands, whenever he stands in front of you—broad shoulders and as a big man who could handle anything.
A giggle slips out before you can stop it.
Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”
You shake your head, cheeks warm. “Nothin’. Just… your hands are so big.”
He laughs, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, deeper. “Yeah? That a problem?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, but your tummy does a little flip as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again, slow and absentminded.
The room is dim now, the outside fully dark. And if it weren’t for the gentle brushes of his thumb over your knuckles, it would be the silence that let’s you a yawn slip. Stretching your mouth wide before you can stifle it.
Joel catches it instantly.
“Looks like somebody’s tired already?” he says, voice low and teasing.
You blink at him, eyes heavy, lips curved in a sleepy smile. “M’not.”
He chuckles, his hands leaving yours before standing up and offering the same hand. “C’mon, honey bun. Let’s get you tucked in before you fall asleep on my damn table.”
You take his hand without hesitation, letting him guide you down the hall—his thumb beginning to brush over your knuckles again.
He stops in front of the small door and pushes it open with a quiet grunt. The hinges groan slightly, like they haven’t been used in a while. The room beyond is cozy, if a little dusty—a twin bed tucked against the wall, a faded quilt folded neatly at the foot, and a big mirror leaned against the other side of the room.
Joel steps inside first, flicking on the light. Dust motes dance in the glow.
“S’been a while since you were here,” he murmurs, running a hand along the edge of the mirror. His fingers come away gray, and he wipes them on his jeans with a quiet huff. “Should’ve cleaned up better.”
You smile, stepping in behind him. The room is small, but it’s yours. Always has been. He never says it out loud, but he keeps it ready—just in case.
Joel walks over to the bed, pulls the blanket back with a dramatic flourish, and pats the mattress. “Alright, bug. Hop in.”
You climb in, the sheets cool against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Before you can settle, Joel grabs the edge of the blanket and throws it over you, tucking it in tight around your sides.
Then, with a grin, he starts rolling you—gently, playfully—wrapping you up like a burrito, like a cocoon. “There we go,” he mutters, half to himself. “All wrapped up. Ain’t goin’ nowhere now.”
You giggle, squirming a little under the snug weight of the blanket. “Joel!”
He chuckles, crouching beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other smoothing your hair back from your face.
“You always do this,” you murmur, eyes soft.
Joel grins. “You always giggle.”
You peek up at him, voice quieter now. “You always kiss my forehead.”
Joel’s expression shifts—something tender flickering behind his eyes. His voice drops, warm and low. “And I always will.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—slow, gentle, lingering just a second too long. A silence settles between you, thick with something unspoken. Then he clears his throat gently.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, softer now. “Still need to work on somethin’. If ya need anythin’, just come down, yeah?”
You nod, cheeks warm, eyes already heavy.
“Okay.”
“Night, honey bun,” he whispers.
And then he stands, walks to the door, and slips out without another word, closing it behind him with a soft click.
—
It hits you just minutes after the door clicks shut. A slow, pulsing ache deep in your belly. A thrum of want, right where your hands have never wandered before.
You shift on the bed, the sheets cool beneath your thighs, the air still holding the warmth of where he was. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure. You glance towards the door, half-expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
You sit up, then lie back down. Pull the blanket up, then push it off again. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s holding something in. Like something wants to release, but it can’t.
Your eyes flick to the mirror across the room. You don’t recognize the girl staring back—flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide like she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to.
You think of Joel.
His voice…low, steady, rough. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there.
His hands—big, calloused, careful. The way they brushed over your hand, the way he kept you wrapped up around his chest. The way he looked at you—not like you were fragile, but like you were worth protecting.
You close your eyes and breathe him in, even though he’s gone. The scent of him still lingers—soap, cedar, something with wood.
Your hand moves without thinking. Just resting. Just curious.
You’re not sure what you’re doing. But you know what you’re feeling.
You never touched that place. But today, something in your body wants more. Something aching to be touched, something that makes your pulse go faster, your breathing deeper.
So your hand starts moving—slow strokes over your damp panties. Your cheeks burn as the first waves of pleasure stir beneath your skin, soft and startling.
It feels good.
Too good.
A spark flares, sharp and sweet, and for a moment you think—maybe this is it. This is what your body wants. But it fades too fast. Dissolves before it can crest. You’re left with a pulse that won’t settle and a need that won’t quiet.
So you try again.
Stroking up and down. Left and right. Your body responds—hips shifting, breath catching. It’s good. More than good. But it’s not enough. Like trying to drink from a glass that’s just out of reach. You taste it, but you’re still thirsty. Your breath comes out in sharp waves and your hand moves faster, chasing something that’s there something you are not quite sure how to reach.
But you fail. The burning sensation on your cheeks grow, and you’re breathless when you let your hand fall.
You shift again, restless. Your thighs press together, trying to chase that feeling. Your gaze drifts across the bed, landing on the pillow near your hip. You hesitate. Then, slowly, you pull it between your legs, the fabric cool against your skin and the now, more dampened fabric.
You close your eyes, hips rocking against that feeling.
You don’t know what you’re doing—only that it feels good. You sit up, straddling it. The pillow is soft beneath you, and your hips begin to move faster without permission. You bury your face in the sheets, breath catching, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the dark, his name flickers on your tongue.
Joel stands at the kitchen sink, cleaning the dishes from the pasta. He should’ve gone to bed by now, leave all of that and just relax. But something’s keeping him up—a restlessness in his chest he can’t shake. If it’s guilt, or love—he can’t decide.
He thinks of you. The way you looked at him tonight, the way your eyes peaked from behind the counter. The way you wrapped your arms around him like he is the only person that can save you.
He runs a hand down his face, exhales slow. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself. “She’s just a kid.”
Still, it lingers. He folds the same dish towel twice. Stares out the window like it might give him answers.
And when he finally heads to the hallway, to wash his face, put on his something more comfortable—he hears it.
Upstairs, Joel freezes.
He’s halfway to his bedroom when he hears it—your voice, muffled but clear, calling his name in a tone that makes his stomach twist. It’s not loud, but it’s enough. Enough to make his heart lurch.
He doesn’t think. Just moves.
Two long strides and he’s at your door, pushing it open with a sharp breath.
“Baby?” he calls, voice tight with worry. “You okay—”
Then he sees you.
You’re on your knees, straddling the pillow, frozen mid-motion. Your breath catches. Your eyes go wide. Your mouth is parted, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, blooming pink.
Joel stops dead in his tracks.
His heart drops straight into his boots.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. He turns his head, suddenly aware of what he’s walked into. “Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”
But then you say it again.
“Joel,” you breathe, voice trembling, needy. “Please.”
He doesn’t know what you’re asking for. Doesn’t know if you know. But the sound of it—the way you say his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left—hits him like a punch to the chest.
His cheeks flush hard. His hands find his hips, like he needs something to hold onto.
“Gosh,” he says, voice rough. “The hell are ya doin’, bug?”
He doesn’t even know why he asks. He sees it. Clear as day. But his brain’s still catching up to his heart, and his heart’s caught somewhere between panic and something he doesn’t dare name.
You sink down on the pillow slowly, heart pounding, shame already rising in your throat. “I… I can’t help myself,” you whisper, voice thin and breathless. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick back to you, going soft. “S’alright,” he says, voice low. “I’ll just—”
“Will you help me?”
The words tumble out before you can even stop them.
Joel freezes. Really freezes. His whole body goes still, like the air’s been knocked out of him. He looks at you, disbelief written on his face, and something shifts. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. He’s searching for words and finding none.
“I don’t know what I’m doing…” you whimper, voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to make it stop.”
Joel’s hands fall from his hips. He rubs his forehead, dragging his palm down his face like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Nah. Not happening.“
“Please, Joel.”
He shakes his head, backing towards the door. “No, baby. I— I can’t. You can just… do whatever you need. I’ll leave ya alone.”
He turns, hand on the doorknob, already halfway out.
And then you say it.
“It hurts…”
Just two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit him like a bullet.
Joel stops.
His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut. He curses under his breath—not at you, god, never at you—but at himself. At the way his heart twists. At the way his body responds, his cock wakes up in his pants. At the way he wants to help you, even while he knows he shouldn’t.
So, he turns back around.
Steps into the room again, slow and quiet. He walks awkwardly and sits down besides you, careful not to touch.
His eyes land on your flushed skin, sweat on your forehead, the way your hands are gripping the pillow as if it’s going to run away from you. And then the small wet spot you left—on his pillow. His. Joel’s head turns into mush.
“W-what do ya want me to do, bug?” he asks, voice almost broken.
You should be embarrassed. You should be hiding your face, pretending it didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be asking him for help. But you don’t feel shame anymore. Because it’s Joel. And with him, you don’t feel ashamed. You feel safe.
You look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. “Touch me.”
Joel flinches. His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “God, baby… it ain’t right to do things like that when you’re visitin’ someone.”
He rubs his face, voice cracking. “You’re young. You’re hurtin’. And I’m supposed to be takin’ care of you, not—” He stops himself, breath shaky. “Not this.”
You look at him, heart breaking a little, eyes wide and wet, voice barely a whisper. “But you said you would help me with anything.”
Joel freezes. That line hits him like a punch in the ribs. And he swallows hard, jaw clenched, eyes flicking away. “I did,” he murmurs. “I did say that.”
Why did he have to say that, for fuck sake.
He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off of his skin. “Didn’t think it’d be this, bun. Didn’t think you’d be askin’ me for somethin’ like this.”
Silence stretches between you two. His eyes on you. On your skin. On your dress that’s hitched up. And on the small bit of your underwear that he can see. He lets out a shaky breath, seeing the way the fabric is completely soaked. He huffs, soft and low.
“Y’really are needy, aren’t you, huh?” His voice is deep, but soft.
You nod your head silently, shifting your hips to show him the mess you made. He swallows, muttering something under his breath that comes close to “christ.”
“Ain’t gonna touch you,” he says, finally. “But you can listen to my voice, yeah? Let me take care of you like that.”
You blink at him, confused. Lips parted, brows drawn.
Joel sees it immediately—sees the flicker of doubt, the question in your eyes—and his heart damn near cracks. He knows you’re just needy, just desperate to feel something. And he feels like a real bad man for denying you.
“I just…” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his mouth. “I don’t wanna mess this up, bun.”
You tilt your head, still quiet. Still waiting. Like a cat.
“You’re all soft right now, all sweet. All needy.” he rambles, “and I know you trust me. I know you feel safe. And I ain’t gonna take that and twist it.”
He shifts, nervous. His hands twitch like they want to reach for you—but fhey don’t. They can’t.
“So I’m gonna talk you through it. Just my voice. You’ll still feel good. I promise. But this way… you’ll know I ain’t just takin’ advantage.”
You nod, slow, understanding what he is trying to say. You see it in his eyes, guilt written on them. You don’t want to make him feel bad. So, the tension in your shoulders eases, and you trust Joel to make the ache go away.
“Okay,” you whisper. Joel exhales, shaky and repeats: “Okay.”
“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Do what you were doing before I came into the room.”
You hesitate, eyes flicking to his. He nods, just once. “Go on. I’m right here.”
He shifts where he’s sitting, his body turning towards you. Now, his whole attention is on you.
So you move—just like before. Still unsure, still not a damn clue what you’re doing. Your hips begin to buck in that familiar rhythm, slow and searching. A soft whine slips from your lips as the now cool, damp pillow brushes against your aching heat. The sensation is new, startling, and you want to chase it.
You glance at him, eyes wide, waiting.
He sees it—the unsureness in your gaze. The need. And his voice comes low, steady, like a hand on your spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good. So damn good.”
You inhale sharply. The words settle over your skin. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this—how his voice alone could make your body respond, how praise could feel like touch. You move again, tentative. His voice follows you, steadying.
“Go slow, baby. No rush. Let yourself feel it.”
Each slow grind of your hips draws a quiet squeak from the mattress, rhythmic and raw. Your breath stutters, a whine escapes your mouth.
He hears it, so his voice dips lower. “You’re so beautiful like this. So sweet. Look at you.”
And Joel feels guilt in his chest rising from the words that leave his mouth. He swallows hard, jaw clenched. His voice is steady, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.
You glance at him, always. Only at him, awaiting something. Cheeks flushed, lips bitten bloody.
He gives you a nod, eyes warm but careful—not trying to let you see the guilt. “Keep goin’. I’m right here, bun.”
You move faster, shaky, needy, guided by his voice.
The tension starts to build, hips stammering in that rhythm he coaxed from you with nothing but words. You’re right there, teetering, the edge rising up to meet you—
And then it’s gone.
The pressure breaks, not into release, but into absence. A gasp tears from your throat, sharp and helpless. You freeze, blinking hard, chest heaving.
Frustration prickles at your skin.
“I—I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not working.”
Joel’s jaw tightens, he sees the frustration. Sees the way your hips messily buck, your chest rising up and down quickly.
“I wanted to,” you whisper. “I really tried.”
He nods, brushing a hand down his face, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then, quieter: “I know. I saw you.”
Your breath hitches, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You blink fast, trying to swallow it down, but the words slip out before you can stop them.
“I—I never did it.”
Joel stills. His brow furrows. “What?”
You look away, cheeks burning.
“Touched myself I mean,” you whisper. “I tried before, but… I don’t have any privacy in that goddamn house. Someone’s always around. I never—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “I never got there.”
Joel’s face softens. He nods, slow and quiet, like he’s piecing it all together.
“That’s why you’re so worked up, huh?”
You nod, eyes downcast, lips trembling. You feel embarrassed for making such a scene tonight—keeping him up, begging him to touch you. But you don’t know any better. You don’t have anyone else.
He hesitates, then shifts closer, voice low and careful. “Can I… can I try somethin’ else?”
You look up, confused. He swallows hard.
“Still not gonna—” He stops, starts again. “Still not gonna take more than you give me. But maybe if I just…”
He lifts his hands, palms open, hovering over your hips.
“Just here,” he says. “My hands. That’s all. I’ll guide you. Help you move. Nothin’ more.”
You whisper, “please,” and reach for him without hesitation, your fingers curling around his hands like you need him to stay grounded. Joel exhales hard by your reaction, as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. His hands settle on your hips, warm and trembling.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re going to fuckin’ ruin me, bug.”
You blink up at him, breath catching, feeling the throbbing get worse now that his hands are on you.
He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours. “Always fuckin’ using those eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Always knowin’ you get what you ask for, don’t you?”
You blink up at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you squeeze his hands.
“I just look at you.”
Joel huffs a breath, something like a laugh but heavier. “’Course you do, baby.”
His gaze drops, catches on the slow, unconscious roll of your hips on the pillow—like your body’s still chasing the rhythm, even if your mind hasn’t caught up.
He swears under his breath, voice thick.
“C’mon then,” he says, shifting closer, hands squeezing gently on your hips. “Let’s get you there.”
You start moving your hips again, while Joel’s hands guide you, slow and sure now, his voice a low hum in your ear. And every time you falter, his grip reminds you: he’s here. He’s watching. He wants this for you.
And somehow, that makes it easier. Makes it deeper.
The friction is good, but it’s his hands that make you tremble. His hands that coax the heat higher. His hands that tell you it’s safe to fall apart.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Movin’ so good for me.”
You whimper, chasing that edge again, feeling it coming closer and closer. He leans in, lips brushing over your cheek.
“Sweet little thing,” he breathes, “So fuckin’ good for me.”
Something in you breaks open at that—soft and aching. You can’t help it. You lean forward, forehead pressing to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck.
Joel stills, just for a second. Then his hands tighten firmer on your hips.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You rest right there, baby. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath trembling. He keeps talking, voice low and steady, every word a touch. You feel more wetness soaking the pillow, more mess forming between your legs. And he notices it.
“Didn’t know you had all that in you, honey bun.”
You bury your face further into his neck, heat rushing to your cheeks. You don’t say anything—can’t. Your body’s trembling, and his words only make it worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.
And he also notices the way your hips go faster, the way your thighs clench, the way your breath hitches.
“You’re shaking, baby. You gonna make another mess for me?”
And it hits you right in the chest. You whimper, barely, and lift your head. Your eyes meet his—wide, glassy, desperate. You nod. Just once. Small. Needy. Like you’re asking permission and giving it all at once.
Joel groans, his hands tightening on your hips.
“You’re doin’ so good. So proud of you. Let it come, bun. Let it take you.”
“J-joel.” You whimper out.
“M’right here. M’right here, baby.” He whispers, gently squeezing your hips and moving you against the pillow faster.
“I think—it’s coming, Joel.” You whimper, breathless.
Joel nods, his hands guide you on the pillow with a steady, fast rhythm, with the right amount of pleasure. You fall back to his neck, releasing a hiccup, hands holding down on the sheets, feeling that coil in your tummy finally about to snap and then—
…It’s gone again.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief. Your face stays buried in his neck, hot with frustration, your breath hitching in little gasps.
“It’s gone.” you whisper, voice cracking.
Joel holds you tighter, one hand smoothing slow circles down your back. He doesn’t say anything at first—just breathes with you, steady and warm.
“What am I gonna do with you, bug, huh?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You lift your head, eyes glassy, almost crying lips parted.
“Please,” you whisper. “Do something. I don’t care what. Just… please.”
Joel’s jaw flexes. He looks at you, then away, scanning the room like he’s searching for an answer. That’s when his eyes land on the mirror. On the long, full-lengthed one, leaning against the wall. He stares at it for a beat, then huffs a breath.
“Your father’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.
You blink, trying to figure out what he is thinking. “No,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “You’re stronger than him.”
Joel lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “You got no idea what you’re sayin’, baby.”
Then, you put your hand on top of his again, squeezing gently. “I do. I trust you.”
Joel’s mind spins with possibilities—how this idea could play out, how it might shift the shape of your relationship, how it could make him look like something he’s not. Like he’s crossing a line. Like he might ruin you. He looks at you for a long moment, searching. Then he nods. Slow. Decisive.
“Alright,” he says, voice almost broken. “Let’s try somethin’ different.”
He stands up, the bed dipping as he rises. Then he turns, reaches a hand out to you.
“Let me show you somethin’.”
You blink up at him, confused, but you take his hand. He pulls you up slowly, the pillow that just sat between your legs, now completely wet and ruined laying there in the corner. He steadies you when your knees wobble, and pulls down your dress again.
Together, you walk across the room, his hand warm around yours. The mirror looms ahead—tall, full-length, catching your reflection in the dim light.
He steps behind you, his hands resting on your hips. You meet his eyes in the mirror.
“You trust me?” he asks.
You nod, almost too quickly. Because you do. You trust him with everything you have.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Then let me see you, baby.” A shiver runs down your spine. “Can I take your panties off?”
Your breath catches. No one’s ever asked you that before. No one’s ever seen what lies behind the fabric.
And for a second, you freeze. Not because you don’t want it—but because it’s him. Because it’s real. Because this isn’t about being used. It’s about being seen. Because you trust him.
You nod. Slow. Careful. Then whisper, “Okay.”
Joel nods, pushing your dress up and hooking into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate. He kneels as he draws them down your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass.
His eyes land on your pussy, and he licks his lips without even noticing.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “So god damn pretty.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in your hands. “Joel…”
“What?” he says, looking up and grinning. “I’m just tellin’ the truth.”
You peek down at him through your fingers, cheeks burning, but your cunt still pulses. Still asking. Still open for him.
“Sit,” he says softly, guiding you down.
You lower yourself onto the floor, the plush rug cool against your thighs. Joel kneels behind you, his presence a wall of heat at your back. Then he shifts, legs sliding out on either side of yours, bracketing you in.
You’re nestled between his thighs now, your back against his chest, his arms resting loosely around your waist.
He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.
“There we go. You okay?”
You nod, breath catching, looking at yourself in the mirror.
Then, with slow hands, he reaches down, his palms gliding over your thighs. He nudges your knees apart, spreading you gently until your legs rest over his.
“Just like that,” he says. “Let me hold you open.”
You glance at the mirror, at your swollen pussy, then to Joel. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. Not this time.
“I don’t want you to just feel it. I want you to watch how your body moves. Watch how it wants this. You ain’t broken, bug. You’re just learnin’.”
You nod, but your voice is small. “I don’t even know where to touch.”
Joel’s hands settle on your thighs, grounding you. He leans in, his voice a low hum in your ear. “Then I’ll show you, baby. Just once. So you know where to start.”
Joel’s hand hovers just above your center, not touching yet.
“Before we get there,” he murmurs, “you gotta learn how to tease yourself. Build it up slow. That’s how you make it last.”
“I know you’re already worked up with two ruined orgasms…” his eyes softly find yours in the mirror. “But I want you to also learn it for other times, yea?”
You nod before you even realize it, breath catching in your throat. You don’t fully understand what he means—not quite yet—but you trust him. You trust that whatever he’s teaching you, it’s not just about your body. It’s about you.
“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ll try.”
He smiles, just a little. “That’s my bun.”
And when his hands return to your hips, guiding you again, you let go of the fear. You let him lead. You let yourself feel. He brushes his fingers along the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You shiver.
“Start here,” he says. “Skin’s soft. Sensitive. You touch yourself here, you’re tellin’ your body what’s comin’.”
He drags his fingertips up, tracing the curve of your thigh, then across your hip, your lower belly.
“Then here,” he whispers. “Your mound. Just a little pressure. Not too much. You’re not tryin’ to rush it—you’re sayin hello.”
You watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the way his hands move, by the way your body responds.
“You feel that?” he asks, his palm resting just above your center. “That heat?”
You nod, lips parted.
“Good,” he says. “Now we go lower.”
His fingers dip between your folds, still avoiding your clit, just gliding through the slickness there.
Joel’s fingers glide through your slick, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t rush—just lets himself feel you, lets you feel it.
He groans, low and wrecked.
“Goddamn, baby…” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
You squirm, cheeks burning, but you don’t look away. Not this time. You watch how his big fingers explore your cunt, how the pleasure feels tingly.
He pulls his fingers back, glistening with your arousal. Then, without a word, he brings them to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, voice rough.
You do. Lips parting, breath trembling. He slides his fingers past them, slow, letting you taste yourself.
His eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror.
“Tastes sweet?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.
You nod, your heart beating faster, your tongue curling around his fingers. His fingers are big, and you need quite a while until you suck your arousal off.
He groans, deep in his chest. “Good.”
Joel watches you suck his fingers, slow and shy, your tongue curling around the taste of yourself. His breath is ragged behind you, chest rising and falling against your back.
Then, he pulls his fingers free again, slick and warm, and you gasp like you’ve lost something.
Suddenly, he pulls away from you and mutters, almost to himself: “Hang on.”
He reaches for his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Slips them on with one hand, slow and deliberate. You catch his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes narrow behind the lenses, the way his jaw tightens.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Now I can see exactly where she is.”
His hand slides down, slow and deliberate, until his fingers hover just above where you ache. Then, just when you least expect it; his fingers part you gently. The cold air meeting your slick coated cunt.
You shift in front of the mirror, thighs trembling, eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass.
“See this right here?” He taps on the little nub once, featherlight. You jolt. “That’s your clit, baby. That’s where all that ache’s comin’ from.”
“This little thing’s what makes you fall apart. You ever touched it like this before?” he asks.
You shake your head, quietly, your cheeks flushed.
“That’s alright,” he taps on your little clit again. “You feel that? That little twitch? That’s your body beggin’ for more.”
A gasp leaves your mouth when he gives you one rub. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back against his chest. And suddenly, Joel lands a spank on your thigh making you jolt against him and open your eyes wide. “Keep your eyes on the mirror. I want you to see what I see.”
His hand smoothes over the spot. “Easy bug,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just want you here with me.”
His hand stays steady between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick, slow and reverent. You’re trembling, breath shallow, eyes locked on the mirror like he told you.
Joel’s voice is low, almost hypnotic.
“Slow circles,” he murmurs, brushing over your clit with the lightest touch. “Not too fast. Not too hard.”
You twitch, hips jerking, but he holds you still.
“Just like this,” he says again, rubbing in a lazy rhythm. “Slow circles. That’s how she likes it.”
You whimper, your head falling back again on his shoulder. You feel the pleasure in your tummy slowly building—just from feeling his middle finger on top of your clit. And he doesn’t stop.
“There she is” he whispers. “All swollen and pulsing.”
He keeps rubbing, patient and precise, and your body starts to melt into his.
“She’s real sensitive,” he says. “You rush her, she’ll shut down. But you take your time…”
He presses just a little firmer, and you gasp.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s the spot. You keep her there, she’ll take you all the way.”
His fingers never stop moving, and his voice keeps repeating, grounding you in the rhythm.
“Slow circles. Soft pressure. Let her talk to you.”
Joel’s fingers keep working you in slow, deliberate circles, never rushing, never faltering. The pleasure builds like a storm, tight and trembling in your belly. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
You can’t hold it in anymore.
“Joel,” you whine, the sound broken, desperate. “I—please—”
He stills. Just like that.
You cry out, hips jerking, chasing the friction he’s stolen. But his hand stays still, warm and maddening between your legs.
He leans in, “Now you continue,” he says. “Let me see if you listened.”
You blink, dazed, your whole body buzzing.
“Wha—?”
He guides your hand down, curling your fingers over your clit, still slick from his touch.
“You’re so close, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop now. Show me you remember.”
Your hand trembles, but you start to move, mimicking the slow circles he taught you. Your breath catches. It’s not the same as his touch—but it’s yours. And it’s working.
Joel watches you in the mirror, his hands resting on your thighs, grounding you.
“That’s it,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty like this. Wrecked and tryin’ so hard.”
You whimper again, your body arching, chasing the edge he left you on.
“Keep goin’,” he whispers. “You’re almost there.”
Joels hand circle your thigh and before you even notice it, his other hand is gently rubbing on your nipple over the fabric. You gasp, trying to keep the rhythm of the circles on your clit, but it’s hard to do when you feel his hands and his gaze watching you.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake. Your vision blurs.
“Joel,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—I think—”
And then it hits.
Your body arches, a cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you—sharp and deep and endless. You collapse back against him, your whole body trembling, your hand falling away from your center.
Joel catches you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. A hand sneaks down to cup your cunt, pressing his palm on your clit to make you ride out your orgasm. You bury your face in his shoulder, breath ragged, heart pounding.
“There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “That’s it, baby. You did so good.”
You whimper, still shaking, overwhelmed. Your first orgasm.
“Shh,” he soothes, rocking you gently. “I got you. I got you.”
He presses a kiss to your hair, his voice warm. He slowly removes his hand, making sure that the throbbing slowly fades away.
“First one always hits hard,” he says. “You held on so long. Now you let it out, bun. You earned that.”
You’re still trembling, your body boneless and warm, your breath slowing in Joel’s arms. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there, your back pressed to his chest, his hands gentle on your thighs.
One of them drifts up to your waist, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin. The other stays low, massaging the sore muscles of your inner thigh, where you’d tensed so hard.
You melt into him, your head resting on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.
“Did so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So proud of you, bug.”
You hum, barely awake, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Thank you.”
Joel smiles, soft and warm.
“’Course, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.”
You sigh, content, your fingers curling around his wrist where it rests on your belly.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the weight of his arms, and the quiet hum of something new blooming between you.
And then your voice comes out, soft and sweet, but bold.
“Now I want one from you.”
He stills, breath catching. Joel looks at you in the mirror, searching for your eyes. Then a low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“That so?” he says, voice rough with restraint. “You really bringin’ me to my limits today, aren’t you, bug?”
You smile into the mirror, still dazed, still glowing. Joel’s always been careful. Too careful. He’s guided you, watched you, whispered praise—but never let himself touch you the way you crave. And you understands why. You know he’s afraid of taking too much, of being too much.
“You said you’d do anything for me,” you whisper, the words soft but sure.
Joel groans, tipping his head back with a quiet curse.
“Y’gonna always play that card now?” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just awe. Just surrender. So, this time—Joel does not argue, he doesn’t let guilt take over him. His fingers find their way down, on your clit and resume their slow, sweet rhythm, just like before. You twitch beneath his touch, still sensitive, still trembling.
“You still sensitive, hm?” he murmurs, watching your body react, watching your eyes flutter in the mirror.
He spreads your pussy lips, creating a v-shape with his fingers. Your cheeks flush again, looking at your aching cunt—your hole clenching.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, then goes back to rubbing your clit.
But you wonder. What does it feel like? When something is inside, when the pleasure comes from there instead of your clit. And then you wonder: how would his big fingers feel in you, and you can’t help but arch your back, a whine escaping from your throat.
“Inside.” You mumble out before you can stop yourself.
Joel stills, his breath catching. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, dark and steady.
“You want it inside?” he asks, voice low, reverent.
You nod again, cheeks flushed, body aching.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“You sure, baby?” he asks, “It might hurt a little. First time always does.”
Your breath stutters. You hadn’t thought about that. Not really. But you nod anyway. Because it’s him. Because you want to learn. Because you want it to be him who teaches you.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Real slow. You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
You nod again, more certain this time. Your body aches, but your heart is louder—beating with trust, with want, with the quiet hope that this will be different. That he will be different.
He nudges his middle finger against your opening, and your breath hitches.
“Relax for me, bun.” He gently coaxes. “I wanna feel you take me in soft.”
You try to breathe, slow and deep, but your body’s tight—nerves coiled, thighs trembling. You’ve never done this before. Never let anyone in.
But Joel’s voice is there, smooth, wrapping around you like a blanket. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”
His finger presses again, gentle but sure, and this time your body yields—just a little. Just enough.
It’s strange at first. Not painful, not really. Just… full. New.
You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, but Joel’s hand is on your hip, grounding you.
“You okay?” he murmurs, still. Waiting.
You nod, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just… it feels weird.”
“First time always does,” he says, voice warm. “But you’re takin’ me so well, bun. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
And with that, he eases in a little more, slow and careful, watching your face in the mirror the whole time. When his whole finger is in, he hums.
“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” Kissing your temple, he presses in just a little deeper, slow and careful. “You’re makin’ it real hard not to lose my mind here, bun. You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”
Your body jolts when he curls his finger just right, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. Your thighs twitch, your breath stutters, and your eyes fly open—wide, startled, overwhelmed.
Joel’s watching you in the mirror, gaze dark and steady, lips parted like he felt it too.
“There,” he murmurs, voice thick. “That little spot right there?”
He presses again, slow, and your hips buck before you can stop them.
“That’s your G-spot, bun.” He kisses your temple again, his free hand stroking your side. “Feels good, don’t it?”
You nod, breathless.
Joel’s fingers start working you slow and sweet, in and out while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your body trembles, your breath catching with every stroke. You’re close again, the pleasure building fast, and you can’t hold it in.
Your body arches into him, still trembling, still so sensitive. The second wave is building fast—hotter, sharper, like your body’s been waiting for this all along.
His voice right at your ear. “That’s it, baby. Let me take care of you.”
You whimper, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing every stroke.
“You’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over me.”
You nod, breathless, your fingers digging into his thigh. You can’t even process all the dirty things he is saying into your ear. It feels like you’re floating.
“Please,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His breath catches, and his hand stills for just a second—just long enough to feel the way you clench around him, desperate and trembling.
He murmurs, voice thick. “You beg so fuckin’ sweet.”
He curls his finger again, slow and deep, dragging it right over that spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Oh, bun… you’re right there, huh?” He asks, “So close I can feel it. You’re flutterin’ around me, squeezing me so tight. Cunt’s begging to come.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps that steady rhythm, dragging his finger over that spot again and again.
“Come on, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you make a mess on my hand.”
Your breath catches—then breaks. The pressure snaps, and you fall.
Your whole body seizes, thighs clamping around his wrist, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. Your cunt pulses against his finger, and wetness gushes out of you.
Joel holds you through it, one hand on your belly, the other still deep inside you, grounding you as you ride it out.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “So good. So fuckin’ good. You’re perfect. You hear me?”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body limp and warm. He kisses your temple, his voice soft now, reverent.
“You did so good for me. My sweet girl.”
Slowly, carefully, he begins to ease his finger out. You whimper at the drag, the sudden emptiness making your body clench around nothing.
“Shh, I know,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re so so good.”
Joel wipes his finger on his jeans as you sag against him, your legs barely holding you up. He catches you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.
Your heart’s still racing, but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and you feel yourself start to come back—slowly, gently, safely.
You’ve never felt this way before. Not just the pleasure, but the after. The way he holds you like you’re something fragile and precious. Like he’s proud of you. Like he’s not going anywhere.
The room slowly begins to fill with silence, the kind that hums with everything unspoken.
And then you shift, just slightly, and feel it—wetness, warm and unexpected, seeping through the fabric of his jeans where you’re sitting in his lap.
You blink, dazed, and glance down. Then up. You turn around.
Joel’s face is flushed, his jaw tight, eyes flicking away like he’s been caught.
You tilt your head, lips parting. “Joel…?”
He exhales, low and rough, then meets your gaze.
“Couldn’t help myself, bun,” he murmurs, voice thick with something between awe and apology. “You—watchin’ you like that… callin’ out for me… I just—”
He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“You undid me.”
You blink, lips parting, and then something soft blooms in your chest. You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the stubble there.
“You came… just from me?” you whisper, wonder in your voice.
He nods, eyes searching yours.
“Yeah. Just from you.”
You smile, slow and sweet, your heart fluttering. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke—it’s the truth.
Joel lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you.
“You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You nuzzle into his neck, your voice barely a breath.
“I like that I can make you feel good too.”
He kisses your temple, ”You do. More than you know.”
Then he murmurs, voice low and a little rough: “C’mon, let’s get us both cleaned up.”
You nod, barely awake, but you don’t move. You just hum and nuzzle into his chest. Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your waist. Then, after a beat, he adds—almost shyly:
“And then… maybe you’d like to sleep in my bed tonight?”
You blink up at him, eyes soft, lips parting.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”
Joel exhales, something easing in his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and steady.
“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I ain’t gonna let you go back to your father anyways.”
You look up at him, and he’s already watching you, jaw tight, eyes soft.
“You’re safe here,” he says. “With me. Always.”
PART TWO!
okey so this is HALF proofread…if you find mistakes or something doesn’t make sense, just ignore or let me know🥹 I feel like i’m using the word “like” too much…
Well anyways, i know this took a hot minute…i’ve been sick. forgive me pookies 😩 If you liked this, i’d love to hear your thoughts! Comments, messages, little keysmashes…i cherish all of it. you make it worth it 🫶🏻
Summary: Severus bribes you to go to bed because you have a knack of overworking yourself.
Author’s Note: I got tons of Snape drafts in my memo, and this will be the first one to be released.
Counting Tales
Severus Snape stood by the door of your classroom, black robes barely stirring as the night wind breeze blew steadily from your slightly ajar window.
“Professor,” he said coolly, voice low and precise,
“you keep rather late hours for someone who claims the stars are more predictable than people.”
His gaze flicked to the scattered star charts and faintly glowing instruments in your office before returning to you, lingering a fraction longer than strictly professional.
“I trust I am not interrupting… or is solitude part of your lesson plan tonight?”
It had been the seventh night in a row that Severus came to check on you in your office in the Astronomy Tower, to see if you had worked yourself to death once again—or were in bed. The light underneath the door only confirmed it.
You looked up from checking essays. It was past twelve. You didn’t even realize it.
“Oh, no. I was just finishing up,” you said, despite the fact that you were still writing.
Severus knew you were studious. Well… what did you expect from a professor like you?
Snape’s lip twitched barely, almost imperceptibly, as he stepped fully into the candlelight. His eyes narrowed at the quill still moving across parchment.
“‘Just finishing up,’” he repeated softly, with a dryness that suggested he had heard the phrase far too often. “An assertion that would be far more convincing if your hand were not still writing.”
He moved closer, black robes whispering against the stone floor, gaze flicking to the neat, meticulous notes.
Of course they were immaculate. Classic studious Ravenclaw.
“It is past midnight,” he continued, voice lower now, but edged with concern he refused to name aloud. “Even the stars you so revere observe cycles of rest. You, however, seem determined to defy them.”
He paused beside your desk, not touching anything, but close enough that his presence was undeniable.
“You promised me,” he added quietly, eyes lifting to yours at last, “that you would not work yourself into exhaustion again.”
Then, more softly only for you.
“And I have made a habit of checking because you are notoriously unreliable when left to your own devices.”
You looked up at him. “Well… I know I promised you yesterday, but I need these done tomorrow,” you said.
Snape exhaled through his nose, the sound suspiciously close to a sigh. He folded his arms, one brow lifting with theatrical restraint.
“Ah yes. Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “That mythical concept academics invoke… whenever they intend to ignore common sense.”
He leaned closer, peering over the essays as though they personally offended him.
“Tell me, are these essays on celestial mechanics,” he murmured, “or an elaborate excuse to avoid sleeping at a reasonable hour?”
Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he tapped the desk once.
“I must inform you that the Head of Slytherin is prepared to take… drastic measures.”
A pause. His eyes flicked to the quill still in your hand.
“I could confiscate that quill,” he said flatly. He hesitated.
“Five more minutes,” he conceded, lips thinning as though it pained him. “Then you stop. Or I sit here and critique every grammatical error aloud.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Choose wisely, Professor.”
“I don’t want you critiquing the students’ essays you’d mark them zero if you read them,” you said. “What are you doing here?”
Snape’s mouth twitched again, this time unmistakably amused, though he tried very hard to pretend otherwise.
“An outrageous accusation,” he replied smoothly. “I would not give them zero.”
He paused, raising a brow as he looked at you.
“Several might earn a very generous two.”
He moved to the opposite chair and sat far too casually for a man who insisted he was only here out of duty. One long leg crossed over the other, hands folding neatly.
“As for what I am doing here,” he continued, tone carefully neutral, “I was making my nightly rounds.”
He lifted a brow, eyes glinting.
“And I noticed the Astronomy Tower was still lit… again. Which means you were either being abducted by a celestial entity,” he deadpanned,
“or ignoring your own well-being.”
His gaze softened just a fraction as it settled on you.
“I ruled out the former.”
He leaned back, glancing at the towering stack of essays.
“Besides,” he added lightly, “Minerva has begun to notice a pattern. If you collapse during breakfast, it reflects poorly on us both.”
Then, with mock severity
“So. Finish that sentence,” he said, nodding at your parchment. “Then close the folder.”
His lips curved faintly.
“Or I stay. And make unhelpful commentary about planetary metaphors until you surrender—”
“But there’s so much to do, and I have to finish the students’ essays tomorrow,” you cut him off.
“I could get coffee at breakfast. I promise I won’t collapse,” you said.
Snape’s sharp eyes caught the shadow of a frown, the way your words faltered mid-justification. He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing into that familiar thin line. The essays, the coffee, the endless rationalizations all irrelevant if you were going to wear yourself down.
Without a word, he reached for a leather-bound book from the shelf, flipping it open with deliberate care. The faint scent of parchment drifted toward you as he looked back, dark eyes softening just enough to betray… something he would never name.
“If you come with me right now,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant, “I’ll read to you. Out loud. Entirely for your benefit.”
He paused, letting the weight of the offer settle, then added with unmistakable emphasis:
“I do not do this for anyone. Ever. Certainly not for anyone who insists on arguing with me instead of sleeping.”
His gaze lingered on you measuring, challenging, coaxing—unspoken insistence threading through every word.
“Come. Or stay, and I assure you, the stars will be entirely unsympathetic to your poor choices. And you'll regret it....in the morning”
The book rested in his hands like a bridge between you, the soft flicker of candlelight catching on the spine, and for a fleeting moment, he looked almost… gentle.
Severus held your worn leather-bound collection of Muggle bedtime stories between his long fingers, tilting it slightly as if it were a rare treasure.
“It is… uncommon,” he said, voice edged with teasing, “to see this book around. And yet, here it is… in my hands.”
He shook the book slowly, a faint, mischievous grin tugging at his lips.
“I had hoped to read aloud the tale of a thief… in green tights I forget his name,” he added, eyes flicking to you, “but as you are not in bed, I suppose I’ll pass. I could have voiced the sheriff, you know.”
Your eyes narrowed, standing your ground despite the flutter in your chest.
“You think you can bribe me with an old bedtime story?” you said, lifting your chin. “I’m already—”
He cut you off effortlessly, the grin widening just slightly, eyes dark with mischief.
“…older ,” he said, voice dropping, “if I am to return to my dungeon and read it alone, I suppose you will never know how delightfully the sheriff’s indignation sounds.”
Your resolve faltered for just a moment before he tilted the book, holding it like a challenge.
“Robin Hood,” he said simply, and began recounting the thefts with his usual dramatic flair, slipping into voices for the Sheriff of Nottingham and the Merry Men.
Unable to resist, you finally relented, a smile breaking through your careful composure.
“Okay, okay… I’ll go to bed,” you said softly, sliding from your seat, surrendering to the warmth of the moment.
Snape’s smile softened, and as you left the office together, the tower seemed to grow quieter, the stars outside blinking down as if giving their blessing to this rare, stolen moment of peace and closeness.
You practically skipped to your sleeping quarters, sliding under the covers with the enthusiasm of a child being promised a bedtime story.
“All right. I’m in bed,” you declared, your eyes sparkling.
Severus allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle, the corner of his lips twitching. You looked like a child demanding a story—and somehow, it was endearing beyond reason.
He perched beside you, one shoulder brushing yours as he opened the worn leather book.
“Very well,” he said softly, voice low and smooth. “Since you insist on being treated like a child, I shall indulge you.”
He flipped the page deliberately, letting the candlelight catch the edges of the worn parchment.
The familiar lines of Robin Hood filled the quiet room, and he slipped into the story with surprising warmth, his voice deep and melodic as he narrated the daring thefts and clever tricks.
You snuggled under the blankets, eyes wide, hanging onto every word, and for a moment, Severus’s usual sharpness softened entirely.
“You do know,” he murmured, turning a page, “that you’re far too old for this… yet here you are, practically bouncing in bed like an eager first-year.”
“I’m not that old, and don’t lie—you do secretly enjoy Muggle bedtime stories!” you shot back, though your grin betrayed you.
“I… do not,” he said. He shook his head, lips twitching.
Severus continued reading, voice low and steady, narrating Robin Hood’s exploits with all the dramatic flair he could muster but it was clear that your eyelids were growing heavier with each word.
Eventually, despite your quiet protests and half-hearted attempts to sit up, you drifted into sleep, resting your head against his shoulder. The book slipped slightly in his hands, but he didn’t move.
Severus closed the leather-bound book carefully, setting it aside, and let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh. He studied your sleeping face, the faint rise and fall of your chest, and the peaceful expression that softened every harsh thought he’d ever had about the world.
“Stubborn as ever,” he murmured under his breath, a rare softness in his voice.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake you, adjusting so you could rest comfortably.
And for the first time that night, the Astronomy Tower felt warm, quiet, and almost… like home.
Severus remained awake long after you had fallen asleep, your steady breathing and soft movements against his shoulder keeping him rooted in place. He allowed himself to watch you for a few moments longer, the candlelight catching the delicate curve of your face and the way your hair spilled across the pillow.
His hand moved almost instinctively, gently tucking the blanket around your shoulders to keep you warm. He hesitated, thumb brushing lightly against your arm, before speaking in a voice barely above a whisper.
“You know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “it’s remarkable… how someone can be so brilliant, so stubborn, and still… so gentle. You have a way of being extraordinary without even trying.”
He paused, eyes tracing the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. A rare vulnerability slipped into his tone words he would never voice in daylight, words no one else would hear.
“And it’s Not just your cleverness or the way you see the stars. It’s everything else too. How you care, how you fight, how you make the world softer just by being in it… You’re… beautiful. Inside and out.”
Severus exhaled softly, the tiniest tension leaving his shoulders. He shifted slightly, making sure the blanket was snug over you, careful not to disturb your sleep.
“And… if ever there’s a day when you might see me as I see you…” he murmured, almost inaudible, “…I would consider it the most extraordinary thing in the world.”
For now, though, he stayed silent, content to let you rest, the weight of his admiration and quiet devotion settling like the stars themselves in the quiet of the Astronomy Tower.
Hi could you please write an imagine in which snaps and reader are together, reader grew up in a muggle house, didn’t go to a wizarding school therefore doesn’t know a whole lot about magic. Somehow they find out the other has powers and Snape takes it upon himself to teach her everything.
Title: Magic?
Warning: None
Words Count: 2000+
Masterlist
___
Severus Snape was a man who kept his life meticulously ordered—every detail tightly controlled, every secret well-guarded. His flat in Spinner’s End reflected that precision: shelves lined with books on obscure topics, an assortment of jars containing rare herbs and powders, and not a single item out of place. For years, his life had been predictable, secluded, and exactly as he preferred it.
Until Y/N.
She had appeared one rainy autumn afternoon, moving into the house near his with a clatter of boxes and the faint sound of her laughter through the place. He’d paid her no mind at first, assuming she was just another ordinary muggle passing through the neighborhood. But Y/N had a way of quietly insinuating herself into his life, her warmth and curiosity chipping away at the walls he had spent years constructing.
It started with small conversations, then turned into shared cups of tea on dreary afternoons. Severus found himself drawn to her despite his better judgment, captivated by her wit and her ability to see through his sharp exterior without fear. Before long, her presence became a comfort he didn’t know he needed.
But Severus Snape was no ordinary man, and secrets like his had a way of complicating even the simplest of relationships.
The first time Severus noticed something unusual about Y/N, it was during one of their many tea sessions. She had been recounting a frustrating encounter with a nosy coworker, her voice tinged with exasperation, when the sugar bowl on the table suddenly slid toward her without anyone touching it.
Severus froze, his sharp black eyes narrowing as he watched the bowl settle.
Y/N, however, seemed entirely unaware. She simply reached for the sugar and continued talking as if nothing had happened.
The incident lingered in Severus’s mind for days. It wasn’t an isolated occurrence. As their relationship deepened, he began to notice more of these oddities.
One evening, while she was cooking dinner, she muttered under her breath about needing a spoon. A drawer across the room creaked open, and a wooden spoon floated out, landing neatly on the counter. She had stared at it in confusion for a moment before shaking her head and muttering something about exhaustion.
Then there was the time they had gotten into a mild argument. The moment her voice rose, the lights flickered ominously, and a glass on the counter shattered. Y/N had apologized profusely, blaming her clumsiness, but Severus couldn’t ignore the growing evidence.
She was no ordinary muggle.
He debated telling her for weeks, but every time he tried, the words caught in his throat. How could he explain magic to someone who had lived her entire life unaware of its existence? More importantly, how could he tell her that she might possess magic of her own?
As he hesitated, Y/N’s curiosity began to grow. She wasn’t blind to his odd behaviors—the way he seemed to know things he shouldn’t, the strange ingredients she occasionally glimpsed in his kitchen, or the books with titles written in languages she couldn’t understand.
It all came to a head one fateful evening.
Severus had been in his study, absorbed in a particularly complex potion, when Y/N’s voice broke through his concentration.
“Severus, can I ask you something?”
He looked up, his expression unreadable. “What is it?”
She stepped into the room, holding a thick, leather-bound book in her hands. His heart sank as he recognized it immediately.
“Where did you get that?” he asked sharply.
“It was on the shelf,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “I was looking for something to read, and this caught my eye. But… Severus, what is this? It’s not just a book, is it?”
He rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. “Y/N,” he began, his voice measured, “that is not something you should have been reading.”
“Why not?” she pressed. “It’s not like I can understand half of it. But the parts I do understand…” She flipped the book open, pointing to a page filled with detailed instructions for a potion. “This talks about powdered unicorn horn and asphodel. These aren’t… normal things, are they?”
Severus stared at her, his mind racing. There was no more hiding it.
“No,” he said finally. “They are not.”
She waited, her expression a mixture of confusion and determination. “Then explain it to me. Please.”
And so he did.
Severus spent the next hour explaining everything—the wizarding world, Hogwarts, and his own role as a potions master. He spoke of magic and its many forms, carefully observing her reaction as he revealed the truth he had kept hidden for so long.
Y/N listened in stunned silence, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. When he finished, she exhaled a shaky breath.
“So… you’re a wizard,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
“And you’ve been hiding this from me the entire time we’ve known each other?”
“I was protecting you,” he said, his tone defensive. “The less you knew, the safer you were.”
She frowned, her gaze piercing. “Safe from what?”
“From the dangers of my world,” he replied. “Magic is not always a gift. It can be a burden—a dangerous one.”
Y/N shook her head, her expression softening. “Severus, I understand why you wanted to protect me. But don’t you think I deserve to know the truth? Especially if…” She hesitated, her voice faltering.
“If what?” he prompted.
“If I’m part of it too,” she said quietly.
Severus’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
She looked down at her hands, twisting them nervously. “I’ve always had… strange things happen around me. Things I couldn’t explain. I thought I was just unlucky or clumsy, but… after what you’ve told me, I don’t know anymore.”
He studied her carefully, his mind racing. He had suspected as much, but hearing her say it aloud confirmed what he had been reluctant to admit.
“Y/N,” he said slowly, “it is possible that you are not a muggle.”
Her eyes widened. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he continued, “that you may be a witch.”
___
The morning light filtered softly through the windows of Severus’s flat, illuminating the scattered remnants of the night before: a few spell books left open on the table, a candle burned low in its holder, and a single white feather resting in the middle of the room. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration as she waved a borrowed wand at the feather.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” she muttered, her tone deliberate.
The feather trembled slightly but refused to lift. Instead, it skidded a few inches across the wooden floor.
“Again,” Severus instructed from his chair, his tone calm but firm.
Y/N sighed, gripping the wand tighter. “I’ve said it at least twenty times. Why isn’t it working?”
“Because,” he replied, “you’re trying to force it. Magic requires control, yes, but also intention. You cannot simply will it into being. You must feel it, allow it to flow.”
She groaned, letting her head drop forward in frustration. “This is harder than it looks.”
Severus set down the book he’d been thumbing through and moved to sit beside her on the floor. His presence was steadying, his dark eyes watching her with an intensity that made her heart race.
“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its usual edge, “no one masters magic overnight. Even the most talented witches and wizards stumble when they first begin.”
“But I can’t even levitate a feather,” she muttered, her tone tinged with disappointment.
“Progress is not measured by perfection,” he said, reaching out to gently tilt her chin so she was looking at him. “Every spell, no matter how small, is a step forward.”
She gave him a small, tentative smile, and he allowed himself a rare moment of softness, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Come,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Let’s try again.”
For the next hour, Y/N practiced under Severus’s watchful eye. Each attempt was met with either a subtle correction or a murmured word of encouragement. When she managed to lift the feather a few inches off the ground, she let out a triumphant laugh, her excitement lighting up the room.
“I did it!” she exclaimed, turning to Severus.
He allowed himself a small, approving smile. “Indeed, you did.”
Unable to contain her excitement, she threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing, his hands resting awkwardly on her back.
“You’re a surprisingly affectionate student,” he remarked dryly, though the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.
“And you’re a surprisingly patient teacher,” she shot back, grinning.
He shook his head, muttering something about “foolishness,” but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving ever so slightly upward.
As the days turned into weeks, their lessons became a regular routine. Severus taught her simple spells first—lumos to light her wand, accio to summon objects, and even reparo to fix the various things she accidentally broke during her practice.
But not every lesson was smooth.
One rainy afternoon, Y/N was attempting to cast a cleaning charm on a spill she’d made. Instead of vanishing, the liquid exploded outward, splattering both her and Severus with tea.
She gasped, horrified. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Severus!”
He stood there, dripping tea, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might be angry, but then he let out a deep sigh and flicked his wand, vanishing the mess in an instant.
“Perhaps,” he said, his tone dry, “we’ll revisit cleaning charms another day.”
Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, and to her surprise, Severus’s lips twitched in response.
Despite her occasional missteps, Y/N’s progress was undeniable. With each successful spell, her confidence grew, and Severus found himself strangely proud of her determination.
One evening, as they practiced in the dim light of his study, Y/N managed to conjure a small stream of water from her wand. She let out a delighted laugh, her eyes sparkling as she turned to him.
“Did you see that?” she asked, beaming.
“I saw,” he replied, his voice quiet.
Her joy was infectious, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in and kissed him. It was a fleeting kiss, soft and full of gratitude, but it lingered between them like an unspoken promise.
When she pulled back, she looked at him nervously. “Was that okay?”
Severus’s dark eyes searched hers, and for a moment, she thought he might retreat behind his usual stoicism. But then he reached out, his hand cupping her cheek as he kissed her back—slowly, deliberately, as though he were committing the moment to memory.
When they finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re remarkable, Y/N.”
Her heart swelled, and she smiled, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face. “So are you, Severus.”
The weeks passed in a blur of lessons, laughter, and quiet moments shared between spells. Y/N still struggled at times—her wand sometimes sparked unpredictably, and her frustration would boil over when a spell refused to cooperate. But Severus was always there, steady and patient, guiding her with a firm but gentle hand.
One evening, as they sat together by the fire, Y/N leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Do you think I’ll ever be good at this?” she asked softly.
Severus placed a hand over hers, his touch warm and reassuring. “You already are.”
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “You really believe that?”
“I do,” he said simply.
Y/N smiled, her doubts melting away under his steady gaze. For all his gruffness and guarded nature, Severus had a way of making her feel seen—truly seen.
And as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, she realized that magic, for all its wonder and mystery, was nothing compared to the love they had found in each other.
I commented on someone's post on TikTok about how I James Potter did some bad things and I don't agree that him being a bully was wrong or that Snape fakes his memories and they continued to comment 14 replies how how shitty Snape was (like I hadn't read the book or seen the movies, he's not perfect but he's morally gray and I like his character?) And they pretty much like sat there and pretended like James couldn't have POSSIBLY been a bully like? See this is why I refuse to go on alot of muaraders accounts because I can't even like the character or bring up a Canon plot point without being bombarded with opinions and wrong facts like??? Please go touch some grass, not everyone has you like your character, I don't think everyone has to like Snape I just appreciate it when lies aren't spread about his character
