Summary: You’re a new actress, and you finally got your breakout role in a new movie, but there’s an unfortunate sex scene that you have to film. The actor you’re doing it with is more than happy to help you through it and to make it as realistic as it can be… and it gets a little too realistic when they film it.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, actress!user, virgin!user, age-gap (user is mid 20s), sex, smut, unprotected sex, drunk sex, virginity loss, sex tape, dry humping, public sexual acts, mentions of alcohol, pet names (sweetheart, baby), Hollywood AU, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 4.7k | : coolest request ever… <3 thank you ANON!!! I LOVED WRITING IT :’) a bit diff from my other stuff but i’ll post an older bf one shot soooonnnn dont even worry!!
The set lights are bright, unnatural hues casting down on the set, and you’re sitting at the sidelines, quietly watching the scene play out in front of you.
Being a new actress wasn’t easy; you were fresh meat, a young thing in the eyes of every director, and they didn’t want to cast a young thing in a main role, or in something worth any amount of money. You were struggling to keep afloat; that was until you were cast in a movie that you couldn’t say no to.
Your mother had found the advertisement; they were looking for a young girl your age, and you hopped on it, sent in an audition tape, and now you were standing there, waiting for your part. Luck was on your side, you thought.
The movie wasn’t what you really expected: a young girl having an affair with her dad’s best friend, and you were the young girl, and the older man, playing the best friend—he was quite popular in Hollywood. You had recognized him in some other shows, and that intimidated you more than you wanted it to.
He did his best to comfort you on set, to guide you through scenes, to be a mentor, and it worked, except you were undeniably attracted to this father-figure-esque man that had you wrapped around his finger. You couldn’t help it; how could you?
His talent was beyond what you could comprehend, and he was as handsome as ever, aging perfectly, and acting even better. He took you in under his wing, more than your other coworkers did; he spoke highly of you to everyone around you, and you almost felt like this was acting, too.
It wasn’t the most intimidating thing about the job; it was the impending sex scene that the two of you had to do. You’d be bare-chested, breasts on display, and he’d be on top of you, thrusting and groaning—the script was graphic, and the director was all for it. It was experience, he’d say; how could you do other roles if a sex scene scared you away?
It wasn’t the scene itself; you had seen them many times, but it was the fact that you were a virgin–untouched, not a first kiss, and definitely not an orgasm from sex with a man–and now you had to act out the entire thing with a man twice your age. It was a dark cloud hanging above your head, and you swallowed it back and committed to the role.
The scene was being shot today.
“You ready, sweetheart?” He asks you softly as you stand off to the side, a few makeup artists and costume designers around you, adjusting your hair and makeup, and an intimacy coordinator on her way.
“Yeah… yeah,” you smile nervously, swallowing hard as you look away from him, and back at the cast and crew who are about to watch you pretend to get fucked on a fake bed, in a fake bedroom, on a fake set.
He grins and walks off, leaving you with the two women who are working on your makeup; they’re purposely messing it up, adjusting it to fit the sex scene. They don’t even mind the fact you’re chewing on your bottom lip and smearing makeup; it’s making it realistic.
The scene is basic, but you’re struggling not to be nervous as ever; he’s just going to be on top of you, fake-thrusting and moaning, and you have to moan too, and you have to fake a fucking orgasm. You sigh and begin walking towards the set.
The costume department is following your lead, assisting you with the fact you’re about to be shirtless in front of a group of people, completely bare-chested and nude. You swallow hard and approach the set, and the stupid bed a camera is about to be focusing on.
Your shirt comes off first, and they’re giving you a robe, allowing you to easily slip it off when you’re comfortable enough and in the bed. You realize that most people are leaving the set—it’s an intimate moment, something that only the essential crew should be around, and prying eyes don’t need to witness it.
You’re against the bed now, eyes gazing up at the high ceiling, and you see him approaching; he’s just shirtless, a pair of boxers beneath him. A blanket is going to be on top of the two of you; he gets away with it, but you don’t.
The camera crew begins to approach the bed, and you lie there, shirt off, waiting for him to crawl on top of you. You swallow hard the minute he’s on top of you, and you shyly look away from him; a man has never been this close to you.
“You okay?” He asks quietly, and you’re focused on his eyes, hesitantly nodding, trying to act like he doesn’t have full access to your full breasts right now.
“Mhm…” you nod, gazing at the intimacy coordinator behind the camera.
You had already gone over things with her, scripted out the moves like a fight scene, and now it was about to be put into action, and you’ve never been more nervous than you are right now—a talented actor above you.
And suddenly, the camera is rolling, and the scene is taking place.
The movements are too realistic, and your eyes widen in surprise the minute he’s thrusting, imitating the movement he’s clearly familiar with. Your body is lightly rocking, your breasts moving in the viewfinder. He’s groaning and grunting, the sheets and blankets rustling, and you’re forgetting that you have to act too, that you can’t just stare and admire what’s happening above you.
A soft sound leaves your mouth, a fake moan that you didn’t know you could do, and your cheeks are immediately burning red, and he’s gazing at you, watching you and realizing you aren’t exactly playing the part.
Everything that the intimacy coordinator had taught you leaves your brain—you’re frozen there, and the cast notices, and it’s immediately cut; the scene is over. Your cheeks are flush, sweat breaking out on your forehead, and he’s crawling off you, and you’re hiding your breasts.
“Hey, you okay?” The coordinator asks when you’re off to the side, a robe wrapped around your body. “You froze out there.”
“I… I just got nervous,” you mumble softly and shake your head, knowing how absolutely humiliating it is.
“That’s fine,” she reassures you and pats your back, and you can see the director getting a tad bit frustrated with your performance. “It happens… It’s your first intimate scene; I don’t blame you.”
The words are barely comforting, and you purse your lips. You had a kissing scene that was already shot before, and it was just as awkward, and the amount of retakes was embarrassing, and you can’t help but feel that you’re probably ruining the movie.
“I don’t know, I blanked,” you tell her, and she’s nodding, clicking her tongue. “I… it’s weird, you know?”
“I get it,” she says softly, trying to comfort you. “We… could get the scene cut?”
“No—no! That ruins the plot,” you immediately interject and shake your head, hating that idea.
It was a major point in the movie; the best friend fucking his best friend’s daughter added to the taboo subject, the sneaking around and how dangerous it is. It was a crucial part, and your inability to fake an orgasm was sabotaging it all.
She pauses and slightly turns away from you, taking a call on her walkie-talkie, and you awkwardly look around the set. You sigh quietly when she turns back to you.
“They’re wrapping up filming today,” she says softly with a nod, and you can’t help but feel like it’s your fault. “It’s not your fault, kid, relax,” she smiles, patting your shoulder as she walks away from you.
She walks away only to be replaced with him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he mumbles, and he can tell the worried look etched in your features; the soft, glassy eyes, and the way you’re almost out of it.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him and shake your head, and his lips part in surprise at your words. He immediately takes you into a hug.
“What? Why?” He asks quietly, gazing down at you when you pull away. “You were amazing—really good.”
“No, I wasn’t,” you whine and shake your head, watching cast and crew walk by the two of you. “I-I froze! And now… they’re wrapping up filming for today, and it hasn’t even been a full workday.”
“Hey… hey, it happens,” he says quietly, lifting his hand to cradle your cheek gently. “New actress, new things; they understand that, baby, no one is expecting you to be perfect on your first try.”
He rubs beneath your eye with his thumb, and you hesitantly nod, biting your lip. He slides his hand away, glancing down at your robe. You still haven’t changed.
“Well,” he starts, glancing over his shoulder. “There’s a bar down the road… maybe some drinks will cheer you up? Yeah?”
“Mhm, yes please,” you say in relief, your eyes glancing around the set for Ashley, another coworker of yours who usually ventures out when you bar hop downtown.
“Ashley went home early,” he tells you, and he watches your eyebrows furrow. “Has some… thing she’s doing.”
“Just us, then?” You ask softly, tilting your head to the side.
He nods. “Just us, sweetheart.”
There wasn’t a problem with going out with him alone, not at all. Most people had realized your dynamic; this odd father-daughter duo, despite the explicit intimate scenes, and the fact he’d sometimes call you pet names that make you look away, and your cheeks burn red.
Sometimes he’d hold your hand when you were walking to another set, or nudge your foot with his during an interview, and you remember the headlines when people picked up on the subtle behaviour. It was weird.
And now it’s later at night, and the two of you are heading to a bar downtown, a place where people wouldn’t recognize him, and definitely not you; you were just a small thing in Hollywood, making it even more controversial when photos surfaced of you and him on a park bench, smiling and laughing. People plastered ‘father-daughter duo’ over top of it, and others defiled it completely.
The bar is pretty busy when you walk in, mostly older men and older women, not the demographic who would typically watch a film or movie he stars in. You sit at the bar on a stool, and he orders for the both of you: some whisky for him, and a Shirley Temple for you. He memorized your order.
“So… what’s the craziest part of this whole thing?” He asks, his legs spreading slightly on the stool, and he takes a swig of alcohol. “I’m used to workin’ with celebrities who don’t give a fuck about anything—I wanna know what it’s like for a new thing like you.”
“Uhm,” you mumble, taking a long sip from the straw. “It’s… weirdly, I have to… fake relationships,” you laugh, shaking your head.
“Really?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.
“I mean, romantic ones,” you say softly, looking over at him. “I don’t know how to fake things like that, love.”
“It’s kind of easy,” he says with a shrug, taking another long sip of his drink. “Base it off of a previous relationship; how’d you act then? Apply it to now.”
“Yeah…” you trail off, turning to use the tiny umbrella to move around the ice cubes. He notices you’re quiet.
“What? Your last relationship bad?” He asks, and the bartender is already pouring him another drink.
“No… not at all,” you mumble, shaking your head. “I just… I have nothing to base it off of.”
There’s a light silence between the two of you, and you hear the ice cubes clink when he pauses, bringing it to his lips. You’ve never been in a relationship before, and it’s a damn amusing thing. He smiles around the rim of his glass.
“That's why you can’t fake an orgasm either? Never had sex?” He teases, mostly making a joke, and not thinking that it’s real.
You nod. And his eyes widen.
You take a long pull from your drink, and he just sits there, staring at you, the pieces fitting together; you can’t fake sex, can’t fake moan, can’t fake orgasm, because there’s nothing to base it off of. He grins.
“I mean,” he starts, scratching the side of his jaw. “That’s fine, too.”
“Shut up,” you mumble and shake your head, looking over at him. “I… I don’t know, it’s weird.”
“It’s not,” he shakes his head, gesturing with his glass. “It’s sweet… this industry tears you apart, makes you do things you don’t want, you know? I’m glad it hasn’t gotten to you.”
“What does that mean?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at him, but you’re hunched over and sipping from a straw.
“People… do things to get gigs and jobs,” he starts, shrugging, confessing some background aspects of the industry. “Having sex with directors, casting agents… that kind of stuff.”
“That’s how you thought I got the job, then? Sleeping with the director?” You ask, finishing your drink, and he scoffs.
“Baby, no,” he mumbles, his words becoming a bit looser as the hard liquor flows through him. “I’m just… glad you’re not like that; you’re sweet.”
You look away from him and down at the empty drink, realizing you sipped it back too quickly, and he’s snapping his fingers, requesting that you get another drink. They immediately refill it for you.
You’re both a few drinks in when you start feeling it; the buzz, the way your body is a bit more limp, and he’s a bit more handsome than you remember. You’re laughing softly, and he’s grinning, watching the way you’re practically slumped over the bar, and you’re smiling, feeling him carefully lifting you.
“C’mon,” he mumbles, helping you to the exit where a car would be waiting for the two of you—the perks of being famous.
“Don’t… wanna go,” you whine to him and shake your head when you’re outside, the cars zipping by you downtown. “I… I want you, please.”
He grits his teeth at your words as he basically holds you up, keeping you afloat, making sure you don’t fall into hard concrete. He shakes his head, notices the black car pulling up, and he’s escorting you into the backseat, and he’s following behind you.
The drive to the hotel feels too long; you’re hunched over in his lap, and he’s rubbing your back, listening to you giggle and laugh, your words a mess of slurs and rambles. You whine and whimper sometimes, trying to squirm out of your seat, and he’s shaking his head.
“Gonna be so hungover tomorrow,” he teases, his eyes glancing up at the front seat. “Easy, sweetheart.”
The worst part is getting you from the car to the hotel; it’s all wobbles, and your knees going limp, your body depending on his to hold you up, and he’s trying not to make a scene in the lobby. It’s a nice hotel too, and the people over the desk glance at the whining drunk girl, you.
“Please… please just stay,” you softly beg when he’s at your door with you, your eyes glassy and wide. “Please… please, we… we can talk some more, I want to talk to you.”
“About what, baby? We’ll be together on set all day tomorrow,” he explains, using the keycard he had swiped from your denim skirt pocket. “We can talk when you’re not hammered.”
He helps you into the hotel room, and he glances around; it’s big, a large bed tucked to the side, a big bathroom, too. He blinks at you and flops you down onto the bed, listening to it creak and groan.
Your eyes gaze up at him, and he’s leaned over you, taking over your soft body he saw just a few hours ago; your bare breasts and innocent eyes, and it makes sense why you were so shy the entire time.
You lift your leg and lightly hook it behind his, giggling softly as you tug him onto the bed, and he’s collapsing down between your parted thighs, his eyes widening as he’s on top of you.
“Baby,” he whispers, shaking his head. “You’re drunk.”
“So drunk,” you babble back to him, gently resisting your hand against the back of his neck. “Teach me.”
“Teach you?” He asks in confusion, a hand casually finding the side of your thigh, rubbing it gently. “Teach you what?”
“Sex,” you mumble, biting your lip. “How… how can I be a good actress if… if I have no experience? Hm?”
He’s taken aback by your words and the sudden guard you’ve let down since you’ve been drinking. His lips part, and he stares down at you; his on-screen relationship, a girl decades younger than him. He swallows hard.
“Sweetheart, I’m not the one to teach you stuff like that,” he whispers, lifting his hand higher, dipping up your denim skirt. “You’re a virgin.”
“I know,” you groan out, your head tipping back in frustration. “I can’t… I can’t fake it tomorrow.”
“Watch porn, baby,” he tells you, leaning down to gently kiss your cheek. “Wanna watch porn?”
Your eyes flutter when his nose nudges the side of your face, and you swallow hard, biting your lip. You’re so drunk now, and it all feels so good.
“Or…” he starts, lightly kissing down your cheek, finding your jawline. “We can make some… yeah?”
“Yeah… yeah,” you breathe out softly, and he’s pulling back, gazing down at you again. “I want to.”
“Okay, baby,” he whispers, licking his lips. “Gonna film you, yeah? Make our own movie.”
You’re so drunk that you barely even notice that he’s lifted off you, going elsewhere in the hotel room; propping up his phone, stripping down his clothes, leaving him practically naked as you lie there, whining softly and waiting.
The angle is perfect; it’ll capture your face, every sound you make, and he’ll occasionally be in the frame too, making it a lot better than you should be.
“Okay, baby,” he breathes out, finding his way between your thighs, and it’s just like you’re on set again.
Your hand lifts and you gently place it against his bare chest, feeling how warm and solid he is. He looks down at you in the darkness and leans down, starting to kiss you.
The video is picking it up; the sounds of lips smacking, the little noises you make during the kiss, and it can see your hand lifted and resting against the back of his neck again as the two of you make out against the bed. He smiles into the kiss, his head nodding, keeping a steady pace between the two of you.
“I got you,” he whispers as his hands begin sliding up your skirt, lightly cupping your core through your underwear. “You wanted the scene to be real, yeah?”
“Yeah… yeah,” you breathe out softly through a moan, your head tipping back when you feel him lightly palming you.
“That’s wrong, baby,” he whispers, teasing, kissing at your jawline. “Everyone… thinks you’re like my daughter, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, nodding quickly, moaning softly.
“Yeah? What would they think if they saw us like this?” He asks quietly, kissing your neck, his nose dragging across the warm skin. “The headlines… you’d never get a job again, sweetheart.”
You whimper at his words, but he’s too focused on gently palming you, getting you wet; he feels it dampening against the front of the cotton, and your back arches, lightly curling off the bed. The camera is watching all of it, focused on your faces and expressions.
He slowly takes his hand away when he feels that you’re wet, a lot wetter than what he’s felt before, and he groans softly, nuzzling his face into your neck. He smells your perfume and alcohol, too.
He works down your skirt for you, lazily unbuttoning it and discarding it on the floor, and he lets your underwear slide off too. He breathes out when he glances down, and he groans at the side; glistening, slick between those thighs.
“Mmm… wanna film this, baby,” he breathes out, in awe of how you look. “Looking so pretty, so, so pretty.”
When he pulls back a bit more, his hand finds his hardened cock, and he’s guiding it to your entrance. He doesn’t push it; he rests it there, sliding between your folds, and just nudging it lightly. You whimper.
“Breathe in,” he mumbles, lightly kissing your neck, preparing you for the inevitable sting. “And out…”
You follow his easy instruction, and the second you exhale, he’s pushing into you. Your head tips back and you moan way too loud, gripping his bare shoulder tightly, groaning, shaking your head. It feels like so much pressure.
“I—oh, my gosh,” you whine, biting your lip as he carefully slides into you fully, his hips meeting yours, and your back arches off the bed when he’s buried completely.
“There we go… shhh, you’re okay, sweetheart, shhh,” he mumbles quietly, peppering your neck with kisses, and the camera is still rolling. “You okay? Stings a little, hm?”
“Mhm—mhm,” you nod again, biting your lip harder than you should, worried you’ll draw blood. “Stings… a lot.”
“I know, baby… You can take me though, mhm? We’re just practicing,” he breathes out, beginning low rolls of his hips. “Mhm, just practicing.”
You whine softly when he starts lightly rolling his hips, solid movements forward that have your back arching and your eyes squeezing shut. You bite your pouting lip, feeling him pick up speed, starting a rhythm between you two.
“See, doll?” He mumbles, pulling back to gaze at your face. “Mmm… see how I’m moving?”
You nod quickly and stare into his eyes; it’s just like earlier again, and he’s moving back and forth, doing the exact movements he was doing at the set. But it’s all real, and you feel every inch.
“And see… see how you are?” He breathes out, grunting when he’s hitting that soft spot. “Your body… it’s rocking with me, baby… gotta do that tomorrow.”
You’re trying to think straight and take notes, but you’re struggling to. You’re dizzy, and drunk, and now you’re being fucked by the actor you’ve had a crush on for months, and you’re losing your virginity. It’s a lot.
“God, you’re making pretty faces,” he whispers, observing the looks you’re giving him. “Eyes almost rolling back… mhm, do that tomorrow, too.”
He’s picking up the speed now, coaxing loud noises out of you, forcing the sounds to slip out of your mouth, and he’s gripping your hips, keeping you pinned to the bed. He’s purposely going harder.
“Atta girl,” he grunts, nodding quickly, watching over you. “Mmm… good girl… being so smart, yeah? Learning from the best?” He teases, and you whimper, nodding.
He’s still rocking back and forth; he gazes down at your stomach and slowly slides a hand over it, his palm lightly pressing down. He blinks.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers to you, lightly massaging your abdomen, like he’s preparing something. “Gonna do this… during filming, okay?” he mumbles, and your eyes widen.
You whine louder, knowing that isn’t in the script; he’s supposed to keep his hands beneath the blankets, either side of your hips, definitely not against your stomach like he’s saying he will.
“It’ll make you feel good, baby,” he reassures, grunting right beside your ear, breathing into it. “So good.”
Both of you are getting closer and closer, and it’s obvious by your whines and whimpers, and you’re beginning to pant and shake, your thighs clenching and your abdomen flexing against his palm. He’s groaning louder now, head tipping back as he drives himself into you, deeper, and deeper.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunts out loud, nodding. “Cum f’me… cum,” he encourages, holding that same pace and rhythm, knowing not to switch it up last minute.
And you cum, and you cum hard, for the first time in your life; your eyes are seeing stars, and your entire body shakes during it, all whines, and groans, and mewls, your entire body giving into the moment. He’s still thrusting and thrusting, guiding you through it, keeping you steady and close, letting you ride through the orgasm.
He cums shortly afterwards, pumping you deep, zero disregard for anything right now. He just wants to be buried inside of you, letting himself spill into you, giving you all of him, watching your head tip back, mouth agape.
“Fuck,” he groans, leaning over you a bit more, his face tucked into the crook of your shoulder. “Good… good girl, perfect, baby… gonna look so… so good tomorrow.”
The next time you see him is on set the next day; you’re sitting on a chair, idly scrolling through your phone, biting your lip when a few people say his name as he walks in. You don’t look up at him; you can’t, not after last night.
It’s a lot to take in, and you’re not sure your mind is handling it correctly; you lost your virginity to him, and you’re hungover, and still even a bit tipsy, and he’s walking over to you, smiling.
“You ready?” He asks softly, tilting his head to the side.
“Uh-huh,” you mumble and nod, still glancing down at your phone, and he grins when he notices you won’t look up at him.
“Need to show you something, baby,” he tells you, and you look up, eyes wide and innocent. You bite your lip and stand up off the chair you’re sitting in, and begin following him to a desolate area on set.
He takes out his phone, and your eyes widen; there’s a video of you and him. You’re moaning loudly, your head tipped back, eyes rolling, fluttering, and you instantly look away, shaking your head.
“Stop—stop… delete that!” You whine quietly to him, trying to grab his phone. “Why… why do you have that?”
“You wanted it,” he says, his eyebrows narrowing. “Now, you just need to repeat that all over again, yeah? Get a perfect shot, doll, they’ll be proud of you.”
You zone out until it’s time to film again, and suddenly you’re back to square one; film and crew hovering around you, he’s between your thighs, bare breasts on display, but something is different.
He’s hard, and it’s pressing against you beneath the blankets, completely out of view from everybody else. He notices your eyes widen, lips parting in awe.
“Action!”
He’s suddenly back to what he was doing last time; he’s thrusting and groaning, his head tipped back, and everything is suddenly natural to you; you’re moaning too, your body rocking back and forth, your breasts moving, and they have no idea he’s actually doing it, pressing his bulge against you, through your safety shorts.
It’s wrong, it’s so wrong; the moans are bleeding into something real, and you reach up, gripping his shoulder, feeling it all turning into something that shouldn’t be happening. You’re whining and your head tips back, ignoring the camera now, just giving into the pleasure that you’re feeling right now.
His hand slides over your stomach, pressing just like he said he would, applying that gentle pressure that made you cum last night, and he’s doing it again, but harder.
Your hips lift to meet his bulge, and he’s moving it against you; to everyone it looks like the most realistic scene in the world, and to the two of you, it is. You’re dry humping right now, and then you fake-orgasm.
The directors and everybody look at you with wide eyes; lips parted in disbelief, wondering how you turned from this shy, embarrassed little thing, all flustered and frozen, to now portraying the most god damn realistic thing they’ve seen.
Well, it’s because it wasn’t a fake orgasm. It was a real one, and he couldn’t be more proud of you, and everybody else is, too.
Summary: You had planned a father-daughter picnic with your dad, but he bails once again. His best friend is here to make you feel better.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, dad’s best friend, age-gap (user is mid-20s), smut, oral sex (f!receiving), public oral sex, slight food play (whipped cream), pet names (baby, sweetheart), sexual tension, thigh kisses, teasing, dirty-talking, mentions of alcoholism, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 2.8k | : sooo many people wanted the whipped cream scene LMAO ENJOYYY
The house was usually filled with screams and shouts, accusations being thrown like daggers, and you’d run into your room and hide and cry, all while your dad made a fool of himself, in the process of trying to ruin his daughter, you.
He was an angry man, a drunk one–beers every night, passed out on the couch by eleven, but leading up to the inevitable sleep was always argument after argument, and you took it all.
There was only one person who knew about it, his best friend.
How could his best friend not know? He had been around the guy since high school, watched the drinking at parties evolve to drinking on the job at the video shack they worked out, to drinking while his wife was pregnant with you, drinking all damn day when the divorce happened, and still drinking, even when you begged him to stop. It was something he witnessed, and he was the one there for you. Always.
Some nights you’d call him on the phone and he’d pick up immediately, asking if he needed to pick you up or something like that discreetly. You denied the idea, said it was too risky, and he’d just sweet-talk you over the phone for hours and hours, until your eyes grew tired, and he could hear you snoring.
You’re not sure what you expected from your dad, but you had too much faith in him; he said he’d take you on picnic, said he’d make it up to you, spilling his regrets to you, and how he’s treated you as a daughter; terrible, and rude, evil and vindictive, a drunken man who breaks down his daughter while breaking beer bottles. And he lied; of course he lied.
Two o’clock in the afternoon was when you were supposed to be headed to the picnic; you had a new dress on, gingham and soft, and you had picked it out for the event, thinking it would be cute to match the theme–maybe he’d see you as his little again, and not a product of his wife.
He had passed out on the couch, leaving you with a basket in your hand filled with things you had baked for this, cooked for this, picked out for this. But there was a knock at the door, and it was him, his best friend.
Now you’re wandering down a desolate trail, and he’s beside you, holding the basket filled with goodies and a blanket. He didn’t want you to miss out on the picnic, not when you looked so pretty to him, and he took you to the place you were planning to go.
“You know where you’re headed, huh?” he asks, watching you run up a bit, navigating the cleared trail, trees hanging below.
“Mhm, used to go here as a kid,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder, leading him towards the patch of grass. “I think you’ve been here once.”
“Ah, really?” He says, following the turn you take, and he smiles when he finds out where you were taking him: a cleared area, just a few trees hanging over it, adding a bit of shade.
“Mhm…” you mumble and nod, turning around to face him.
There’s a soft groan from him when he places the basket down, and you smile at how slowly he moves when he has to sit down—he’s old, and it shows; slight grey hairs in his beard, even in his hair, and he’s reaching into the small basket, pulling out the silly blankets.
“You packed this, yeah?” He asks, glancing up at you as you patiently wait for him to finish. “It’s very… you.”
“I hope that’s good,” you say, watching him carefully unfold it, making a perfect place for the two of you to sit.
“Yeah,” he nods, leaning over, fixing the edges. “Everythin’ you do is sweet, like an angel, or somethin’.”
You bite your lip gently and sit down across from him on the blanket. He’s reaching into the basket and grabbing the assortment of things you brought: strawberries and whipped cream, little sandwiches your hands had made, a few cans of Coke, and cookies. They were the kind your dad liked, hoping to win him over.
“Did all this bakin’ too, yeah?” He asks, his eyes glancing at the pretty display, and then to you.
“Uh-huh,” you nod, immediately reaching over for a sugar cookie. “My dad likes these.”
“I know,” he says, his eyes still focused on you. “He’d bring ‘em over to my house, sayin’ you made them.”
“You’ve had one, then?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, taking a bite of the sweet treat.
He nods. “Mhm, kept askin’ for more.”
He watches your grin, shyly looking away as you work through the cookie, swallowing back the dessert. He reaches for one himself and takes a bite, nodding in satisfaction—yep, those are the ones.
“Can’t believe your little hands made these,” he says, finishing the last few chews. “Could make a livin’ out of this.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, doing that little head shake he remembers you always doing.
That fussy movement, the way your hair would go in front of your face afterwards, and your dad would lightly scold you for the attitude, all because you hadn’t finished your dinner and wanted a popsicle. It was sweet, and he sighs.
“What else you got in here?” He says, his eyes peeking in and seeing the whipped cream.
You’re working through another cookie, watching him take out the can, and he starts shaking it. You smile with your mouthful, giggling when his head tips back, and he’s spraying a dollop of it on his tongue, and eating it.
“That’s messy,” you say, shaking your head again. “But let me try.”
He smiles and watches you lean forward, your lips parting, your mouth hanging open, and he realizes that you want him to squirt it in your mouth instead. He does, and watches your nose scrunch.
“Now you’re the messy girl,” he teases, watching you lick your lips, lapping up the stray drops that accidentally hit your chin and the corner of your lips.
“And you started it,” you counter, and he’s squirting even more into his mouth, head tipped back.
There was a part of him that twitched when he saw that; your eyes half-closed, your mouth agape, waiting for him to put something past these pretty lips, even if it was whipped cream meant for the strawberries. He grins, looking back at you.
“Want more?” He asks, and you giggle, leaning forward again.
This time, a bit of it drips down your chin, landing onto your soft thighs, right where your dress rides up, and he glances down—he really wishes that he didn’t. He can see your underwear, the cotton beneath the hem, lacy and sweet, matching that personality he’s always adored. He swallows hard.
You curse softly and glance down, rolling your eyes at the mess you had accidentally made, and he blinks, not sure of what to do. It should be easy; he gets toy napkins and lets you clean up, but there’s a part of him that wants to lean down and lick it up, to run his tongue along that smooth skin and take the cream right off you.
“I got you, darlin’,” he says quietly and leans forward.
Your eyes widen at the swift movement; one hand is on your knee, parting your thighs, keeping them spread, his other one reaching out to swipe away the cream. Your lips part when he does it quickly, but ends it by taking a lick off his fingers.
“Tastes sweeter,” he teases, keeping his hand on your knee, gently rubbing it. “You make it sweeter?”
“Maybe,” you whisper, shaking your head in disbelief at the moment.
It’s unfortunate how much you liked it; his finger on your inner thigh, watching him lick his finger, his eyes pouring into yours as he did it, and now he’s gently rubbing your knee, carefully moving over the soft bruises. He won’t ask where they came from.
“More,” you then ask softly, and he licks his lips, laughing, watching you lean closer to him, your mouth agape and your eyes looking up at him.
This time, when he sprays it, you purposely move your mouth a bit more, allowing it to drip onto your thighs again. His eyes glance down at the little mess, and he swallows hard, wondering if that was on purpose; his best friend’s daughter, making sure whipped cream is all over her fucking thighs—and now he’s watching your small hand grip the hem of your dress, tugging it up a bit, revealing the mess, and your underwear a little.
You were teasing him; how could you not? You noticed his eyes, and the way he had briefly adjusted himself in his jeans before, and how he had peeked at your underwear already, and you could see the moral dilemma flaring up behind his eyes as he looked at your thighs. Still.
He leans down a bit, and it’s a slow, conscious movement—a stupid one—but he uses his hand to dip under your knee, gently lifting it as his lips find the whipped cream. He licks it off of your thigh, and you shamelessly whimper, your mouth hanging open.
“Relax, baby,” he whispers, his other hand doing the same thing, getting you on your back. “Jus’ cleanin’ your pretty body up.”
Your back is against the picnic blanket, and you gaze up at the blue sky full of clouds, and the soft birds humming, all while his large hand lightly pulls your dress up higher, and his head is between your legs. It feels nice, feeling him lightly lap up the cream, kissing your thigh, leaving a trail of his saliva.
“You… almost done?” You ask nervously, laughing shortly, feeling him kissing your thigh now, dipping down to your knee.
“No,” he mumbled, lightly kissing up against you, his nose nudging the soft skin. “You taste too sweet.”
“Do I?” You ask shyly, feeling your toes curling into your white sneakers. “It’s… it’s the whipped cream.”
“Is it?” He questions, lifting his head, gazing up at you; your eyes all soft and a bit widened. “Mmm… let’s see.”
His hand reaches over and grabs the whipped cream, spraying a line on your thigh, and you’re giggling, shaking your head at the idea. He’s always been fun like this, but never in this way.
“Your thigh…” he mumbles, leaning over to the cream-less one, and taking a long lick up the side; salty from sweat and vanilla lotion, a hint of sunscreen. “Could take a bite outta you.”
He hums and looks around, as if he’s really tasting you, letting your skin sink onto his tongue. And then he leans over to your other thigh, licking up the whipped cream, listening to you whine softly, and you’re biting your lip.
“Tastes the same to me,” he mumbles, going back to lightly kissing up your thighs. “Sweet… warm, little cupcake, or somethin’,” he teases, his eyes peeking up at you.
You’re in another world, soaking up the kisses and the sun that beats down onto the two of you; it’s kissing your cheeks and making you sweat, keeping your bodies warm and glistening, and you whimper again.
He’s shamelessly kissing your thighs now, his lips slowly roving over the soft skin, and he reaches down, lifting your calf slightly, and kissing there too—he’s just kissing your legs in their entirety, moving across the soft skin.
“Always been a pretty girl,” he whispers, sliding down to kiss your thighs again, his hands dipping underneath your dress and to your hips. “Don’t know how your daddy is so mean to you.”
It’s like you realize in the moment what’s happening; your dad’s best friend, kissing your thighs and praising you, keeping you down against a picnic blanket, letting his lips trail over you.
“I don’t know…” You whimper and shake your head, biting your lip when you feel him nearing your underwear.
“Poor thing,” he whispers, casually letting his lips glide over the white fabric of your underwear. “I could take care of you, yeah? Let you stay with me, baby.”
Your eyebrows raise at his words, but you’re too busy moaning when he starts to gently kiss over your clothed core, damp lips trailing over the white fabric, letting it become translucent from his saliva and your slick.
“Could live with me… mhm, could do things together,” he goes on, his stubble lightly brushing your thighs. “Could… do this kinda stuff all day. You’d like that, huh?”
“Mhm…” you admit, not minding if he’d do this to you more than once; it feels fucking good, and now he’s nipping at the fabric too.
“Mhm… right, sweetheart,” he mumbles, flattening his tongue to the cotton, and you whimper. “Maybe you can? Maybe you can ask your daddy…”
“He’d say ‘no’,” you mumble, your head tipped back, focusing on a drifting cloud.
“Aww…” he coos, fingers hooking into your underwear now. “That ain’t fair, is it? Hidin’ this precious girl from the world…”
You pout at his words, the sweet talking making your hips shift, which helps him shimmy the fabric down your thighs and over your knees, tossing the pair right into the grass beside the two of you. He gazes at your core; slick and warm.
He leans forward and presses his nose against your core, breathing in the smell; sweet, something he wishes he could smell all day, so you. He groans, tugging you a bit closer, just letting his nose nudge your clit.
“Sweeter than anythin’ I’ve tasted,” he whispers against you, pulling back to blow air against your core. “Jus’ a sweet girl.”
You’re squirming against the picnic blanket, whining softly and staring at the birds that circle, their wings flapping as they land in trees, singing their pretty songs, along with your soft moans now.
He begins to move his lips against you carefully; back and forth, moving over your folds carefully, his tongue sliding out to lap over you, tasting the slick that had gathered, and purposely focusing on your clit. He moves his mouth over it and gently sucks.
You wail loudly at the feeling, your heels digging into the forest ground beneath you, almost trying to crawl away, but he keeps you close, his head buried between those warm thighs, and has his eyes closed. He’s just devouring you.
“Baby…” he drawls, his tongue licking a stripe right up you, going through your folds again, poking your clit and repeating the process. “Jus’ a good girl, you are.”
You whine and thread your fingers through his hair, keeping his head buried between your thighs now, and you whimper and shake your head as he goes back to what he was doing before; a light suction against your clit, sucking, two soft lips around it. It feels like heaven.
“Love this body,” he coos, gripping your hips tighter, beneath that soft dress. “Makin’ you forget about how mean daddy is, right? I’m bein’ real nice to you.”
You nod quickly to his words—you are forgetting that your dad is drunk at home, blowing off his father-daughter date, not even knowing his best friend is defiling this girl on a picnic blanket in the woods.
“Not a person can hear you,” he whispers, sucking still, his tongue dipping into your entrance just to leave. “No one… jus’ us, for miles, angel.”
You tug his hair harder, and he groans against you, the vibrations sending a wave through you, and you tip your head back, groaning softly, your back arching.
“I got you… got you, baby,” he whispers, nodding, encouraging you to cum. “I’m… right here, pretty girl, I got you,” he continues, his lips moving a bit faster, his head moving as well.
And then you cum; it’s a loud whine, a drawn-out mewl that comes from your abdomen, and he feels your thighs squeeze around his head, your muscles clenching and stiffening, the heat washing over your already sweaty body. And then he feels it on his mouth; your slick, glistening lips, and his chin, his scuff damp with it, and he pulls back, looking up at you.
You’re out of breath and panting, chest heaving beneath the pretty dress, and he rests his chin by your pelvic bone, his head slightly leaned against your bare thigh.
TW: R4pe, noncon, nsfw drabble! MDNI, if this is not your fetish, dni!!!!
I wanna be a r4pesleeve sooooo bad right nowwwww! It's not fair how wet I am, how puffy my little pussy is. Someone should come r4pe me and find out just how serious I am. I'm so needy, my clit has been swollen all day thinking about getting chased through the woods. Getting shoved and pinned to the ground where they'll shove my ass in the air and mount me. I just wanna be stretched so fucking bad. I haven't put anything inside me for months because I've been such a good girl, not touching myself so I'll be nice and sensitive and tight for my next owner. Wanna mouth a bulge soooo bad just lick and lap through my r@pists pants like a dumb mutt in heat. Wanna be drugged and plowed into the ground until my ass is bruised. Is that too much for a little girl to ask for?
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