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kiwisbell · 5 months

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Candy Girl [joel miller]

The before and after. Or, Joel fucks his friend's daughter for the first time.

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ [mdni]

tags/warnings: daddy kink, baker!reader, age gap (20s/40s), (sort of) dbf!joel, daddy dom!joel, soft!joel, angst, self-loathing, waxing poetic about eating pussy, unprotected piv (wrap that shit up like a pastry), creampie, cream pies, dirty talk, pet names, forbidden romance, tw for occasional stylistic omission of quotation marks, moodboard for aesthetics only

word count: ~ 6k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, all!! please, as always, mind the tags for this fic - it's quite a departure from what i typically write, but daddy joel has set up shop in my brain and he won't leave. if this isn't for you, that's cool - you don't have to read it. i hope you'll be kind, and as always, i hope you enjoy!! xoxo

thank you HUGELY to my dear mya @cavillscurls for the absolutely stunning moodboard!!! i love you and i'm obsessed with you and you're crazy talented 🫶 and thank you endlessly to my parents sam and el @tieronecrush and @northernbluess for being AMAZING betas and always supporting me and my silly fics!!

CANDY GIRL

What have I done, he thinks, parting your dewy folds with two fingers and sliding his tongue through the glistening mess between your thighs, to deserve this?

He certainly can’t think of some good-enough deed to warrant him being here, tucked warmly in this apex, kindling a fire, rubbing his hands over the red of the flame, breathing sighs and gasps and groans into the sweet-smelling flesh of your thighs as if he were destined to arrive here. As if it were a mere quirk of fate, and now everything is gently settling into motion.

Your fingers are curled in his hair and your chest—bare, smattered with a faint sheen of sweat and reflecting moonlight, illicit—is heaving. You have no instinct to steer him. Your hand knows no guiding push or pull. Your back is bowing off the mattress and your mouth is emitting needy little whines and whimpers and pleas for mercy, more, please, Daddy.

And he’s acquiescing, toppling slowly into that heady pull of sticky wet warmth between your thighs, and all he can think is that you smell like cherries.

And you are messy. Fuck, you’re dripping onto his chin as he licks through you, languishing in the prickling taste as if he's guiding his tongue along the salt rim of a glass. His fingers absently dimple your thighs, bruising, forcing them to fall open, part wider, for him.

Let me in, baby girl.

Thaaat’s it. My sweet girl. My pretty girl.

So goddamn beautiful like this.

You just relax, baby, and let me in. C’mon, now.

You obey every muffled order like it’s law, letting him shoulder his way between your legs, his hand pressing firm on your belly, pinning you. The answering mewl he hears from your parted lips is the sweet slide of your strawberry icing along his taste buds. He buries his tongue between your wet folds and holds you tighter, dizzied with the smell and the taste and the feel of finally taking what he wants. What you've given him.

Joel licks self-indulgently through your slit until your pretty cunt is slathered in his spit and glistens with your own juices. When he sees your clit, puffy and fucking needy and shining at him like a goddamn pearl, he licks his lips.

Look at her. She’s fuckin’ cryin’ for me, baby girl. You need your Daddy to kiss it better?

You whine, grasping his locks, still never quite urging or pushing, but begging: Daddy, I’ll do anything. Please, I’ll do anything.

Shh, sweetheart. Don’t have to do anything. Just keep ‘em open for me. I’ll make it good. Hear me?

A frantic nod. A reflexive squeeze of the hand on your belly. Eyes, watery and butter-soft in the darkness—wrong, risk—meet his own.

Yes, Daddy.

It didn't begin this way.

Some of the edges are blurred with time. He vaguely recalls the time before you—mornings alone at the breakfast table, intermittent calls to Sarah all the way in College Station, long days on the job site because he had nothing else to come home to—and he’s bitter. It tastes nothing like the after: strawberry icing, vanilla perfume, cherries.

It must have begun when Chris slapped him on the back after the scaffolding on the Queen Street job was taken down and said, “Couple of us are grabbing coffees at the Morning Star. You should come along, man. Get outta the house.”

The Morning Star. A slightly weathered pink awning and a varnished oak interior, a couple small tables (occupied), a flurry of activity in front of and behind the counter. A glass display case brimming with cakes and croissants and macarons. Glass vases filled with pink roses whose stems have been neatly trimmed. A pretty girl working behind the counter, tending to customers with an irradiating smile, a tender hand, the blinding glint of a bracelet, a pair of earrings, glowing.

“What can I get for you this morning?” you asked him, like it was some secret spilling from the torso, a heart lurching from its cage, spread out on the ground.

Petal-pink flowers painted on your fingernails. The aching attentiveness of your stare. Ekphrastic turns of phrases pasted to the wall behind the counter, in the form of a mural, crowd-sourced poems and letters and works of art. Lived-in, loved. The smell of cherries as you approached.

And then it was Chris, clapping Joel on the shoulder, a jolt of good-natured violence turning to torrent as he said, “The usual for me, honey.”

It's been wrong since that moment. Maybe it's been wrong all along. That doesn't stop him from ending up here. And it doesn't stop you from following.

On your back, in Joel’s bed, your legs spread wide to accommodate his broad shoulders, welcoming the face-warming intrusion of his mouth between your slick folds. Bold in the way you curl your pretty polished fingers in his greying locks—he’s too old, much too old for you—and receptive in your soft moans and your uttered hexes of yesyesyes.

Bewitched, he flattens his tongue against your pulsing clit and latches his lips around it, his eyes fixed on the way your head falls back, the length of your throat exposed, the evidence of your beating heart laid bare for him in the tremble of your pulse.

He sucks on your clit until your legs begin to shake, and it’s the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his shoulders, the way you reflexively kick his back with your heel. But he’s pulling away, crushing his nose in the flesh of your thigh, nipping your soft skin, and the cry that leaves your mouth carves a tremor down his spine.

Your tight little hole flutters with the need to be filled, to take him inside you, to make him wholly yours, the way he already is, the way you can never know.

So he slides his tongue over your clit and lathers you in his spit and digs his fingertips into your thighs as if he owns you—because he never can.

The flickering burn of regret and shame soothes when he's between your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth and making you come so hard that you weep—leg kicking out, shackled by a firm hand around your ankle, back arching, fingers grasping, flexing, at whatever you can touch. You pour into him, molten gold, recast in his likeness, and he doesn't deserve this but he will take it.

Instinctively, he pushes deeper, lapping your release from your messy hole, his nose pressed against your oversensitive clit—and he can’t resist, has never been able to, gently coaxing you through it, Poor baby, so goddamn needy for Daddy, sweetheart. Taste so fuckin’ sweet.

You’re whining, finally pushing at his head as the pleasure notches too high, and he presses a soft kiss to your clit before dragging his lips up your belly, between your tits, pulling you upright to sit you in his lap. You grin lazily and drop your forehead against his.

Fuck, he's so proud. He smooths his hand down the crown of your head and skates his fingers down your sweat-slick spine.

You tired, baby?

You nod, and he nips at your pouting bottom lip.

Hmm, but you ain't a quitter. You can give me another, can't you? You wanna be good for me.

He whispers it all against the curve of your throat, into your collarbones, fitting his rough palm against your lower back and pulling your body flush to his. He sweats through all his layers and bleeds his warmth into you, but you don't care, grinding down on his lap, sliding your wet pussy along the hard length in his jeans.

Your hand is slippery at the back of his neck and your eyes are lidded, sleepy, near-black, as you take what you need because you're a greedy girl when it comes down to it, and he's holding your bloody beating heart in his palms.

I’ll be so good, Daddy.

He knows. God, he knows—his lips find your temple, hair matted with sweat, and he can feel your tits pressing up against his chest, the erratic melody your heart sings to him, for him, through him. And he doesn’t deserve this.

Gonna need to take me out, baby girl. Go on, now.

You scramble, reaching between your bodies and unbuttoning his jeans, your hand teasing down the waistband of his boxers. Joel groans when you squeeze him, his teeth catching on your earlobe, nibbling from your jaw to your chin. He watches your manicured hand with its pretty pink polish wrap snugly around the base of his cock—you give him a firm, slow stroke, and he curses at the sight of your oh-so eager gaze.

Shit, baby. You're grinding your hips, smearing your wetness along his length, and he kneads your hip like dough while you grasp his shoulder, your head lolling. He bares his teeth, growling and snapping like a dog at the hot, slick slide of your cunt, his eyes a pendulum between the joining of your bodies and the heavy gaze you give him. That’s it, that’s fuckin’ it, take what you need.

Your legs are trembling, too weak to hold yourself upright, and he knows, as always, exactly what it is you want.

You’ve always been spoiled, because he’s let it happen.

“Just a coffee,” he said, his third consecutive day in the Morning Star. “Please.”

He felt the twist of your lips in his ribcage. “I promise we have more than just coffee.”

“‘s good coffee,” he said. “Why spoil a good thing?”

He liked your pale pink hat and apron and the colour of your nails. He liked the way you feathered your fingertips over the till while you waited patiently for orders, the way you dealt so kindly with indecisiveness, the way your heart-shaped pendant glimmered when the sun dipped low in the western sky.

He only knows it glows like that because you let him stay one night, long after close, to fix the hinge on the front door.

He’d known the Morning Star for a month. He knew it better than he knew you.

“You don’t have to do this, Joel.”

An anxious shifting of your weight from one foot to the other, an intermittent four-fingered tap of your nails on the countertop, a soft weariness blurring the edges of your irises, as you tried to tell him you were fine, you could call your dad in the morning, please don’t worry about me.

The gentle in-and-out of your chest as you breathed, the golden near-evening light trickling the sun into the whites of your eyes, where it belonged. When you inhaled, he exhaled, the rhythmic pulse of life dancing between you, twirling carelessly on the edge of something neither of you could explain.

“I wanna help,” he said. “And you should let me.”

You sighed, little of the charging bull and more of the huffing kitten, and his stomach lurched painfully. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to rest his hand at the crown of your head, soothe the tension in your shoulders with a measured press of his fingertips, unearth the blood-flecked bones that heralded emotions he could not yet name. Later, he would know them intimately; later, he would set his teeth in the white marrow and lick the blood from his chops.

He wanted to ask all of his questions with his fingers, not his mouth, let you answer them the way you saw fit, giving that silent, haptic space the power it needed to pry open the parts of your life he could only guess at.

But he did not touch you.

Then, a time firmly lodged in the hazy somewhere of before-and-after, he could only pretend. And he could fix the door.

Now, he’s gazing in disbelief at the way your tight little hole wrenches open around the weeping tip of his heavy cock, his sweaty body sliding along yours as you hastily shove the buttons of his flannel out of their slits and shuck off his shirt. Skin-to-skin, he feels your pulse ever stronger, licking and sucking at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His palm is flat between your shoulder blades as he eases you open, helping you take his big cock.

Daddy…

I know, baby girl, I know. Just a little more. That’s it—keep holdin’ onto me, baby.

Petting you like a domesticated cat, fitting his fingers in the grooves between your ribs, feeling his own heartbeat settle into the rhythm of yours. You grasp his shoulder, the nape of his neck, your lips parting against his forehead, pressing feverish kisses to the space where his greying curls stick to his skin.

You can take me, sweet girl. My baby. So good for me—

—the way you always have been.

“When my mom left, she gave the bakery to me.” Guiding the pink icing onto the small fluffy cakes, you moved seamlessly. Second nature, like laying mortar and brick. Your hands were speckled with flour and frosting.

The vanilla cupcakes, robed in white paper, were a commission for a young girl’s sixth birthday. “Pink was Sarah’s favourite, too,” he’d said when he walked in that morning—perhaps too needy for a reason to connect. Blindly tossing a fishing line into a murky lake.

But you still glowed when you had beamed up at him: “And now? She still a pink lover?”

“Haven't asked in a while,” he’d said, “but I’d reckon so.”

“She’s smart.” You had slid the black coffee across the counter and placed a cupcake next to it. Joel frowned.

“What's this?”

You had lifted your brows, your eyes telegraphing a challenge. He had sunk neck-deep into your emboldened gaze. “This is a cupcake.”

“Smartass,” he’d huffed. “You got a reason for givin’ me a cupcake?”

You’d gently pushed them closer to him and given him that blinding, tempting grin, and how could he ever hope to decline you when you looked at him like that?

“I value your opinion, Joel,” you’d told him, “and if you don’t eat it, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

He'd taken the cupcake and sunk his teeth into its pillowy flesh right there in front of you.

“And your dad?” asked Joel, on his knees under the counter, replacing the latch on the display door’s hinge. “He help you out a lot?”

An intrusive figure, playing unwitting God in the budding flower bed, picking petals before they were dead. He would always inflate the distance between you, assert his right to decide who you wanted, dated, fucked—he would always be Joel’s judge and jury.

The executioner’s axe he’d take up himself.

You topped off a row of cupcakes with little candied cherries. “He couldn't afford to quit, so I’m running the place. So much for school.”

Joel didn't like that. He didn’t like the way you let it all slide gently down your spine. There was a quiet defiance in the way you spoke—some simmering anger you buried deep in the earth where the colours weren't bright and your heart wasn't so naked. He could feel its veins as if holding it in his palm, the gentle ba-dum, ba-dum of a vulnerable organ so acquainted with disappointment.

“What do you want to study?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Never got the chance to think about it.”

Never got the chance to find yourself. To learn. To grow. You had simply stepped into another’s body, a ghost, occupied endlessly with the next task and the next and then one more. You should've been spending your early twenties partying and studying and crying your eyes out over idiot boys who didn’t know how good they had it. You shouldn't have to be here, decorating cupcakes for a six-year-old while some old man fixed yet another broken hinge, latch, bulb.

“I became a dad pretty young,” said Joel. “Thought I was gonna lose my whole life, all my opportunities, not that I had any.”

He did not deserve the empathetic shimmer in your waterline. “Joel, that's not true—”

“But,” he said with a faint groan as he rose, “I got to make a life of my own, with my kid, and I was happy.”

“You were happy?” you said wearily. “You aren't anymore?”

“I’m…”

He caught your eye and felt the plates far beneath his feet dislodge. Quantum shift. You held his gaze as if you were waiting for some truth to crawl from his sockets—like he was your answer. And Joel did not know what to do with that, but if you would keep looking at him this way, he would tell you any false truths you wanted to hear.

“I’m lonely,” he said at last. Joel reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. A shiver coursed through your heart which lay in his palm, warm crimson blood trickling down his wrists. “And you shouldn't have to be. You’ve got so much life ahead of you, sweetheart.”

Some glacial melt keeled the weight of your head toward him, and your cheek was resting in the pool of his palm. Joel did not care for the hand of God whose fingers would inevitably squeeze the life from whatever this was. The jigsaw fit of your bodies felt so right in this incomprehensible sliver between before and after.

“You're not old, Joel,” you said softly.

“Too old for you.”

He didn't know why he said it, but it made you smile.

“You keep lying to me, Mr. Miller, and I’m not going to trust you anymore.” A wry twist of your lips. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Is this flirting? he thought to himself, so fucking out of practice that the concept felt altogether foreign. But you were giving him that foxlike look and his hand was still cupping your cheek and he could feel the flutter of your pulse, and he didn’t want to stop.

“No, baby. I don’t want that.”

Flesh meets flesh. Your hips drop, and you’re sitting so prettily on his cock, the whole of him buried inside you, stretching your capacities, shifting the dichotomy of right and wrong. He stares up at you—lips parted, eyes lidded, heart beating JoelJoelJoel—and pleasure pinballs down each knob of his spine. He’s locked in the tidal push-and-pull with your body, gravity sucking him into you, or sucking you down onto him. It doesn't matter.

This is the after, and you're drunkenly nudging his nose with yours, trying to kiss him, and he's taking you. Running with the diamond. Sliding his tongue into your mouth, tasting cherries and frosting and giving you a piece of what he's already taken from you. You're sighing and moaning and greedily opening your mouth into him to swallow down your own taste.

His hand slides up your spine to the sticky nape of your neck as he presses you to him, joined by every joint, every pound of flesh.

And when he begins to move, to grind up into you and draw gooey, cloying gasps from your mouth, Joel thinks he briefly sees white.

Jesus. Been waitin’ so goddamn long for this. You're so fuckin’ soft, baby girl. So fuckin’ beautiful.

His teeth in your throat, around your earlobe, scraping your jaw, pleasure pinching, recapitulating, recovering only to start again. Your name on his tongue, passing from his mouth to yours, the anchor of your hand around his neck, the other on his shoulder, reciprocal re-stabilising.

He needs you just as much as you need him, and he shows you in the way he pulls you firmly to him, because he cannot bring himself to whisper it into the barely-there space between your bodies.

“Joel, I’m sorry to call you so early, but I’m out of options, and the party starts in two hours, and my delivery guy flaked, and—”

“Honey, slow down. Lemme wake up, okay? I’m comin’ to you.”

“Oh, God, just forget I said anything. Go back to sleep. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He still remembers the break in your voice, the fragile warble of your resolve cleaving down the middle. He remembers the sting in his own chest like it was his wound, not yours. He was awake before the sun began to climb.

You had to personally drive the cake you’d made for a ten-year-old’s birthday party all the way across town now that your delivery service had fallen through. You didn’t even have a car; you took the bus everywhere, which Joel had chewed his tongue to pieces over for months. Things could happen in the dark. Public transport was no different. But your own father didn’t seem to take issue with it, so how could Joel?

“Don’t say a word,” he told you when you hopped up into his truck and opened your mouth to apologise. “I don’t mind. You know damn well I don’t mind.”

“You should mind,” you said, instinctively picking a piece of lint from his flannel with that miserable little pout on your face. “All I’ve ever done is ask you for things.”

“And if I like doin’ things for you?”

“Then I’ll put you on my payroll,” you countered.

Joel shook his head fondly. You cleaned when you were anxious; grooming and picking at him like a monkey should not have surprised him. “Well, I got a birthday comin’ up, if you wanna thank me.”

“Yeah?” You bit your lip and some of the heaviness sitting on your shoulders lifted, the promise of getting to repay him for his altruism at last eliciting the smile he wanted. “What would you like?”

You take me so well, baby girl. Goddamn meant for me.

The hot, wet slide of your cunt up and down the length of his steel-hard cock has him doubling over, mouthing sloppily at your tits, sucking and nibbling on your stiff nipples as you cry and whimper: Oh, Daddy, please… fuck, that feels… I can’t—

He’s blinking hard to squeeze the bleeding edges of fantasy away—because this is real, and he cannot know if he will ever have this again. I know you can. You can take me.

A nod, frantic and sick with desire, slips against his temple. I can take it. Please—let me be your good girl. I’m good, good for you.

I know you are, baby girl. So good for Daddy.

“Joel!”

He had never heard his own name infused with such thrill. It settled in the pool of his gut and oozed out past his ribs.

You beckoned him to the counter and placed a steaming mug between the pair of you. The umber liquid sloshed gently in the cup. “It’s a macchiato. And don’t worry”—you caught him before the gash between his brows could deepen worriedly—“it’s nothing like that sugar heap you'll get at a Starbucks. Two shots of espresso, balanced with the milk foam.”

Joel tried to smile, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace. “Milk… foam.”

“I know you're a coffee purist, Joel, but hear me out.” You scurried to the large black boards on the back wall and flipped one over to reveal the bright white writing—stark, vibrant, a proclamation you should’ve had no business making, not when it was so bold as this.

NEW, it read in a pretty, looping font. THE MILLER.

His heart leapt to his throat. And there you were, gesturing to the board with his name—Joel’s name—on it, and he was lifting the confounding liquid to his lips.

Some of the foam accumulated in his moustache as he tentatively sipped and rolled the flavour over his tongue. It wasn't… bad. Not at all. A little too sweet where he preferred the bitter drag of a dark roast. A few too many frills. But—

“It’s good,” he said. Your answering smile decided it for him. He would never go back to black coffee.

Fuck, baby, that's it. Keep on ridin’ me just like that. Oh, Jesus—

The slow, rhythmic slap of your thighs against his as you lock your arms around his neck and lift yourself up and down on his dick. Your head lolling around your shoulders, your brows drawn up in the middle. The squelch of your creamy cunt as you take him to the hilt and bring your hips down in measured, grinding motions.

You’re getting yourself off, too, your clit rubbing against the hairs at the base of his cock, and Joel groans, Fuckin’ hell. Christ, that’s good. That’s it, that’s—

“Think I’m gettin’ fat on all these sweets, baby.”

He’d begun to come into the bakery on Saturday mornings, too, even though he didn’t work. With Sarah no longer in Austin and a dreadfully empty house whose groans and creaks only kept him up all hours, he had little to do but work, maintain the lawns, and, well…

Sat together at the table by the window, you shared a leftover slice of rich cherry pie. The awning outside fluttered gently in the breeze, cutlery and ceramic softly colliding as folks indulged in your treats. You beamed at Joel and reached out to swipe some foamed milk from his moustache.

“I like you this way,” you said, your thumb coasting along his jawline, your eyes like jewels. The pendant on your throat dipped as you swallowed, settling in the hollow like a perching bird.

Joel, white-knuckling his fork, felt his cock grow hard in his boxers, a heavy weight against his leg. The rapid shuttering of your eyes left him feeling inexplicably panicked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“No,” said Joel, his hand covering your knee beneath the table. You were wearing a little skirt that day. The silky fabric shifted under the coarse texture of the pads of his fingers and he wondered if the softness would be akin to the flesh of your thighs, your belly, your tits (sitting so pretty in that plain T-shirt: pink, of course). “No, you didn’t… You know I…”

And what could he say?

You know I’ve wanted to slip my hand down each one of those pretty skirts you wear since the first day I saw you. You know I take my cock in my hand and jerk off in the shower and I picture your lips around it. You know you’ve fucking infected me. You know I’m poisoned. You know I ain’t good enough. Youknowyouknowyouknow I can never have you.

“Joel, man, I’ve been calling your cell.”

His hand smacked the underside of the table in its hasty retreat as Chris rounded the corner and clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Hey, kiddo. You mind if I have a bite?”

And because you were so goddamn sweet, because you were a smart girl and knew how to play it cool, you gave your father your fork with a big smile and said, “All yours. I should get back. Thanks for the taste test, Joel.”

Chris easily occupied your seat at the table and Joel, adjusting his pants discreetly, was struck by how wrong this had been. To sit with you, sharing a pie, touching, wanting—

He was fucked. And he didn’t care. He only wanted more.

“Cowboys kick off next Sunday,” said Chris through a mouthful of baked cherries. The warm, cloying scent reminded Joel of your perfume. “You want to come over for dinner? We’ll order takeout, grab some beers.”

Joel swallowed, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. He felt the phantom touch of your thumb lingering just above his Cupid’s bow. “Yeah, man. Be fun.”

Chris grinned over the pie—now his, no lingers yours and Joel’s. “Hope you don’t mind that I invited my kid, too. She needs the break.”

You’re close, baby. Can fuckin’ feel it. Feel you squeezin’ me.

Thighs trembling, muscles gooey, you struggle to lift yourself up, and it's Joel who scoops you up with a hand on your ass and lies you on your back, never once pulling out. He doesn't think he can. How did the first man to discover fire ever snuff it out?

He bends over you and thrusts deep, punching a sob out of your throat. Joel groans, nipping your chin as you toss your head back, his mouth trailing down the hollow of your throat, latching around one of your sore nipples, already abused by his attention. You rake your fingers through his tousled greying locks and lift your legs up around his hips as he fucks you slow, hard, deep enough that your heart begins to bruise.

Joel hisses when he feels your fingernails scratching down his spine, between his shoulder blades, pulling him close to you. He dulls his pain in your flesh, open-mouthed kisses soothing the biting bruises he's left on your throat.

Your cunt rhythmically pulses around his cock and Joel grunts, driving deeper, hand fisting your hair, and Daddy, I’m so close—!

Friday night. Joel’s birthday.

He’d spent it on the job site, laying brick, then at home, cracking open a cold beer and calling Sarah, whose gift hadn't arrived yet. She sang him “Happy Birthday” from her dorm room and Joel smiled. All things considered, it wasn't a shitty day. Just…

Lonely.

And you—

You were at his door at ten o’clock, shrouded in night in a way he'd never seen you. Not dressed in pink but black: sweatpants and a tight little tank top that made him swallow his tongue. You were holding a goddamn cake.

You'd had a stressful day. He could tell. Eyes a little sunken, shoulders a little rounded, but you were still smiling, still holding up that cake—chocolate, circled with candied cherries, of course—and singing a weary “Surprise!”

Joel laughed—in shock, maybe—and rubbed his hand over his beard. “Jesus, baby,” he said. “C’mon in; it’s cold out.”

He helped you secure the cake in the refrigerator and offered you dinner: leftover pad thai and a beer. You accepted the former with a grumbling stomach and politely declined the latter. Of course, you were a wine girl.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” you told him, sitting across the couch while reruns of Happy Days idly played on the television. “Shit goes down at the Morning Star when you're not there.”

Joel shook his head. “I run a tight ship. You doin’ okay?”

“I’m strung-out, Joel, as ever. But fine.” Your conciliatory smile was so fucking cheeky he had half a mind to put you over his knee. “I hope your birthday wasn't a disappointment.”

“Couldn't have been,” he said. “You brought me a cake.”

You beamed. And the cord wrapped around both of your bodies jerked tighter. Joel was hiding his erection with the takeout container, too humiliated to let you see the hard band of his cock in his jeans. You'd run. You'd think he was a freak, a perv, a sleaze.

He was all three, of course. Didn't stop him from wanting—

His cock driving deep inside you, achingly slow, back screaming for relief. Daddy, please, I’m… nnngh, please let me come! Daddy, I’ll do anything, please!

Shhh, baby girl. He rises to his haunches and dips his hand between your joined bodies, rubbing your slick little pearl in fast circles. Your eyes roll back and your head collided with the pillow once more. Thaaat’s it, baby. You gonna come for Daddy? Be a good girl for me?

“Joel,” you said softly, your food forgotten on the table, your body inching closer to his, now two feet apart at best. Your eyes buttery in the darkness, lips dewy with some pinkish gloss you always wore, gloss he knew tasted like cherries. He licked his lips.

His hands flexed. “Yeah.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you said, bridging the gap, placing your hand on his knee, pink nails and soft skin and vanilla perfume. Joel sets his container aside, swallowing hard.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You were tentative at first, scooting closer, your hand gingerly exploring the length of his strong thigh, against the grain of the denim.

“Baby,” said Joel, more a long-bated exhale than a word at all. Gritting his teeth, hands at his sides, he watched in disbelief as you explored him, your manicured hand gently palming the hard length in his jeans. The moan he let out surprised himself.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered, pulling yourself onto his lap, straddling his hips, your arms winding around his neck, perfumecherrieslipgloss—

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Joel’s hands, no longer balled into fists, flattened against your arms and travelled their length, exploring your contours, dipping his palms into the curves of your shoulder blades, lodging himself firmly in the after with you.

You shivered, and he liked it.

“You need someone to touch you, too, baby girl.”

Not a question. You nodded anyway.

“Words,” he demanded.

Your lips parted and suddenly your noses were brushing, the pupils of your heavy eyes expanding, taking all of him in.

“I need you to touch me, Joel.”

“I know,” he said, one hand smoothing down the crown of your head, the other trailing featherlight up your spine. “I’m gonna kiss you, baby.”

You nodded again, a little feverish, pulling yourself closer to him, your thighs squeezing his. “Please.”

The after began with you, the way it will end with you. And he's kissing you now, too, swallowing the sounds of your orgasm as you hold him so tightly to you there's no escape. Not that he wants to leave. Not that he finally has this.

He's breathing life into your climax and burning it bright, hot, endless—that’s my good girl, coming so much for me, I know it's a lot, baby girl, just keep holdin’ me, that’s it, sweetheart.

And he's coming, too, grasping your hips so hard they'll bruise, nipping your earlobe and your jaw and leaving sloppy kisses on your neck, spiralling out of control, squeezed so tight by your hot, wet pussy. He comes with a pinch of pain in his lower back, groaning your name into you, pitching up into a near-whine as you milk him, guide him, coax him.

Fuck, fuck… goddamn—

Daddy, I need your cum. Please come inside me.

I will, baby girl, I will… Jesus—

It's so warm and slick where his cock begins to pulse inside you that he couldn't pull out if he wanted to. He empties himself, absolves himself, no longer a sinning man but one cleansed. Your body begs for it, your cunt pulling every drop from him, letting him make a mess of your used hole. Joel grinds absently until it's too much, until he’s sensitive and softening and trying not to collapse on top of you.

Your lip gloss is smudged. He licks his lips and tastes cherries.

“You okay, baby?”

You wince as he pulls out of you, globs of cum pooling at your hole and dripping onto the bed sheets. “Mhm.” You pull him closer, asking for a kiss he happily gives you.

“I feel good. I feel happy.”

He grins into your throat, littering meagre kisses in the junction there. “Did so well for me,” he mumbles.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair.

He purrs at the satiating scratch of your nails, his head resting on your chest. “Mmm.”

“Do you really like the Miller Macchiato, or are you just ordering it to make me happy?”

Joel chuckles, playfully taking your nipple between his teeth. “It's grown on me.”

From here, where he can feel the thrum of your settling heart reverberate through his skull, Joel gently tucks the beating organ back between your ribs for safekeeping. Here, in the clear-blue space of after, he doesn't need to hold it to know he's got it. He only needs to lower his ear to your chest and hear it sing his name.

tagging some friends who showed interest in the wip!!: @casa-boiardi @swiftispunk @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @cool-iguana @morning-star-joy @party-hearses @5oh5 (i love you all 🫶)

#tw: daddy kink #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #daddy!joel miller #daddy!joel

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rafesslxt · 3 months

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Love Potion ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ | Mattheo Riddle

summary: y/n thought she would smell something different while making Amortentia

warning: enemyxlover vibes, cursing, mattheo blushing for a second

note: shorter than usual but got this idea and had to write ( obviously there are other imagines like this so no not a new original idea i mean )

Together with my friends Harry, Ron and Hermione I walked to out next class potions. This year Professor Slughorn was teaching us and I really enjoyed what we learned so far.

Today we shared class with slytherin. Everyone got in and sat down, waiting for Professor to start.

" Good evening everyone, today you are going to learn how to make a love potion. The strongest to be exact. It is called Amortentia."

All the girl started giggling but I was distracted by a strong scent, something like mens cologne.

" Who can tell me something about it? " Professor Slughorn asked. Hermione‘s hand shot up into the air. " Yes, Miss Granger."

" Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is distinctive for its mother-of-pearl sheen, and steam rises from the potion in spirals. Also Amortentia smells different to each person, according to what -"

" Yes yes yes Miss Granger, 10 points for gryffindor. And the rest of the students should figure the last point out by themselves, right?" Hermione nodded and looked at the example in front of her.

" All the ingredients are on your tables, you can either partner up or do the potion on your own. You have time till 10 minuten before the class ends. Have fun!" He clapped into his hands and everybody started.

Ron and Harry decided to do the potion on their own while Hermione and I decided to team up. It went really well until my nose was filled with this strong scent again. I looked around and the only person walking behind me was Riddle. I rolled my eyes at the thought of having his cologne in my nose.

" What is it with you? You seem so tense since we started class." Hermione asked while stirring the potion. " I have Riddles fucking strong cologne in my nose. This guy needs to start using less of it."

She knew about my hate towards him and everything he does. But I didn‘t started it, he did and I was never one to back down. So we tried to get on each other‘s nerves on every opportunity.

"Oops." i heard and felt a shoulder bumping into my side, almost knocking the potion over. I turned my back and saw Mattheo. " Wow, really mature. But what did I expect from you huh?" i snickered and turned back.

As everyone got ready, Professor Slughorn walked around the class and looked at eachs Amortentia.

" Very good ladys. May I take this for an example?" Hermione nodded proudly and we watched him putting it on the table in front of all of us.

" You all did a great job. Now I want you all to take a deep breath trough your nose and smell the potion in front of you." Everyone did as he said but again I couldn‘t smell anything but that stupid cologne.

"Y/n, why don‘t you tell me what you smell?" Professor Slughorn asked you smiling, pointing at the potion you and Hermione made. " I would love to professor, but I can only smell Mr. Riddle‘s cologne cause he apparently doesn‘t know when to stop spraying."

I gave Mattheo a dirty look but got confused really fast due to his confused look. What? No barking back?

" I don‘t wear any today, I rushed out of my common room cause I overslept." My eyebrows drew together, I didn‘t really understand why I would smell his cologne all class.

" Maybe If you take a step closer to the potion you can concentrate on the single ingredient you smell." Professor Slughorn suggested.

I did as he said and took a deep breath in again. " Um, I smell Sandlwood, bergamot and something like the deep ocean.. sea salt maybe."

I was in some kind of trance while smelling it. It was lovely, i felt so light and some goosebumbs formed on my body.

I looked up seeing Hermionie smiling. " What?" I whsipered. " Miss Granger, could you tell us the last fact for the Amortentia ?" Mr. Slughorn asked her.

" Amortentia smells different to each person, according to what attracts them." Attracts them? No no no..

I look at Mattheo, who‘s already smiling from head to toe. " Very good Miss Granger, now have a good day! And remember: Amortentia is a very dangerous potion! You should never underestimate it!"

We packed our stuff and left the class. " So what was that all about y/n? Smelling Mattheo? I mean do you really have a crush on that doucheba-" Ron startet but got interrupted shorty after " Yeah y/n, you have a little crush huh?“ Mattheo swung his arm around me, taking me away from my friends.

"What the fuck are you doing?" We rounded a corner and he stopped. " No playing around anymore little princess. Was that supposed to be a joke ?" I hope so too. " Because I smelled your fucking perfume the whole time too!"

" You - You did what?" I almost whispered, my hand flying onto my mouth. " I smelled you the whole time. Vanilla and something like strawberry.. fuck I wanted to devour you so bad." He came closer, pressing me against a wall, his chest against mine. "Tell me you don‘t feel the same, tell me I can go fuck myself and tell me to get my hands off of you."

I couldn‘t. He was right, I wanted to tell him to fuck off and to not touch me, but I simply couldn‘t. " Y/n.." he whsipered my name, coming closer with his face. Then it hit me, it has to be a joke.

I started laughing which he just answered with a confused look. " It is a joke right? You try to fuck with my head because I said I smelled you while smelling the potion. I smelled your cologne not you. Somebody else could wear it too."

" I‘m not joking y/n." " Prove it."

And from one second to another, my whole life changed. He took my face in his hands and pressed his lips again mine. Hard at first but the kiss got softer and passionate. I slowly kissed him back, putting my hands on his chest. He let my face go and put his hands on my hips, squeezing them a little bit.

Out of breath I broke the kiss, his lips red and swollen, smirking. "So you don‘t hate me huh?" I grinned. "Oh shut up." He smiled back at me and kissed me again.

—

hope you had fun reading 🫶🏻

Masterlist

xoxo sarah

#mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott masterlist #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott oneshot #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott smut #theodore nott imagine #slytherin imagine #slytherin smut #slytherin boys #harry potter imagine #harry potter masterlist

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hanasnx · 4 months

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MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: f!reader | sexual content l face fuck mention | cum in eyes at the implied request of reader and facial | mild degradation | size difference.

DICK GRAYSON wouldn’t say he’s a closet freak. In fact, he prefers to be described as someone who’s “down for anything.” A sense of adventure belongs in sex, in his opinion, so anything spontaneous is appreciated. Surprises you spring on him, requests you make of him, anything is all fair game in the sack. So when you ask a particularly disgusting demand, how can he refuse?

“Please, Dickie? C’mon. C’mon, Dickie, please. Do it, do it.” Your signature source of rambled begging fills his ears as you sink further onto the floor, your freshly fucked face is colored and fluid stained. You’ve never looked more beautiful. Of course he can’t say no.

“Open your fucking eyes, baby, lemme see those pretty eyes.” he tells you, tone husky and breathless from all his effort. A sheen of sweat percolates to a drip down his skin, every muscle flexed as he pumps his achy length faithfully. His endurance is next level, but at your request he’s at risk for busting before you do as he asks.

Enthusiastically, you widen your eyes, holding that intense eye contact as his cock hangs over you, jacking himself off. “I want it so bad,” you whine, bouncing impatiently in place. You end the phrase by dropping your jaw, and drawing out your tongue formed in a cup.

“You ready? Huh, baby? Here it comes. Oh, fuck.” As he speaks, hot spurts of cum shoot out from his blushing tip, and his grip practically strangles it at the sight of your gorgeous features coated in his finish. Like a good girl, you kept that eye contact, lashes fluttering marginally as the whites of your eyes redden from cum brushing them. His large hand grabs the back of your head, fisting locks of your hair as he yanks you closer to catch the pearls of cum that’s lost momentum. It dribbles onto the end of your tongue, sliding down your chin. “Fuck, baby, kept your eyes open and everything? You little freak.”

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unendingphantasm · 2 years

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the YYB miku models are out!

#[there's a lot of tags here beware ^_^]#the release video is sm41007053 on niconico #the pass is hidden in the likes. you have to like the video in order to see it #anyways. its fucking GREAT #the face is well shaped #it seems to have custom normals so it turns out really softly shaded #there's this small detail where if her mouth is open the 'meter' bars on her headphones rise #through the shape keys #so if she were to sing then it would correlate to her volume #a nice touch #her hair has a nice shape and is very detailed with stray strands #not unlike yyb's illustrations #her clothes and accessories are also well detailed #her top and 'detached(?) sleeves have folds that really add to the beauty #the rim of miku NT's skirt #and the standard miku's belt have this really nice thick and silky texture to it #the textures themselves are rich with color #coupled with great normal maps and this reflection texture #that bathes the hair and shoes and any other 'shiny' part with a pearl~like sheen..#IT"S GOOD #so well crafted.. sanmu yyb is a visionary #tl:dr; i love 3d models and 3d art :)#go download them. if you have mmd #the models are 101mb in total

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delirious-donna · 19 days

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Dawn Chorus [Higuruma Hiromi]

an: I woke up with Higuruma on the brain (I love him your honour). It was only going to be a few hundred words, but here we are… the man needs to sleep so he can love you thoroughly.

pairing: Higuruma Hiromi x female reader

warnings: some somno, established relationship, pussy drunk Hiromi, oral sex, creampie

Masterlist

Higuruma Hiromi is a passionate man. He cares about his work, about his contribution to society, and about his relationship with you. Higuruma is also a tired man, often awake at ungodly hours to meet deadlines or review cases that he is working on pro bono. You love your husband and the dedication he tries to infuse into every day, but sometimes he just needs to sleep.

On the evenings where you are able to tempt him into just another glass of red wine, another piece of creamy Gorgonzola atop a cracker and just one more kiss, you feel like you’re winning against all the odds. It’s always far more enjoyable to go to bed together rather than having Hiromi kiss you goodnight on his way to the study.

Cuddled up against his back, you laugh at his faux resignation at being the little spoon… again. In truth, he likes it. He adores being held and the little kisses you pepper across his cheeks when you lean over to wish him sweet dreams. He toys with your fingers, pulling your palm so it lays flush over his heart until slumber drags you both under its warmth.

Of course, you were right.

Higuruma needed sleep and after a full eight hours, his eyes spring apart rather than sluggishly creak open like broken shutters. For once, he can appreciate the warmth of the sun and the tangle of the sheets instead of cursing his need to get up and go. Most of all, he can appreciate you, his beautiful wife, still fast asleep and no longer clinging to him like a koala.

So pretty, he thinks whilst his lips caress the sleep-soaked crook of your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent with gusto. Patient and honest, he admits when he peels back the thin cotton sheet to nose at your breasts. He continues to nuzzle until your nipples peak, a slow smile curving his lips and he can’t help but lower your top so he can taste you. Utterly perfect, he assures in silence, you are the salve to all of his wounds.

The morning dose of testosterone, that he would usually either quickly dispel by hand or with the aid of a cold shower, has him impatient and aching. His cock twitches inside his loose pyjama pants, but he ignores it in favour of taking his time. Flicking his tongue across your pert bud, he whines in his throat when you arch in sleep, straining to press yourself further into his mouth and he takes the invitation to suckle until you wake with a gasp.

Your eyes snap wide, belly aching with some unknown pressure that continues to build without faltering. A head of black hair decorates your chest, wet little suckling noises matched by the sensation of pulling tugged deliciously behind your navel.

“Hiro… mm, someone’s hungry this morning.”

Hiromi’s eyes roll over at the sleep affecting your voice, arms stretching overhead before lacing through his hair to tug at the roots. Instead of replying, he presses his pelvis against your hip, the hard length of his cock evidence enough that you are absolutely correct.

“Take what you want, love, I’m yours,” you coo softly, wriggling your hips in suggestion.

It’s one he doesn’t need clarifying, Higuruma has you bare and spread within seconds of your invitation. Amazed at the sheen of arousal already decorating your folds, he laps eagerly at the residue until all he can taste is you. He thumbs at your clit, using those slender fingers to peel you open like a flower in bloom only for his tongue to wet along your pussy.

You keen for him, driven on by his enthusiasm and the telltale rut of his hips into the mattress below. The hook of his nose replaces his thumb, dragging side to side over your pearl as it hardens from the friction and arousal. Grabbing great tufts of his hair, you grind yourself against his face and in turn his hold on your thighs shift to the meat of your backside. Hiromi palms your cheeks, pulling them apart until you feel more exposed than you thought possible.

“Fuck… Hiro!”

He can’t hear you through the muffle of your thighs by his ears and the wild beating pulse inside his head. With feverish need he bathes you in his spit, not content until your dripping down to the sheets. The tip of his tongue digs into your entrance, giving a strangled grunt at the squeeze you give around the wet muscle, and he pulls back to look up at you.

“Sweeter than ambrosia. I swear you would be more divine than any God,” he mumbles breathlessly, eyes hooded but not with fatigue for once.

Words fail you, becoming stuck in your throat at such conviction in his praise. All you can do is reach out and cup his cheek, skin soaked in your essence and his saliva but you hardly care. You watch as he fumbles with the drawstring of his pants, lowering the band to reveal his cock, purple and angry from lack of attention. Oozing pearls of translucent precum leak from his slit, and you’re ready to be filled but he lays flat once more.

Hiromi tongues at your sweet clit, teeth gently biting and tugging at your puffy folds while he wets his fingers and pushes two into you, right to the knuckle. You cry out at the sensation, more than ready for the stretch but not expecting this. His wrist rotates, fingers curling in a come-hither motion and when his fingertips pass over that deep mass of engorged tissue, your thighs tremble.

“Sing for me, darling. Be my morning chorus.”

If this was going to be the result of Higuruma getting better sleep, then you would drag his ass to bed every night if you had to. He humps the bed, strangled noises mingled with sharp little whimpers when you push his face deeper into the apex of your thighs. You could feel the wetness pooling between your cheeks and dripping to the sheets, Hiromi’s mouth making out with your pussy in a rhythm that matches his adventuring digits.

He was breaking you apart, masterfully unpicking every thread that made you whole and waiting with endless patience until you unravel into his palm. The heat between your hips grows too much all at once, the friction on your clit and the relentless thrumming of his fingers against your sweet spot blinding you without warning.

“Oh, I’m… fuck! Hiro—I can’t h-hold back!” Your voice warbles like a songbird, crescendoing into a shriek of bliss that could shatter glass.

Higuruma delights in your orgasm—revelling in it—stilling his fingers to feel your velvet walls clench and spasm around him and slowing the lap of his tongue to soft kitten licks. He massages your waist lovingly, stroking featherlight fingers across your quivering and soft stomach until you float back to earth.

It was all he could do to stave off his own release, his balls heavy with need and drawn tight to the base of his cock. He knew the moment he sat on his haunches there would precum staining the sheets, but he cared little considering the mess he’d already made from loving you so thoroughly.

Gingerly, he sits back and hisses at the slap of his cock against his stomach. You moan, squirming on the bed and he catches your eye. Your bottom lip pinned between your teeth, pupils blown wide and that’s all he needs to pump himself with wild abandon. His wife wants him. His wife is attracted to him. His wife always does the best by him.

His strokes were long but frantic, the slick sound of his foreskin rolling back to reveal his cockhead so sinful that he punctures his lip with his teeth. White hot heat drips from the small of his back, hips and backside tightening with the impending release.

“W-where?” He asks with a stutter, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“Inside, Hiromi, please?”

“Shit, shit, shit.”

He lunges forward, bracing on one forearm whilst he notches at your still softly pulsing entrance and pushes inside. Your arms wind around his neck in urgency, kissing his face, his neck, his shoulder and anchoring your legs around his lean waist.

No sooner was he buried to the hilt, than his orgasm hit like a force of nature. His arms tremble, spine bowing and flexing under the pressure whilst he paints your most inner walls with thick, creamy seed. He collapses into your loving embrace, settling his warm cheek at your collarbone and damn near purring at the gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair and down his back, smiling dazedly.

Higuruma Hiromi is a passionate man, especially when he’s had a full night's sleep.

#delirious writes #higuruma hiromi #higuruma x reader #higuruma smut #jjk higuruma #higuruma hiromi smut #higuruma hiromi x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #tw somno

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ilovepedro · 28 days

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Over the Edge | joel miller x f!reader

Palestine - if you enjoy my work, I ask you to click on this link and help Palestine in any way you can.

Main Masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~1.2k

Summary: Joel agonizingly taunts you before pushing you over the edge.

Warnings: no outbreak, pwp, established relationship, edging, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y'all!), TW: daddy kink, oral (f!receiving), fingering, begging, soft!dom!Joel, sub!reader, dom/sub dynamic, creampie, two (2) spanks, hella pet names (angel, dollface, baby, baby girl, princess, etc), squirting, reader is female, no mention of hair type/skin color/body type, NO USE OF Y/N, let me know if i missed anything! :)

A/N: hey y'all!! <3 i've been a bit down in the dumps about my writing lately so, this was just something i wrote for fun to get back into the groove :) i took some inspo from a few prompt lists such as this one and this one. this is my first ever daddy kink fic lol i'm nervous. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy! 🫶🏼 poorly self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Heat pricks your skin, the mixture of the Texas heat and the man above you creates a sheen of sweat on your body. Glistening in the warm glow of the room, you writhe beneath Joel as he pins you down with his strong hands lazily swirling his tongue along your puffy, swollen clit.

He’s been edging you for hours. A lazy Saturday spent between your legs, Joel eager to put you in your place after he’d caught you touching yourself this morning without his permission.

Eager to unravel you.

Constantly bringing you to the brink and leaving you dangling off the cliff before reeling you back in, withholding your sweet, sweet release.

Releasing your precious pearl from his mouth, he hums as he savors the flavor of you on his tongue. He presses teasing kisses along your body as he slithers up to your mouth, whines bubbling from your chest. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, the ache in your core burning brighter with every touch.

“You gonna be good for me, dollface?” Joel hums, his thick fingers hooking under your chin, bringing your gaze to meet his. His eyes are wild, blown with pure lust. A tear rolls down your cheek as you impatiently nod.

“C’mon, princess. Use your words. Wanna hear you. Lemme hear you beg for it,” he taunts.

A whine rips from your throat. Joel teases your dripping cunt with his dexterous digits, your thighs sticky and coated with slick and saliva.

Exasperated and desperate, your eyes squeeze shut as you begin to beg.

“Yes I’ll be good, just please, Joel.”

You gasp at the dull sting of a soft smack to your thigh.

“Please who?”

Your eyes snapping open as you gulp, the dull sting of the smack heightening your need, your clit furiously throbbing as a new wave of slick seeps from your cunt.

“Daddy. Please, daddy.”

“‘S better. Now I’ll ask ya one more time – are ya gonna be good for me?”

“Yes, daddy, I promise. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you want, just please.”

“Please, what? What do ya want, princess?”

“Y-your cock. Need your cock, daddy, please,” you mewl, squirming under his hold.

He laughs, smug and satiated with your begging as his cock twitches at the sound of your neediness, your shrill moan like music to his ears. His large, rough hands skate down your body to pin your hips down, his lips brushing against your neck.

“Beggin’s a good look on ya, dollface,” Joel taunts, his thick digits fluttering around your aching core, teasingly sliding his fingers through your folds, collecting your slick. Sharply gasping at the feel of his calloused fingertips brushing against where you need him most, more tears rolling down your cheeks as you softly whimper and writhe under his broad chest.

“Shhh, shhh, easy, baby. Relax, angel. Daddy’s got ya. Gonna give ya what ya want, don’t worry, baby,” Joel says, nipping at your chin as he lines himself up with your entrance.

Joel grabs your hips to adjust the angle and slides home in one swift move, the obscene amount of slick dripping from your cunt aiding him. He places your calves on his chest, your ankles resting on his broad shoulders.

An animalistic moan claws from your throat, shredding your vocal chords as Joel fills you up, stuffing you to the brim. His cock, thick and heavy and long.

“Fuck, look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ my cock, angel,” he groans, your heat clenching around him. “Ya like when daddy fills you up, baby?” He asks, dragging his hips agonizingly slow against yours.

“Yes, daddy. Love it when you fill me up, f-feels so good,” you squeal. His pace gradually picks up, fucking deep into you, your pornographic moans growing louder and higher with every thrust as Joel grunts above you.

Squelches fill the air, your slick dripping onto the sheets as it smears in between you and Joel.

“So fuckin’ wet, ya hear how wet you are, baby girl? Who’s this all for, hmm?”

You try to tell him it’s for him, for daddy, but he’s fucking you so good, so deep, he’s taken your ability to speak. There’s another smack to your thigh, only it stings a bit more. Another broken moan rumbles from your chest, the ache fueling the fire that’s burning in your belly.

“Use your manners, baby girl, I’m talkin’ to ya. Who’s this all for?”

“You, daddy! All for you, my pussy’s yours, I’m yours,” you babble almost incoherently.

“There we go, good girl. ‘S right, baby. All mine,” Joel smirks, placing a kiss on your calf as he hits that sweet spot.

Your hand mindlessly finds your clit, eagerly stroking yourself until Joel swats your hand away. Releasing your legs, he leans down, practically bending you in half. Pleasure ripples throughout your body as he roughly pins your hands on each side of your head, caging you in between his taut biceps.

His thrusts grow rougher, needier.

“Greedy. Girl,” Joel grunts, punctuating his words with his hips.

“You don’t fuckin’ learn, do ya? What, this cock ain’t enough for ya, baby doll?”

You ferociously shake your head, whimpering as he continuously hits that sweet spot, eyelids heavy with your orgasm nearer in sight.

“‘S enough, daddy, I swear,” you slur. Suddenly and swiftly, Joel lets go of your hands and grabs your hips, flipping over onto his back as he still sits inside you.

Hips flushed together, you sit perched atop him, straddling his strong thighs. Gasping at the newfound depth, your eyes fly open as you brace yourself on his taut chest.

“Wanna act up? Now ya gotta work for it, angel. Go on now - ride my cock, dollface. Wanna see you come all over me. Soak my fuckin’ cock, babygirl.”

He gives you a nudge, lightly bouncing you on his throbbing length. You feel him pulsing inside your warm, wet heat. A whine rips from your throat as he kisses your cervix. Mouth dry and sweat coating your body, you muster all the strength in your being as you slowly drag along his cock.

Moans ripping from each of you, the friction finally giving the two of you relief.

“Atta girl. Look so fuckin’ pretty bouncin’ on daddy’s cock.”

His filthy fucking mouth.

You toss your head back, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you pick up the pace, fucking yourself harder onto his cock.

Joel tightens his grip on your waist, squeezing your hips. It’s so fucking hot in the room, it’s hot everywhere. His touch sets your body alight, your skin burning beneath his hands. Oversensitivity sinking in as you near the edge of your release.

“C’mon, babygirl. You’re close. Can feel it. Fuckin’ squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, Christ,” Joel grunts.

He runs the pad of his calloused thumb between your soaked folds, coating it in your slick. Your hips buck at the sensation, a small cry tears through your vocal chords.

Joel brushes his thumb against your clit, stroking you as you bounce on his cock. Wailing above him, you clutch his chest for purchase. Your orgasm is blinding – burning hot white as you squirt on his cock. Writhing and twitching as you ride out your orgasm, continuously gushing around him as your ears ring. Your eyes squeezed shut as a few stray tears cascade down your cheeks, your ears plugged from the intensity of your orgasm.

Blinded by your orgasm, you hadn’t even noticed Joel finished inside you. You fall forward, collapsing on top of him, both of your breaths ragged. A sticky mess collected in between both of you, sex and sweat permeating the hot summer air.

He gently runs a hand along your spine, bringing you back to earth as you catch your breath. Joel presses a kiss to your head, leaving his lips pressed against your hair as he hums.

“Fuck, so fuckin’ good, baby. Good job soakin’ daddy’s cock, dollface. Knew you’d be a good girl for me – always are.”

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