Kyu.

Joel's hot hands roam the soft swell of your ass, meaningfully dipping his thumb between your cheeks and splaying you open under his palms—taking his time, though you whine and fist the sheets like a petulant child. His mouth waters—makes him feel like a depraved pervert at the sight of your puckered hole, fluttering under the pad of his thumb—and he lifts his hand to his lips to collect the spit and smear it on your hole.

“No, please..!” you sob, your cheek smushed into the mattress as you peer over your shoulder meekly. Your voice wobbles, lower lip sticking out petulantly, and fat, convincing tears cling to your lashes. “No, I don't want it!”

Damp tearstains soil the floral bedding under your head as Joel shoves your face down, guiding his wetted cock to the soft valley between your cheeks. “That's the point, baby,” he says, “You know how it is—only good girls get to feel good. I don't think you deserve my dick in your cunt today.” You bite your lips together nervously as he lets out low groans above you, rolling his hips against your soft ass, his thick fingers curling around one of your wrists and pinning it to the small of your back.

“No fair!” Sniffling, you kick your feet out against the floorboards—a pointless, noisy scuffle as you feel him push against your tight hole, your breath coming out in short bursts. “Iʼm a big girl. I don't need your help alls the time!”

“Big girls…” Joel's rumbly voice shudders into a groan, his chest heaving under his thick flannel shirt as the head of his cock pops past your tight ring of muscle—subsequently tearing a squeal from your lips. The burn makes your eyes water, a dull pain blooming across your backside as he drives deeper. “…face the consequences of their actions- Hah, fuck, that's tight- Ain't that so, sugar? You'd know, being such a big fucking girl now.”

“Mm- N-no--! Stop-” You can hardly sound out your words through the drool and stammers, your head rolling back against Joel's chest to peer up into his unforgiving gaze with mascara tracking down your dewy cheeks. His thick arm curls around your neck, holding your body fast against his front as he rocks you with heavy thrusts. “Iʼm sorry, I'm sorry, Iʼm sorry..!”

He squeezes his cock inside inch by inch, unceremoniously fisting the fat base of his cock and guiding himself deeper while you whimper kittenishly beneath him, actively fighting the resistance of your tight hole to bury himself in your ass. “Oh no, why would I stop, darlin'? Iʼm not finished yet. You just gotta hold out 'til I cum, that's how I'll know you can be a good girl.”

“J-Joel..! Oh- Joel, please-” Itching for some relief from the unbearable pressure between your legs, your thighs press together fruitlessly as the lube trickles down your slit, cool air hitting your sopping folds. A low grunt punches out of him as he feels you tighten around his cock, your pussy clenching around nothing uselessly.

“No, no.” Joel tuts, his disapproval more felt in the harsh grip on the scruff of your neck than seen. “No 'please's,” he murmurs hoarsely, “I won't hear nothing but apologies from that mouth o' yours. You just learn to be good and take your punishment.”

So, you bite the sheets and take your punishment. Taking the full, oversized girth of the big man, feeling his big hands knead your flesh and tug you back on the mean, throbbing intrusion, heavy sack slapping against your neglected cunt with every stab of his hips. It's a good thing, you think, even if you can barely handle it, being able to take your bad behavior and turn it into something good—making him feel good for nothing in return. A lesson in selfnessness because you'd been a ridiculous, thoughtless girl. He deserved this much after you'd acted so unappreciatively. Maybe you could learn to be more like him, more caring.

You really hadn't meant to sound ungrateful for all the care he gives you, but you know hearing that would be the least interesting part of all this—at least opposed to how much he sounds to be enjoying your tight body. It's a heady dichtomy—the guttural, wanton moans as he slams inside you, pre-cum dripping down the cleft of your ass, and the frustration belying his every move. Manhandling you like a small, unruly animal trying to escape his clutches. Only, there's nowhere else you'd rather be but here, under him—though your survival instincts seem to say otherwise: your hips recoiling from the brutish force he uses on you, reduced to teary-eyed petulance with staccato whimpers pouring past your lips.

You've clearly succumbed to your punishment, knowing you deserve it and feeling so, so sorry, but you haven't stopped sulking about it. It's hard not to, with the achy throb between your thighs that just won't go away and Joel won't pay any attention to when he's not mocking you for how wet you are.

Joel doesn't let you off the hook easy; no, he makes any punishment memorable enough that the same mistake doesn't happen twice.

“Well, would you look at that? You're fucking soaked. You're not supposed to be enjoying this, baby,” Joel croons, vaguely exasperated, as if talking down on a small, dumb thing that doesn't quite understand its own predicament, wry amusement curling the corner of his mouth.

Plain as day is your dripping, weeping center between your legs, untouched while he plunges in-and-out of your other hole, pretty clit swollen and begging for attention. You cross your legs sheepishly, suddenly fearing the measures Joel might take to make sure you aren't enjoying yourself too much. “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer between gasps, tears blurring your vision and sticking your lashes together as you screw your eyes up, legs nearly giving out under you. “I-Iʼll be good, Daddy, promise. You can do what you want to me.” Your bottom lip sticks out invitingly as you look back at him, and it's all Joel can do to not empty his load in you right then and there.

He pulls you back on his cock with a low growl, slamming inside you with a dizzying thrust that makes you see stars, veins bulging angrily along his forearms. A high-pitched keen—or a shriek, almost—that you aren't even quite sure how the noise belongs to you, rings in your ears beneath the violent roar of your own pulse. Your lungs overwork to pull in air as his heavy body bears down on you—so much smaller and feebler than him—all but crushing you into the mattress, grunting next to your ear feverishly. You can almost taste that virile musk that clings to him, to his flannel shirt, his sweaty torso molded to your back.

“Daddy-” Not for the first time, you think that he's maybe too big, the stretch too much. But no one else has ever introduced such overwhelming feelings to your body, and you find that you're all to willing to be molded to accommodate him. To be his good girl. “Please cum in me, Daddy, please cum in me, Daddy- Please, Daddy, please—”

The misty, rose-tinged water sloshes around your body, licking your knees as you draw them up to your chest. You peer over the rim of the tub as Joel sets your bottle of micellar water down on the bathroom counter with visible skepticism, absently rubbing at the scruff on his neck and shifting his weight, notably out of place in your girly-safehaven bathroom. A pile of used cotton makeup pads sit next to the sink after he'd gently swiped them across your skin and cleared away your smudged makeup, the tiny white rounds having looked almost absurdly small between his broad fingers.

“Jo—el,” you whine willfully, batting your wet lashes and beckoning him closer. “Get in.”

A soft, involuntary chuckle rumbles in his chest as you tug on the leg of his jeans, reaching down to brush your damp hair out of your eyes, your lashes fluttering slightly at the disturbance before he helps you out. His other hand is already reaching for the top button of his shirt.

“Don't mind if I do, sweetheart.”

𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡

His jeans strain across his thighs, and there—right fucking there—that thick swell of him, rock hard already, pressing against the denim, swollen in need. Above it, that soft pudge of his belly, that little curve you've pressed your face into a hundred times only when he lets you. Only when he's feeling generous. 

Your eyes drift to that spot you love so much, picturing his cock already leaking for you. 

He tsks sharply, the sound cutting through the tense air like a whip. 

Your gaze snaps back up, but it's already too late. His eyes have gone dark, narrowed down at you with something sharp and cold. Annoyance. Disdain.

"Too god damn desperate," he growls, his voice low and gravelly. "For your own good."

You can't help but nod frantically, your mouth already watering at the thought of him, saliva pooling under your tongue. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with raw need. "I need it. In my mouth."

You lean forwards then, nuzzling against the rigid outline of his erection, inhaling the musky scent of him through the denim, your desperation making your hands twitch at your sides, itching to touch but knowing better than to try.

His hand moves fast.

He grabs a fistful of your hair at the scalp and yanks, wrenching your head back so hard your neck cracks. Your gasp cuts through the quiet.

Then his palm comes against your face.

A slap lands across your cheek with a sharp crack, the sting blooming hot and immediate, leaving your skin tingling and your breath catching in your throat. 

You freeze, eyes wide and pleading, the slap only fueling the fire of your need rather than dousing it. Your cheek burns, but you don't pull away; instead, you stay perfectly still, gazing up at him with utter submission, your body trembling with how badly you crave more.

He holds your gaze for a long, heavy moment. 

A small "pathetic" leaves his lips. 

And then, something flickers in his expression—not softening, never that. But a decision. 

"Alright," he says, calm. "You want it that bad? Open the zipper. With your mouth. Only your mouth."

You don't hesitate.

You lean in, your lips brushing against the cold metal tab of his jeans zipper. Your tongue darts out, fumbling, clumsy, desperate to please. You catch the tab between your teeth and tug. The teeth of the zipper part slowly, and you work your way down, your jaw aching, drool already starting to slip from the corner of your lips.

Inch by inch, the fabric parts, and then his cock springs free through the open slit in his boxers—thick and heavy, veins bulging along the shaft, the swollen head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum that drools from the tip. It bobs right in front of your face, so close you can feel the heat radiating off it, the salty scent filling your senses.

You drool again; a fat string of saliva that drips from your lower lip and lands on your own thigh. You don't even notice. All you see is him.

"Jesus Christ," Joel mutters, but there's no tenderness in it. Just exasperation. "Look at you. Droolin' like a bitch in heat."

You don't care. You can't care. You're already leaning forward, lips parting—

His hand clamps onto your hair again, stopping you. The pull hurts on your scalp already. 

"I ain't done talkin'."

You freeze, a whimper leaving your lips.

"I'm gonna fuck your throat," he says, each word deliberate. "Deep. Slow. And you're not gonna gag. Ya hear me?"

You nod as much as his grip allows, a jerky, desperate motion.

"No gaggin'," he repeats, making sure you understand. "Not a sound. You take it. That's what you're made for."

He doesn't wait for an answer.

He guides the head of his cock right between your lips, and you open for him—greedy, hungry, your tongue already stretching out to taste him. He pushes past your lips, past your tongue, and keeps going. 

He's thick. So thick that your jaw aches instantly. You taste every vein, every inch stretched wide around him. He fills your mouth completely, and he keeps pushing, deeper, until his tip nudges the back of your throat. 

You feel your body already rebel—a reflexive clench, a spasm from the back of your throat. But you force yourself to relax, to open, to take.

And then he's past the barrier, sliding into your throat in one smooth, burning slide.

Your eyes start to water. 

Tears spill over, falling one by one down your cheeks. Your nose is pressed against the hair at his groin, and the world has narrowed to the taste of him, the stretch of him, the smell and the sound of his breathing.

He holds there. Just for a moment. Just to let you feel it.

"Good girl," he says, and the praise is so unexpected, so incongruous with everything else, that a sob of relief catches in your chest. But he doesn't let you savor it. "Now we're gonna move. Slow. And you're gonna keep that mouth open."

He pulls back, almost all the way out, leaving just the tip resting on your tongue. 

Then he pushes in again. 

Slow. 

All the way in until his fat head drags against your palate, your tongue and then lands against the back of your throat. 

He sets a rhythm with slow, agonising thrusts that bury him deep, hold for a heartbeat, then retreat. Every time he sinks in, your throat convulses around him, trying to accommodate, and every time he pulls back, you drool—a mess of spit and pre-cum that strings from his cock to your lips. 

You try to breathe through your nose, keep your jaw unclenched and throat relaxed while tears still spill from your eyes. 

Joel watches. His eyes are half-lidded, focused entirely on where he disappears into your mouth, and on your tears. His free hand then comes up, and you feel his rough fingers on your throat—right over the place where his cock is sliding in and out.

He presses down lightly, rubbing the skin.

"You can feel it, can't you?" His voice is a low murmur, almost lazy. "Feel me right here, movin' in you."

You can. The sensation is foreign and intimate, his fingers tracing the bulge of his own cock moving inside your throat. It makes you moan, a muffled sound that vibrates around him.

"Quiet," he says, calm, there's no heat in it. Just a reminder.

He keeps going. Slow, Relentless. Making your throat memorise the veins of his cock. 

Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. Tears and drool mix together, soaking your chin, your neck, the collar of your shirt. 

But you don't care. You'd stay like this forever, if he'd let you.

He thrusts a little deeper, then. Turning a little harder. His rhythm suddenly changes, becoming more urgent, his hips rocking forward with a rougher snap. You can feel his cock throbbing inside your throat while his breathing thickens, the grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain.

"Fuck," he grunts. "That's what you're only good for. Gonna fill that throat of yours. Gonna pump you so full."

Your eyes roll up, meeting his for a brief moment. He's watching you; gaze dark, possessive, hungry.

Then he groans, a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest and his cock swells against your tongue. He thrusts deep one last time, burying himself to the root, and you feel the hot pulse of his release hitting the back of your throat.

There's a lot. Wave after wave, thick and bitter, flooding your mouth. You swallow instinctively, your throat working around him as he keeps twitching, keeps coming.

He holds you there, pressed against him, until he's empty. 

Then he pulls out slowly, his cock sliding wet and spent across your tongue, slowly softening. 

You're a mess. 

Sobbing and sniffling quietly. Spit and cum and tears all over your face. But you keep your mouth closed, holding everything down.

Joel takes a step back. His hands drop to his sides again. He looks down at you, breathing hard.

"Open," he says.

You do. You part your lips, tilt your head back, showing him the inside of your mouth. Clean. Empty. You swallowed every drop like a Good girl. 

He looks at you for a long moment. His expression doesn't soften. 

But he nods. Once.

And that for you, is everything.

Guess who is ovulating again lmao

“We can’t, baby..” He mutters, trying his best to not give in to the temptation.

You let out a small pout , not pulling him away or distancing yourself from him, but simply showing off your pout from his rejection. Instead of giving in to your request he reaches his hand over to the bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out a condom.

“Don’t pout, honey.. S’just do it with a condom..” he says, ‘trying’ to make you feel better atleast.

“Fine..” you mumble, still slightly pouting.

You watched as he placed the condom on himself, you hated this, you wanted all of him, no restriction from the god awful condom and instead just him, but you simply obeyed as he pulled forward to straddle him again.

“Don’t want ya sad ‘bout it baby..” he murmurs his eyes wandering back to your own, silently gazing at you, he knew this whole relationship was wrong altogether, but unprotected sex to him, felt too far, made him feel too guilty, although he wanted it too, but he never wanted to admit it.

“M’not sad, pa.. It’s fine,” you mumble, staring back at him. Lies, he thinks, knowing his girl too damn well, he knew you were still moody about it at the back of your head.

He mutters a small ‘alright then’ and gently lifts you a bit, creating a small distance between you, and gently aligns himself through your folds, spreading you wide and squeezing himself in you.

He thrusts himself in you, forcing you to arch your back and moan from the pleasure, staying in place as Joel tightly holds on to your hips, to force your body to thrust himself in and out of you. His gaze lands back to your own, pleasure washing over your face,

“Come on baby, ride daddy, honey, don’t needs daddy’s help..” He grunts as his guidance on your body slightly slows down , forcing you to move your body. Your hands tightly holding on his chest, moaning and sobbing as you pleasurably ride Joel.

“S-s’good..” you moan, continuing to move your body in and out of Joel, the loud noise of skin slapping filling in the quietness of the room as the pace quickens.

You can’t help but think how unbelievably better raw sex with him would be, as Joel shuts his eyes closed from the pleasure of the moment, your hand slithers to your back

and at the spur of the moment slowly pull away from Joels dick and attempt to take off the piece of rubber.

The idea quickly backfires when Joels eyes quickly open feeling the rubber being pulled away from his cock.

“What’re you doing?” he says in a frustrated surprise ,

“Come on, pa.. S’just do it raw..” you mumble,

“Nah.. we can’t,” he groans from his pleasure being cut off.

“Please, daddy.. Just once..” you mumble, attempting to persuade him, softening your expression and pouting your lips again just so he can give in.

“Only once..i promise..” you silently add, which probably wasn’t true but he didn’t know that,

“Just once..” he murmurs, finally giving in, which rewards him a little giggle and his girl finally being content. He lets you take off the condom from him and you throw the rubber somewhere on the ground,

“But no interruptin’ again..” He states, letting out a small hidden smile. You can only giggle at his words, and slowly lower yourself back on to his dick again.

You let out a loud moan as the newer sensation of his raw dick pushes against your gummy walls. As you start moving your body once again he lets out a loud groan, both of you buried in the newer form of pleasure.

“Fuck.. S’real good , honey..” he groans his hands tightly holding on to your hips once again, not guiding your body, but just holding on to you. Your pussy pulsing around him as you deeply thrust into him, moving in a quick pace, moaning and whimpering so damn loud, allowing yourself to enjoy this.

“Joel- fuck-k..” you moan, as lewd sound of skin slapping and moaning filling in the quiet room once again, slamming in to him deeply as his eyes wander back to your face noticing how much you’re enjoying it.

And he did too, he knew from the start of this whole relationship he’d enjoy it if you two ever did it raw, but he never allowed himself , it made him felt too guilty about it. But now, at the moment he could give a damn, he was loving this way too much than he should, his groans and grunts revealing it.

“Can’t- can’t hold it, pa!” you moan, your movements becoming uneven as the closeness of your climax closeness.

“Fuck.. Me too honey..” he grunts as he feels your pussy clenching against his dick.

And you can’t help but let go as your body slows down and your chest rises and falls heavily, almost yelling from the pleasure as you reach your climax, and the you feel it, Joel reaching his climax as well, unloading his thick liquid into you,

“Fuck..” he groans as he comes deep inside you, which wasn’t intended. He pulls himself out of you, lifting you up to settle you comfortably back on top of his thighs, but as he does , his liquid from your pussy drop on to his thighs.

Taglist💗: Let me know if you want to be removed💗

@fuzzyfawnnn @katalinablossom @aria1108 @mrs-miller03 @tomtohee @wand-erer5 @lambe-rt @dugiioh @biagaloree

── .✦ His relationship with people depended on someone’s individual personality. Messing with someone who doesn’t react is not fun for him at all. So if you ever showed the smallest sign of being frustrated with his behavior, it’s when he lets the beast out.

── .✦ When you two met, he kept getting your name wrong on purpose for a couple of days, waiting for you to scold him about it again and again. 

── .✦ He is going to piss you off so badly. Remember what Varka said about Lohen making ambushes for him? With you it’s going to be the same. Even worse. You’re walking peacefully and he spawns in front of you to scare you and laughs as your soul leaves your body.

── .✦ If you’re more of a delicate person physically, his tease will remain only in words. However if you’re a tough person, man will straight up dig holes in the ground so you can fall on them. And while you insult all his bloodline, he is peacefully staring at you waiting for the opportunity to say: ‘’Oh? I am sorry, this was supposed to be for some hilichurls and you interrupted all my plans. Always so clumsy, hum?’’

── .✦ Following the same idea, if you’re a fighter, get ready to have him after you everyday to get a sparring session from you. If you lose, he will keep calling you weak and a disappointment, but if you win he’ll run after you to know all your combat techniques. Can’t avoid him.

── .✦ When you innocently gives an opinion or states a fact, he’ll disagree even if he knows you’re right. You’re pissed. How can someone disagree that a triangle has three sides? What possibly could’ve led him to this? So, while you explain some things are rules and right by default, Lohen can only stare at your lips.

── .✦ On a certain occasion, you saw Lohen sleeping and how cute he was looking so peaceful. Now that he wasn’t being annoying, he was so adorable so you gently removed his hair from his face to admire his features. Thing is, Lohen wasn’t sleeping. And he is going to remind you of this for the rest of your life. His cocky smile while saying: ‘’I didn’t know you found me so handsome. Can’t even control your hands? How adorable.’’

── .✦ He is extremely calm at every situation. Doesn’t raise his voice, always has everything under his control, and this pisses you off. The world is ending, you’re worried and telling him to do something about it, while Lohen turns to face you with a smile and tells you to not overreact. And if you strangle or shake him out of frustration? Good, he’s right where he wants to be. In the clouds.

── .✦ Will shameless say you’re gorgeous when angry. What to do? Insults or hits will only make him happy. 

── .✦ If you have periods, please don't let him know if you're having one. You're more sensitive and annoyed than normal and he won't spare you. Will compare your behavior with one of an angry mitachurl just to make you see red. But he'll also bring you good food, painkillers and massage your stomach and shoulders. ''Can't have my little monster feeling this bad.''

── .✦ Even so, when you’re all by yourself and Lohen is busy with other things, the feeling of loneliness is inevitable. You find yourself missing his stupid comments, yet this situation will never be openly admitted. 

── .✦ You even try switching positions by annoying him. Making comments about his combat skills and expecting Lohen to be pissed about it, but he laughs and mocks your poor abilities at teasing. ‘’Go and do better.’’

── .✦ Enough. Lohen is so annoying you understand no one can be above his level of teasing, and you keep saying he got a degree on Pissing People off University. The worst part is that, aware he is only messing around, you keep getting frustrated with his stupid comments and opinions.

── .✦ Lohen will say something that makes you not believe he is real. While you’re gathering all possible insults in your mind, he is: ‘’Oh, I bet you’re so angry at me for this? Do you want to slap me?’’ and even offers his cheek to receive a slap. If you slap, Lohen is going to be very happy but still call you weak.

── .✦ Until one day you get really angry. All you need is peace to focus on your task, but he can’t stop talking and asking you things, being totally against the idea of you focusing on anything that isn’t his presence.

── .✦ So, it requires drastic measures. Not insulting or anything, you pin him against the wall and kiss him until both of you are completely out of breath. Biggest hope is for Lohen to get shocked and stop talking.

── .✦ And yes, he is speechless for 10 seconds. But now, the menace is aware that pissing you off can and will result in him being kissed by you, and seconds later he is annoying you again.

“Look at that damn mess you’re makin’....” He sighs, shaking his head disapprovingly, “C’mere n’ make it on me.”

Your finger slips over the buttons on the remote sluggishly, flicking from channel to channel, underwhelmed by the selections offered, blowing a stray piece of hair from your face as you grumble in a fed-up mood. 

It was a day without Joel. Well, technically, he’s resided in the garage since morning, but in truth, feels as if you’ve been without him all day. 

The night before he started on some woodworking project, mentioning Sherry, the elder neighbor, older than Joel, had mentioned her birthday was coming up. Joel had always noted her love for blue jays and decided to craft one up for her. 

It carried into today when Joel had notified you to busy yourself as he would be in his workshop. He didn’t like to be bothered there, you know that. 

His little safe haven, away from everyone, including you, which didn’t necessarily offend you, you’re known to be the handful and occasional headache in his life, but you think it keeps him young. And he’s stuck with you this long so far, there must be some appeal for him. 

He’s your old man, your little grumpy grouchy man that snarls at strangers but hunkers over a workbench to meticulously craft a gift for the sweet 80-year-old two houses down. 

It’s the appeal. You enjoy that he’s old, old enough to be over your games, seeing right through them when you get yourself into a mood and want to toy with him. He’s old enough to practice patience and remain calm, the opposite of you. 

Just a look for him is all it takes, really, to set you straight. Where his eyes narrow and focus on you, half covered by his brows, sucking at his teeth to prevent himself from saying anything too harsh to make you cry. 

Sometimes it’s his hand finding your back, feeling there, then lowering down and down to rest on your behind before giving it a small squeeze, then a hard slap to contrast. Keeps you in line every time. 

Often, however, all he needs to do is take your chin between his fingers and pull you straight to face him, making sure your eyes connect to his when he whispers over you to, “Be a good girl.” 

Makes something swell in your chest when you think about it, his patient, sweet, attentive, love. That the hardened Joel Miller offered only that softness to you. That you won over that old man, all you. 

The issue is, that love has not come through as much as you’d enjoyed throughout this past day. 

You’ve grown accustomed to a certain amount of time, attention, and care. You enjoy being his center, having him orbit you - trapped in your gravity. You enjoy being near him when he has you on his lap, stroking your head with murmurs of admiration. You enjoy holding his hand when he reads the papers with his readers perched on his nose; you enjoy it all. 

You don’t enjoy this. This day spent away from him. 

You started off the day diving into a new book, which you finished with haste, never one to slow down. Then you took yourself on a walk until your legs grew weary. Turned into baking a batch of cookies in hopes that Joel would smell them and come in. He didn’t. 

This led you to the pool in the backyard, the one Joel built for you. You assume it’s to keep you entertained on days like these, smart man, thinking ahead. Eventually, you grew bored of it and found yourself on the couch, attempting to find something to busy your mind. 

Nine hours, seventeen minutes, thirty-three seconds. It’s how long he’s been in that stupid garage. Listening to the same playlist on repeat, the one you showed him how to make with his favorite songs. Only seven, but he’s listened to them on repeat. 

Somehow, you convince yourself you need to know what song he’s on, your feet sliding across the floor until you arrive at the door from the kitchen to the garage, looking through the slit. 

He always makes sure the doors cracked open, his way of always knowing that you’re fine and safe. You should've screamed, you think. That would've got him in. 

A Johnny Cash song plays from a phone speaker where Joel has his expansive back turned to you, hunched over where his grisly hands work, dressed in a black shirt, jeans, and scuffed boots around his feet as they plant where he’s sat. 

His hair is pushed back in that way you requested, where his gray hair curls at the bottom of his neck. Sometimes the scent of his shampoo mixes with the aftershave and gives you the muskiest scent you’ve ever smelled. Has the ability to make you melt then and there. 

“Whad’ya need darlin’?” His deep southern voice cuts through your trance, your eyes narrowing and mouth falling slightly agape as you shake your head. 

“How’d’ya see me?” Your nose scrunches up, feeling found out, expecting that you’d have at least a few moments before he spotted you. 

“Can sense you,” He brings the wood up to his face to blow on it before continuing, “You also got hard footsteps.” 

You’re ready to object, show your stubborn behavior, and prove you have ballerina footsteps, but he’s quick, knowing you, knowing that you’ll object and how you’ll throw him off his game. 

“You hungry? Be finished up real soon, get you somethin’ta eat.” He fixes his posture, tanned arms reaching above him as he stretches, his back clenching around the shirt material to reveal the muscled skin below, a whine threatening to leave your throat. 

There’s a hunger in you, not necessarily for food. 

“Not hungry,” You murmur, leaning against the door frame as you pound your head to the side of it, releasing a cathartic groan in hopes he’ll look to you and see the issue. 

He does not. He simply returns to his project, humming along to the song playing in some raspy whisper, singing along to the tune. 

You groan again, more dramatically and strained, pounding your head to the side of the frame once more, throwing your hands up in true toddler-like fashion. 

“Gone tell me what’s wrong or just gone keep whinin’ and moanin’?” Joel murmurs, voice trailing off, hyper-focused on what’s in front of him, used to your silly and juvenile behavior. You wish you had more to surprise him with. 

You take it as a sign for entry, huffing and puffing as you fold your arms across your chest, dragging your feet until you stand to the side of him, slightly over him, where you can see the safety glasses perched on his nose as he looks closely at the sculpture. 

His fingers move over the beak, unsettled with it. You wish to tell him it looks perfect, because it does, but you know he won’t take your word for it. He won’t finish until he thinks it’s perfect. 

“Go on now, don’t make me beg,” He lays down one of the instruments, turning the bird over in his hand. 

“M’bored,” You spit out finally, rocking on your feet, looking to his eyes, where they look to his creation, unamused and unimpressed by you. 

“Hi, bored, I’m Joel,” He smiles at that, to himself, happy with his stupid dad joke that has you rolling your eyes and tightening your grip around your chest, completely fed up.

“Shut uppppp,” You whine, annoyed by him and this interaction, annoyed by the fact that this fake bird is getting more of his thought and care than you are. 

“Watch it.” The words are harsh when they come through his lips, his smile dropping, eyes darting up to look at you through the corner of his eye, needing you to know that you took it too far. 

It triggers something in you. Awakens that dormant desire that has been looming in your gut for some time now. That desire to be directed, instructed, put in your place. Only in the way Joel knows how to put you in your place. 

It’s what urges you to slide into his lap, needily. Your leg lifts to fit under the workbench as it lands on the other side of him, sliding your other leg to assist as you lower yourself onto his lap, your back hitting his chest as you block his view of the bird, looking down at the realistic creation. 

He allows it, doesn’t object, doesn’t flinch or react when your warmth connects with his, his head finding a different angle to work as his hands go up to the project instead of around your waist or around your chest, maybe your hips. 

“Almost done, darlin’.” He continues, the scruff on his face pressing against your cheek as he focuses on chiseling out a small piece of wood - you can smell his aftershave mixed with the scent of him, making you inhale deeply through your nostrils, holding it there.

“Want you done now,” you grumble, a frown appearing on your face in hopes he’ll notice and treat you like the angel you are, but no luck. 

As if it's a reactionary response, your hips begin to rock softly, grinding down onto Joel's lap, not too eagerly to alert suspicion but just enough to gain his attention as your underwear floods with heat at the desire held for him, worsening your need. 

He had given it to you this morning, fucked you when you were half asleep, probably to deter you from having a moment like this, but you’d jump his bones at any chance. You wonder if he truly knows that. 

“Always so damn eager for me, baby girl,” He chuckles lowly, the vibrations felt on your back as you hum into a sigh, feeling a familiar hardness grow below your ass as you wiggle yourself onto it, hungry for that true physical connection. 

“Gotta be patient-”

“Fuck being patient.” You whine, too loudly, frustrated as you’re cut off by a slam on the table, your head snapping down to the work bench, realizing it’s his tool underneath the palm of his hand, his other hand having flown to your waist, grabbing ahold of you there in a tight, uncomfortable manner, fingers digging in deeply. 

“Watch that mouth, ‘fore I put a sock in it.” He growls lowly, irritably, hot breath flushing from his nostrils onto your face, releasing you after the words are spoken, knowing he means it. He did it before, he’ll do it again. 

“Ain’t decide to be with a sailor, now. Fix that pretty mouth.” 

You think back to that time you had one drink too many and were cursing up a storm, mainly because it upset him, and he didn’t necessarily appreciate it. He had your wrists tied and a sock stuffed down your throat when he fucked you.

The memory floods in along with your panties below you as you finally have his attention, despite it being negative. 

You find your feet again next to him, clasping your hands before interlocking them and bringing out your soft eyes as you nod, seemingly understanding, “ ‘M sorry, daddy.”

Joel isn’t an idiot; he knows there's more to this, as he sets his instruments down, brow raised as he swivels his chair to face you, hard expression worn that scared you the first time you saw it. Still scares you a bit now, but less in a violent predator-prey way. More in a sexual one. Ready to be conquered by him. 

Something bubbles inside you, knowing the treatment you’ll get for this as he gazes up to you in his Joel-stoic manner, your hand placing on the bench as you pick up one of the tools, raising it in the air to meet your eyeline before dropping it onto the ground. 

“Whoopsie.”

Joel breathes in through his nose harshly, holding the air in, his words coming out in a harsh whisper. “Pick. It. Up.”

“Uh-Uh,” You shake your head lightly, picking up another, watching his nostrils flare with the release of breath as you drop a second one. 

“Little Girl-”

“Yes, daddy?” You ask innocently, brows knit together in confusion as another tool is grasped by your hand, holding eye contact with his darkened eyes before releasing the third one. 

He catches it with ease, arm easily extending to catch it, then slams it on the table with a hard slap, maybe breaking it, your chest rising with a gasp as you look to his hand then back to his eyes where he’s furious - pupils consumed with anger. 

“Got 10 seconds to pick ‘em up.” The sound underneath the words sounds like a feral wolf, snarled and brutal as his free hand clenches into a fist, veins leading up from his fist to his arm, popping from the skin there that only sinks you further in your desire. 

You can’t help but smile softly as he begins the countdown, backwards from 10, an idea swirling in your head as you take off, running through the door into the kitchen, past the living room, and upstairs, hearing the countdown sound out. 

Your clothes strip from your body as you run, knowing what’s to come. Knowing that whatever punishment is to come is worth it to have your old man to yourself once more. 

Before you can find a place to hide, the door slams open and hits the wall as your angry man storms up to you, his forearm connecting with your naked back to push you onto your front into the bed as you land with a bounce, a thrilled gasp leaving your lips. 

Warm, dry, rough hands encapsulate your ankles as you’re pulled to the edge of the bed, helpless squeals sounding out of your mouth as you hear the familiar clink of his belt, acknowledging the time has come as you hear his belt loosen. 

Unfamiliarly, you are met with the cruel slicing feeling of leather on skin as the belt meets your ass with two whips, a cry sounding out from your throat as you begin to writhe, threatening to turn over as Joel's free hand lands on your lower back, holding you there with immense pressure. 

“Bad lil’ girls don’t get daddy’s hands, they get the fuckin’ belt,” Joel growls behind and above you, still sounding like a wild dog as he lands three more hits to your ass, your legs shaking with pain as he whips along the back of your thigh as well, welting them, marking them. 

“Dadd- OW! Daddy, that- hurts, msorrryyyy,” You drag it out as the leather marks your skin from behind you, biting into the blanket below as your hands curl into the fabric, never having experienced this punishment. 

“Naw, y’ain’t sorry, ain’t sorry a minute ago, ain’t sorry now,” Joel mentions casually as if he’s not welting your backside as he speaks, the movements stopping but the pain still present as your backside glows red and stings to the touch - not being able to help the wetness that has flooded between your thighs. 

Your hair is pulled back then, a rough tug that has your neck arching as you cry out, feeling Joel's breath on your ear, “Get in that corner, face the wall. Now.”

He releases you, and you thwap back onto the bed before crawling off it with haste, not wanting to disappoint him, wanting to show him how good you are, that you’re his good girl despite what happened. 

“On your knees.” He continues once you’ve arrived at the corner, propping yourself up on your knees as you look at the white wall, placing your hands in your lap for further instruction, ignoring the burning that echoes when your ass connects with your thighs. 

You can hear him disrobe, hear his heavy jeans fall to the floor, hear his shirt tossed elsewhere, then hear the bed creak under his weight as he moves onto it - waiting for what to do next. 

It does not come, nothing is said, the only thing heard are his desperate pants and wet, sloppy sounds of self-pleasure. 

It makes you squirm, dripping onto your skin as you try to make yourself known, knowing you are not to speak until spoken to, as you whine, hearing him jack himself off, wishing you could even just look and maybe touch yourself as well. 

You’ve seen it before, when he showed you how he likes to be touched. 

You know his hands are greedily pumping at his cock behind you, his thumb swiveling over the slick head of it to urge out that moan that comes from his chest. His other hand probably massaging his aching balls, desperate for release. You want to give it to him. 

Your head inches to the left to look over your shoulder until his voice sounds out. 

“Don’t.” Which causes you to snap your head right back to the front, where it was once positioned, imagining the sight behind you as you stare into the plain wall. 

After a minute or two, his voice sounds out again, “Turn ‘round.”

You do so, a little too quickly, losing your balance as you see him in his full glory, facing you, legs spread far to show his excited throbbing cock in his hungry hand buried within that thick patch of grey and brown hair. His balls hang and slightly twitch as he tugs himself. His greyed chest paces up and down with deep breaths. 

“This is what happens when lil girls ain’t patient,” He puffs out, rubbing his thumb over his slick head in the way you remember, throwing his head back in a desperate moan as tears pool in your eyes, desperate to simply touch him, for him to have you. 

He knows what his pleasure means to you, means everything. Means you’re doing something right, it’s your reward. Every gift comes when his cock grants you his seed. 

You don’t notice that you’ve started to grind on the carpet at the sight of him, desperate to feel him and have him feel you as you create a wet, slick spot beneath you, thinking to beg to help him. Feeling as if you don’t have him, you might pass out. 

He laughs then, a sweet light chuckle, as if he heard a joke off the television, as your sorrowful and pitiful eyes meet his, a small crooked smile on his lips as he looks over you. 

“Look at that damn mess you’re makin’....” He sighs, shaking his head disapprovingly, “C’mere n’ make it on me.”

You don’t need to be told twice before you’re scampering over to him eagerly, hopping up to the bed, straddling him in the space, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly to grasp and get control. 

Your knees spread over him into the cushiness of the bed easily, sinking in as he takes his cock in his hands, smearing it between your wet thighs. 

“Go on, baby doll, show daddy how sorry you are.” He pushes his tip into your entrance before relaxing back, his hands propping him up as he leans away, wanting you to prove your worth, show him. 

You nod, understandably wiggling your hips as you sink down and down on his length, earning a deep moan from both of you as he fills you, fitting like a puzzle piece. 

It’s not easy to get used to the feeling of him. His thick, veined mass poking into you and proceeding to spread you wide open without faltering. 

He’s big but somehow always fits and nuzzles into your silkened warmth as you hug him, your hole desperate to close around this engorged figure. 

“Tha’s it, Jesus, go on, baby, show me.” Joel's eyes close as his breath is felt over your face, trusting you to bring him to his point of pleasure. 

You’re close, you worked yourself up back there on that rug, and the nuzzle of him seemingly in your stomach is enough to have you unraveling, but you hold it as your hips rise and fall, then move back and forth in a smooth riding motion. 

Joel groans, in full pleasure below you, taking his bottom lip between his teeth with hunger as it glistens once it pops out. 

You continue your motions, up and down, back and forth, feeling him fill every inch of you, your core sucking him in like a vacuum seal as you coat him in your slick, lewd sounds appearing from below you as you lose yourself.

“Fuck- my perfect fuckin’ girl.” Joel's moans of praise only cause you to go faster, ignoring the ball of warmth tightening in your core as you only want to help him, make him finish, hear him scream your name when he’s had it. 

Your ponytail bobs and jostles around as you bounce, feeling his balls connect with your ass every time you rub down to maintain a deeper angle. 

Joel's hand wraps around your hair there, pulling your head back to press his lips to your exposed neck, nipping and biting there as you bounce a little more vigorously. He sucks a bit, marking his territory as his spit coats you, his cock bullying again and again with each bounce that has you getting weaker and weaker by the scond. 

“Jo… m’close Joel-”

“Hold it. Y’can last as long as your old man, y’can be good,” He hums against your neck, sniffing at your scent there before taking a harder bite that has you squealing and jumping on his cock, feeling Joel pull your hair so far your back arches as well, allowing Joel to thrust his hips up and hit that gooey spot that has you screaming. 

“There it is, that’s what I’ve been lookin’ for,” Joel hums brazenly, lying back before bringing you with him. 

Your breasts press against his chest as his arms fit around your waist, holding you tightly to him as his rough grasp has your hands finding the comforter once more, knowing what’s to come. 

“No, no, dah, I can’t daddy-” You start

“Yeah, you can, be a big girl now.” He ignores your pleas as his hips force his cock up into you to hit that spot that’ll send you over in no time, his tip sliding and nudging there repeatedly as you cry out desperately. 

You drool onto his shoulder, teeth sinking in, ignoring the stinging pain that still burns at your backside with every press, enjoying the reminder of Joel's love for you as that knot burns and blisters from within you as Joel pounds from below, legs shaking with anticipation as you blubber nonsense. 

He twitches; it’s noticeable the way his cock jumps and stirs within you, needing you. 

“Shit, c’mon darlin’ on three- one, two-” 

It’s all you can take as the wave roars and washes over you, cleansing you of any bratty behavior held before. Your core releases minutes of pained pressure that has your hips shaking and vibrating over him, where your legs have gone to jelly. 

You think you’ve screamed too loud but don’t notice, can’t notice. You can barely see straight, stuck in the fog of your orgasm. 

His thick, warm orgasm buried in you brings you back down as you feel yourself coated in him, his arms still wrapped tightly around you, granting you your gift deep from within you. 

You both remain there for a few moments before he’s shuffling below you, knowing his muscles ache with the lasting effects of an intense fuck that has you rolling off of him, semi-blinded by the pure affection shared. 

“Alright. Now tha’s done, grant me some peace and let me finish.” He says as if it was a chore to fuck you, a natural duty that makes you giggle, knowing good and well he enjoyed it as much as you. 

You know you’ll nap, and when you wake up, he’ll be beside you; you’ll have your old man back soon. 

“Mhm, love you, daddy,” you murmur, closing your eyes, a soft plush blanket lying over your body, knowing it’s Joel that’s putting it there, a soft smile on your face at the contrast of brutal fucking Joel to the soft loving one. 

“Love you, darlin’. ”

.

.

.

★ Do I even need to say that he's obsessive? One look in those eyes and it's pretty obvious. He's got no sense of self preservation when he launches himself into a fight- The word bloodlust springs to mind when he charges himself towards victory.

★ Maybe you're a fellow knight or a warrior independent of Mondstadt, maybe it's your strength that attracts him, or maybe you're just good game. Whatever it is, Lohen latches onto it.

★ He's.. Intense, to say the least. His smile is lopsided and those blue, bloodstained eyes are less than kind. His method of fighting translates over to his courting habits- Anything goes as long as he achieves victory. He's adaptable like that.

★ He almost observes you like a predator does with it's prey. It's only his job as a vice captain to get a profile on his target, no? You always have a sense of someone watching you, but no matter what you do, you can never quite shake it.

★ Traps, ambushes- Lohen takes immense pleasure in surprising you. Nearly tripping into pitfalls, letting out a yelp as you barely miss the apex of a contaminated knife. He laughs like it's horseplay, like you're both having fun. And the people around you shrug it off because to them- This is just Lohen being Lohen. And no matter how many times you try to tell the guy directly to 'fuck off and leave you alone,' he doesn't listen.

★ Maybe if you take up your concerns with Varka, he'll be able to do something about it, but finding the guy when he ditches work so often is a task in of itself..

★ Does he see anything wrong with this? No, I don't think so. Maybe in a legal sense he knows that what he's doing is considered wrong, but I don't think that matters either.

★ You're not escaping him. While I don't think he does any kind of move to 'keep you to himself' per se, I don't think many people will be sticking around you once they realise how close Lohen is to follow. Being around the guy is harrowing enough, so you find people that you talked with fondly slowly trickling out until it's just him.

★ He's unintentionally became your only source of socialisation.

★ Lohen follows you around like a guard dog. He likes to pounce on you as a form of embrace, and his hold is tight like he caught you. Other times he's gripping your hand like a vice as you go around doing mundane stuff, wishing you'd have just one second away from him. Kisses feel like he's trying to eat you alive. (And he bites, he bites so much. Your neck hurts.)

★ He'd just about orgasm if you ever asked to duel him yourself. The rush, the proximity, the sweat.. It's intimacy to the highest degree, for him.

★ Lohen will do anything for you, really. He'll get whatever you ask and present it to you like a prize, even an adversary's head if you wanted. It's his personal mission when you say the word. Even when you don't, and namedrop someone that wronged you in the past- Don't expect to hear from them again.

★ He's a vice captain, and he's certainly not stupid, so it's always a clean cut. And people keep repeating that 'Lohen is just Lohen, he's intense, but he'd never go that far'

“Just one more” he said for the fourth or fifth time that night—you had already lost count—earning an annoyed moan from you.

You opened your mouth to complain, your voice hoarse from moaning and panting, but you were interrupted by a rough thrust from him. You gasped at the motion, your body trembling.

“Fuck—” he groaned loudly, feeling you tighten around him. The hand gripping your waist tightened further, leaving a mark that would likely turn into a bruise by morning.

He pulled out almost completely, leaving only the tip inside before thrusting back in fully and forcefully, making you cry out breathlessly, your eyes snapping open as he resumed his fast, cruel pace.

He began attacking your shoulders and back, leaving wet kisses and trails of saliva until he found that sensitive spot on your neck, sinking his fangs in until you bled. Your back arched at the sensation, allowing him to thrust deeper against your sweet spot. Wet, heavy sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room as he drove you to the brink. You could feel his tongue on your neck, licking up the blood from the wound he’d just made, and his ragged, almost euphoric breathing against your sweat-soaked nape.

“Fuck, you’re so tight” he growled, voice strained. “I’m not going to last much longer.”

You tightened even more around him at the sound of his voice, making him whimper softly against your ear.

“So good…” you could hear the wicked smile in his voice.

He yanked your hair, forcing your head up to crash your mouths together in a hungry kiss. Your tongues danced together feverishly, letting you subtly taste your own blood. He pulled away with a low groan, leaving you breathless and your vision blurred, tears running down your cheeks.

“Lo... hen... please…”

He grabbed your cheeks with his free hand, turning your head as much as possible so your eyes met.

“Use your words” he scolded, his bright crimson gaze filled with lust.

You whimpered in response to the intensity of his eyes, practically drooling at the sight.

“Use your words, Schneeflocke” he teased, leaning down to attack your neck again, already covered in bites and marks.

“Barbatos, fuck, Lohen! I can’t—nnngh—it’s too much!” you pleaded, feeling that familiar tension building in your abdomen.

He shoved your head back into the bed, lifting your hips even higher and thrusting into you with all his strength, making the headboard slam against the wall.

He kept moving in and out of you, your neck and shoulders completely covered in hickeys. The sensation in your lower body kept building, your legs starting to shake.

With a sharp cry, you collapsed—the knot snapped, and your walls clenched violently around him, making him growl and shudder within your grip. You could feel his thrusts becoming irregular and uncontrolled, hearing him pant behind you.

“Who gave you permission to come?” he muttered, voice low, yanking your head back.

You didn’t have the strength to speak, only managing incoherent babbling and unintelligible sounds in a weak attempt to excuse yourself.

He forced his mouth onto yours again, your tongues meeting as he swallowed your rising moans from overstimulation, his lewd smile evident in the kiss.

With a few more thrusts, he came inside you with a guttural groan, his body jerking forward as he collapsed over you, filling you.

When he finished riding out his orgasm, you felt him pull out, watching his fluids spill from your body. He turned you around, letting you see the look of ecstasy and satisfaction on his face as he took in the mess he’d made of you: your hair completely tangled, damp strands sticking to your sweaty face. His gaze moved from your teary, exhausted eyes to your swollen lips, placing one last kiss on them before leaning close to your ear.

“Looks like I’m going to have to punish you for not following my orders.”

Hm, the grandmaster wasn't incorrect in his observations. He had been consistent in his streak of recklessness and impulsiveness, always seeking out danger and excitement without much regard for consequences, causing everyone a headache at one point or another.

Now he's extending that migraine to the grandmaster for having the audacity to ask for his blessing on marrying his adoptive daughter.

Though he sensed more words lingering on the tip of Varka's tongue, he patiently allowed himself to be quiet and listen for a moment.

"However," the older man lifted his finger as an emphasis of the gravity of his next words, "you will not marry her," he said firmly, sizing up his fatherly glare to the boy's nonchalance.

Lohen cocked his head to the side, as if he didn't understand why the grandmaster would deny his heartfelt request. With a frown, he replied. "Why not? I'm more capable of protecting your daughter from harm than anyone else."

Varka stammered for a bit, attempting to make logic of his concerns before finally speaking. He sighed heavily, running a rough hand over his stressed face before answering, "Again, I don't doubt your capability of protecting her."

Lohen continued to press on the matter, his body slightly leaning over curiously. "Then what is the issue?"

Varka didn't respond right away, bringing out his emergency flat metal container of booze from the pockets of his jeans, uncapping the circular lid, and then replying. His eyes gently cast down at the awaiting drink. "[Y/N] is still trying to figure out what to do with her life."

He paused, taking a quick sip of the alcohol, and then continued with a sigh. "She just turned into a lovely young woman and has stuff that she is passionate about, sure. But I don't want to interfere with her path by just accepting," he motioned with his hand toward Lohen. "Your blessing without her input."

He took another sip before looking back up at the latter. "And of course, as her father, I don't just casually let suitors into her life without giving them a quick clash to prove their worth." He chuckled lightly, shaking the half-emptied container in his hand. "My daughter deserves a man who is willing to work for her love and respect, not just someone who expects it to be handed to him on a silver platter."

Though his eyes had little warmth beneath them, only a fair warning.

"Is that all clear?" Varka said with a sense of finality.

Lohen was silent. Remarkably rare for him, as he usually had a quick response ready. Though his silence should not be mistaken as an agreement to the wise words of the grandmaster, it was more likely a sign of defiance or just plain ignorance. "Then could you relay the message to [Y/N]?" he requested.

Varka deadpanned. "Are you even listening to me, kid?"

"Oh, I did," Lohen replied, nodding his head. "If you wish to know how serious I am about your daughter, then let's settle it with a duel." In the blink of an eye, blue swirls of energy enveloped Lohen's hands as he materialized a polearm that gleamed in the sunlight, ignoring a certain red-headed individual's annoyed protest of, "If you're gonna bring bloodshed, at least get out of the tavern."

The casualness had eventually transformed into that signature maniacal grin and bloodthirsty glint in his dull red eyes that Varka had seen too many times before.

At this point, Varka would rather assume that Lohen wanted an excuse to fight him under the guise of proving his commitment to his daughter.

Kids these days…

"You are really going to extreme lengths just to prove a point," Varka remarked, pinching his nose in disbelief. "But if that's what it takes for you to show your dedication, then so be it."

He rested his hand on the back of his chair, pushing himself up to stand, and cracking the joints in his neck as he did so. "What are you two doing?"

Both men froze at the familiar owner of that sweet voice.

There you stood at the entrance of the tavern, your hand positioned on the wooden door frame, a look of curiosity and concern etched on your face. You took the opportunity to use the silence as an edge to assess the situation unfolding before you, wondering why the hell they are trying to cause a ruckus as an invitation to be permanently banned by the tavern in the middle of the night.

You looked first at your sheepish father, scratching his blond hair in awkwardness, and then at the Lohen who was still equipped with his weapon, as if ready for a fight or really ready for a fight.

His battle-hungry expression schooled back into one of casual indifference as he caught your eye, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Good evening, my lady," he said with a slight bow, his tone laced with practiced charm. "We were just having a little chat with your father here." He motioned with his head to the old man who's currently giving him a look, though the gesture was disregarded purposefully, and then Varka turned his attention to you, clearing his throat.

"So… Uh, how's the progress of your collaborated research with Albedo, sweet pea?" he asked, forcing a poor attempt at a smile, sitting back on the stool as he tried to hide the awkwardness that flickered in his eyes.

At the mention of the affectionate nickname from a long, long ago, your face scrunched up in disgust. It had been quite some time since he had addressed you with that endearing term, and using that specifically now felt like a deliberate attempt to divert your attention from the bigger picture.

"What is going on here, Dad?" you replied, arching a distrustful eyebrow.

Silence followed after your question, the tension in the room palpable as you waited for his response. Finally, it was not your father who cracked the stillness, but rather the part-time bartender himself, Diluc.

"This gentleman," Diluc said, setting his gaze at Lohen while keeping his hands busy cleaning the same glass over and over again, "has asked for your father's blessing to propose to you." Then he shifted his bored gaze back to your unusually quiet father, a hint of amusement betraying his expression despite the border of professionalism he maintained.

He can already tell the simmering betrayal emitting from Varka, judging by how tensed his jawline is and how his grip on the container tightens.

"Pro…proposal?" you stammered, your face burning from feeling caught off guard by the mention of an unexpected proposal.

Diluc nodded in confirmation, a small smirk playing on his lips as he observed your flustered reaction. "I'll leave the rest of the details to them," he said, gesturing towards your father and Lohen. He placed the glassware on an open upper cabinet, mouthing to you, "Good luck," before excusing himself from the situation to avoid getting tangled further in the delicate family matters.

Now, it was just the three of you, and maaaaybeeee, a knowing audience secretly watching the drama unfold from a discreet distance.

Your father chugged down the remaining booze from the container, swiping off the dripping juice from his chin with the back of his hand and sighing heavily. "As Diluc stated, yes, he was trying to get my blessing to marry you."

He tightened the lid of the container and set it back on the counter, his expression unreadable. "And I refused his request."

"YOU REFUSED HIS REQUEST?!"

The sheer volume of your bewildered voice jolted your father, causing him to flinch slightly. Even Lohen was stunned, but slightly touched by your shaky reaction.

He returned the bewildered stare, his eyebrows knitting together as if he weren't expecting the intensity of your reaction. "Hey, keep it down, will you?" he muttered, glancing around to see some of the drunkard fools furthering indulging themselves with the drama until they wisely looked away after catching his warning-like glare.

"I refused to give him my blessing until you give me your permission to marry you,"

He scowled. "But I doubt you would agree; you're doing fine on your own without boys trying to flock over you—"

"Then I want to marry him!"

"Huh?"

"Please let me marry him, Dad!"

Lohen looked back and forth at the father-daughter interaction with profound intrigue, his heart swelling with a mix of emotions.

Well, this is certainly unexpected, he thought to himself. But he wasn't complaining either.

You pressed forward before courage could desert you again.

"I've… I've liked him for a long time, Dad." Your voice cracked on the admission, with your cheeks scorching hot. "Months? I don't know, maybe longer?" You scratched your head in frustration, running your hand over your disheveled hair.

"It just is, okay! I know he throws himself into every fight like it's the only thing that makes him alive… but he still finds a way to check if I'm okay first, even when he always comes back bruised. " You swallowed hard, eyes now fixed somewhere near Lohen's boots because looking at either man right now felt impossible.

"I keep waiting for the right moment to say something, but every time I tried, my tongue kept getting stuck… I was too shy to confess."

Silence stretched thin and fragile.

Then the said man exhaled; that might have been relief dressed up as a scoff. The blue energy coiling up around his polearm flickered once and dissolved; the weapon vanished into motes of light as though it had never been summoned. His posture loosened, his shoulder dropping the battle-ready tension he'd worn like armor.

He turned toward Varka, lips curling into that familiar, infuriatingly smug smirk.

"See?" Lohen drawled, spreading his hands in mock innocence. "No need for bloodshed after all. Your daughter just gave her permission herself." The red glint in his eyes sparked with self-satisfaction, then softened a fraction when his gaze slid back to you. He confidently approached you, his hand taking yours, and kissed it gently. "You save a lot of trouble for us, my lady."

You blushed at the unexpected praise, unable to contain your wobbly smile.

Meanwhile, Varka dragged a hand down his face, muttering something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience to Barbatos. After a long beat, he finally looked between the two of you, expression caught somewhere between resignation and reluctant fondness.

The consequences of being a parent to a daughter, he guessed. He's more flexible when it comes to letting you get away with things than he'd like to admit, but he couldn't deny the pleasure it brought him just to see you happy.

"…Fine," he grunted, his voice rough.

He fixed Lohen again with a glare. "But if you make her cry even once, kid. I won't need a duel. I'll just bury you under Stormterror's Lair and tell everyone you got lost on a routine patrol."

Lohen's grin widened, unfazed by the protective-fatherly threat. "Noted."

Varka groaned. "I need another drink for this. You two are going to be the death of me."

Then his gaze drifted to your intertwined hands and grumbled. "Save the PDA for when you're married, please. You two are not allowed to hold hands in public until then."

"Daaaaddddd!" you whined, sending him a half-hearted glare.

Lohen brushed off his feeble warning with a chuckle. "We'll be sure to keep our hands to ourselves until the big day, Grandmaster."

"Though I wished to know now what my fiancée's preferences are for her engagement ring." Surprise flickered in your eyes as you glanced at Lohen, who was already gazing back at you with tenderness. "Shall we browse together tomorrow?"

You would be a fool to refuse such a thoughtful gesture from him.

A stupid smile played at the corners of your lips, despite the grueling two-hour flight that had somehow turned into five that morning with all the delays, gate changes, TSA short-staffing, ground operations snafus, and screaming, kicking, crying children that clearly couldn’t have hated air travel more if they tried.

Panama City Beach for spring break was a good fucking time regardless of all the nonsense that it took to get there. Your string bikini was practically glued to your skin underneath your clothes, and your brain was filled to the brim with wild and dumbass memories that would last you several lifetimes, if not longer.

“Bye-eee! Try not to die!!” your friend yelled presently, leaning out the driver’s side window of her car to wave.

You stood on the front stoop of your boyfriend’s house, one hand shielding your face from the sun, and you smiled. Pained and now nursing a hangover that felt like it might legitimately kill you, you shouted back:

“You, too!”

“Tell your dad I said hi!”

And before you could return with so much as another syllable—or, your middle finger, as your friend had probably expected—the little sedan sped off down the road. You were left standing on the porch with all your luggage, shaking your head and thinking it was pretty insane to be dating a man almost three times your age.

Knowing, deep down, your friends would have a whole lot more to say about your relationship if they knew what other things happened behind closed doors.

Shortly, the one in front of you creaked open.

Joel stood there. His brown eyes shone.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Admittedly, this was a fucked up way of showing love.

What you and Joel had come to explore over the course of the last year wasn’t normal by any means. People would probably call you freaks if they knew. This…routine that the two of you had fallen into had started out as a joke, frankly. And a bad one at that.

‘Daaad,’ you’d groaned one day, pulling the covers over your head in an effort to defy his beckoning hands. ‘I don’t wanna go to school. I wanna stay here with you.’

The ‘funny’ part was, you didn’t have class that morning or afternoon. Joel obviously wasn’t your father, and it sure as fuck wasn’t his job to make sure you got your butt out of bed. It had still ended with you folded in half underneath him, ankles bobbing at either side of his head while he drilled you into the mattress.

That was when both of you learned you liked roleplay.

Daddy and his darling daughter, sweetheart and her doting father—whatever you two called it, it worked.

It turned you on to no end pretending like Joel was something a little more paternal. And dirty. And wrong, running his hands over your body with a darkened glint, like, ‘I really shouldn’t be doin’ this, sweetie.’

And yet you did, every single time.

It only got better with practice, and the fantasy took on wilder and more intricate, filthy dimensions every day.

Tonight, Joel made dinner. You sat and ate in relative silence, admiring the grays in your old man’s beard and wondering if he might not have aged a year in the week you’d been gone. You took another bite of your chicken fried steak and smiled—the gravy was perfect.

“I got somethin’ on my face, babygirl?” Joel hummed.

Across the table, he met your gaze, and your grin grew.

You probably did look silly chewing and staring, but you didn’t care. Joel didn’t seem to mind it, either.

“Nuh-uh,” you answered.

“Nuh-what?” Joel returned, a little more pointed.

You swallowed and then straightened in your seat. Softly, apologetically, and also making sure to lick one corner of your lips as you did, you corrected yourself:

“No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Already, Joel was somewhat disgruntled that you hadn’t bothered to tell him what time your plane would be landing, and that he hadn’t been able to pick you up from the airport because of it—‘You know I’m not crazy ‘bout surprises, baby. And your safety’s most important. OK?’ Ever since then, it seemed as though the guy were trying to find some reason to scold you, and be stern. Whenever you spent too much time away from him, he had a tendency to get a little more possessive; this evening was no exception.

“Clean plate club, remember, pumpkin?” Joel pointed with his fork at your plate of food, still only half-eaten.

Beside the china, on the table, your phone buzzed.

“I…um,” you started off, slow. Distracted. “I ain’t—”

“‘Am not.’”

When you looked up from where you’d just read the notification that had popped up on your device, Joel was scowling again. Challenging you with his eyes.

Sure you wanna go this way, sweetheart?

“I mean, I am not too…hungry,” you said.

“Well, you said you’d eat it, remember?”

Simultaneously, your phone vibrated again.

That seemed to snag Joel’s attention well enough—almost immediately then, he rose, clearing his throat.

The little breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen wasn’t particularly large, and he didn’t have to travel very far to reach your spot from across the way. Just as you were retrieving your utensils again, conceding, ‘OK, OK, I’ll eat it! I promise I’ll eat all my food,’ Joel was standing over your shoulder, hand quick as a whip to land on the back of your chair as he leaned right in.

“I’ll eat it, Dad, I’ll—”

“—be a good girl, or I’ll put somethin’ else in that pretty little mouth’a yours that won’t fit as nice as this steak.”

OK.

OK, fine, maybe you did want to suck his dick, but—

Another two painfully loud vibrations sounded.

From: Harry Castillo

Make it home OK?

Missin’ you pretty lady

Fuck if that stupid motherfucker couldn’t catch a hint if it were hotglued to his palm. Inwardly, you groaned.

Outwardly, you bat your lashes at your pretend father.

“I’ll eat it all, don’t worry, D—” you started.

“Who the fuck is Harry?”

Well, it just wasn’t fair.

A dipshit like that texting at a time like this.

You’d been towing what almost anyone else would’ve considered a razor-thin line between discipline and getting the lights fucked out of you right there on the kitchen table, and then came the mess with the texts.

On your second night out at the beach, you and your friends had made the acquaintance of a group of guys from Ole Miss—all seniors in Sigma Chi, all super nice, and all on their spring break together—and you’d gotten along great. Drank heavily and bar-hopped from place to place throughout the week, making a groupchat to keep up-to-date on plans. You never thought much of it, or of any of them, but you’d had a sneaking suspicion that Harry Castillo was definitely into you, even though he knew you had an ‘older’ boyfriend back home. The funny thing was, he probably figured Joel was a grad student just a couple years your senior and not an almost fifty-year-old man.

Damn if Harry could see you now, getting your legs spread wide over this old, oak farmhouse table for two.

You weren’t getting fucked anytime soon, though.

No, your dear old man was making damn sure of that—he had you half-spreadeagle there getting absolutely nothing while you sat and squirmed and wanted to cry.

“Dad, this isn’t fair!” you huffed, blowing out a loud and indignant breath. Squeezing the edge of the table underneath your butt and wishing your skimpy blue bikini bottom was off and not just pulled to the side.

Joel didn’t gratify girls who’d been bad, he’d told you.

“‘Hey. Just wanted to say…you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and I wish I could’ve gotten to know you better. If you’re ever down in Oxford, just H-M-U.’” Your boyfriend rattled off the lines by heart—that particular text had stuck with him, for obvious reasons.

After seeing the two most recent messages from Harry, he’d gone through your entire text thread with the guy. All of six or seven texts had been exchanged between you and Harry while you’d been in PCB, mostly to update the other on bars and parties and events your friend groups were going to. But, of course, Harry had had to end the week by sending that message Joel had just repeated, after everybody had said their goodbyes and the guy suddenly felt the need to confess all of his deepest, dumbest feelings for you.

You’d left him on read and never responded to it.

You had zero desire to entertain any of that bullshit, and by that point in time, you were already on your way back home, so why even bother sending a rejection?

Evidently, though, Harry still had had hope, as he’d sent you a string of texts during your dinner with Joel:

Hey you

Just got back to Oxford 😌

And then:

Make it home OK?

Missin’ you pretty lady

Now you were paying for that goddamn idiotic persistence in spades—Joel had you splayed over his table like you were the main course, and he wasn’t particularly hungry. He was just there to toy with you.

Torture you.

“Y’know why I hate whenever you’re away for too long?” The man’s voice was low, tone serious. His old, weathered hand slid up and down your inner thigh, and the texture was almost like sandpaper. The calluses on his palm made your shivers multiply a thousandfold.

“W-Why?” you stammered before sucking in a breath.

“Can’t...keep my hands on you. Keep an eye on this.”

And with that, Joel finally moved his touch to your wet and aching seam. Like he knew your body better than the back of his own hand—which, in truth, he probably did—he started to thumb little circles over your clit.

Your head fell back on a soft moan.

All of your body was hypersensitized and as full to the brim with energy as a live wire at the moment; you couldn’t help it. You also couldn’t resist blurting out:

“Oh, fuck, Dad. Fuck me, please.”

It was lewd.

It was wrong.

It was everything you simply weren’t able to keep contained inside your chest and nothing of what your faux father, Joel, wanted to hear from you right now, strict as he was about you not using crude language.

So, you weren’t surprised in the least when that thumb on your clit was replaced by a spank between your lips: one quick, light swat on your slit just hard enough to grab your attention, but not sharp enough to hurt you.

Still, you keened, whining petulantly.

“Owwww! That hurts, Dad.”

“Does it, sweetheart?”

Why that fucker was grinning was beyond you.

“Y—You don’t...” you started to say, then stopped. Swallowed, blinking harder. “…don’t trust me enough to spend a week at the beach with m-my friends?”

Your face was flushed, and your body was almost incandescent with heat. While your pussy pulsed and drooled between your legs, there was no doubt some indignation had started to creep into your words. Really, what was he so worried about, anyway?

“Ain’t you I don’t trust,” Joel returned instantly.

‘Is not’ you could’ve corrected him.

But you didn’t. Joel went on:

“‘Course it ain’t you I’ve gotta worry about in the slightest, no…It’s those goddamn boys with their pryin’ eyes and sniffin’ noses, goin’ after what’s mine.”

And at the same time, before you could even process what was happening, another blow landed on your throbbing clit. A peal of pleasure and pain blossomed through your limbs, and your hips bucked by instinct. This time, fortunately, Joel’s move was succeeded by a thumb pressing down, dulling the sting of what he’d done with a string of tender, apologetic lemniscates.

While the motions on your clit sent wave after wave of mollifying pleasure spiraling through your system, you could feel the burn with it, too. You could see the firm and paternal look in Joel’s eyes and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath a fine dusting of salt-and-pepper stubble before he spoke to you again.

Calmly, then: “Mind if your old man takes a look?”

You knew what that meant; you didn’t need to ask.

And Joel didn’t need an answer beyond the one you were supplying with your eyes and the single dip of your chin. It might as well have been tattooed over your forehead—‘Please, pleeease touch me, Dad’—and it wouldn’t have reached him any more clearly. Both of you were more than familiar with this kink.

Inspection, that is.

Was it even properly labeled a fetish if it came to be imbibed by you both more easily than the air you breathed? A mix of dominance and submission, give and take and touch and baiting each other endlessly.

“She been good f’me?” Joel said then, spreading your slick down your seam with just the pad of his thumb.

He was seated. You were perched on the edge of the table with your legs spread open to him, one ankle hooked over his shoulder and the other dangling up in the air. It all felt so precarious, what with you in only your barely-there, yanked-aside bikini and your man—this father figure of yours, who most folks would probably assume was just that at a glance—had a front row seat to your most intimate parts in the quiet and calm of this kitchen. Should a neighbor decide to stroll past the big bay window to your right, your secret and Joel’s would be exposed in a blink, no doubt about it.

“I said, has this pussy been good f’me?” Joel repeated.

“She has.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise, Dad. Didn’t…do…a thing.”

Almost too swiftly, Joel spit. One thick, glistening glob of saliva dropped from his lips to hit its target—your cunt—and mixed without a hitch as those circles of his continued. The sounds were delectable, and the sensation was amplified beyond what you could even begin to describe, Joel’s gaze locking with yours.

That lined face was handsome. Warm. Watchful.

“You wear this bikini out on the beach?”

“I— P-Please—”

“By the pool?”

You tried to reply to him again, but the sound caught in your throat; Joel planted his free hand on your thigh to hold you wider, and then he lowered his head. What you expected then would be his tongue appearing in the next second to lick a long, wet stripe up your slit ended up being just the tip of one of his fingers instead

Gently, Joel prodded at your entrance.

And though he didn’t breach you so much as a millimeter, simply the presence of his touch—the anticipation of being teased and pressed and stretched—was enough to have you whimpering.

You dug your heel into Joel’s shoulder. Your hips twitched restlessly, desperate for more contact.

“No wonder that boy’s been blowin’ up your phone,” Joel said, and at the same time, began tracing the rim of your cunt with his long and callused middle finger. “Lookin’ the way you do, pussy as sweet as she is…”

“He— He didn’t…I didn’t show him anything.” You barely managed to choke it out. Every nerve-ending in your body was alight, and it was taking all you had not to cum from the way his touch was grazing against you

Then that middle finger pushed its way inside.

“Harry never touched this, huh?” Joel cooed.

With the intrusion, it was as if every muscle in your body contracted at once; your walls clamped hard around Joel’s finger, and you couldn’t even hope to control it. Your cunt choked him, then made it almost impossible for the man to drag his finger back out.

Gently, though, Joel managed. He slid his big—now glistening—digit out of your pussy, and he smirked.

“You let those boys down in PCB touch you anyplace close to here, darlin’? They get to see, or…cop a feel?”

“No!”

Just as the protest clawed out of your throat, and you sat up stiff as a board to assure him, of course I didn’t do that, Dad, Joel’s mouth descended again. He nudged you backward, and you had no choice but to make space for shoulders bulldozing their way in.

It happened with one flick of his tongue.

One measly little lick, Joel groaning:

“‘S’all mine, ain’t she, honey?”

And then you were finished.

‘Embarrassing’ was the first word to come to mind while it happened. Embarrassing that your thighs trembled against the table, gut clenching as if you’d just been punched. Embarrassing that you let out a cry of ‘Daaaaaad!’ loud enough to wake half the neighborhood and humiliating that Joel’s lips hadn’t even been attached to your clit for two seconds before you came unraveling underneath his touch. Just…what the fuck? And why the hell now? And how?!

And what would a fictional sex scene be without dialogue to send the incel fuckwit losers on an anonymous confessions blog into a frenzy?

“Dad’s so proud of ya, kiddo. Cum f’me.”

“But— But— it’s wrong. We shouldn’t.”

“I can feel you squeezin’. Keep goin’.”

In just a dozen or so words, Joel told you even more. He wasn’t simply giving you permission to let go but to feel what you wanted, think whatever you pleased to get to your peak, and lean into this dynamic—completely fabricated and without any basis in reality. No need to feel guilt or shame over a silly little forty-five minutes of roleplay with a person you loved. You were safe to navigate whatever fantasy you wanted with him, and because of that, it all flowed naturally.

The façade slipped a second as you reached for Joel and he held you right back, gripping your hand and grinning like the most pleased-as-punch old fucker.

“Oh, Joel. Joel, Joel, shit,” you whispered in a rush.

“I know, baby.” Joel said, almost seeming to commiserate. “I know, I know. Jus’ let it happen.”

And you did.

Joel thumbed at your clit with his other hand, and another miniature wave of ecstasy rolled over you—whether it was a new orgasm or not mattered very little to you. You just moaned and rolled your hips, and you smiled back at Joel in that sleepy and entirely contented way you did. You felt boneless.

“Maybe…pick back up where we left off tomorrow?” your old man started to say after you finally came down, rubbing your thigh. “Know it’s been a long day with your flight an’ all. Don’t want my girl feelin’—”

“I do.”

“—pressured.” he finished.

“Perfectly fine to keep going, Dad,” you corrected.

If you could’ve bottled that moment to keep safe inside your memory forever, you would have. The way you watched the corners of Joel’s lips twitch up again, buried beneath a swath of silvery dark hairs you’d come to love dearly, was bliss. The great bulk of his chest, the gentle curve of his tummy and the indent of his navel, his biceps—all visible through the tight gray fabric of his t-shirt. His smile, so unassuming and sweet, didn’t seem to belie a man capable of calling you his perfect, precious daughter and in the same breath slide his cock inside you to the hilt. But he did.

And he was, currently, taking himself out. You helped.

Joel’s cock was long and hard and heavy, flushed red with an uncharacteristically large pearl of precum beaded at his tip. He might’ve run his hand down it once or twice then before you felt yourself salivating.

Angling your hips, and admiring the way his length looked so imposing and big over your body, you said:

“Are you sure it’ll fit, Dad?”

You played up the bit.

Your fingers spread your puffy, swollen lips to give Joel the clearest view of your cunt, dripping wet for him, and you could feel air cooling you. Your slit was shiny and slick. While you peered up at him sweetly, you also made sure the man could see your still-pulsing hole underneath where he was currently fisting his cock.

Joel lowered his hold and dragged the head of his dick through your folds, all the way down until the crown met your entrance. His hips flexed, but the rim of your cunt didn’t budge. Joel grunted, seeing and feeling it.

As if partway in a trance, and a little pussydrunk now already, he went on gently, “We’ll make it fit, honey.”

He put on the ‘Dad voice’ so effortlessly—it seemed it became second nature right before he worked his way inside you. Like the rest of the world was white noise and all that mattered was that thick, hard thing fitting in your tight, wet, sticky warmth, he guided you as tenderly as ever. He planted a hand beside your head on the table, not too far away from all the plates and glasses and silverware from your since-abandoned meal, and he started to push ahead with deliberation.

At first, it was just the tip pressing forward. Testing you, almost, as if to make sure your pussy could stretch to accommodate his girth. Joel knew better than this, of course, and you whined in answer.

“M— More’n that. Can take more, Dad,” you moaned.

“I know you can, kid,” Joel answered, still just stretching your rim with the tip of his cock. Holding onto his base. He’d barely breached more than an inch, and he already had your legs shaking, clutch sucking at him with all the force it could manage. He grunted.

“I’m…checkin’.” He stopped to exhale again. Dragged his cock forward and backward just to scrub the first bit of your inner walls. “Makin’ sure this pussy ain’t been touched since the last time I been inside her.” And once more, knitting his brows and thrusting as if he were really feeling around for something, accent growing coarser and more distinctly Texan as he did so, “That’s a good girl, you jus’ sit tight right there.”

And tight you were. Tight you gripped him, cunt gaping into a perfect ‘o’ around his length, and high-pitched were your moans as he fed you just those couple inches, again and again and again. Joel slowed.

Your pussy involuntarily clenched, and he shuddered on a groan. His hand curled into a fist on the tabletop.

“Fuck me,” he panted out. “Kept it nice an’ tight for dear old dad, knowin’ just what it’d do to him, yeah?”

You might’ve giggled if you weren’t so turned on. If your hands hadn’t drifted to your bikini top and freed your breasts to start toying with your nipples outside of the soft, nylon fabric, you might’ve taunted him back. But the truth was, your body was as taut as ever, your pussy was leaking liquid heat, and you were dangerously close to your second, or third, climax of the night with just a fraction of Joel sawing in and out.

He sank deeper, and both of you tensed, moaning.

“‘S’why she’s so sensitive now, huh?” Joel murmured, thrusts slow to pick up. The sounds of him hitting the table with each jerky motion echoed through the kitchen. “Why you came so fuckin’ fast on dad’s cock, ‘cause this pussy ain’t been touched all week? That it?”

Joel’s grin was wolfish and sly, but there was a tenderness to it all the same. He knew damn well he didn’t really need to feel inside to know you’d behaved.

“Haven’t been touched. Not even…on my own.” You pinched your nipples and let out a low, shaky breath.

“Not once?” Joel questioned.

“N— No, sir.”

Out of habit, you glanced down your body, and your cunt throbbed. Half of Joel’s cock had disappeared and was reappearing, soaked all the way to his balls.

“Guess we’re in the same boat then, you an’ me.”

And, as if the man could read your mind right then, Joel sank all the way in on his next thrust. He filled you up until those round, swollen globes of his were kissing your ass and the tip of his cock was hitting your cervix, and then he let out a sound of pleasure. Contented and craving still, his voice was hoarse and throaty and low. He leaned down until his body blanketed yours completely over the table, then fucked in deeper.

Joel moved his hands to grip either side of the wooden surface to the left and the right of your head, and in time, the wet plap-plap-plaps got even faster. Louder.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Darlin’ girl.”

“Dad couldn’t cum all week without this perfect little pussy snug ‘round ‘im. Y’know what that means, hm?”

Joel’s words were punctured by a breath, and without a syllable more from him, you could already sense it.

Could tell from the way that thick and throbbing head was gliding—diving—into your core repeatedly while his slick-drenched sac battered your ass with an agonizing weight, ‘Dad’ was close to having an orgasm

More than that, though, this was going to be a lot.

After not fucking for an entire week, not only did Joel tend to blow his load much sooner than usual, but the stuff that came out of him was insane in its sheer volume. He could already practically paint your face or fill your tummy on any given day, but when he’d been deprived of release long enough, his cum was just…

“—so. fucking. much.” Joel’s voice cut in over the crescendo of sound buzzing through your skull. He repeated what he’d said: “I love you so fucking much.”

He rutted into your needy, leaking cunt like he meant it

You kissed him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck as your legs did the same around his hips.

In between panting breaths, you managed, ‘I’ and ‘love’ and ‘you’ against Joel’s soft, stubbled mouth.

‘Dad’ as his cock carved a path toward your center. ‘Dad’ to make the lips kissing you back form the faintest of smiles as he fucked you. ‘Dad’ because it drove you both batshit crazy with how wrong and taboo and wild the word sounded between you two in moments like these. ‘Dad’ because that wasn’t what your relationship was at all, and you and Joel could distinguish fantasy from reality like full-grown adults.

“Ain’t gonna last,” Joel murmured shortly. His hips stuttered, your own mostly-naked body writhing against the motion, and he watched your tits bounce.

He soaked up the sight of you grinding and moaning and soaking his length with that bright blue string bikini shoved to the side—the one that had probably driven every guy half out of his mind in PCB last week—and you could tell that he was relishing the fact that this was all his. You were all his, and no fuckwit fratboy from Ole Miss was changing that. His gaze brightened.

Then those eyes traveled up. Past your pussy being split in two over his pistoning cock, your bouncing tits, over your face and up to something out on the table.

He hesitated only a second before peering back down:

“You gonna cum again for me?”

With his thumb moving between your bodies and pressing to your clit to draw little circles again, you didn’t even need to answer in words. You just did it.

You finished on Joel’s cock, and his thrusts continued to land relentlessly, fucking you all through your high. There were whimpers and cries and fingers clawing at his sides, and it all felt so indescribably good you thought you might burst. At the same time, Joel sucked a breath through his teeth and groaned.

His cock jerked inside you, a sign of impending release.

Just as Joel’s hips drove furiously against you, and your wetness all but flooded and stuck to your writhing bodies with each and every thrust, you tried to speak.

You’d just started to form the words on your tongue:

‘Cum inside me, Dad. Cum inside me, please.’

And then Joel was pulling out.

Reaching for something over your head while he fisted his cock and let out a hoarse, almost strangled sound.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Knees—on your knees.”

As soon as he said it, you didn’t hesitate.

You didn’t even try wondering at what he might be saying—you just slid off the table he’d just been fucking you on and then dropped to the floor.

Your face was right beside the edge of the tabletop, eye-level with the surface, and your head was spinning.

Stars burst along the periphery of your vision, and you were still busy trying to catch your breath from your most recent climax when suddenly, you heard the sound of porcelain on wood. Sliding over, as it were.

Joel had taken a plate—your unfinished meal, by the looks of it—and he yanked it to the corner of the table. Still fisting his cock in his other hand, he let out a grunt

“Right here, kiddo. That’s it,” he commanded.

Then, once he’d positioned the china right where it appeared he’d wanted it, he grabbed you by the chin. He tugged your face forward, closer to the table where he’d just moved your plate, and he made you look up.

He bared his teeth in almost a sort of wry, knowing smile, and then he peered down at you under him.

Starting to stroke his cock again, he went:

“You want Dad’s cum, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

Again, you didn’t think.

You just stared up at him, mindless and fuckdrunk as you’d ever been, and you opened your mouth. Stuck your tongue out like a good, sweet, obedient girl and waited for Joel’s load to come spattering on your face.

And it did, in fewer than three or four seconds.

You kneeled there, chin tilted up, and you couldn’t help but grin, too, as you felt rope after rope of Joel’s hot, heavy seed spilling all over your skin. It felt like a goddamn prize showering you and sinking into your open mouth, eyes, and everyplace else. Evidence of you being the best, most precious girl to your old man after he’d fucked you so well. And, just as you’d expected, there was so much stuff coming out.

Joel might’ve painted a third of your upturned face and filled a decent part of your mouth when he groaned again, reaching to the left of him jerkily.

And then, to your quiet, wide-eyed disbelief, he kept on going—pumped his cock again and again, and again, more cum spurted out from his pulsing tip.

This time, though, he’d pivoted toward the table.

Joel jerked himself over your dinner plate, cursing, and let four or five ropes more spatter over your mostly uneaten meal. Each one landed with startling precision

Dimly, you remembered what your dinner had been.

Chicken fried steak—a Southern staple and one of Joel’s favorites to make. Almost all of it was there.

Smothered in gravy.

Joel was finished.

He turned to you, just as your cum-drenched face was peering into the thick, wet, sticky-white mess the man had just made over the plate. Your mouth was slightly agape, and you couldn’t deny a little spit had begun to pool inside it, right along with the rest of Joel’s load.

Joel moved a warm and comforting hand to the crown of your head. He stroked it gently, in that excruciatingly paternal way he’d perfected of late.

Then, meeting your gaze, he finally spoke again:

There's no remorse in those eyes of his, doesn't even try to hide the fact he had just been in a fight or spar. His grin doesn't falter even when you call his name in a scolding manner.

He knows you're worried, rather than feel bad he can't help but find it cute how you fuss over him despite him being fully capable of taking care of himself. Besides, who is he to refuse extra attention from you? He doesn't do it deliberately or on purpose...most of the time...

Your scoldings always go in one ear and out the other. He'd rather focus on the warmth and gentleness of your hands as you tended to these trivial scratches. However, he does have to endure the slight sting of your pinches when you know he's not listening to you properly.

It's not that he's not listening, he does. Or so he claims. He loves your voice, enjoys it. He just drowns out the words & focuses on the sound. (But don't be fooled he actually does remember what you say...)

Once you're done, he'll look at you expectantly. That smile of his easily telling you he knows you know what he wants. Even if you don't give it to him right then, probably because people might be around, or it's some form of punishment for him. He WILL hunt you down- I mean seek you out until he gets it.

You'd have to roll your eyes at him when he has you cornered somewhere out of the public's view. His nose close to yours as both his arms cage you between him and the wall. You'd finally lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to the bandage on his cheek and his eyes gleam.

You kissed his wound once in the past, and now he fully expects it each time.

"Is that all? Shouldn't I be rewarded for all the trouble- I mean 'effort', you put me through just to get you here?"

You pinch him again, earning a half hearted, "Ow, can't you see I'm already 'hurt'?"

"Don't get cheeky", you tell him, but still lean in to kiss his lips regardless. You can't help feel your cheeks get hot when he hums delightfully against your lips.

.

.

.

But if it were the other way around?

He zeros in on your wound immediately. You can hide it all you want, he WILL find out one way or another.

Lohen will tug you aside without explanation, before you know it he has your face in his hand. But don't let the gentle way he's holding you fool you.

"Who was it."

An unpleasant shiver goes up your spine. You know that tone of his. And the cold murderous look in his gaze as he eyes the scratch on your pretty little face? Let's hope you only hurt yourself, because he IS going to kill someone otherwise.

And don't bother lying. He knows whether it was a scrape from a fall, an accident, or if it were with intent...

you’re sitting beside him, trying to focus on the map spread across the table. the lantern light flickers gently, casting warm shadows across the wood. lohen leans over slightly to look at the same spot you’re pointing to.

you don’t notice at first.

until you realize how close he is.

his shoulder brushes yours, and you freeze immediately, your voice faltering mid-sentence.

“…s-so if we take this route-”

you lose your train of thought completely when you feel his breath near your ear. it’s not intentional — he’s just leaning in to see better — but your face heats instantly.

lohen glances at you.

“…did you forget?” his voice is quiet, curious.

you shake your head quickly. “n-no, i just-”

you accidentally turn your head toward him.

which is a mistake.

because now he’s even closer.

you can see the faint details of his expression — the calm focus in his eyes, the slight tilt of his head as he studies your face. he doesn’t move away. if anything, he leans just slightly closer, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“…your face is red,” he murmurs.

you immediately look away. “it’s just warm in here.”

“…is it?”

he glances around the room thoughtfully, then back at you. his hand moves without much thought, resting lightly against the table beside yours — effectively trapping you between him and the wood.

he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s doing.

but you definitely do.

your heart starts racing.

lohen leans in again, his voice softer now.

“you always do that.”

“…d-do what?”

“get quiet when i’m close.”

your breath catches.

he’s still watching you, eyes gentle but intent, like he’s genuinely curious about your reaction.

“does it bother you?” he asks.

you open your mouth, then close it again. your brain feels completely scrambled. “i-it’s not… i mean…”

lohen shifts slightly.

his knee brushes yours under the table.

you nearly jump.

he notices immediately.

“…sorry.”

but he doesn’t move away.

instead, he studies your expression again, like he’s trying to understand why such small contact affects you so much.

“you’re trembling,” he murmurs quietly.

you look down, embarrassed, realizing he’s right. your fingers are gripping the edge of the table, your shoulders tense.

lohen’s hand moves slowly, hesitantly — like he’s giving you time to pull away — before his fingers gently touch yours.

it’s a light touch.

barely there.

but your entire body reacts instantly.

your breath hitches, and you freeze.

lohen goes still too, watching carefully.

“…you really are sensitive,” he says softly.

there’s no teasing in his voice.

just quiet observation.

that somehow makes it worse.

you try to pull your hand back, but his fingers curl slightly around yours — not tight, just enough to keep the contact.

“is this okay?” he asks gently.

you nod quickly, even though your face is burning.

he relaxes slightly, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. the movement is slow, absentminded, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

but you definitely are.

your heart feels like it’s trying to escape your chest.

lohen glances at you again, noticing your expression.

“…you’re even redder now.”

you let out a small, embarrassed sound. “p-please don’t point it out…”

he tilts his head slightly, something soft appearing in his eyes.

“…it’s cute.”

you freeze completely.

“w-what?”

he doesn’t seem embarrassed by the comment. if anything, he looks thoughtful, like he’s only just realized it himself.

“when you get flustered,” he continues quietly, his fingers still loosely holding yours, “your eyes move everywhere except at me.”

your breath catches as he leans slightly closer again.

“but when i say something unexpected…”

his voice lowers just a little.

“…you look right at me.”

your eyes snap to his automatically.

he notices.

and smiles softly.

“like that.”

you don’t know what to do with the way your chest tightens.

lohen’s gaze softens further, his thumb still brushing slowly across your hand. the room feels smaller somehow, quieter, like the rest of the world faded away without you noticing.

he leans just slightly closer, stopping before it becomes too much.

“tell me if i’m making you uncomfortable,” he murmurs.

you shake your head quickly, even though your heart is racing.

lohen watches you for another moment.

then, very gently, he squeezes your hand once.

not teasing.

not possessive.

just warm.