CheeksOfSteel

You felt grown when you were pursuing Joel. A dirty albeit grown, adult girl.

But now? You felt anything but that.

Joel.

Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man, Joel. Your dad’s buddy, Joel — beer buddy Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

Fuck. Joel? Really?

It started with a look. A volatile little smile on your birthday — your pink frilled cake, sticky vanilla frosting, and eighteen teensy candles glaring. Holding eye contact with him for far too long to be considered friendly; hoping he’d catch your gaze to see what was written all over your face. “I’m legal, Joel.” Joel was never stupid. In fact, he was always too observant for your liking. Catching you guilty-as-charged on your porch and knowing you just smoked your first joint. Or finding you drinking his beer at an ungodly hour and somehow placing it immediately to your impending graduation. Your least favorite: your red eyes, and Joel’s hug following suit — you and your dad were fighting, Joel figured.

He knew you were a good girl. Really, Joel knew the purity of your nature better than you’d observed yourself. Your peeking lace, flirty little smiles and that awful pout you developed after your first semester at college never fooled him. Nope, not one bit.

Joel knew you were a virgin. You were a nervous thing. Always have been, always will be. It’s in your nature, he’s decided. It’s your biological coding. Knew it since you were just a girl. You were the same with boys your age; hiding at the adult table instead of mingling and doing who-know’s-what with boys like the ‘Felder’s’ eldest son or worse, that punk Scott. Not that he thought of you in that way yet, but it was just something he observed. Your meekness. Your quiet demeanor. The way you were totally uninterested in boys in such a way that your own mother began to worry. “You know, at her age? I was onto my seventh boyfriend. Seventh! These kids are living in a different age, I suppose.”

So imagine Joel’s surprise pulling up to the bar that night to see sweet thing you: pressed against a brick wall, leg wrapped around some loser with your hand tangled in his hair?

Maybe it was his fault to blame. Snooping where he didn’t belong. He knew you would be here. In fact, he had, yes, admittedly followed you to the very bar you’re stood outside of.

But could you blame him?

You’re his responsibility. Your father’s only daughter, his best buddy’s only child, now under his care while you were home for the holidays. It doesn’t matter how old you are. That you’re “an adult”, as you keep reminding him, or that you “know what you want.” You aren’t old enough to know any better, he’s surmised, but Joel does — for you. Joel is sure you must have been as equally disturbed upon seeing him. If not more. He isn’t subtle about it. He doesn’t wait for you to finish whatever the hell you were trying to start. He simply slams his truck door shut — half surprised the red herring of his faulty engine hadn’t sent you running, knowing you could tell when Joel was over just from the sound of it creaking into your drive away. But, alas, you’re occupied. He marches as silent as the still air outside toward the outline of your silhouette, where you’re shielded by this…. stranger, this random boy, this—

Joel fishes in his pocket and shines his flashlight on the both of you.

You’re the first to pull away. You jolt as you snap your head up toward Joel with wide-eyes, your doe eyes illuminated in the white harsh exposition of his flashlight.

“Fuckin’ hell.” This was a scene that could kill a man. You — good grades you, star pupil you, sorority chair member and babysitter you — barely dressed in your white babydoll and fucking bunny ears. And how ironic is it that you, caught in a disgusting act, gawk at him with faux innocence; donned in lacey white to match the part. And he would’ve sought you fit for it too, if not for your swollen lips and the smudge of lipstick on your chin. Not to mention the random boy currently swearing at your side.

“Get your ass inside. And don’t make me repeat myself. You hear me?” you hesitate for a moment — still wide-eyed and still frozen under the horrible blaring glare of his hand held torch. You’ve never felt so dirty and vulnerable in your entire life. Joel growls a deep exhale and shines the light closer toward your face, blinding you and causing you to stumble back against the cold wall behind you. “You fuckin’ hear me? Scram, kid. Inside. Now.” And you know he isn’t playing any games when he begins to count.

“One….two…” you run into the bar with your hand hovering behind your ass as though you were some child nervously escaping a spanking. You would laugh at yourself if you weren’t so frozen in an all consumable humiliation. Joel has half the mind to slap the kid that was just eating your face off but he regresses. He knows it wasn’t the boys fault; if anything, it was more likely yours. While he held your good girl disposition near and dear to his heart, he had noticed your recent rebelling streak.

It was unnatural and awkward. Coming in the form of wearing dresses so short that you couldn’t even jump out his truck without flashing him; copious frills of red or pink or his personal hell, white, and he couldn’t stand it. He wondered if college had taken the dear girl he watched you grow into only to snatch you away and morph you into a lady. A femme fatale. Seductress. Promiscuous like your sorority sisters. But, no — you were still shy as ever at neighborhood barbecues and still ignoring Scott Felder with the same fervor you had when you were seventeen. And so to see you like this? He hadn’t a clue what to do with you.

It could’ve been ten or twenty or even thirty minutes, you weren’t sure, but finally, you hear that unmistakable noise of heavy toed boots clang against the bar floor, and there he is. Making an appearance after all. For a moment, you were scared he had stranded you here. Or, worse, called your father.

But instead, Joel locks his sight on you and slowly approaches. It isn’t hard. With your ridiculous costume ears still perched on your head. He pulls out the bar stool next to you and immediately waves down the bartender.

He keeps a tab open. You sit in silence as he nurses his second beer, listening to the screeching noise of his obnoxiously loud sighs as you’re sat shaking on the grimy bar stool beside him. Waiting for something. Anything. A shake of his head. A snarl. You’re even finding yourself pleading for his dreaded lectures. But, alas, he only sits there. Wordless and your stomach churns in anticipation for when his fuse finally implodes. It ignites slowly. A small, subtle look your way. Disappointment. Burning hot and sparking clear as day on his face. Then, and you couldn’t ever predict what he would say, but he meets your eye and mumbles: “And here I was, thinkin’ you were a virgin.” You would say Joel has been a pretty consistent figure in your life. He’s just been there. You can’t ever really remember when he came onto the scene or when you started to respect, and equally fear him, more than your own old man. And well, you would say you’ve come to know him pretty well. You like to think you have a firm understanding of his attitude. You know what makes him temperamental, what he enjoys or doesn’t, observed enough to guess what he would find humorous or instead flat out shun. You know he’s a secret prude. Brave in a way your father never was, chastising you for skirts he deemed too short, “two finger rule, sweetheart, c’mon. You know this.” Blushing when the ‘grownup’ table makes a dirty joke. Usually about his lady of the month. Then lecturing you when he finds you peeping, tutting: “this is a grownup conversation, young lady. Eyes and ears to yourself.” You remember the first time you saw Joel in a new light: condensation dripping down large fingers. That smirk highlighted by handsome lines of age and sun that weathered his skin. Tan flesh and jeans a bit too tight to really fit him properly. That scolding look of his, always pointed your way. But in all your years of knowing Joel, nothing could have ever prepared you for this. Joel Miller who damn nearly had a heart attack when you brought your senior year prom date to greet your father, and Joel — of course. You never knew him to have the gall. The nerve. The obscenity to call you out. “Thought you were a virgin.” You choke on your own spit. Half-laughing-and-half-gasping as you try to squawk a retort that just gets stuck in your throat. He takes a large gulp of his beer. You watch his adam’s apple bob around his sip, stupidly stuttering and now burning in a feverish blush. “What!-what, what…” he peers at you through his peripheral. “Wh-at? So, so— so virgins aren’t allowed to kiss now, is that what, huh?” You are just so defensive. For no good reason; he’s the one who caught you in your indecent act. Though, you don’t deny what he’s said either, and a tiny sick part of himself is slightly relieved — for your dignity, of course. “I ain’t ever know one to kiss like that, that’s for fuckin’ sure.” “O-kay, Joel. How about you try and stay out of my business, and you won’t have to know a damn thing. Does that work for you?” Ouch. Well, look at that. You’re embarrassed. Good, he’s thinking. You should be. You ought to be. But there’s something more, something slightly sinister bubbling below the surface. You’re humiliated, maybe. Pissed at him, even. He’s wondering why you haven’t yet asked him what he was doing at some college bar, but he suspects your unease has you tattered. “Quit bein’ ugly with me, kid. It’s my job to be lookin’ out for you, and I won’t — while you’re under my roof—”

“I’m sorry, under whose roof?—” “Don’t go talkin’ back to me. I won’t have you actin’ this way so long as you’re stayin’ here. You hear me?” You can’t decide whether to laugh or yell at him. “You’re aren’t my father, Joel. It’s not your job to do anything!” Your shame has brought your claws out; hissing and scratching and clawing deep into wounds you have no business deepening. There’s a falter in the beat of the room. A stutter. A sliver of light peeking onto skeletons long hidden inside your closet. You knew it was the wrong thing to say. It felt awkward, somewhat heavy like a lie on your tongue, and the suffocating air weighing heavy between the two of you concede’s that he knows this too. His face reads as surprisingly amused, and you suspect that’s the reason why. You’re just lashing out. Growing pains. All little girls go through this phase. He’s been waiting for this, really.

“Alright.” He groans as he stands up. Arm raising to scratch at his greying scruff and his flannel raises slightly — tan skin exposed, happy trail peeking from above his slacks. “I’m takin’ you home. Your dad ain’t back yet,” you don’t miss how he lingers on that word. Dad. Spitting it at you. “And frankly, I don’t want him seein’ you like…” his eyes rake down your frame and you feel just as exposed as you did under the glare of his flashlight, “this.”

He may as well have gone and called you a whore. You want to lash out and really give him something to be shocked at. Treat him like you do with dear old dad when he tests your patience and see how he likes it.

But really, you’re nervous at how Joel would retaliate. You and your father aren’t afraid to yell; you know that with every argument, while a silent lull may fall for however long it takes, your relationship would eventually return to its flawed resting point. But Joel? — he classes your low points differently. He yearns for the confrontation, because he enjoys the punishment. The lesson in it. You give him an inch? He’ll run it any which way from Tuesday just to turn it into a some sort of paternal marathon. You would call him a sadist if it didn’t mean you would have to acknowledge what that would make you. Really, sometimes, you wonder, if it isn’t the reason him and his own daughter are so distant. Or, rather the reason why she won’t speak to him. You never really saw Sarah growing up, with your age gap, but you could see how Joel’s life motivation could be his very own fatal flaw. He constantly needs, wants, longs to teach teach teach. He knows best. His way is the best way. “Don’t be mad at him,” your father would tell you when Joel first started taking it upon himself to solve your tantrums himself. “You know how it is for him. He’s just bein’ a dad, ‘s all. Saves my ass the trouble, that’s for sure.” You try to remind yourself of this when you and Joel make it back home. Any slight buzz you had lingering is strikingly gone — dissipated completely enough to leave you so sober you’re shaking. From the cold air, or from your repentance, you aren’t sure yet. Joel notices. “You’re shakin’,” he observes, but he doesn’t sound concerned. In fact, there’s that same amused twinge from before. The lesson. He wants you like this, all to teach you. “It’s cold.” You whine, and he sighs at your tone but with a small smirk in tow. Is it cold, or are you stood half-naked in a kitchen where you used to play with your barbies? “C’mon.” He nods his head toward the dimly lit staircase and you follow up behind him as he begins his slow ascend, leading you down the hallway to your bedroom. He turns on your bedside lamp and opens your drawers. Rummaging through them as you stand in the corner, still shaking, until he finds a clean pair of pajamas for you and lays them on your bed. Folding them, neatly. “Get changed.” He mumbles. “I need to — I need to shower, first.” You feel dirty. You’ve felt dirty since you let that boy kiss you outside that awful dive bar. You weren’t even sure why you did. It wasn’t you. He wasn’t even your type. You weren’t half as drunk as you usually get on nights out, but truthfully, it had little to do with the alcohol and more with the nagging voices of your friends and boys you wouldn’t let pursue you on repeat. Taunting you. And for what? Grimy. Bad. Even more so, the moment Joel saw you in that state. “Then shower.” You hoped that the cold water and the harsh rubbing of your skin would clean you of more than just your caked-on makeup. But it doesn’t. You feel just as awful as before, and Joel doesn’t offer you any consolation. He’s as quiet as you are; silent when you meekly pass where he’s perched on the edge of your bed. You fetch the pajamas he had laid for you. And when you remerge, creaking the door open an inch, he’s still there — waiting. Head tilting at the open door when you meet his gaze with a small smile. You continue doing whatever it is you were doing, seemingly spraying something into your hair. Citrus and brown sugar. The smell of you. Fresh, clean, warm, sweet. He should get going now. Really, he’s probably overstayed his welcome. Your father could be back. Sat downstairs, nursing a beer. Watching television. Thinking you’re dead asleep. If he was even wondering that at all. You watch as he lifts from your bed and gingerly wanders toward where you’re spraying all sorts of concoctions into your hair, his frame lurking behind you.

Taller. Brooding. Unsure.

Pausing in the doorway until he’s making eye contact with you in the mirror. He shakes his head, low and disappointed, and tuts at you. Slowly moving toward the other end of the sink before beckoning you over to where he’s stood with a call of his fingers. You follow — barefoot padding across the cold tiles to reach him.

He sighs. Hums, even. Tilting his head at you and scanning his eyes down your expanse like he’s examining you. Wanting to see how sorry you are.

“You don’t have to stay here, Joel. With me. It’s late.” The concept of someone staying up for you, up with you, is foreign. You feel awkward standing across from Joel, unsure how to handle the onslaught of attention; wearing pajama’s he picked out for you and you hate that you’re secretly comforted by even the small semblance of tenderness it holds. “You seein’ that boy?” he finally speaks, and you can’t help but shyly smile and shake your head. “No.” You’re grinning now. Almost giggling. Cheeky. He wants to give your cheek a curt smack and wipe that smile off your face. “No?” He’s smirking back at you. You slowly shake your head. He’s lulled you into thinking that you are equal. That since you are smiling, and he’s smiling, that now you two are playing. But you should know by now — Joel’s never been one to bark without a bite. You step ever so slightly closer to him. You could blame it on shaky legs or that burning taste of tequila still lingering in your mouth, but it’s just you. The bathroom is dimly lit, and Joel’s still smirking, and so he thinks maybe you must be feeling brave. Surely, if you’re being this brazen with him. “I didn’t even know his name.” You whisper. Smiling, still, albeit sheepishly. Beads of water dripping down the expanse of your cheekbones and wet hair clinging to your shoulders. Joel doesn’t say anything.

His expression doesn’t even flinch. He just hooks his ankle behind your calf, causing you to stumble closer to him. You catch yourself before you can fall, making quick balance by placing your palms on his chest. He hums — gently, and ever-so-slowly inches his startlingly large hand out toward you. You can feel him softly catch the droplets trailing their way along your jaw, grazing his knuckles down the edge of the bone.

To your confusion, the head-rush of the moment is dulled by the clanging of miscellaneous items on your counter, until you realize what he’s doing. He’s searching for something.

Digging through your sink caddy before pulling out your — toothbrush? You watch as he squeezes a dime of toothpaste onto its pink bristles. His knuckles are still resting fleetingly along your cheekbones. You would convince yourself that this was your deluded imagination, if not for the jarring sensation of his hand outstretching and covering your entire jawbone in one tight clamp.

Both from the sheer force of his grip, and in a gasp of surprise, your mouth opens and you’re about to retort — Is he really going to?— “Open wide.”

Your effort is useless.

He gives you no warning before almost gagging you on your own toothbrush. Shoving it uncaringly into your mouth, letting the plastic stick clang loudly against your teeth and poke at the plush flesh inside. This is . . . humiliating? You silently pray it’s not spit you can feel slightly dribbling onto the handle of the brush, surely going down his hand, and you whine in embarrassment — it’s muffled in the clumsy attempt of brushing your teeth — and you try to shove his hand away, but he only grips your wrist with the other; absentmindedly bracketing your hips and pressing you against the sharp porcelain digging into your behind.

He laughs at you. “Gotta get you clean,” he tuts, and you burn both with mortification and in the revelation that he must surely now see you as you do yourself. Dirty. Ruined. Once the child, now the inevitable woman. “Joel,” you gurgle, slightly laughing in awkwardness. The mint is causing your eyes to water as you try to shove him harder, with no avail. “Stop.” He catches your wrist once again and presses it hard against your chest. “Be good.” Now this — this is just —

Humiliation. Joel’s never touched you like this. He’s never gripped at you, or ever, ever been rough with you.

Really, now that you really come to think of it, you’ve never much felt the graze of Joel’s flesh against yours.

Sure, you’ve felt his frame against yours in tear-soaked hugs. Or felt the calloused graze of his knuckles when passing you the clandestine beer, or maybe felt the accidental knock of his knee brushing yours in sweaty lawn chairs at neighborhood barbecues. But Joel has always treated you so . . . delicately. Only touching you unless absolutely necessary. Avoiding it, even: his hand hovering above your waist in photographs, rejecting your requests of retying your bikini top, reacting as though you’ve burned him in accidental moments of your body swiping past his. Okay, now? Well this just feels oddly intimate. You must be making it weird. You’ve stopped thrashing and now you’re only sat complacent, blushing. At Joel. You hate the feelings you can feel begin to stir deep in your gut. It’s hot fierce and you’re sure he can see it, or at the very least feel it in your quick pulse. But this is already weird. Joel is brushing your teeth. For you. While laughing like it’s the highest form of entertainment he’s had in all his fifty-so years of living. And — are you shaking? Seriously? Are you that unsure on how to act in the presence of such a man acting as casual as he does during errands? It’s only Joel. But he’s a man, nonetheless. You could count on your one hand the amount of times you’ve ever touched one, and so, yes, you’re shaking. Maybe it’s part adrenaline, too. Your nervous system grappling to accommodate that this is Joel. Touching you so openly, even if it is to manhandle you. His other hand moves from its tight hold on your jaw to create a makeshift ponytail of your hair, pushing your head gently toward the sink

“Spit, honey.” You can barely speak with both the toothpaste swishing in your mouth and between your stifled giggles, toothpaste foam clumisy escaping and now you’re laughing, fully. “There she is. You feelin’ better now?”

“No! You just — you?” You’re hysterical. He snorts at you, secretly relieved to finally see a smile appear on your face after all of your pouting. You’re not off the hook just yet — his seething disappointment still brewing — but the melody of your laughter quells the bitterness even for a little moment. He sighs when you giggle and hide your head in the crook of his neck because this is the little girl that he fondly remembers. Maybe you just needed a reminder, too.

On his flannel collar, you can smell the lingering remainder of the cigarettes he must have snuck out on his lunch break whispering to you. It mixes with the smell of his musk. His natural scent, and a spray of that cologne you could sniff out with a blindfold. Sweet, yet notably masculine — honey melded with boozy tobacco — like that whiskey he stashes below his kitchen sink. Nostalgic in a way that reminds you of summer; Joel’s cigarettes burning the dewy grass of your lawn, sweltering nights spent in his garage, your favorite cherry red ice pops he kept in his freezer just for you, skin sticky with chlorine, cicadas and early dawn, the taste of beers you shouldn’t be having and looks you shouldn’t be giving. You’re sat on the counter, Joel stood between your legs, and as your head tips up, you can recognize the exact second Joel resigns. The moment he remembers who you are to him, and who he is to you.

“Alright. I better, um. I best be to gettin’ sweetheart. I’ll be speakin’ to you in the mornin’, you hear me?” He goes to step backward, away from where you’re sat, away from your pajama clad body. Skimpy and short, too short and he needs to step away from the girl that deep down doesn’t belong to him. Not with his best buddy’s blood running through you. Away from the little girl he’s known for far too long. Your small ankle hooks around his calf.

“Why do we have to wait for the morning?”

He’s stunned. You’ve stunned him. Peering up at him with doe eyes and he’s — he’s shocked.

And intrigued?

“It’s way past your bedtime young lady. And frankly if I stick around, well. . .” he scratches the greying scruff speckling his jaw. He’s as close as he was before. Close enough to where he has to dip his head down to look at you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.

“Well?”

He sighs, softly, and inches slightly closer. His face is beside your ear now. He drops his voice into a gruff whisper. “I’d say some things I shouldn’t.”

Your eyebrow quirks and the corner of his mouth lifts into a shy smirk. “Not like that, kiddo. It’d be mean. I’d say rude things to you, and I don’t wan’ to. Wanna save it for the morning. Give us a second to cool off, y’know? Take a breather. Go from there.” He pats your shoulder. Joel Miller, always so level-headed.

It’s time to go. Really, it is.

You gnaw your bottom lip between your teeth as Joel begins to tread through your quaint bathroom and toward the door of your bedroom. You should let him go. You shouldn’t say anything else. You’ve already forever changed the trajectory of your relationship with Joel — but in the same sentiment, what is there to lose? “I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle hard conversations.” Even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, lit only by the single glass lamp at your bedside, you can faintly see when Joel’s expression changes.

“Can you? Nearly done scared you off at the bar. Didn’t I?” You watch as it sours, his eyebrows furrowing. You’re beginning to test the little luck you have left for the night, but you’re either willingly ignorant, or simply don’t notice. You push either way.

Stupid, little naive girl. “Because you treat me like a child! You — you never treat me like I’m a grown up. You treat me like I’m still little. Like I’m.” You suck in a sharp inhale. “Like I’m Sa—“

“— Don’t you finish that sentence. Fuckin’ hell. You pitchin’ a hissy fit? Is that what this is? I interrupt your little play date,”

“Oh my—” You really should’ve stopped talking a long time ago. But you can’t seem to find a way to switch this side of yourself off. You’re frustrated — you’re embarrassed, still so abashed and there’s nothing more you want at this moment than comfort; but you don’t deserve that. Definitely not now. You may as well be itching for punishment with the way you’re rambling your mouth at Joel. “Shut it. You shut your mouth.” Joel raises his voice and you flinch. Both in the fear of your father potentially hearing a glimpse into your altercation, but also for you. You don’t know what’s gotten into you, and theres nothing you can do but watch as Joel drags his hands down his face. Sighing and shaking his head before storming up to you. Raising his pointer finger right in your face, his own scrunched and angry. Albeit, he inhales a single shaky breath.

“You’re right. You ain’t Sarah. I failed her. I was too soft with her. Too weak. Too lenient with shit I shouldn’t have been. Too — too goddamn proud. And so help me God, I will not make that same mistake with you. You hear me girl? When I speak, you listen. Goddamnit.” You’re frozen. Stuck in place and somehow the distance between you two has become even shorter. He’s almost breathing down your neck. Seething and huffing with no regard for your space. You don’t know what to say. Choking on a sharp breath that you didn’t even realize you had been holding. “This is — Joel, I’m not… you’re not my… I don’t need you to—”

“What? You wanna be my friend? Is that what you’re askin’ for? For us to be fuckin’ friendly?”

His nose brushes against your own and it’s so beside him, entirely uncharacteristic for him to be this close to you; undeniably too enraged to recognize the lack of distance between you. “Hm?” “No, you’re not listening to me—“

“You keep runnin’ that mouth at me and I’ll show you just where it gets you, little girl.” You’re appealing to the ugliest parts of himself now. Playing right into his game of cat and mouse. The perfect pawn on his chess board. You know all the right buttons to press and you aren’t even sure if you do it unwillingly.

“I’m sorry Joel.” You whisper so quiet and so sweetly that it nearly stops him in his tracks. Almost breaks him from the frustration he feels toward you. Almost. “I know you are babygirl. I know you are…” And for a fleeting moment, you have your Joel back in the room. The Joel you’ve always known. The only person you know that looks at you with starry eyes and protects you like you’re as delicate as fine china. He carefully cups your cheek before sighing, looking down toward the ground in an attempt to recalibrate. To cool off. To get a grip of himself. To act like the adult he is. The role model you deserve. But. . . Have your shorts always been that short? Really — he doesn’t mean to look, his eyes just snagged on a fleeting glimpse of the smooth expanse of your legs, and now he’s perplexed. Why would you even own shorts that tiny? What purpose do they serve? Other than to appease. To appeal. To impress.

‘Two finger rule, sweetheart.’ Joel can feel himself begin to flush; his temper is brewing again. Hadn’t he taught you better than this?

You gulp. “Joel?”

“I know you’re sorry. But sorry ain’t ‘gonna cut it this time, kiddo.”

“No, please don’t—” please, anything but tell your father.

“I think we oughta try some tough love.” “No!—” you scramble toward Joel; reaching out toward him in an attempt to get him to stop. To not go downstairs. To not tattle to that man about your bad behavior. To not bring him into this. But in that same second, Joel hunches over you, grabbing your wrist and pinning it behind the small of your back.

He pulls you against his sturdy chest. Shushing you. Telling you to “be quiet, goddamnit,”tightening his grip on your wrist when you begin to thrash — kicking at him, trying to free yourself from where you’re held against him, “stop being so squirrelly, kid. Stop. The fuck’s gotten into ‘ya?” You don’t stop, too confused and frightened to do anything but flail like a fish out of water; gasping like you were gurgling for air when you feel the sudden force of your body colliding with the solid plush of your bed from below you. You register the pressure first. The immense weight of Joel above you, all broad muscle mass, pinning you with the full heft of his bulk into the mattress. “Stop,” he growls, and you can feel the warmth and softness of his lips graze against the shell of your ear.

The noise and clatter inside your head goes silent — everything coming to a static standstill as you finally take a single slow, albeit wheezed, breath. You quell beneath him. “Good.” He whispers. “Good girl.”

Joel has you bent over the edge of your bed. Joel.

Joel.

“You ain’t gonna like this one bit. I’m sorry, honey. But you gotta learn somehow.” You can’t register anything he’s saying because you can feel him. Against you. Pressed against your behind.

Oh. Oh.

You think of what to say but fall short. Instead, you lay still. Waiting. Your heart pattering so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

And then, you yelp; the resounding smack! of his palm shocks through your body. The small of your back where your flesh melts into its heart shape burns. Sending you up the mattress to get away from it.

He’s just hit you. No — he’s just spanked you.

“What the—”

Before you can even begin to comprehend, let alone retort, his palm hits you even harder. So hard that the sound rattles you and rings in your ears.

His hand swats you again, and again, and again. You can barely distinguish the noise of him grunting with each move, watching as his face scowls when you peek your head back.

And then, his smacks hit lower,

lower,

and once more, lower.

Right over your most intimate part. All yours.

And now, partly his — with his palm cupping you there for a split second before pulling away instantaneously when your head whips around to meet his gaze.

His brows are still settled low on his face, with his eyes squinted at you and mouth twisted into a disgruntled scowl.

But beneath it, you can see his guilt rising. His unwitting abdication of you revealing to him in an instant. You, slightly bent over your frilly bed. You, gawking at him so bewildered he’s surprised you haven’t slapped him back. You. You. By him. Joel. Joel.

Joel dad’s-best-friend-Joel. Uncle Joel. Your old man. Your dad’s buddy, Joel. Beer buddy, Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

Joel who loves you as his own.

Fuck. Joel. Really?

You feel fractured in two. Dichotomized between the part of you that feels sickened, almost. Frightened. Pure and untouched being corrupted in a split second.

And, equally, by the part of you that doesn’t feel that way at all. The fraction of you that feels wanted. Finally desired. Worthy. Worthy of Joel, worthy of his touch, worthy of his attention. His failed attempt of feigning composure a signal of how much you’ve meant to him this whole time. Of how much you can be wanted. To be loved so much by him that he cares for you in every sense of the word. The tiny, insidious part of you that felt jealousy toward those that Joel unconditionally loved. Wishing you were in their place.

Sarah. Admittedly, you hadn’t seen this coming. But it wasn’t as though you hadn’t wished for it. Like that one time in Joel’s garage. When your father was passed out inside, left asleep on the couch with his beer left warming in his hold, you hiked your skirt a few inches higher; sat alone with Joel in his old camping chairs and demurely playing a game of one sided footsie with him. Joel was talking at you about something monotonous. Some old lecture. And maybe it was nothing. Really, it might’ve been mostly your imagination. But you swore there was something different about the way he peered up at you — not just anger for your silly game of footsie despite urging you to pay attention, but real hunger — (you pulled your foot away in an instant.)

Joel staggers back, your stunned expression mirroring his own. You’re still frozen in position as you watch him pace in the small space of your bedroom. Nearly knocking over your dainty jewelry and makeup stashed on your porcelain vanity, swearing loudly when he inevitably does, his hip bumping your pink perfume bottle in his moment of frantic realization. He hinges down, gently placing it back in its position before settling his attention back onto you.

“I—” your eyes lock momentarily before he twists away. “Sit up for me” he murmurs with his back facing you. You’ve never seen Joel so frazzled. So out of his own willpower. You hesitate for a beat longer before gradually turning your body toward where he’s stood with his hand in his heads, perching yourself on the edge of your bed. Your hands are politely placed on your lap despite your ass still burning red beneath you.

Joel is victimized by his own puzzle of sorts too. Pulled between his rational self that loves you innocently like his own. Wanting nothing more than to watch you succeed — build your career, have a family of your own, grandchildren, visiting your old man Joel. The white picket fence you deserve. The happy ending he’d give anything to see you have. To be the one stable role model in your life, waiting at your every beck and call. The only thing a man like him is good for. The only thing he lives for. But beneath it all lurks that ugly, ruined, most selfish inner part of himself fueled entirely by his bloodlust. His nauseating thirst to teach you and have you and protect you like his own kin. Greedily ravenous to claim you in every way he can without his blood running through your veins, without his last name belonging alongside your first. To teach you every lesson he can mangle his way into. To put his love into you. Make it stick.

He cautiously walks toward you. The room is so silent that you can hear his knees creak as he hinges to sit docile beside you. You aren’t sure which version of him you’re with, and you aren’t sure which one you want. “That wasn’t right. I’m sorry sweetheart. Shit. I’m sorry. That was too much, kiddo. I know.” He finally braves a glance at you and swears under a loud sigh. “Hey. Hey. Look at me, kid.” He holds your face in both of his warm hands. “I’m sorry, honey. That ain’t right of me to do to you. I know, baby.”

But if it wasn’t right, then why are your insides all tangled up? You hate to admit it but you’re ignited. And judging by the stiff sensation pressed against your knee, you bravely assume Joel feels it too. You gawk at him. A little coquettish without really thinking about it. Slightly blinded by your impulse and batting your eyelashes as kittenish as you can without being obvious.

But Joel knows. He always does. He doesn’t have a sixth sense, he just has age. Knowledge. Power over you in the form of sun-weathered wrinkles and a body shaped by years of hard work and callouses to prove his determination cause of providing for his family. The same hands that are delicately bracing your face having brought women pleasure for decades longer than you have existed and fixed your nightstand when the hinges broke. ‘I’ve got decades on you, little girl.’ “Oh.” He faux’s a puzzled look, but you know that he’s well aware of your situation. “Oh? Is that how it is?”

You break your silence. Gulping embarrassingly louder than you intended to. “Joel—”

“You liked that, didn’t you?” You go to retort, shaking your head and aimlessly stuttering. Joel stares at you wordlessly, his mouth slightly agape and scanning your face, his two hands still cupping your cheeks gently. Slightly disgusted at your gall. At how you mirror his own. ”That was supposed to be a punishment. You weren’t supposed to…like it.”

“I’m . . . sorry?” You’re scared your heart might lurch out of your chest when you recognize the expression on his face. Hooded eyes and lips pressed in a tight line. The one you’ve only seen once before, in his garage. Starving. “You’re just a kid. Just a goddamn baby. You shouldn’t…we shouldn’t … this ain’t right.” And yet, your faces are a hairbreadth apart.

His eyes darken; he’s onto you. His mouth melts against yours hard, so hard that you would think your lips may bruise tomorrow if you even had time to think. You can feel him everywhere. Pawing at every inch of your bare skin that he can access and gripping, tightly. Soothing the red flush of your behind with a fierce grope. You gasp, but Joel steals it as an opportunity to satiate his appetite; deepening the feverish kiss by stroking his tongue against yours. You can’t do anything but mesh your lips just as hard against his, clumsily trying to match his fervor until you feel his hand slither to the waistband of your shorts. Teetering at the lace edge.

“Joel… I don’t know if… I’ve never….” he pulls away to catch his breath, the both of you panting into each other’s mouths, his forehead pressed against yours as you feel his capable fingers toying with the delicate lace of your waistband. He steals another kiss over your panting mouth. “I know, kiddo. Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll make it so good. I promise.” His knuckles accidentally graze right over where you’re most sensitive and you gasp, bucking your hips up absentmindedly in response to his touch. He smirks. “So responsive. Nobody ever touch you here? Really?” You know he knows the answer, but he just wants you humiliated — willing, shaking shake your head ‘no’ just so he can groan; biting the delicate junction of your neck and nipping at the soft skin there. Nudging his fingers a bit harder into that sensitive, untouched spot and you writhe embarrassingly beneath him.

“Wait…” Without a word, he slowly tugs down the thin cotton of your shorts. You hear him suck in a sharp inhale at the sight of you almost bare, all for him. Joel silently wishes he felt even a sliver more of guilt at the sight of your white ruffled panties. His best buddies daughter. Complete with a tiny bow at the center. But he doesn’t. If anything, it just confirms what he’s always known; that you’re his — — The only reason he’s kept that bastard around as company. For the promise of you. To be there for you. Like the time he drove ten hours to your campus for parents weekend when your father said he was too busy. A date, if he remembers correctly. But Joel didn’t mind the drive. He groans. It’s a deep, guttural noise and you blush. You were half expecting Joel to be more collected, more detached, but what would you know. Heat bubbles in your gut all the same as your hips buck once more. Joel eyes you like you’re something to eat. Biting the bone of his knuckle as you lay there, watching him, coyly, pressing your knees together in an attempt of preserving any semblance of your dignity.

In a split second, Joel’s head lowers to be level with your thighs. Gently spreading them apart to gain closer access to you and mouthing over the cotton material of your panties without a second thought. You whine, legs kicking out as you feel Joel’s mouth soil your panties even more than they already are. ”O-oh,” you try to push his head away, yet clamp your legs around his head in the same effort, overwhelmed at all of the sudden contact, but he just grips the backs of your knees — deepening his soft kiss over your still-clothed mound. You don’t know how to respond to the newfound pleasure except to try and squirm away, to which he simply hovers his head above you, replacing his mouth with a sturdy rub of his fingers, watching as your legs jolt and immediately kick at his shoulder blades; trying to squirm away from the pressure by scooting your body up the mattress. Joel tuts softly, grabbing the backs of your knees and heaves you back down toward him until you’re prone beneath him, legs forced to pliantly widen around the breadth of his burly torso. He pins you there by his hips, bearing his full weight onto you until you feel his pelvis against yours — meeting your core in a deliberate, brief grind and smirking when you twitch beneath him. “You gonna let me touch on you or you gon’ keep beatin’ me? Hm?” He does it again and you shiver.

“I’m not— I’m — stop being so — dramatic,” it’s hard to form a sentence with Joel is continuously rolling his hips against yours, not when you can feel just how hard he is. How he’s heavy against your core and you can’t believe that this is Joel.

Almost as if he could read what you were thinking, which would be feasible with the way you’re shuddering beneath him, he leans in for a greedy kiss, open mouthed and messy, before humming into the shell of your ear. “You feel that?” he punches his hips against yours to emphasize his wanting and your breath hitches.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he nips your earlobe, rocking against you once more to let you really feel the heft of him. To remind you of his brute size, to make sure you don’t forget that mounted above you is a man. Strong enough to have you crushed into the mattress with no effort, large enough that your legs are forced to part almost painfully wide to accommodate his virile size, old enough that he has the crows lines to prove it and an age that means you could’ve been calling him daddy and mean it. “You gon’ be good for me now?” you nod against your better judgment, exhaling a shaky breath as he lifts to slither his hand to the waistband of your panties. “You gonna let me see you?” he whispers, teasing you by faking a tug of your underwear just to snicker when your legs immediately clam.

“C’mon, darlin’. Don’t be like that. Spread ‘em legs for your old man.” You don’t, still shaking, not even budging the tense press of your knees when Joel tries to pry your legs open himself. He hums in contemplation. “Let’s get those trainin’ wheels off. How ‘bout that? How ‘bout this?” his calloused fingers trace their way along your abdomen to the edge of your cami top, rubbing the exposed skin where your top has rucked up, leaning down to kiss your navel gently. He peers up at you beneath hooded eyes when your hips shift. “Hm? What’dya say?” “O-okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, letting him slowly pull your shirt up the expanse of your torso and audibly groan at the sight of you exposed. Your bare breasts all his to leer at and he licks his lips, pinning your wrists beside your head when you reflexively go to hide your chest. “Fuck,” he murmurs beneath his breath, reaching out to rudely grip at your chest and smirking when you whine. Biting the flesh of your breast and groaning even louder. You shift uncomfortably beneath him, the burning of your core getting harder to ignore, and you buck your hips into nothing. Joel meets your restlessness with his fingers once more, rubbing small circles onto where you’re most sensitive.

“Joel—”

“— Let me make you feel good.” And this time you don’t oppose when he starts to tug your panties down, stealing a look between your legs before you can try and close them again, forcing your legs open with a rough grip on your knees and swearing, whistling lowly and you try reach out your leg to kick him in humiliation. “Dirty girl. You’re wet.”

You tuck your lip between your teeth. “Just… do something.”

Ignoring you, he continues his ogling; staring at you between your legs as though you weren’t there, reaching out to give you a curt smack over your core just to see how you would react. You yelp and squirm, trying to kick him once more and he laughs.

“Joel…” you’re getting fussy now. Rubbing your feet against the mattress and gnawing at your bottom lip, waiting for him to just stop scrutinizing you and do anything.

“Shh, baby. I’ve got you.” Tentatively, he finally touches you. Your breath hitches when he gently brushes his fingers against where you’re most sensitive. Pressing a bit harder when he sees your toes begin to curl and your eyes widen. “Pretty little pussy.”

“Stop—”

“Anyone ever touch you like this?” he asks you so casually that it sounds almost clinical. Like he isn’t currently touching you harder just to see you react in a way that makes his dick hard. “N-no,” you whine, leg jolting when he momentarily speeds up his motions, pressing harder onto your bud and rubbing tiny circles there.

“No? Really?”

“Fuck - oh! - off.” He chuckles, seemingly amused before he’s pulling his hand away and hooking them under your thighs to position himself between your legs once again. Lowering his head, blowing against where you’re bare to make you shiver.

“How ‘bout this? Anyone ever do this?” Joel peers up from between your legs, fixating his gaze onto yours and leaning to lazily kiss you right over the center of your core.

“Oh!” you yelp, the sensation of Joel’s mouth overwhelmingly hot against your clit makes your knees desperately try and clamp together. Joel wanted to tease you a bit. Bring you apart with his tongue. Play with you. But hearing you keen at just a measly kiss has his head spinning and cock hard — he ruts against your frilly sheets like a teenage boy, his large hands gripping the sides of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. Groaning at the taste of you and kissing and laving his tongue against your clit like a man starved.

It’s lewd. You’re so wet that you can audibly hear the squelches of where you meet Joel’s hot mouth and it’s obscene. Mortifying and mind-blowing. Your legs shake and hips spasm, but Joel just pins his forearm against your hipbones, holding you in place and shaking his head against you.

You try to bite your lip to keep your sounds at bay, but it’s no use — that unfamiliar build in your stomach creeps faster and faster and you’re moaning, too turned on and bewildered to stop yourself. Joel pulls away. Grinning when you whine, your chest heaving beautifully and Joel is possibly the hardest he’s ever been. Which is shocking, considering his age and that little blue pill he keeps on his nightstand.

“Why,” you whimper, hips squirming at the sudden lack of contact and Joel just laughs at you.

“Patience, sweet girl. Gotta get ‘ya ready.”

Ready? Oh. Ready.

Your attention is abruptly brought to the front of Joel’s jeans. The seemingly hefty bulge presses at the denim seams, so large that the fabric is taut and you gulp. If Joel senses your hesitation, he doesn’t say anything. He just wordlessly reaches his hand back between your legs, using your distraction to press a single bulking finger right between your folds.

You cry out, the stretch of his one finger being equal to two of yours and it burns. “Hurts—” he’s hovering above you, pinning your knees open with his own, mouth ghosting over yours and breathing down your neck. Kissing you softly on your jaw when he feels your tight, dripping cunt envelop him to the knuckle. “Fuckin’ hell. This all for me?” his finger presses impossibly deeper, curling and beneath the fullness, you’re starting to feel blips of pleasure beneath — sparking in bursts as he keeps curling his finger inside of you; gritting his teeth at how tight you pulse around his digit.

“Asked you a question darlin’,” he hums low into your ear, beginning to properly thrust his finger into you and smirk when your breath hitches, hips bucking into his touch. You can feel your slickness down your thighs and you burn in humiliation at the thought. Without warning, Joel tries to push in a second finger — groaning when your walls refuse him entry, clamping so tightly around his finger that he has to grit his teeth as to not come right there.

“Relax, baby. Ease up a bit, kiddo. Shit — fuckin’ stranglin’ my finger, ain’t ‘ya?” “Sorry. Jus’ feels really…!” you cry out once more, rutting your hips when his thumb comes to softly press at your clit. Your whole body shakes, and for a moment, you relax just enough so that Joel is able to push a second finger into you. His forehead presses against yours, thrusting two of his fingers into you and curling with no remorse. “Feels good, huh?” “Uh-huh!” you grind your hips back against his hand, feeling him stroking that spot inside of you that your measly fingers could never reach on your own. Your eyes roll back, your hand flying out to grab Joel’s wrist when he begins to move his fingers even faster and harder inside of you; you keen, your entire body tensing and back arching up and he impossibly slots a third digit into you, his wrist continuously circling and you — are you crying? ”So-full,” you whine, and sure enough there’s tears running down your cheek. He wants to tell you to just wait until he finally has his way with you, if he’ll even fit, but you’re clamping around his fingers so tightly that you’re unmistakably about to come. You feel beside yourself, the foreign noises you’re making registering but failing to register over the overwhelming heat coursing through your body, your toes curling and legs shaking.

“Wait-wait-wait-it’s too much… Joel!” he ignores you, curling his fingers into you with a crazed fervor that leaves you gasping, you weakly try to push his circling wrist away but it’s no use, your wrist limply falling to your side.

“Thaaats it, sweet girl. I’ve got you.” And, then, it violently crashes; your mouth slacking and body bowing as it spreads through you, searing white hot as you sob against his hovering mouth.

Your legs flail as it just keeps going, his fingers still moving inside of you and you cry out. “I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Da-” he has half the mind to cut himself off. You can barely register it over the crushing haze you’re in, your legs still twitching in the after effects of what is monumentally your first ever orgasm.

“What?” you timidly squeak, eyes still closed and panting for air, opening them to see Joel licking the fingers that were just inside of you, before watching as he palms himself over his jeans, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark, eyeing you beneath him with a predatory, hungry stare. Your mind goes blank. “Are we gonna…” you whisper. Shaky leg lifting to press your foot demurely against where the denim tents, and he groans, gripping your ankle and pressing a soft kiss to the skin there.

“Fuck?” he replies, curt and lewd and you blush, covering your face with your hands as if you hadn’t just cum all over his fingers. He smirks, and only now have you noticed that he’s still fully dressed and you’re completely bare beneath him.

“Dunno. Don’t know if you’re ready for that. You’re just a kid.”

“No… I am,” you whine petulantly and he tilts his head at you.

“You gonna be a big girl for me?”

You nod your head, hands grabbing at his rattled flannel to try and take it off yourself. “Yes. Yes, yes, I swear. Please.” He swats your hands away, peering down at you with a smirk in tow at your babbling.

“Oh, so she can be polite.” You’re reminded of all the times Joel tried to grill your please-and-thank-you’s into you. Not that you weren’t a polite, meek girl, you were, just not always with him — slacking on your manners at neighborhood barbecues and having to remind you by hovering your plate away from you, “what d’ya say?”, only passing it to you when you grumpily rolled your eyes and mumbled “please, sir.” You don’t dwell long on the queasiness that follows. Slowly, Joel lifts his shirt— his large biceps that he’s built from decades of construction and handy-work raising above his head to reveal the tan, built, albeit slight pudgy body that you’ve seen countless of times in his garage or by the lake, but never like this. Hulking over you and overwhelmingly man. Your eyes linger back on his face. Painfully handsome; his crows feet are a homecoming — cornering his soft, dark eyes — that sweet puppy-dog stare.

His salt and pepper scruff. Curling strands of greying hair. Saccharine tobacco. Humid southern air. The leather seats of his classic truck. “Alright smartass. Who sings this?”

Then, he moves to his belt, deft fingers pulling the leather through the loops and tossing it somewhere in the midst of your room, tugging his jeans down until he’s just in his boxers and then — oh.

He’s big. Not that there’s any history to compare him with, but it’s undeniable. You gasp at the sight, your eyes flickering to where he’s exposed himself. It looks almost sore. The thick tip of him dripping. The sight is vulgar. You gulp. Not quite sure what you were expecting, but the fat length of him and greying tuft of hair (even there!) an unrelenting reminder of his maturity, age, and above all, authority over you.

He examines your every reaction carefully, fisting himself for a moment and hissing upon the brief contact. He moves closer and forces your legs to spread to accommodate his bulking size; his body is so much larger than yours that your inner thighs burn at the stretch.

“That’s…are you sure that’s gonna… fit?” You whisper sheepishly and he barely hides his cocky smirk, hovering above you and pressing an achingly tender peck against your forehead, stroking the top of your head delicately before meeting your lips — unlike the other kisses; slowed and passionate. Intimate and gentle enough that it feels like conversation. He slots his lips against yours once, twice more; I love you, let me put my love into you, like this.

“We’ll make it fit. Always worryin’ your pretty little head, aren’t you darlin’?” With your hips forcefully splayed beneath him, he grabs himself and begins to line up his cock to where you’re embarrassingly wet. You squirm at the sensation.

“Always worryin’. Always stressin’. Poor baby.” He teases you, baiting you into holding your breath to see you buck your hips in anticipation as he traces your slit with his painfully red tip.

“Just need some lovin’, don’t-ya?” He slots the head of his member against your opening. Forcing the bulbous tip slightly inside of you and you gasp at the intrusion.

“Y-yes. Please.” Love me.

“Biiig stretch now, kiddo. It might hurt a little. But I’ve got ‘ya, okay?” You nod eagerly, lifting your head a bit to try and see him begin to enter you painfully slow, the both of you gasping, he leans against your forehead, tilting his own gaze downwards to watch alongside you. “Wait—it hurts,” you yelp, the stretch of merely the tip of him inside of you already barely manageable; he halts, trying to distract you with languid, tender kisses up the expanse of your neck. Trying for his own sake to think about anything about how tight you are. About how sacred this is. Your first time, your innocence, now his to shape. His little girl. All his. “Gotta let me in, sweetheart. Let me show you how to make love, baby.” You desperately wish that phrase would send your spine crawling rather than arching, his old man theatrics in any other scenario surely earning a snort from you, but instead, awfully, you whine, trying to spread your legs further to make space for him despite the stinging pain inside betraying you. Cautiously, he begins to move again. Pushing his length ever-so-slightly deeper until your heat has swallowed him halfway, your hips squirming in discomfort. Beneath him, you’re whining in bursts of piercing pain. You’ve never felt so full. Sweat is dripping between the two of you, his large arms bracketing your trembling frame and all you can see or think or feel is Joel. You peel your eyes open just enough to make eye-contact with him from above you, his silhouette impossibly broad and backlit only by the warmth of your bedside lamp, and by the glare of streetlights fluttering through your lace curtains.

He stares at you like he’s in disbelief. His eyebrows pinched and mouth slightly agape, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your own gasping mouth when he somehow gets even deeper — a sharp, shaky cry escaping you as he finally bottoms out. His hips finally flush against yours. He meets your wail with a groan of his own, slumping over you and inadvertently pinning his hipbones hard against the most sensitive part of you.

You try scramble away, clawing the sides of your bed, and then Joel’s bulking arms, but it’s no use — Joel’s full body weight presses against you. Fastening you to the mattress and any slight movement hurts; the thick weight of him splitting you open for him heedless of your aching. “It’s too much — you’re too much — too deep, Joel, you—”

“I know baby, I know. Hardest part is over. Just,” he gulps when you clench around him, nipping the skin of your jaw to keep him from thrusting into the wet heat of you. “Just gotta-fuck-trust me now, darlin’.”

“It hurts,” you subtly shuffle again to try and feel any bit of comfortability but it backfires — shooting a twinge of pain back through your spine and you cry out once again. Joel stops you by bearing even more of his body weight against you, tutting softly at your naive defiance and whispering gently in your ear. “C’mon, baby. Be brave for me. Don’t hurt yourself now.” He drags his knuckles against your pinched expression, leaning in for another doting kiss against your mouth. You feel his fingers trail their way down the expanse of your stomach to brush soft circles against your bud, caressing you there in hopes of distracting you from the ache. Pecking kiss after kiss and sighing contentedly when he feels you begin to slacken, just barely spasming around him and he shivers. “You feelin’ any better?” “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. Your hips jerk against Joel’s, but this time, you gasp — not in pain, but at the fleeting feeling of Joel’s thick moving inside of you. It aches, but the brief movement forces a meek moan to spill from your lips.

“Startin’ to feel good?” You nod again, bucking your hips experimentally and the both of you groan at the feeling. You do it again, huffing at the blips of pleasure when you feel the slight drag inside of you.

“Yeah, I think so…I think,” your hips move once more to consolidate what you’re about to ask for. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Can you, please, um, I think I’m ready.” “Y’sure?” And when your heel lifts to dig into the small of his back, he doesn’t question you again.

“Please.” You whisper, your saccharine voice breaking when he meets your tiny jolts with a single, lethargic thrust — carefully pulling his hips away until only the tip remains inside of you, then driving the entire length of him back inside with a deep roll.

You keen, back arching off the mattress despite Joel’s entire weight melded against you; writhing under him as he starts actually fucking into you with fervor, rocking the length of him into you and grunting in your ear.

If his fingers made you feel full before, this was an entirely different ballpark. You could almost swear you could feel every vein of his shaft and throb of him inside you as he fills you impossibly deeper.

“Joel,” you whimper, head tilting back and he latches frantically onto the expanse of your neck, biting so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning, but all you can care to think about or feel is Joel.

“Shh, baby.” He coos, using all his willpower as to not rut desperately into you, and to think about the old man that could very well be downstairs; passed out or just now clicking the door open. His calculated pace falters for a beat when both of your legs wrap tightly around the bulk of his lower back, meeting his languid pumps with a grind, moaning and squirming when he grazes against a spot you never knew to exist within you. His hips snapping against yours roughly and you nod eagerly.

“Yes, Joel. Feels good now, Joel. Joel,” you cry his name out like a mantra, “more. Please. Joel. Please. Pl—” “Fuck,” he growls, his hand clasping over your mouth and gripping the sides of your jaw, squeezing so tightly you almost bite your tongue. “You ‘tryna wake up the whole goddamn neighborhood?” You shudder, eyes rolling back and Joel’s careful composure is slipping — the sound of smacking flesh ringing through the room as he begins to really give it to you; brutally plunging into you and grunting with every erratic strike.

Your whines are stifled under his palm, and you’re so wet that you’re dripping — leaving a mess over Joel’s thighs and stomach.

His knee hikes up to position your leg open in a way that fills you even more, the stretch burning deliciously and you can’t do anything but take him, his pace unrelenting and bulk pinning you in position as you spasm. “That’s it, honey.” And then, he fucking leans even closer, hovering his face less than an inch away from yours, locking his gaze directly into yours and make-shifting a kiss over his hand — right over where your mouth would be under the current suffocation of his palm.

It’s getting too much. You’re bonded to the bed under his crushing weight, the feeling of him splitting you open sending tremors through you. You’re too full. He’s too deep. He’s hitting that same spot over and over and sending violent shivers through you. You try to tell him to stop, he’s too big, it’s too much, but it’s no use — his hand remains the same, fixed over your mouth, and you’re positive you’re drooling. “Thaaat’s the spot, hm?” He can hear your hiccuped moans beneath the muted suffocation of his palm. You can feel every drag of him inside of you. “Doin’ - fuck! - doin’ so well for me, ain’t ya?” He’s really starting to lose it now. Your heat tight as a fist around him, clenching wildly, and he can’t help but slump even more against you, groaning unabashedly into your ear. Going insane with how perfect you feel. How perfect you are. His sweet, precious girl. All his.

“Brave little girl.” His hips are slamming frenetically. “Doin’ so well for your daddy.”

Your eyes shoot open to meet Joel’s disheveled stare, eyes wide and his hips pause on the deepest part inside of you, holding right against that sensitive cluster of nerves and your hips frantically write against him.

If you were any less depraved as a girl, if you hadn’t held that awful void inside of you for so long, maybe you would’ve pushed Joel off of you. Told him to fuck off. Called him a creep.

You could try to blame it on Joel’s virile stature, curse it as irresistible, but you know he’s the only person that can patch that cavity. The only one you want to.

You sob — rolling against him in a frenzy and whining because yes. Yes. You want to tell him yes. The word growling out of him ringing true like a depraved piece of a puzzle slotting into place; his hips meeting yours desperately as he rocks into you again. Your hand clutches onto his wrist as you nod. Yes. He eases his grip over your mouth, weaving your lips together instead in a bruising kiss.

You’re whimpering unabashedly into the kiss. “I know, honey. I’ve got ‘ya. Daddy’s got ‘ya. Tell me who your daddy is.”

You might not be able to face yourself when dawn arrives, but right now, it feels too good to deprive yourself of what feels right. What settles into your bones like tantalizing belonging.

“You,” you whine, chasing his mouth to steal another zealous kiss.

“Say it. Shit, honey, you feel so fuckin’ perfect.”

“Ohmy-” his pace is the most merciless it’s been since he first entered you. Slamming against you ruthlessly and you can feel that coil begin to tighten.

“Who’s your daddy?”

“Joel—” You’re on the precipice. He can feel it. Clenching around him and he’s surely going to follow behind soon.

“Fuckin’ say it—”

“You! Daddy. Daddy. Daddy, please!”

“That’s right.” He growls, and your head is spinning with adrenaline. “Think that boy could do this to you? Be what you need?” He slows his thrusts into deep, passionate drives into you. “Be your fuckin’ daddy? No, baby. I’m your daddy, ain’t I? Shit, y’needed this. Needed a man. To make love to you.

“Yes. Daddy.” Nothing could drag him away from this moment. From you. Your sweet scent. Vanilla and soft whipped musk of you. Your heady skin. Your beautiful disposition. Holding his breath just looking at you. Dreading the release building in his gut because he knows he’s made his grave, and he’ll have to lay in it come daylight.

Your entire body seizes; arching and shuddering at the electricity convulsing through you. White sparkling light littering your vision as you clamp tightly around his length, quivering and keening at the shockwaves.

“I’ve got ‘ya. Thaaat’s it, sweet girl. Daddy loves you.”

‘Let me show you how to make love.’

Your mouth is agape, wordlessly clawing at his back to try and pull him even closer to you, trembling as he fucks you through it.

The first blush of daylight is creeping through your lace curtains, spilling silhouettes of the intricate netting across your bedroom floor. Still too early for the birds to sing yet. Delicate filigree shadowing the span of Joel’s skin, muted rays of light beginning to infiltrate your room and dimly light corners of your room.

“Daddy loves you. Fuck. ‘M close, baby. Shit. Shit.” He growls into your ear, rutting into you madly and your legs tighten around him.

“Please.” He tries to shrug you off him, head spinning with the fogginess of his imminent release, but you flash him a blissed out look; eyes glazed over and pressing a painfully delicate kiss against the junction of his neck.

Sweet thing you.

You’re still convulsing beneath him, frantically grinding your hips against hiss. “Please, daddy. Love you. I love you. IloveyouJoel—” His entire body weight slumps against you. Your bodies melding and shuddering against each other as you milk him through his orgasm. You can’t get close enough. Wanting to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

He groans; gruff and virile and Joel. All him. Spilling into you like he belongs there. Like he has the right to. His little girl. “I love you, daddy. I love you. I love you.”

And for a moment, breath gasping into each other’s mouth, and dawn-light lurking behind outside, you and Joel can play pretend.

A Close Call cowboykylo69 on ao3 [rough sex]

Beg @amanitacowboy [edging]

Beyond My Skin, Deep In My Bones @djarins-wife [breeding kink, rough sex, spanking]

Bleed For Me series @saradika (mand’alor!vampire!din x f reader)

Beskar Doll series JustAGalWhoWrites on ao3 (brat tamer! Din x f reader)

Best Kept Secret Chapter Six: Torment series @lincolndjarin "din djarin is a little shit, helmet stays on" (bodyguard! Din x f reader)

Close Quarters cptnbvcks on ao3 (dom! Din x f reader)

Colosseum Capers @beefrobeefcal (Din x Dieter Bravo x f reader)

Darkness Trilogy series @queenofslowburn (demon! Din x witch! reader)

Despoliation Of The Flesh series @djarinmuse (possessed! Din) [dddne]

Din's Kitten @honeybunnyale ["darkish! fic"]

Deep Into The Wilderness mandoinevarro on ao3 [sex pollen]

Fifteen series @whocaresstillthelouvre (Din x cam girl reader au)

Grip mandoandyodito on ao3 [dry humping, wet dream]

Heresy @kewwrites (demon! Din x f reader) [dddne]

How To Touch @petalsinblood ["Din has nipple piercings"]

Hyperspace Nights series @jedijesi (rough Din! x f reader)

In A Perfect World, You Love Me @theidiotwhowritesthings [forced drug, hallucinations]

In The Dead Of Night @kedsandtubesocks (creature cowboy! Din x f reader)

Interlude: Burn in My Bloodstream @prolix-yuy (Din x f reader, Din x Xi'an)

Ignite @withmyloveasyourgarden [sex pollen]

Kinktober Day 2: Din Djarin - deep throating, rope play with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober Day 3: dark!din djarin x fem!reader @darkuselesssomebody [sex pollen, dddne]

Kinktober Day 11: Din Djarin October 11 – punishment, spanking with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober 14 – somnophilia with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober Day 23: Din Djarin October 23 – boot licking, cock worship with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Leading Blindly @pascalispretty (virgin! Din x sex worker f reader)

Limitless | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["t.w. : Dark fic, Smut (with a robot that looks like Dinny Din Din >:)), Breeding Kink, Angst, Din and reader are both insane for each other"]

Like A Moth To The Flame series @the-scandalorian (monster! Din x f reader)

Mand'alor Cabur nautilicious on ao3 (Din x Boba Fett)

Mandalorian's Mercy // bonus content: din's poc series @silver-pieces (alpha!Din x omega!cis!woman!reader)

Mutual @the-scandalorian (sex worker!Din x f reader)

Prisoner - Part 1 @almostempty (Din x f bounty hunter reader)

Quarry series AK_Vintage on ao3 (Din x f prisoner reader)

Riduur in Training @absurdthirst [sexual grooming, training]

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker mandoinevarro on ao3 [bondage, face fucking, etc.]

Rough Day series no-droids on ao3 ["Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a 'fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob' kind of day"]

Secrets @absurdthirst (virgin! Din x f reader)

Shadows @burntheedges (monster! Din x f reader)

Sorgan Girls Are Easy- Solo Din Djarin murder-wife-deactivated20250628

Silent Genesis @sp00kymulderr [light choking]

Take Me To Church series on ao3 @frannyzooey is reworking to republish on Tumblr ["set in a brothel in the 1800s in the Wild West", Threesome F/F/M]

Take Your Time @ghostofaboy (Din x Cobb Vanth)

That Time Again @orcasoul [fluff but periods]

The Apostate Ch 1 series murder-wife-deactivated20250628 (fallen angel! Din, later chapters x ofc)

The Might Of The Realm @604to647 [bath sex]

The Way To A Great Wide Somewhere @myownwholewildworld (beast! Din x f reader)

The Throne @absurdthirst [pregnancy kink, breeding kink]

The Visitor Part 1 @whocaresstillthelouvre (husband din x omc! Jedi Kalel x f reader)

The Storm @frannyzooey (Ezra x Frankie Morales x Din Djarin x f!reader)

This Is The Tea @yespolkadotkitty [sex pollen]

Tight @frannyzooey [“'I don’t want you to wear anything but this when you sleep in my bed, okay?'”]

Told Before and Told Again @kiwisbell [sex pollen, "fuck or die"]

Torment series @djarinmuse ["They are both trapped and their captor has dark plans for them"]

Unexpectedly Mated @absurdthirst (alpha!Din x f!omega!Reader) [knotting]

Unfettered @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, use of restraints, "sex-pollened!Mando gets scary"]

Unrestrained @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, alternate version of Unfettered - if the chains broke]

Untitled or response to ask "A din that hasnt seen tits since he was 25, let alone TOUCHED THEM" @here-briefly

Untitled or "inspired by time for a haircut, king" @djarinmuse [masturbation] (Din x GN reader)

Welcome Home | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["Dark-fic!...Jealous, Possessive, implied crazy Din"]

Whispers In The Dark 2.0 series @kewwrites (dark! Din x f reader) [dddne]

You Were Marked series @handspunyarns (Din x *reverse age gap* *plus-sized* *fem* *afab* O/C) [dddne]

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

I listened to My Din YT Playlist while making this and had the best time.

Disclaimer: I haven't read all of these yet, I'm just feeling the vibes. Thank you to the authors - I tried to tag only once but Tumblr's not cooperating - if you'd rather not have your work mentioned please let me know. Din won't mind ;-P

And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces. 

So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day. 

And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”

His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.

It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.

Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.

So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.

He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it. 

The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.

Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.

And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good. 

But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.

Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.

The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.

Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like. 

He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.

But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips. 

You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack. 

Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark. 

“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”

He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.

It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”

You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock. 

Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.

You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back. 

He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”

When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you. 

His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one. 

In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.

Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do. 

Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.

When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with. 

Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.

He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche. 

Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that. 

But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.

He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.

When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response. 

Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”

He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve. 

But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.

He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity. 

Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.

He slides in real easy.

You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.

It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home. 

Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace. 

There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it? 

He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.

He wants to savor the way you love him. 

“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.

You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.

It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation. 

The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much. 

Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves. 

Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.

He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.

“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”

He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble. 

Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.

He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.

You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.

Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest. 

When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.

“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."

'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.

You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.

Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.

You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.

Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.

By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.

You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.

For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.

It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.

Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.

He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.

After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.

The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.

You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.

You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.

You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.

"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.

"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.

"Who did this to you?"

"Joel, it's—"

"Who?"

You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.

"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."

"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"

"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."

Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.

Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"

"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."

For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.

"Let's get you home and cleaned up."

Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.

"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."

You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.

"Joel, what—"

"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.

Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.

Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.

Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.

Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.

The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.

You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.

Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.

"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."

You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.

"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."

He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.

The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.

Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.

"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."

"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.

"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."

You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.

"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.

Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."

"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."

"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."

She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.

"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."

The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.

The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.

You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.

"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.

"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.

Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.

"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."

"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."

Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."

The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.

"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."

Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.

"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."

You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.

"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.

"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"

"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."

You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.

"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."

You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.

"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."

"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"

"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."

The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.

"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"

Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.

"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."

"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."

"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"

Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.

"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.

"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."

It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.

You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.

You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.

"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."

You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.

It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.

In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.

Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.

"Who are you?" You ask.

"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.

"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.

The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"

"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."

"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.

"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.

"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"

"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."

"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.

"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."

You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.

Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.

"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."

You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."

"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"

"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."

"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."

"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.

"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."

Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."

Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.

"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.

"James."

"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.

"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."

"Hypothetically."

"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."

"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"

"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."

They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.

You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.

The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.

You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.

When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.

For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.

You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.

James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.

"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."

The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.

"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."

The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"

"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."

"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"

"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"

"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."

You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.

You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."

James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."

"Why are you so far away from home?"

He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."

"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."

"Your community. Where is it?"

"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."

You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.

"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."

Look at them. All dolled up for the club, short dresses and long legs, bright make up and sparkling glitter on their chests and arms. In an hour or so they’ll look different — the make up will be smudged, the glitter will fade after sweating on the dance floor. They’ll lose their previous shine and leave the club in various stages of ’drunk’. This is when Joel will get them.

He doesn’t deal with too drunk ones. He’s not into it. He might help their friends to load them into a cab but nothing else.

Joel loves the tipsy ones though. Their glossy eyes, their constant giggling, their wet pussies. Of course, he still needs to work his charm, flash them a playful smile, run his big hand through his salt and pepper curls, flex his strong forearms. They don’t even know it but he’s got them the moment they stare at his bulge. He adjusts the prominent lump shamelessly, attracting their attention to it. Not that they can miss it anyway.

The only visible flaw of Joel is his age. Not every 20 or 30 year old wants to fuck a guy who’s pushing 50. That’s when the alcohol they drank at the club comes in handy.

Here’s one. She stumbles out of Paradise in her high heels like a newborn lamb, tapping on the phone, probably trying to get an Uber, and a few moments later Joel steps out of the shadows and into the pink neon light.

"Hello, miss. You seen my daughter in there? M'supposed to pick her up but she's not answerin."

The young woman blinks at him with confusion so he continues,

"Long curly hair, green dress...No?" Then he pulls his phone out and pretends to check his messages.

"Ugh... Says she's gonna be there for another hour. She always does that." He shakes his head with a deep sigh. "Woke me up in the middle of the night to get her and now..."

It works wonderfully. The hottie sings a long 'Awwww‘, cooing at the older man the same way she would at a cute kitten. He's the world's best dad in her eyes - sweet and devoted, horribly underappreciated by his ungrateful daughter. He's got his hook in and now it's time to reel her in.

"Oh! I can give you a lift. My truck's right here. Can take you to your place and then return to get Bunny."

"Oh my godddd," she squeals, melting at the cute nickname for his daughter. In reality if he called Sarah Bunny she'd probably throw something heavy at him and tease him till the end of times, but this chick instantly believes him and in a minute hops into his car.

Now it's time for the catch. Joel is confidently stirring the wheel with one hand, driving her to the address she's given, and talks her pretty ears off. Not that he needs to do a lot of talking. A few phrases are enough —

'S'not easy bein’ a single dad’

‘Yeah, it's two of us against the world.’

'She means everything to me.'

BOOM!

The girl's panties are on the car floor and she's bouncing on his cock in the back seat. Her whole tit in Joel's mouth, he's swirling his tongue over the salty skin of her erect nipple. Her pussy is tight and soft, the juices are flowing generously around his shaft, her slick is all over his balls, but it's ok — he'll ask her to clean them with her tongue later before she swallows his huge load.

Joel never plans what exactly he’s gonna do to them. He wings it, sees where the mood takes them. Nothing’s off the table but only if the girl’s into it.

Tonight he’s a little tired after managing his contracting company but still drives to Paradise to treat himself. He gets a fresh pack of condoms on the way and a bottle of water. For her. His girls are always thirsty after he’s done with them.

As soon as he sees the pink neon lights of the sign in his windshield, his cock twitches in excitement.

“Shh, calm down,” Joel grumbles, adjusting himself. “S‘too early. Haven’t found anyone yet.”

He knows he will. If not the first will say ‘yes’, then the second. He’s patient. He’s got the whole night.

Ten minutes after he’s here, a group of four women exits the club. Joel is watching them from his truck— their animated chatter rings loudly in the empty street. Joel narrows his eyes, carefully studying the women through the haze of cigarette smoke surrounding them.

He’s not religious but at this moment he prays for one of them to split up from the group. You.

They’re all hot, besides Joel doesn’t have a type, but damn you’re gorgeous. There’s something so captivating about you that even from the distance Joel feels your magnetic pull. “Fuck,” he mutters, palming himsleft, imagining what he could do to a sweet thing like you.

C’mon, ditch the others, baby. Come to daddy.

He fidgets in his seat, seeing the three women hug you, hopefully saying goodbye, and almost fist pumps when they go back into the club, leaving you outside.

You’re alone.

Here’s his chance.

You slowly walk away from the entrance, pulling out your phone out of your bag, and Joel hurries out of his truck.

Show time.

Joel strides to you, not hiding the sound of his heavy steps on the pavement, but when only a few steps separate you and him, his legs freeze. He takes you in and suddenly feels like a nervous teenager who’s about to talk to the hottest girl in school. A doubt crawls into his chest and he frowns.

Should he approach you?

No way you’ll go with him.

Probably waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up..?

”Hello.”

You address him first and Joel’s heartbeat skyrockets, when you set your beautiful eyes on him. They’re full of curiosity, and nervously shifting on his feet, Joel clears his throat and croaks a low ‘Howdy.” You give him a polite smile, waiting for him to talk, your expression calm and warm.

For a second Joel contemplates turning around and leaving, but a playful glint flashing in your gaze puts him back in the game.

He takes a step towards you and starts bullshitting you about his daughter being in the club, but your eyes throw him off immediately. They aren’t droopy or hazy like other women usually have after a night of partying. No, they’re intent and seemingly stare right into his soul. Joel doesn’t like it. A weird feeling is gnawing at his stomach, like his gut’s telling him to back off, but acting on autopilot he pulls out his phone and lies,

“Oh…got a text. She’s not leaving yet.”

His heart is pounding in his chest, sweat beads on his temples, when you tilt your head to the side, your piercing gaze fixed on him.

What the fuck is happening?

All the girls he picks up are hot, what’s so different about you, that he can’t get his shit together?

He’s not getting any usual reactions from you, not a single ‘aww’ follows his deceitful words.

“Would you like a ride?” Joel finally blurts out, not believing for a second you’ll say ‘yes’ after this failure of a performance.

You stare at Joel for a few long seconds, making him hold his breath, until you say something that completely pulls the rug out from under his feet,

“That would be great, Mr Miller.“

…….

‘Mr Miller?’

Fuck!

Fuckfuckfuckfu….

Joel feels like a mouse when kitchen lights turn on - scared, anxious, caught.

He fakes a smile, his hands curling into loose fists, and asks, feigning calmness,

“Do we know each other?”

You put your phone in your little purse, nodding and smiling,

“Yeah, Sarah and I were friends in high school.”

Shit.

“For some time,” you add and tell him your name. He doesn’t remember you but ’Sarah’s friend’ is more than enough for him to back off. You might be sexy as hell but he’s got principles. He chose Paradise specifically because it was far away from his neighbourhood, the risk of running into someone who knew him seemed minuscule, yet apparently it still existed.

“Sorry, it doesn’t ring any bells. I guess I'll get going. Nice meetin you. Have a good night.”

Joel offers you a polite smile and starts walking away. He can’t wait to drive off and forget this fuckup has ever happened.

“Mr Miller!”

His heart plummets into his stomach as he turns back to you.

“Yeah?”

“You offered me a ride.” You remind him, looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours. They lure him in but promise trouble.

“Oh!” Joel rubs his scruffy cheek and curses under his breath. “Yeah, sure.”

Your face lights up and you hurry to the truck. Joel trails after you, leering at your gorgeous ass, but then turns his eyes away with a grunt.

Of course, there was a possibility that someone would recognize him hanging around that club but he didn’t expect it to happen today. Maybe that’s why he felt so uneasy moments before talking to you — his intuition was telling him that you were bad news.

And you are bad news alright — your dress is too short not to stare at your naked legs, your neckline is too low not to ogle your tits, but Joel keeps his eyes on the road with determination, driving you to the address you’ve given.

“Thank you for the ride, Mr Miller,” you interrupt his thoughts, sitting in the passenger seat, and add, “It’s very kind of you.”

Joel shifts his jaw, his gaze piercing the darkness outside. If you talk about him being at the club, it all could end very badly. He has a good reputation in town, he doesn’t need any rumours spreading around. And if it reaches Sarah? The thought makes his stomach turn.

For a few minutes it’s completely quiet in the truck, except for the growling of the motor. Joel’s glad that you don’t wanna do small talk — driving along the empty road calms his heartbeat, taking the weight off his chest. ’It’s gonna be ok,’ he thinks, he'll drive you to your place and then go home. And no hook ups tonight. He’s too agitated.

”Mr Miller?”

He swallows hard.

“Hm?”

“Is Sarah in town?”

“No, she’s in college. Out of state,” Joel mumbles, glancing at you, and sees your brows shoot up as you ask,

“But you said she was at the club.”

Shittttttttt!

Joel kicks himself in the nuts in his mind, his knuckles whiten from how hard he’s gripping the wheel.

How is he so fucking dumb?!

“I… got confused I guess,” he mumbles, trying to dig himself out of the shit hole.

“You said she sent you a text. From the club.”

“No, yeah.. I ..”

Joel’s trying to come up with a plausible explanation, but his brain is an anthill on fire. Nothing comes to mind, his thoughts are a mess.

“You lied to me?”

Joel side eyes you — your brows pinched, lips in a pout, suspicion loud in your gaze.

“No! Why would I do it?” he gruffs but the ire in your tone burns him when you press,

“Exactly. Why would you?”

He turns his head to you and your eyes lock. He should concentrate, should come up with an excuse, but your beauty turns his brain into mush, and trying to shake off the spell, he breaks eye contact.

“I saw that you needed a lift. Wanted to help out.”

The silence that follows his words doesn’t bring him comfort now, it’s ringing loudly in his ears. You must be thinking all of it over and it can’t be good. He’s actually glad when you finally talk, yet his joy is short-lived as you conclude,

”You created that whole story to lure me into your car.”

Fucking bingo!

When you put it like that, Joel starts feeling like a giant creep. But are you wrong? You’ve just described what he’s been doing for weeks.

Your next question hits him like a punch in the gut.

“Are you a serial killer?”

“No, damn! ‘course not!” Joel raises his hand, palm to you, and searches for your eyes, fast to reassure you. “I’ll never hurt you, sweetheart.”

His heart is pounding in his ears —what if you call the police on him…? Tonight feels like a never ending nightmare, and he offers, his voice strained,

“I’ll pull over right away and get you an uber.”

All of a sudden you start laughing,

“No-no-no. I’m not afraid of you, Mr Miller.”

You continue giggling as he’s staring at you, realising that you’re fucking with him.

“I watch true crime to relax, I’m not afraid of serial killers anyway.”

“I’m not a serial killer,” he insists passionately but you continue,

“Besides, if you were” — “m’not!”— “you’re much stronger than me and if you wanted to kill me, — “Jesus, I don’t!— “I wouldn’t be able to fight you off.”

“I don’t wanna … ugh..” Joel huffs, feeling annoyed and frustrated. How the hell did the conversation get here? You’re fucking trouble. He should’ve left you on that street.

“Mind if I smoke?” he gruffs, pulling a pack out of his pocket.

“Go ahead,” you purr, and completely unaware of Joel’s inner tsunami of thoughts, get comfortable in your seat — throw off your heels, put your purse in the back and slightly turn to him, crossing your legs. Joel lights a cigarette and throws a glance at them. Ugh, he’s too irritated to appreciate your naked thighs.

”Then what was it all about?” you ask softly in the darkness of the car.

Joel doesn’t say anything, he’s already said too damn much. Instead he takes a drag in hopes of calming down.

”Did ya wanna hook up?”

Joel scoffs and glares at you.

“No. I— I just wanted you to get home safe.”

“Mmm really?” Your tone’s dripping with doubt. “So you just appeared out of nowhere and lied to me so you could give me a ride? Because you’re such a good guy? No hidden intentions?”

Joel feels that the more he talks the deeper grave he’s digging for himself, so he decides not to respond again and brings the cigarette to his lips.

You sigh.

“Mr Miller. We’re both adults. Tell me the truth.” Honey in your voice sends a shiver down his spine. Are you flirting with him? Damn minx.

”I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Joel’s ears perk up.

“Anyone?” He repeats.

“Not a soul.”

He stops the truck at a red light, throws the half finished butt out of the window and gives you a long look. You’re fumbling with your necklace, inviting him to stare at your cleavage. Your lips are glossy and enticing, they must feel amazing, the idea of tasting them sends blood to his cock. You’re batting your lashes at him, gaze soft and intimate.

Yeah, baby, you definitely want this cock.

No! He can’t!

Joel averts his eyes and drives. He shouldn’t believe you. He should calm down and shut up. But like a magnet you pull him back with a quiet hum. His gaze involuntarily travels back to you and when he sees your brows pinched, your sparkling eyes pleading, your lips in a little pout, something flips in his brain. He wants to give you whatever the fuck you want, wants to confess all his sins to you. The words jump out of his mouth as if by themselves as he admits,

“I meet women this way.”

Joel braces himself for your reaction but hears none— for a few seconds it’s just silence. When he turns his head to you, you pang his pride with a smirk.

“I knew it,” you state, not a trace of surprise.

Joel frowns at you and grumbles,

“Good for you.”

Looking pleased with yourself you continue,

“So you give them a ride and then get their number?”

“Nah, I don’t do numbers.” He rubs the back of his neck, not saying anything else, letting you come to the understanding by yourself.

“Woahhh.” Your brows rise up as you say, “you just fuck them.”

Clever girl, you got it fast.

Joel’s head darts to you — a playful glimmer shines in your eyes. You both know you crossed a line when that word fell from your lips. And damn, he loves the way you say it.

“Yeah, we have sex.”

You’re nodding slowly and Joel might be mistaken but you look almost impressed. He feels a strange mixture of guilt and pride at your unexpected reaction.

”You take them to your place?”

“No, never. We do it in the car.”

“Ewww!!” You squeal, sitting up and lifting your arms off the seat, as if the whole car is covered in bodily fluids. “You fuck them in this truck?!”

“Jesus, relax, I clean up after.”

Joel shoots you a glare and you lean back, giggling,

“Still eww.”

For some time you don’t say anything, your eyes are sliding over the night outside the truck window. Joel runs his hand through the greying curls as fear tugs at his heart. What if you lied to him about keeping it a secret? What if you’re disgusted by him? Of course, you are. Sticky feeling nests in Joel’s stomach as he’s driving you to your place, but your next phrase makes him forget all about his gloomy thoughts.

“Tell me about the last time.”

Joel turns to you to see if you’re serious. Seems that way — a little smile curves your pretty lips but your narrowed eyes are pushing him to answer. Joel shakes his head with a chuckle.

”No way.”

“Pleaseeee, Mr Miller,” you beg. “I’m so curious. I’ll keep it to myself. Girl Scout honour!” You raise three fingers in the air, and your charming smile disarms him.

Joel rubs his scruffy chin with a sweaty palm, the other steering the wheel. For a few moments it’s just silence until he speaks,

“Promise not to tell Sarah that you saw me today.”

”Mr Miller, I’ve said it already and I'll say it again. I won’t talk to anyone about you and your… hobby. In fact, I got a cab home.”

“Good girl.” The words slip out of his mouth on accident and he curses but the damage is done. When your eyes meet, he sees fire in them. Biting your lip you tut,

“Mr Miller.”

“S’not like that,” he rushes to explain. “I meant ‘good’ that you won’t talk.”

“Rightttt,” you smirk. “So?”

Joel shifts his jaw contemplating his response. If you get what you want, maybe you’ll keep your promise. He needs you to. So he caves in.

“Saw her outside the club. Offered a ride. She agreed. We talked. Then I parked at the side of the road and ehm.. we fooled around. Then I drove her to her place.”

“Fooled around? Nah-uh! I need details.”

Joel scowls at you but your eyes bend his will in seconds. He stares at the road ahead and talks, his voice soft, as if someone could overhear him,

“She was sexy. Was wearin a short dress— kinda like yours. I told her a little about myself… this and that… she —,” Joel clears his throat and continues, “she gave me head. Bent over and sucked me off —right here — and I fingered her.”

He feels blood rushing to his cock, but not only because of the memory. The woman was hot, yeah, but telling you about it— that’s what’s turning him on to the maximum.

Your voice is breathy and barely audible as you ask,

“Did she swallow?”

Your sensual tone together with the question makes Joel’s cock throb, he’s probably leaking into his boxers already as he rasps,

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

The air in the car is now heavy and electric. Joel can’t help but throw glances at you while headlights of the passing cars light up your face, your tits, your legs — the vision sends a lustful shiver through his body. He needs to jerk off when he’s home.

You don’t give him a respite and your next question almost pulls a groan out of him,

“Did you make her come?”

He doesn’t tear his eyes off the road as he replies,

“Yeah.”

In his peripheral vision Joel notices you squirming in your seat and a corner of his lip curves up— he loves that the story’s making you horny. If only he could see you needy, begging for his cock right now.

Damnit! What’s wrong with him? You are Sarah’s friend. He mustn’t think about you this way.

“Ok. That’s enough.” He gruffs and takes a deep breath, trying to smother his own arousal.

“Do they wanna meet you again? After…” You ask, ignoring his last sentence.

“Usually, yes. I give them a random number. Don’t wanna offend..”

You gasp exaggeratingly with your hand on your chest.

“Oh my god! You’re such an asshole!”

Joel can’t help but chuckle and at the back of his mind for some strange reason he wants to impress you. Even with his depravity.

“I’m just not looking for anything serious, darlin. We have fun and never see each other again.”

“Fascinating,” you mumble, your eyes on the road.

“Hmm?”

You seem to be thinking out loud, talking more to yourself than him,

“How d’you do it? Yeah, you’re a hot dilf, but … How do you make them sleep with you so fast?”

Joel grunts but his chest expands when he hears your praise.

“I don’t make anyone do anything. It’s all consensual.”

“Well, they are drunk.”

“Not drunk. Tipsy.”

You hum again and he hates it. Hates how smug you’re looking… how hot.

“You can judge me, I ain’t stoppin you,” he throws with a shrug.

“Who said I’m judging?”

His eyebrow flies up and you shrug your shoulders mimicking him.

"No one's perfect. We all do questionable shit from time to time. Doesn’t mean we’re bad people.”

Joel doesn’t say anything. Your words make him feel warm in his chest and he glances at you, saying softly,

“You can call me Joel.”

“Yeah, I bet you’d want me to, Mr Get-into-my-truck.” You immediately shut him down with a smirk and Joel scoffs,

“S’ not like that with you.”

“Sure, Joel,“ you giggle, sitting up straight. “Can you stop over there?” You point at the corner of the street with your hand. “I’ll walk the rest of the way. Don’t want my dad to wake up and lecture me.”

Wanting to taunt you back, Joel asks, “Ain’t you a bit old to be lectured? Or is he overprotective?”

You clear your throat and nod,

“Yeah, something like that.”

He pulls over and you unfasten your seatbelt.

“I’m gonna watch you, make sure you’re home safe.“

“Yeah, right. Probably gonna stare at my ass.”

He huffs with annoyance but your giggle makes him smile, too.

“Good night, Joel,” you purr, looking him right in the eye. The way you say his name sends more blood to his stiffening cock.

”Night, sweetheart,” he gruffs and you laugh again.

Then you get out of the car and walk to your house.

Just like you predicted, Joel stares at your perky ass. Your hips are swaying so seductively, Joel palms his cock, and a groan falls from his mouth.

He’s definitely going to jerk off.

On the way home Joel’s mind is occupied by you. Your questions and his answers are swirling in his head on a loop. Why has he told you so much? He should’ve been more careful, more reserved. But damn, your eyes, your body, your soft voice… He’d like to do so much more than talking. But, you’re off limits. You know too much about him. Make him feel too much. He must forget about ever meeting you, let alone looking for a way to see you again.

Unfortunately for Joel, you give him no choice when a week later you show up at his doorstep.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the chapter! Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future parts💞

Chapter II | Series Masterlist | MASTERLIST

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Series tag list: @pedrofan

The sudden inhalation through your nose is probably louder than his confession, but no one seems to notice over the din of table conversation and clinking cutlery.

You swallow the mouthful of turkey and stuffing he’d caught you in the middle of chewing and clear your throat delicately, cutting off another bite-size piece of turkey with your knife and fork, ignoring the comment. Maybe a little smaller of a piece than you have been, so you don’t choke if he chooses to slink his way through another remark like that.

A wise decision, as once your fork is in your mouth, you hear that telltale accent murmuring something else. “Did you shave it all smooth for me again?”

You huff quietly, taking a sip of your wine, and speaking into the glass covertly, “I did nothing for you, Billy.”

“Tha’s alright, love. Didn’t care about it last time neither. I don’t mind a little safari through the jungle s’long as there’s a wild cat waitin’ for me through the bush, eh?”

Your eyes snap to him again, and he’s cool as a cucumber, an arm now draped over the back of your chair as he shovels mashed potatoes onto his fork and takes a casual bite.

“It’s a no, Billy,” you whisper sternly, sitting up in your chair. Your body tenses slightly when his fingers brush against the back of your neck in what could be an entirely innocuous move. But you know him better than that.

“Then why’re your little thighs squeezin’ so tight it’s like I got my head between ‘em sneakin’ an early dessert?”

You want to spit a cutting remark back at him. Growl in frustration. But how could you argue against that when the plush of your thighs, only half concealed by your dress, don’t have a whisper of air to speak of between them as your pussy clenches traitorously.

You can’t do this again with him. The first (and only) time had only been slightly on purpose. Last Thanksgiving.

Fuck him, you had shaved for him back then. You were less sure of yourself last year. More self-conscious and more eager to impress. You’d met him a handful of times in passing, him being a frequent contact of your father.

Billy…his eyes had always lingered on you. It had made you hot. Willing. An older man, nothing but trouble and chaos in his quirked smile and dark eyes. Last Thanksgiving had been your shot, and you’d taken it.

And fuck, did the bullet land precisely where you’d aimed it. You’d never fucked in your childhood bed before. You’d never fucked a man that much older than you. Both proved to be hotter than sin in both imagination and in practice.

But he didn’t call. Didn’t even text. And the next time you saw him, in discussion with your father out on the porch, Billy just offered you a swift, salacious wink and a gentle curl of his tongue when your father’s back was turned to him.

You’d partially expected him to conjure an excuse to follow you into the house, play your post-Thanksgiving dinner game again in your bedroom. But, again, he never came. By the time you left the house, he was gone.

Every time you’d seen him since, it had been more of the same. And you’d grown jaded with it over the past year. You’d resolved yourself to never giving into him again, if he ever did try his luck with you.

And here he is, trying his luck. And here you are, wet and dripping for it like a whore.

You promised yourself, you remind your pussy insistently. He isn’t good for you. Anyone would tell you that. Your father would scalp the both of you if he found out. Just. Leave. It.

“Well,” he announces to no one but you, or anyone in the adjoining seats as he stands, “I’m hittin’ the loo.”

His fingers blaze across the back of your neck, your shoulders as he departs from the table. He doesn’t look back at you as he rounds the corner out of the dining room.

He’s good. He’s really fucking goddamn frustratingly good.

You stare at your plate for another three minutes. You know, because your brain can’t seem to shove out the tick tick tick of your father’s grandfather clock in the corner.

He’s waiting.

You take a steadying breath and lie down your cutlery, excusing yourself politely and promising to be back promptly.

Your dress feels tighter, but you don’t think you’ve eaten enough yet for it to be the fault of the meal. Perhaps it just feels more suffocating. Harder to breathe. The cocktail dress is already tight, forming to your curves. You should’ve given more foresight to your attire, knowing that Billy would surely be here to torture you.

But you just hadn’t been sure. He hadn’t taken the bait since. He hadn’t even tried. How were you to know he was still thinking about…about your…wet little cunt as he’d so respectfully put it.

You check each bathroom in your father’s egregiously large house. Each restroom has been cracked open, no one inside. Until you head upstairs, to the one in the back. It’s closed. A slight shadow in the crack beneath the door. You take another resolute breath. Your hand rises to knock on the door at least three times, chickening out each time in succession.

On the fourth rise, the door simply creaks open without you making contact at all.

There he is, all dark eyes and dark hair and smug grin, his smile lines carved in full force, devastating you even through the minimal crack in the door. He opens it wide enough to tip his head against the door frame, scan you up and down with that look in his eyes and the smarm on his lips.

“There’s the girl,” he rasps quietly, stepping back just enough for you to slide through the gap.

Your ass presses against the marble of the counter, hands clamping onto the edge as Billy latches the door silently and twists the lock, his eyes plastered to your body in your dress as he’s practically pressed up against you. His patterned button up undone halfway down his chest, the button on his jeans popped.

He makes you feel severely overdressed, but his eyes don’t seem to mind.

“You chose the smallest bathroom in the house,” you whisper.

“I chose the furthest bathroom in the house.”

“Not sure why. Barely heard a peep from you in a year,” you remark bitterly, avoiding his gaze.

He cocks his head. “And you don’t find the cat ‘n mouse game the least bit exhilarating?” He asks, his hands laying on top of yours around the sink’s edge on either side of you.

“Not if the cat already caught the mouse,” you mutter defiantly, meeting his playful glint with your petulant glare.

“I’m sorry for keepin’ you waitin’, love. But innit just a little more fun this way?” He smirks, his mouth drifting to your jaw, planting a soft kiss, then another, as your heart begins to stutter in your chest. “The ‘will we, won’t we’ of it all?”

“Not much of a ‘will we, won’t we’ if you’re the one calling the shots, is it, Butcher?” You point out, a small, breathy moan escaping as he nips at your earlobe.

“I ain’t callin’ no shots. You came up here.”

“Because you knew I would follow,” you say breathlessly, a large hand creeping up your thigh and slowly rucking up your skirt.

“Oh, now, love. I don’t know anythin’ more than you do.”

“Bullshit,” you sigh out, your breath hitching at the end when his fingers brush over the cotton of your panties.

“Now, do I know an eager little slut when I see one? Sure. But I can’t be blamed for just settin’ a trap. It’s the mouse’s job to not…” his finger draws the gusset of your thong to the side and slips through your embarrassingly slick folds, “fall into said trap, eh?”

You gasp at his thick finger stroking through your sex, glancing off your already puffy clit, that goddamn cocky grin firmly in place as you buckle beneath a single finger.

An even smuttier smile wrinkles his eyes as he explores more between your lips. “You shaved, naughty girl.”

“S-shut up,” you dismiss sharply, because fuck him.

He wasn’t supposed to find that out. He wasn’t supposed to find out that you’d shaved for him, because he never should have asked if you had, for you to have to lie and tell him you hadn’t in the first place as a “fuck you”. Fuck him.

God, you need to fuck him.

“W-we need to make this quick. My father will n-notice we’re both gone,” you stutter through, your eyes rolling slightly as he slips inside you with ease, two fingers piercing you through with assured movement.

Billy’s lips graze your ear as he coos, “Bend over for me and it’ll go a right sight quicker.”

You moan as he crooks his fingers inside you. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” you exhale.

Billy smirks, pulling from your wet clutch and wrenching you around to face the counter, pushing firmly between your shoulders as your head lowers into the basin of the sink with nowhere else to go.

You should turn the faucet on. Shock yourself out of this trance that Billy has you under and go back to dinner. Forget you’ve ever had this man inside y—

His hands are shoving your skirt up over your ass, ripping your panties down your hips, and then again…there he is. Massive and imposing against your fluttering hole, just as you remember. Only last time…last time he’d ordered you to hold your legs, lift your head, and watch him stretch you open around him.

Filthy, filthy fucking old man. God, you need him.

“Deep breath in, little dove. ‘M sure you remember,” he instructs.

Fuck, do you remember.

And fuckall does a deep breath do for you when he’s mounting you like a bitch with a cock as thick as your fist.

Furthest bathroom was the right move. Because even with his hand smashed over your mouth, you’re terrified that your primal moans carry.

Everyone had been wine-drunk and passed out in their post-feast stupors last time. They’re all conscious and conversing now. Maybe they’ve already noticed the pair of you gone, the more crass family friends already concluding that you’re currently bent over a bathroom sink, your guts getting ran through by a man twice your age with your plate still half full of meticulously prepared food growing cold.

“That’s it,” he praises in your ear huskily, hips pistoning into you at an unforgiving pace. “That’s a cunt that knows how to take a beating, innit love?”

You squeal and scream, muffled significantly by his well-placed hand.

“Come on, scream loud enough for your daddy to hear it down there,” he grunts, clamping onto your shoulder with an iron grip. “While you’re at it, scream loud enough for your daddy that’s right ‘ere to hear ya.”

You sob into his hand, your pussy clenching and pulsing at his words. A desperate, shaking hand dives between your legs, rubbing at your clit as he slams into you from behind, pouring filth into your ear.

“That’s right, come on this cock. Such a tight little fuckin’ cunt. Make her squeeze a bit harder for me.”

You swear to god your eyes cross as your orgasm hits you at full speed, your own fingers spasming slightly as they scrub frantically at the sensitive nub and send your climax splintering through your body.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts out, his cock throbbing and raging inside your cunt as he chases down his own completion. “Get on your knees. Get on your fuckin’ knees,” he grits out, your cunt clenching around the absence of him as he pulls out.

Your brain hazy, you’re fairly certain that he puts you on your knees himself. You see his face collapse in pleasure, the divot between his brows deepening, an almost pained look in his eyes as he strokes his cock with rapid movements.

“Fuckin’ open,” he growls out in an unwavering demand, and your mouth drops open in obedience, tongue rolling out like a red carpet for him. The angry tip of him explodes across your taste buds, and reflex has you snapping your lips closed around the head as he spills himself into your mouth.

Your eyes fall closed with a shameless moan as you suck his spend straight from the tip, your hand thoughtlessly coming to cup his balls and massage as they pump you full of him.

“Fuck,” he curses, an edge of exhaustion in the word as he pulls his cock free of your lips and grips the counter to catch his weight. He gives a tight, breathless chuckle as he looks down at you, your tongue already proudly displaying what he’d given you. “Hungry bird, ain’t you, little dove.”

He taps the underside of your chin in silent instruction. You obey wordlessly, closing your mouth to swallow him down.

“Good girl,” he rasps out, running a thumb over your lips. “Still got most of your dinner waitin’ downstairs. Better not let on that you just got a bellyful of daddy’s dear ol’ friend, eh? Not lookin’ to lose both my heads.”

--

Sequel (Well, Prequel) Here!

T = Toy

Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?

Din’s apprentice journeys took him to many shadowed corners of the Outer Rim. After all, he had to learn how to fight in uncontrolled conditions. But it wasn’t until he ventured out into the galaxy alone, chasing credits and quarry, that he discovered the seedier side of the underworld, and with that came the revelation of sex toys.

Sure, he’d been to red light sectors and leisure zones before. He knew the basics of sex and was aware that many beings throughout the galaxy treated it as a commodity. His teacher had even dragged him through a brothel on a mission, though all Din saw were scantily clad dancers and the polished gleam of a well-stocked bar.

He’d also passed countless shop window displays during his travels – endless rows of imitation genitals, slick lubricants, and bizarre contraptions lit up behind transparisteel. But without context, and with his teacher hurrying him forward... well, you couldn’t fault a naïve kid like him for assuming such places were pleasure droid repair shops. Just another unseemly trade flourishing in those morally bankrupt districts.

It wasn’t until later that he learned most of those items were toys for living beings to use at home on themselves and each other. Mortification crashed through him at his innocent mistake, instantly crystallising into a disdain for sexual aids. Not that anyone ever uncovered his childlike ignorance on the topic, but Din was always his own harshest critic.

He convinced himself such things were superfluous. Vulgar. Pointless. He could bring himself to climax without artificial assistance, and surely, the heat of living flesh would surpass anything synthetic. So why resort to using substitutes? Despite his sexual inexperience, he was adamant that anyone skilled at sex wouldn’t need to augment their performance.

He was still stubbornly clinging to this belief when he met his soulmate on Endor’s forest moon. Once they became intimate, he found subtle ways to convey his opinion to her, one such chance arising after her mid-session plea for him to fill her with anything – even her hairbrush handle. He swallowed his fierce objection and gently dismissed her idea, telling her that whatever she’d used before he came along had no place in their relationship. It delighted him that she instantly backtracked, promising she’d only tried it once and had found it lacking.

Excellent – his cyar’ika shared his disdain for such artifice.

Or so he believed.

Attitudes shifted when they began exploring anal play. Din knew it was something that intrigued him, having figured out as a teenager that a carefully positioned finger in his own ass could intensify his orgasms. But he’d learned the hard way that saliva was a poor lubricant, hurting himself more than once, so he rarely risked it. When he discovered the self-lubricating miracle of the vagina, he was somewhat envious. However, he remained adamant that he didn’t need artificial assistance. He wasn’t that desperate.

Being with a sexual partner he trusted finally gave him the chance to push boundaries, but he didn’t know how to raise the topic of anal play. Questions were difficult for him anyway, unpractised as he was at courtship, so he found ways to hint at his interest.

He started with brief caresses, testing how slick he could make her back there using her own arousal. Then, when the opportunity arose, he cautiously slipped his thumb partway into her tight little hole. She was clearly shy about it – though so was he – but her willingness to explore further both relieved and delighted him. When she suggested she return the favour, joy blazed through his chest.

He hadn’t realised she’d purchased lube on Tatooine. En route back to Endor, she suggested it was his turn, and he leapt at the chance. He didn’t consider how until he emerged from his shower to find her waiting with the bottle at the ready. She must have ventured into Mos Eisley’s leisure zone and bought it from some sex toy vendor, which he wouldn’t have approved of had he known. But with the prospect of pleasure so close, his appetite outweighed his aversion.

The next half hour shattered his preconceptions. With her fingers working magic in his ass, he shot the biggest wad of cum of his life down her throat and decided that lube was a welcome addition. Okay, so it wasn’t a natural substance, but it wasn’t a toy.

And so, Din adjusted his bias.

But as determined as she was with her fingers, it wasn’t long before he began wondering how something larger might feel. The thought invaded his dreams, where it evolved into a fantasy. Soon, he found himself imagining an impossible alternate reality in which his riduur possessed both the soft warmth of a cunt and the firm length of a cock.

Eventually, after a session where he’d demanded she press deeper despite knowing the limits of her fingers’ reach, she suggested a toy. She prefaced her proposal by addressing his dislike of them, promising to consider his specific needs and tastes when selecting something.

Once again, appetite outweighed aversion. Din agreed, and she visited Glavis Ringworld’s red light sector before they departed. Since his Darksaber injury prevented him from escorting her, he insisted she arm herself to the teeth in case of trouble.

When she unveiled her choice weeks later, he was thunderstruck. He hadn’t thought it possible to love this woman more than he already did, but somehow, she’d plucked his deepest, most outrageous fantasy from his mind and given it perfect form. The realistic dildo strapped to her even matched her skin tone, its synthetic flesh warm and inviting.

Suddenly, his historic contempt for sex toys seemed so ignorant.

And as he climbed over her and slowly lowered himself onto the firm yet silky cock – lubed up and warmed by her body – his baseless prejudice dissolved entirely. Finally, he understood that sex toys weren’t just substitutes for deficient sexual skills but gateways to entirely new realms of pleasure.

He hasn’t looked back since.

H = Hair

How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?

Personal grooming remained a mystery to Din until tragically late in his adolescence. Once foundlings swear the Creed, they’re encouraged to keep their hair short enough to stay hidden beneath their helmets. For the young boy from Aq Vetina, however, things weren’t that simple.

Most Mandalorian children and adopted foundlings have families they can remove their helmets around, who guide them through proper self-care methods. Din was ten when rescued – already two years beyond the age at which training begins. That meant instant enrolment in the Fighting Corps, bypassing the adoption process that the younger foundlings underwent. All children aged eight to thirteen were trained within the Fighting Corps, spending three nights of the week in the barracks and the remaining two nights with their families. Din was the only foundling raised in the Fighting Corps, spending all five nights of the week in his narrow bunk.

His lessons focused on combat and survival, covering everything from physical prowess to tactical thinking, as well as practical skills and knowledge. But whilst his training emphasised excellent hygiene (since scent could betray one’s position to enemies), personal grooming was not part of the curriculum.

When his dark hair grew long enough to escape his helmet’s confines, he hacked at it with a vibroblade. The concept of facial shaving simply didn’t occur to him, having never witnessed those around him perform such maintenance. But awareness slowly dawned as he went on his journeys with his teacher. Observing human males throughout the galaxy gave him pause, stirring buried memories of his father’s neatly trimmed beard. He soon concluded he ought to do something about the patchy whiskers framing his face.

After badly slicing his chin with his vibroblade, he approached his teacher for guidance. The older man was genuinely surprised to hear a seventeen-year-old ask about shaving. He’d never considered that his apprentice lacked anyone to instruct him in such basic self-care. Their next journey included a market stop, and Din returned to Concordia’s barracks with his very own electric grooming device.

He used the groomer on his scalp for a while, too, having decided that efficiency was the key to good grooming. It only took him a couple of months to realise that he preferred the cushioning effect of more hair inside his helmet. Frustrated, he let it grow out again. On his next market trip, he acquired some proper scissors, then spent weeks working out how to trim what he couldn’t see. Wearing a thick leather glove to protect his fingers worked wonders, and he took genuine pride in this self-taught skill.

He didn’t consider trimming his pubic region until years later, when a cruel comment from Xi’an made him self-conscious enough to wonder if other men maintained their hair down there.

The instant he declined her request for a repeat fuck, she transformed from flirtatious to furious. Hurling every insult she could conjure, her tirade was so loud that it drew the crew’s attention. Once the vindictive Twi’lek realised she had an audience, her attacks turned personal, attempting to ‘expose’ whatever she could about Din’s hidden appearance.

Most of it was patently false – he was pretty sure his cock wasn’t tiny – but when she sneered, “And he doesn’t shave at all – his pubes are like a kriffing Salsola bush!” it struck deep because the first part rang true. He didn’t shave down there. He had no idea what a Salsola bush was, but he was suddenly self-conscious. If Xi’an was able to feel his lack of grooming without even catching a glimpse, things must be bad.

Din needed guidance, but he’d grown distant from his Tribe, only returning when he could sneak away with his cut of the credits Ran’s crew were making from mercenary jobs. His teacher now had a new apprentice, and this wasn’t the sort of topic he could raise with the older man anyway. His options seemed limited to brothels or holoporn, and he reasoned he’d get a more authentic perspective from live observation. So, when the crew next visited the local leisure zone, he tagged along, found a place with live shows, and checked out some dicks.

His quest for answers proved educational. He really needed to utilise his groomer. On the plus side, he also confirmed that he was rather well-endowed, judging by the premium prices charged for performers with cocks of his size. That was a relief, at least.

Since Mandalorians don’t engage prostitutes, while his crewmates chose their preferred performers and got laid, Din returned to the privacy of his ship. With ground security protocols engaged, he fucked his (apparently very lucky) fist to relieve the massive hard-on all his fact-finding had triggered, then located his electric groomer.

Copying what he’d seen, he shaved it all off that first time. Within a day, the itching was worse than a blaster wound, and his balls were on fire. He knew he’d made a mistake. Just like with his beard, it appeared that a close shave was unwise. He wondered how other men achieved smoothly shaven skin without the burning sensation, but since he wouldn’t learn about balms and lotions for another decade, he simply did what worked best for him. A quick pass over his face every few days, and the same for his groin every couple of weeks when he trimmed his hair. It was a simple routine, and once again, he was proud that he solved the problem himself.

After meeting his gorgeous salvager on Endor, it was a while before he felt confident being naked around her. Xi’an’s cruel words still echoed in his mind, and he was nervous. But his cyar’ika looked at him with such unfettered desire and devotion that his fears steadily lessened.

Later, when he tried to adjust his grooming routine to suit what he assumed she’d prefer, she asked him to simply stick to what he wanted. He wondered if she understood how healing that acceptance was. He briefly told her of his slow induction into personal haircare, but he never mentioned Xian’s poisonous comment.

To this day, her steadfast acceptance of the choices Din makes for his physical appearance remains a source of confidence in his heart.

A = Aftercare

What are they like after sex?

Din never had to worry too much about aftercare during his past encounters, perfunctory as they were.

His preference was to pull out and come on his partner’s ass or lower back, though he would always wipe them off with his cloak. They tended to excuse themselves to the refresher at that point. He didn’t like to linger, so he would take his leave then, slipping away to the Razor Crest and tossing his cloak straight into the washer. A simple equation with a predictable outcome.

But when it became clear that things would get intimate with the bright spark of a woman he met on Endor, anxiety suddenly struck.

He wanted to come inside her – the first time he’d ever had such an urge – but that would alter his established routine, and he wasn’t quite sure how to adapt. How was he supposed to clean up his cum if he didn’t have easy access to it? Even he baulked at the idea of wiping her intimate area with the tail end of his cloak, so he would need a more hygienic solution. Should he prepare a cloth in advance?

And was it appropriate to dive right into the cleanup, or was he supposed to dote on her a little first? He didn’t want to seem desperate to erase the evidence of what they’d shared. Plus, the thought of his seed slowly dripping from her was a serious turn-on.

He actually had no idea how fast it would escape, having never climaxed inside anyone before. Sure, he’d caught glimpses in the seedier brothels. A freshly fucked whore with spread legs, scooping cum from her cunt to spread across her breasts or tongue. Although maybe it wasn’t cum… he’d had little time to watch, after all. He rarely visited such places except to hunt, and curiosity wasn’t enough to distract him from his primary means of making credits. He had no clue whether a woman could control how swiftly it exited her.

He realised this was all moot if his cyar’ika didn’t have an implant, a little miffed that those arousing thoughts might not become manifest. Nonetheless, he resolved to buy seals, despite finding them uncomfortable. His curiosity wasn’t worth the risk.

When the moment arrived, he was overjoyed to learn she had an implant after all. She also seemed entirely unconcerned about cleanup, and he was so sated by their coupling that he mostly forgot to worry. Coming inside her felt fucking glorious – and she’d even asked him to.

The atmosphere was so natural and relaxed, and he stayed buried in her warmth longer than planned, revelling in their connection while whispering how much he loved her. It was heady and blissful. Still, he had to withdraw when she squeezed his oversensitive cock, and he felt the wetness escaping as he slid out.

Panic flickered through him, making him sit up sharply, ready to leap up and find a cloth... but the sight before him stopped him in his tracks. There wasn’t much yet, but some of his cum had leaked from her pussy as he’d withdrawn. Small pearls of it glistened on her swollen folds.

It was his first proper look at her down there – his first close-up look at anyone, in fact. Whilst he already considered her utterly beautiful, somehow the sight of her cunt glazed with his seed grabbed at his very soul, stirring something… possessive. Euphoric. Profoundly rewarding.

Din couldn’t help himself. He reached out, running his fingers through the evidence, exploring the possibilities planted in his mind by those brief glimpses in brothels, painting her thighs and pussy with his claim.

She made her reaction to his intrigue clear, spreading her legs wider and smiling beneath her blindfold, so he let himself indulge completely. He soon learned to avoid oversensitive areas, focusing instead on gentle strokes to coax more beads of fluid to escape, which he eagerly collected and spread along her thighs.

He was learning the answer to his question about how much control she had. Clearly some, but not total, and it was time-limited. He suspected it would make its way out regardless of how hard she clenched those exquisite inner muscles. Still, he was thoroughly enjoying helping her relax and let his cum slide out easily – paint for the masterpiece he was creating on the canvas of her thighs. Combined with her own copious fluids, it was thinner than usual, making it all the more likely to escape.

The indulgence almost slipped into loss of control when he scooped up the evidence of their first coupling and brought it to his tongue. It was a split-second decision that unleashed something entirely new deep within him. Kriff, he was learning so much about himself from this single encounter.

He’d tasted himself before. Curiosity had overwhelmed him as a teenager when he’d developed a crush on his sparring partner. He had reasoned he should know what it tasted like in case things ever progressed that far with Orilan, although they never did. When he’d later discovered his preference for women, the idea of eating cum became a vague and infrequent thought – a sporadic fantasy on the few occasions when an attractive man caught his eye.

Until that first fingerful of his own from her cunt. The notion of swallowing the results of their mutual pleasure just felt… special. Worshipful. Devoted.

And forbidden. And that made it even more appealing.

She talked to him after – a carefree conversation while he was wordlessly urging her to relax her muscles and allow his cum to escape. Her placid demeanour and his new intrigue were enough to distract him from his former concerns. In fact, it all felt so natural that a suitable moment to stand and fetch a damp cloth from the refresher presented itself without conscious thought. He had no doubt that it was his duty to clean up the mess he’d created on her thighs. It was the courteous thing to do, and she seemed grateful.

He learned so much that first time with his beautiful salvager, and every time since, he’s done whatever he can to ensure her comfort, never fretting over or rushing the process. He knows she’s content for him to move at a languid pace, and she doesn’t expect his aftercare. But he also knows she’s grateful when it comes, and so he’s happy to provide it.

After all, Din is nothing if not a giver.

N = No

What wouldn’t they do? Any turn-offs?

There’s little Din wouldn’t do for his riduur if she asked. Sometimes, he thinks she could convince him the galaxy spins backwards, and not just because of her uncanny aptitude for logical debate.

She’s never asked for anything extreme – sexual or otherwise. Every request has either fallen well within his comfort zone or proved to be a worthwhile gamble despite any initial misgivings.

There was one occasion, though, when he was forced to confront a scenario that he instantly dismissed as out of the question.

They were on Tatooine, having received a summons to the palace. There was news of a potential lead in Din’s search for his covert. In exchange for using his status as Daimyo and his extensive underworld contact list to track down Mando sightings, they had promised Boba Fett a favour. A small one if those efforts bore no fruit, a large one if they yielded results.

The old man was claiming he’d uncovered a promising clue, which was exciting news and worth the trip halfway across the galaxy. The downside was that the cost would be steep.

Outrage flooded Din’s entire being when Fett calmly requested “a night with your beautiful wife”, and he was instantly reaching for the Darksaber.

He was acutely aware of his jealous streak – it had caused friction early in their relationship – but this was utterly non-negotiable, not to mention a grievous insult to his honour. Mandalorians weren’t supposed to covet what legally belonged to their brothers. Technically, Fett could issue an archaic challenge to initiate shuk’la riduurok, though it required consent from all parties. If that were to happen, he would fight to his dying breath for his riduur, but bargaining to share her for a single night was cowardly and decidedly not the Way.

Darksaber in hand (unlit for now), he explained his position through gritted teeth to the smirking Daimyo lounging on his stolen throne.

But before Fett could respond, Din’s clever wife stepped forward and deployed her logical debate skills to dramatic effect.

She reasoned that a night with her could never constitute payment for what they sought because other cultural mandates took precedence. Din could not agree without Fett issuing a formal challenge and combat occurring. Setting aside her fierce objections to that, it would create an entirely separate set of proceedings beyond the ‘favour-for-info’ deal they were currently brokering. Any victory or defeat would represent the outcome of the challenge, and regardless of the result, they would still need to decide upon the original favour.

Fett looked doubly impressed at her argument, grinning broadly, but Fennec fortunately intervened with another suggestion. It seemed they were in some trouble with the Pyke Syndicate. Despite the high risk and uncertain timeline, if Din was willing, they could use his assistance as extra muscle in what they suspected may be upcoming hostilities.

With the favour agreed, Din left Grogu at the palace’s crèche for the staff’s children, then calmly escorted his riduur to their opulent suite. The second the door slid closed, he fucked her hard against it – a blazingly passionate pounding that had her screaming his name at full volume. She knew exactly what he needed, declaring she belonged to him, that he was the only one to ever satisfy her, that she could never be with anyone else.

He worried afterward that he’d let emotion drive him to act without seeking her perspective first. She was quick to reassure him, though – she had no desire to be shared and was just as keen as he was to broadcast that fact. Double-checking the door’s lock, she lifted his helmet away and kissed him gently, then guided his mouth to her throat, inviting him to mark his claim for all to see.

It was evident at dinner that their hosts had heard their performance. Fett said nothing but offered him an impressed smirk and a respectful nod. Fennec’s lustful gaze was shockingly blatant, not to mention unwelcome, but his riduur glared at her until the former assassin received the message.

Neither Din nor his wife would share with others what they had vowed to share only with each other.

K = Kink

What less-standard acts turn them on?

Din never considered himself kinky until his fateful encounter with destiny on Endor. However, safe within their rapidly forged bond of trust, his cyar’ika opened his eyes to the fact that he did, in fact, have a few fledgling kinks he was eager to explore.

His first discovery was taste – particularly in an exhibitionist context – although it took him a while to figure out why.

It wasn’t until a much later discussion with his riduur that he learned kinks often root themselves in childhood feelings of shame. As a foundling, he’d been taught not to eat or drink in front of others. It was an act he’d brazenly performed in full view of multiple people for ten years on Aq Vetina, the memory of which first became shameful, then later thrilling.

Grateful for his rescue but angry at his losses, during his initial years of training, Din embraced its violence while failing to respect its restrictions. He would constantly commit tiny acts of defiance, such as sneaking food under his training helmet in front of others. Since he hadn’t yet sworn the Creed, his elders lectured rather than punished him, but they warned that unless he observed the Way of the Mand’alor with greater piety, he would never rise from foundling to apprentice. Those who did not respect the Creed were not permitted to take it.

His desire to become the best warrior soon outweighed his defiant impulses, and he committed himself to the Way, coming to believe in its tenets once he did so. But as his body grew stronger and his fighting skills improved, he found himself longing for the thrill those tiny rebellious acts sparked.

Perhaps that explained his choice to support the Tribe by venturing out into the galaxy to earn credits. Away from their scrutiny, he was able to perform his minor acts of defiance. He never went so far as to break his now-beloved creed, but he always found excitement in the risk of slipping food beneath his helmet in another’s presence.

He had no idea that innocent thrill formed the basis of a kink until he began pushing boundaries with his cyar’ika.

From the moment he lifted his helmet to kiss her, he knew that he would become obsessed with using his mouth on her. He revelled in it every chance he got – licking, sucking, and especially tasting. Still, he didn’t understand the full extent of his obsession until he was laid out on the grass of the Anantaparan atoll’s northernmost isle, worshipping her while she rode his tongue.

She was drenching him with copious amounts of her own slick as well as the cum he’d just shot inside her pussy, and he was already in paradise. But if the twin thrills of using his mouth on her and tasting the unique flavour of their combined pleasure weren’t enough, the moment her eyes locked with his, his cock was hard as beskar again – mere minutes after his previous climax.

She was watching him feast on her, and the exhibitionism he’d flirted with as an unruly child was well and truly fulfilled. Din Djarin – forbidden from letting anything pass his lips around others – was not only swallowing their combined cum, but he was doing it in full view of another.

His taste kink had reached its peak.

That wasn’t the only boundary they crossed together that day. It was their first foray into anal play, too, though it certainly wasn’t their last. He didn’t consider it a kinky act, but he was aware some found it taboo, and his cautious approach paid off, earning her trust.

They’ve both since come to enjoy the delights of anal penetration, especially once his opinion on sex toys evolved. Given the size of his dick, she probably wouldn’t have been able to take him back there without the expanding plug he bought for her. That was a truly worthwhile investment.

Another kink that he assumes is fairly standard involves restraint. His binders have always been a welcome addition to their sessions. He’ll often hold her down somehow, too, either through his weight or with a careful hand around her throat or wrists. Though neither of them gets off on pain, they do enjoy it rough, which often involves the idea of pain. He knows she finds pleasure in a little light choking on occasion, and he loves that she enjoys it.

Then there’s their mutual penchant for fucking while one of them is asleep. Right from the start, they both enjoyed the intimacy of cockwarming, and he often remained nestled inside her pussy for as long as possible.

It was during their honeymoon that they stumbled upon the most exquisite discovery. While spooning in bed, exhaustion overtook them both as he slowly fucked her from behind, and they fell fast asleep.

When he awoke, his cock was hard and still buried inside her. He knew several hours had passed, and he couldn’t have maintained an erection that long. Based on the evidence, he concluded that he was just large enough, and her inner muscles were just tight enough to ensure he hadn’t slipped out while they slept.

He suspected it would be painful for them both if he simply started pounding away without preparing her, so he wet his fingers and gently teased her nipples. When that earned him sleepy sighs and gentle flutters along his shaft, he began tentative thrusts. Finally, when he felt she was slick enough, he steadily increased his efforts, wondering if her dreams were reflecting his actions.

Feeling her waking up right as her cunt pulsed a profound climax around his cock… dank farrik. It wasn’t something he could enjoy just once, and she agreed. After that, they attempted to recreate the magic whenever possible, and he was beyond pleased when he was the one waking up mid-orgasm after similar efforts on her part.

Though sex while asleep is not so much a kink as an act of absolute trust and consent, Din suspects few couples have perfected this technique. Because of that, he certainly considers it a less standard fixation, unique to them. Just another thing about his riduur that makes her perfect for him.

And if either of them has any other latent kinks, he looks forward to exploring them together.

S = Stamina

How many rounds can they go for? How long can they last?

For much of his life, Din considered his sex drive to be fairly low. Sure, he had needs, and he took care of them whenever necessary, but a single climax always seemed sufficient. He was also able to attune his focus to whatever tasks he had to perform, and sexual urges rarely distracted him.

All that changed when he met his gorgeous salvager on Endor. Just one speeder ride with her, and suddenly, all manner of sinful thoughts flooded his mind. When he found himself in a storage closet, fucking his fist to those fantasies, he hoped he could expel the urges alongside his cum and get back to his hunt.

By the following day, when he was lying in a ventilation shaft two metres above her, pressing his rigid cock against the metal every time she sighed, he knew he was in serious trouble. For some reason, this woman had ignited something deep inside him. He’d never felt such a profound need for anyone before.

It soon became apparent that his strangely amplified libido was distracting him from the hunt. He couldn’t let that happen, so with extreme effort, he resolved to wait until he’d captured his bounty before indulging his uncommon urges. The challenge seemed insurmountable until he surrendered to the suspicion that lurked in the back of his mind. He was falling in love. Focusing on that helped him contain the desire he felt for her, and it also explained its potency. He’d never been in love before, so he’d never endured the desperate ache that came with it.

Finally getting to fuck her unleashed a compulsion, a constant hunger of such immense magnitude that he struggled to comprehend it. He couldn’t seem to sate it. They would fuck, and then before long, he would crave her again. Thankfully, the restraint he’d taught himself at the beginning let him control it, but his desire burned bright and strong.

He was glad to discover that his cyar’ika was equally hungry for him, always eager for multiple rounds. When they secured themselves several days of complete privacy during their honeymoon, they certainly made the most of that time together. It was then that he discovered his refractory period was far shorter than he thought.

At his age, he’d assumed his dick needed a rest after shooting its load, given that it softened soon after, so their sessions would conclude once he’d climaxed. It wasn’t until he gave into his post-orgasmic urge to taste his new riduur and had her sit on his face that he felt himself growing hard again.

That revelation led to all kinds of others. Multiple sessions without even leaving the warmth of her delicious pussy were now possible. It became a guilty pleasure of his to see how much cum she could contain before it began squelching out around his cock.

His stamina hasn’t diminished with age, but Din has always been wary of overindulgence, mindful that it has a downside. Right from the start, he routinely checked in, ensuring she wasn’t becoming too sore from their frequent fucking. He’d received a complaint about that once – his partner urging him to climax soon or she’d end up chafing – so he understood the need for a careful balance in session length. He didn’t want his own equipment to chafe, either.

Thankfully, though, his riduur has never struggled to reach orgasm with him and tends to encourage his own climax when she needs a rest. They’ve always been able to read each other perfectly, a connection that extends to their carnal pursuits, ensuring each session is the perfect length to satisfy them both.

At least until the next round.

TRANSLATIONS:

cyar’ika – sweetheart/darling (lit. ‘little love’)

riduur – partner/spouse

shuk’la riduurok – divorce (lit. ‘broken bond’)

COMMENTS RAMBLINGS:

I want to reiterate what I said in the notes for chapter 2 of Be-All, in that I do not consider Din a himbo. He’s incredibly smart. The definition of a himbo is someone who is good-looking but unintelligent. Given his skill set, he doesn’t fit that definition at all. But his sheltered upbringing alongside the factors I described in Be-All (wasn’t adopted, so had no family; was two years older than those he trained with and full of angst and anger, so made no friends) meant that he was socially isolated. That led to him being a combination of whip-smart about things like combat, languages, engineering, calculations, negotiations, etc, but adorably naïve about more personal things like sex and grooming. Din is a complex character, and I love that he can be both well-informed and clueless about different things.

We all like to think of Din as a fair-minded and accepting paragon of virtue, but the reality is, it took him a while to get there. This is the guy who blindly believed lies he was told as a child, because of which, he accused Bo-Katan of stealing her armour and refused to accept she was Mandalorian, huffily flying off without hearing what she had to say. If she hadn’t persevered, he would have abandoned his only lead on finding a Jedi because of his stubbornness and his unfounded prejudice. As mentioned above, he is also adorably naïve about certain aspects of the world (despite his intelligence), and readers of Be-All will be aware that I’ve centred that naïveté around sexual inexperience. I think when you combine those character traits, the idea that he had an unfounded prejudice against sex toys that was rooted in his stubbornness and a childish mistake seems to fit a young Din perfectly.

If you missed the pegging scene that I partially wrote back in February, here it is. I promise I’ll write the smutty part eventually!

Salsola bushes aren’t Canon; I did try to look up a suitable bush for Xi’an to compare Din’s untamed pubes to, but it seems the SWU doesn’t currently feature tumbleweeds (odd, given much of Star Wars is based on the Western genre), so I used the real-world genus of the Russian thistle, which is what most tumbleweeds in the US are – Salsola tragus. Honestly, I think Xi’an was just exaggerating and Din’s situation was never quite that… bushy, but it certainly got him worried enough to trim. I also based it a little on my ex-husband, who had never been intimate with anyone before we met aged 17 and had no concept of pubic grooming at the beginning. It wasn’t so much an overwhelming amount of hair as it was a surprising level of… springiness!

If you recall, in the last chapter of Be-All, I set it up so that Din asked Boba to try to uncover a lead for where he could find his covert. This means I’m playing with the Canon timeline slightly. While Din and Reader go back to Endor to wait for a tip, the covert is regrouping on Glavis (when he would’ve gone there himself in the show). Boba hears from his Ishi Tib contact on Glavis that she’s seen some Mandos there, so he summons Din to Tatooine. The whole business with the Pyke Syndicate goes down, Din gets a scorpenek droid pincer to the leg, and by the time he’s healed up and they get over to Glavis, the covert has moved on. But they left coordinates, so one unnecessary Darksaber injury later, he’s healed up again, and they track them to the new planet. The topic of the Darksaber doesn’t come up straight away because he’s recovered by the time they arrive, so there’s no challenge by Paz until much later, and they get to hang out there a little while before the whole ‘apostate’ shitstorm occurs. That means Reader gets her helmet forged, Grogu gets his chainmail, and Din and Reader’s marriage is formalised.

I genuinely believe Din has had phases of rebelliousness throughout his life, mainly because even when he’s being dutiful, he’s always depicted in the show as slightly different to the rest of the Children of the Watch. He’s the only one who leaves the covert at the beginning – he dutifully brings credits and beskar back to the Tribe, yet Paz and the others are jealous of his new armour and annoyed that he gets to leave and live on his ship while they’re stuck in the sewer “like rats”, so they gang up on him and call him a coward (the worst insult). Plus, Din willingly lifts his helmet to drink his soup next to Grogu, despite telling Bo-Katan later that you have to go somewhere you can safely remove your helmet – he could’ve waited until the kid was asleep! And he’s the only Child of the Watch (that we know of) who has broken the Creed and removed his helmet. We know he hung out with Ran’s crew for a while when he was younger, so I think he’s always been a little troublemaker. It also gives credence to his desperate need to redeem himself in season 3, since it’s often the case that people don’t appreciate their main support structure until they’ve inadvertently sabotaged it.

A little hint in the last section that Din is bordering on demisexual, having only had a passing interest in sex before meeting Reader, and only fucking others out of curiosity, social experimentation, or convenience. It also explains why he wasn’t that fussed about exploring ways he could improve his masturbatory techniques before he met her, and why his fantasies were rare and fleeting. He simply wasn’t that affected by sex before she came into his life. When discussing their sexual histories in chapter 32 of Be-All, he tells her, “But when I met you […] I knew it was different… real.” The original fic depicts them as essentially falling in love at first sight, so he’s immediately faced with an overwhelming desire for her, the likes of which he’s never felt before, and once they cross the line of sexual intimacy, he never looks back. These two are very much in love, and so their sex life is very much alive.

Definitions: We saw a leisure zone in Andor s1e1, featuring various brothels, and in Legends, there are entire red light sectors on certain planets. Canon doesn’t overtly mention pleasure droids, but the BD-3000 is clearly meant to be a sexbot; Legends is a little more blatant, with BD-3000s used as ‘escorts’, a mention of a ‘sex droid’ in the Legends novel, Planet of Twilight, and a sentient hologram in the now defunct MMORPG, Star Wars: The Old Republic, declaring she’s “no mere pleasure droid”… so they exist, we just don’t see much of them. A reminder that Din does indeed say he was raised in the Fighting Corps. A further reminder that a Standard week in the SWU is only five days long. A groomer is a device from Legends for haircare; there is literally no such thing as a shaving razor in the SWU, despite many things being named after it, but fortunately, Legends gives us scissors, at least. Imagine my surprise when I found a nice long article about holoporn on the Wook! 😳

I’m so deliriously grateful to have reached this milestone, I think you all deserve a sexy Din gif to express my appreciation, so here you go – the Dorito-shaped man himself says it best…

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What you two had began with stolen glances. You’d bring him fresh, homemade lemonade after he'd spent hours spent working beneath the brutal Texas sun, and he’d smile, say thank you in that low Southern drawl that made your cheeks heat up. You remember that one time when he’d cut his finger on a piece of jagged metal, and you’d rushed to help him, gently cleaning the wound with trembling hands and bandaging it while pretending not to notice the way his eyes never left your face.

At night, you’d lie in bed thinking about him, thinking about the way sweat soaked his T-shirt after hours under the sun, about how it alwas clinged to his broad chest, outlining every muscle of his chest and stomach. You thought about the veins in his forearms, the callouses on his hands. And God... his hands, they were so much bigger than yours, so capable. You imagined what those hands would feel like on you, heavy against the softness of your thighs, and warm against your bare skin. You pictured the way he might say your name with his deep voice, the way his eyes might darken if you touched him the way you wanted to.

You didn’t quite understand what you were feeling at first. You’d never felt this way before about anyone, you’d never feel this heat pooling in your stomach. You’d press your thighs together at night, trying to relieve the ache, but it only made it worse. The slickness, and the need... it terrified you. Your parents would’ve gone ballistic if they ever found out the kind of thoughts you were having about him. Or about any man, really. Because thoughts like that were sin, especially for a girl, and especially for you. You were supposed to be the good daughter, the quiet one, the one who never talked back, never raised her voice, never strayed outside the lines they drew for you. Or at least that was what you'd been your entire life. You were meant to stay pure and untouched until you found a good boy and you married him. But every thought you had of Joel was a knife slicing through that expectation.

Your mother had caught you staring once, you were just standing by the window, watching Joel as he worked. There was something primal in it, in watching a man work with his hands, his muscles flexing beneath sun-warmed skin.

“What are you looking at like that? You wanna end up like your sister?” Your mother hissed, her voice full of disgust. “Pregnant and alone without a man because she couldn’t keep her legs closed?” She’d looked at you like you were something dirty, something broken. “Go to your room. Now.”

The shame hit you like a slap, but beneath it, deeper still, was defiance, the flicker of something fierce, because even if she saw filth in your desire, you’d never felt more alive than when Joel looked at you like you were something he wanted.

And so things stayed the same for weeks. You kept your head down and pretended to be the obedient daughter they wanted, pretended Joel wasn’t all you could think about. Until one weekend, your parents had left town, a rare thing since they were too overprotective and they avoid leaving you alone often, but they trusted you, they thought you were too docile, too submissive to ever disobey.

That Saturday evening, there was a knock on your front door. Joel...

“Hey, m’sorry to bother you. I needed to pick up my toolbox before I leave,” Joel said, standing on the porch.

He was standing there, his skin looked golden in the setting sun, his hands were shoved in his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he should be there, and all you could think was yes. Yes, please, come in. Stay. You’d let him in without hesitation, and he walked through the house like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“So… I guess the job’s all done now,” you said quietly. There was a hint of sadness in your voice, something vulnerable. You’d enjoyed having him around, just seeing him made your day better, made life feel like there might be something more beyond your parents’ rules.

Joel offered you a polite smile. “All done. Roof’s fixed. Shouldn’t be givin’ y’all any more trouble.”

You hesitated, your heart thudding in your ears. Then, in a whisper, “I liked having you around.”

He paused, almost droppinh his toolbox to the floor. “You, uh… thanks for the hospitality.”

He turned to leave, but before he could, you stopped him. “Joel, wait,” you blurted, stepping forward, your fingers twitching at your sides. “Please… stay. My parents are out and… I’d like some company.”

You didn’t know where the words came from. That shy, quiet girl who never spoke unless spoken to... she was gone. Replaced by someone bolder, someone hungry. You were starving for a connection, for warmth, for the one man who made you feel like you weren’t just a shadow in your own life. He looked at you like you mattered, like you weren’t something to be scolded or hidden.

That night, Joel’d stayed with you. You watched a movie together, ordered food, laughed, and when he finally stood to leave, he leaned down and kissed you. Just a soft little gentle kiss, but it was filled with tension, of weeks of craving packed into one breathless moment. His lips were dry and warm, a little hesitant at first, like he was waiting to see if you’d pull away, but you didn’t. You leaned in and melted into the kiss. Every nerve in your body lit up like a struck match, it wasn’t just a kiss, it was a claim, a promise.

It was your first real kiss, not some silly little peck on the lips behind the church when you were eight that had you believing you were going straight to hell. This one meant something, he kissed you like he wanted to fix every broken thing you never spoke about, and in that moment, you believed he could.

After that night, Joel came whenever he could. You two shared stolen moments while your father was at work and your mother was busy volunteering at church. Even if he could only stay for thirty minutes, he stil came, even when the drive from his place to yours took longer than the time you had together, that never stopped him.

Every time he showed up, you felt like you could breathe again, like you were alive. You counted the minutes together like treasure, you counted every touch, every laugh, every brush of his hand against yours a kind of salvation. He’d hold you close, bury his face in your hair, and inhale deeply, like your scent was the only thing keeping him alive.

You loved how small you felt in his arms, how safe, like nothing could touch you when he was there. He smelled like cedar and sweat, like hard work and comfort.

Sometimes he brought you sweets. The kind your parents never let you have. “Too many chemicals,” they said. Sometimes he’d take you for a ride in his truck, the windows rolled down, his hand resting on your thigh... those touches were everything, they didn’t feel sexual, just possesive and reassuring. The weight of his hand on your leg told you: I’m here. You’re mine.

No matter what you did together, it always left you with a glow. That warmth that stayed even long after he was gone, like his touch lingered on your skin, like his voice echoed in your chest. But you felt guilty sometimes, you couldn’t offer him much, you couldn’t give Joel what he deserved, you couldn’t go with him on real dates, couldn’t sit across from him at a diner booth and laugh over milkshakes, couldn’t walk down the street with your fingers laced together in the open air like a normal couple.

You couldn’t even kiss him without glancing over your shoulder, checking the curtains, your breath hitching at the sound of every creak in the floorboards. You wanted to show him off, you wanted to stand beside him proudly, chin high, heart full of love for him. You wanted to tell the world: he’s mine. You wanted everyone in that suffocating little town to know that this was the man that loved you.

But the world wouldn’t let you. Your parents wouldn’t let you... and so you kept him a secret, tucked into the corners of your heart.

“Why don’t ya lemme talk to them?” Joel had said once, tracing soft circles on your arm with his fingers.

“You don’t know them like I do,” you whispered. “There’s nothing you could say that’d change their minds. They’re too stuck in their own ways.”

“It’s alright, baby. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” And he kissed your forehead like that made it all okay. And for a moment, it did. His lips on your skin felt like a shield, like maybe he could protect you from everything, even your own family, even yourself.

That same day, while kissing on the couch, you’d let your hands slip beneath Joel’s shirt, you didn’t plan it, but your fingers just moved on instinct, drawn to the heat of his skin, the strength beneath it. He didn’t stop you, not at first. His breath hitched when your fingers skimmed across his stomach, his muscles tensed under your touch. He let you straddle his lap, his hands firm on your waist.

You could feel him beneath you, hard, unmistakably aroused, pressing against the soft heat between your thighs through too-thin layers. And still, neither of you said a word, you just looked at each other, his pupils were blown wide, your chest rising and falling in tandem.

Eventually, like always, he’d gently pull back. “It’s gettin’ late,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I should go before your folks come home.”

This time, you didn’t let the moment die, you reached for the buckle of his belt, your fingers trembling but determined like a girl on a mission. He caught your wrist gently but with firm hands, and placed your hand back on your lap.

“Did I do something wrong?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, suddenlt you were feeling so embarrassed

“No… no, baby. ’S not that.” He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours.“’S just… not now. I don’t wanna rush it.”

“But I want to,” you said softly. “It’s not like you’re forcing me.”

“I know. I know. An’ I want it too. But not tonight.”

Things were as good as they could be under the circumstances. Bittersweet, but yours. Until everything shattered.

A pretty little box, tied in a ribbon, with a folded note tucked neatly inside: For the sweetest girl in town –Joel

Earlier that day Joel’d stopped by at your place, bringing you some of your favorites sweets like he did every week. You’d gotten so excited that you’d jumped on Joel’s arms, kissing him senseless, and the box had ended up forgotten on the coffee table.

You wasn’t counting on your father finding the box with the note. He exploded, you’d never seen him like that. He grabbed you by the shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he shook you like he was trying to knock the sin out of you.

“Please stop! Dad, you’re hurting me!” you cried.

“What the hell’s gotten into that head of yours?” he yelled, rapping his knuckles against your skull like it was a door. “Is there anythin’ even in there?”

“I told you,” your mother snapped. “We failed with this one too. She’s a filthy whore just like her sister. What did we do wrong?”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe. The shame crawled up your spine like ice water, seeping into every crevice of your body. Your cheeks were wet, your throat closed, and all you could do was stand there frozen, feeling trapped and worthless.

“What do you think he wants, huh?” your father spat. “You think he loves you?” He laughed bitterly. His voice sounded so cold, so curel, it scraped across your skin. “What do you have to offer him? You’re just a stupid little girl.”

“All a man like that wants is your body,” your mother added. “And once he has it, he’ll throw you away.”

“It’s not like that! He loves me! You don’t understand!” you sobbed.

“You’re a disgrace. As a woman. As a daughter,” your father growled.

His fists clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself not to hit something. “Going after a man like that. Twice your age. You should be ashamed, acting like a worthless slut.”

“She is a worthless slut,” your mother sneered. “That’s why she acts like it.”

“No respectable man wants a girl like that,” your father said. “An easy woman with no self-respect. You’re an embarrassment.”

Then he yanked you by the arm and threw you into your room, locking the door behind you. Neither of them spoke to you for two whole weeks, they wouldn’t even look at you, they just acted like you didn’t exist.

You cried into your pillow every night, the silence of the house was louder than any scream. You couldn’t see Joel, your mother quit her church duties so she could stay home, always keeping an eye on you. You weren’t allowed to go anywhere alone, couldn’t even close your bedroom door. But every evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, you’d press your forehead to the cool glass of your window and there he was... Joel, leaning against the hood of his beat-up truck. He never stayed long, just long enough for you to see him, to know he hadn’t left.

He’d smile, mouth the words “hello baby,” and even though you couldn’t hear it, you swore you felt it in your bones, deep in your chest. He never missed a night, he never gave up on you, always showed up religiously. He waited, every single day.

After a month, the frost between you and your parents began to thaw, but only barely. They still hovered, still watched you like a hawk circling prey. Your mother called every half hour when you left the house, her voice tight with suspicion masked as concern. But little by little, they let the leash loosen, just enough to breathe.

And all you could think about, what you ached for, was Joel. His touch, his voice, the warmth of his arms around you, the way he looked at you like you were something he chose, not something he stumbled into.

You were starving for him, and this time, you weren’t going to hold back.

It was now late in the afternoon. Your mother had gone to a bake sale at church, claiming she’d be gone for hours, you’d told her you’d stop by to help later, maybe sell some cookies, smile at the neighbors. But that had been a lie the second it left your lips, because you had no intention of showing up, you’d already made your mind up, with your heart racing and your pulse hammering beneath your skin... You were going to see Joel.

It was your first time taking the bus, and the nervousness made your stomach twist the entire ride. Your legs bounced, fingers twitching in your lap, trying to ignore the looks from strangers around you. When you finally got off a few blocks from his place, your hands were trembling, but you didn’t turn around, you couldn’t, you needed to see him.

The moment he opened the door and saw you standing there, his eyes went wide, like he didn’t trust they were showing him something real, and then he wrapped his arms around you. So tight and desperate it felt like he was trying to fold you into his body, like he could take you somewhere safer just by holding you close enough. You could barely breathe, and you didn’t care. He held you like a lifeline, like maybe if he held you close enough, he could shield you from the world, or drag you into his chest and keep you safe there forever.

“Baby, what are you doin’ here?” His voice cracked with awe, like he’d been dreaming of you and didn’t believe this was real.

“I needed to see you, Joel, I—”

“I missed ya so much. You have no idea,” he said, clutching you tighter. “You’re all that’s on my mind. Day and night.”

He didn’t wait another second, he kissed you hard like he’d been starving for you. His mouth found yours like a man breaking a fast, starving and half-mad with need. His kiss was messy, frantic, breathless, it was teeth clashing, two tongues tangling with each other, and his hands were in your hair, on your hips, everywhere.

Heat surged through your chest, through your spine. He kissed you like he thought you might disappear again. His arms lifted you, half-carrying you into the house as the door slammed shut behind you. You didn’t even notice where he was taking you, you just knew his mouth was on yours, and nothing else mattered. You ended up like you always did, tangled together on the couch, lips moving frantically, hands already searching.

Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, hungry and trembling. You dragged your palms across heated skin, over the rise of muscle and the scars that told a hundred quiet stories.

He shuddered under your touch, a rough sound tearing from his throat. “I can’t believe I’m kissing you again,” he said against your lips. “Felt like I was gonna die without you.”

“Me too… I need you so much, Joel,” you breathed, dragging his shirt off and tossing it to the side. Your lips latched onto his neck with wet open-mouthed kisses that left trails of fire in their wake.

“Mmm, baby. You gotta stop with that,” he rasped, you could hear his breath shaking.

“I don’t wanna stop.” Your voice was already thick with want, with desire. Your hips pressing down into his without you even thinking, and then you felt it, his hardness, thick and hot beneath you, pressing right against your core. You gasped and rolled your hips, needing the friction, the contact, the relief.

“Fuck—enough. That’s enough for now,” he said, and even though his voice was soft, it edged with warning.

“Please… it feels so good,” you whispered, your hips still grinding on the bulge in his pants again. You couldn’t stop, it felt too natural, too right, like your body already knew what it needed, and it was him. Only him.

“Baby, I don’t want you doin’ anythin’ you’re not ready to do. You don’t owe me anythin’. Not like this. We’ll do it when you’re ready.”

“It’s not that,” you said, sitting up to look him in the eyes. “I want it. So much. And I’m ready, Joel. I promise. I am.”

His gaze searched your face, so serious and gentle, like he needed you to be absolutely sure. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. A hundred percent.”

He stared at you for a moment longer, as if he were memorizing every part of your face, from your swollen lips, the blush in your cheeks, to the vulnerability in your eyes. His jaw flexed, you could see how much it meant to him, how he was holding himself back, terrified of crossing a line. He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for hours, then, with careful hands, he eased you back against the cushions. The way he looked at you, like you were something sacred, made your heart twist painfully in your chest.

He hovered over you, kissing your neck, your collarbone, whispering, “Is it okay if I take this off?” as his fingers tugged gently at your shirt.

“Joel,” you whispered, “I want you to take everything off.”

He growled, and your shirt joined his on the floor. His hands were tracing over your body until they found your tits, quickly cupping your breasts, his lips finding your nipple, sucking with a hot, eager mouth.

His palms were rough, calloused, and warm as they molded to the shape of your tits like he was memorizing every contour. His mouth was like fire combined with his beard scraping your skin as his tongue flicked and circled, teasing the delicate peak with a maddening rhythm.

The sensation sent a shockwave through your whole body. His tongue was slow at first, only teasing you, swirling around the sensitive bud before latching on again, sucking harder, like he couldn’t get enough of you. You gasped, your back arched off the couch, overwhelmed by the newness of it all. Your nipples pebbled under his tongue, and your thighs squeezing around his waist, trying to ground yourself. It was all so much, it felt so electric.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. An’ you’re givin’ yourself to me, such a good girl.”

His lips trailed lower, kissing down your stomach, tongue teasing over your skin. Every nerve ending in your body was alive, lit up, aching for him. His hands undid your pants, dragging them down slowly, deliberately, until you were bare beneath him. Your legs trembled, you felt exposed and vulnerable... You’d never been this naked in front of anyone.

“’S okay,” he said, voice soft as a prayer. “We can stop whenever you want, yeah?”

Your fingers dug into the couch. The air was cold on your skin but his eyes were molten, and you felt like you were glowing beneath him. You should’ve felt shy, but with him looking at you like that? Like you were the most perfect thing he’d ever seen? You just felt wanted.

“I won’t ask you to stop,” you said. “I want it all, Joel.”

“Just relax f’me,” he said as he settled between your legs, pushing them gently apart. “’M gonna get ya ready, babygirl. We’ve got all night. No need to rush it.”

His fingers hooked under your underwear and pulled it aside, and that’s when he saw it... you were soaked, embarrassingly soaked. He groaned. “God... that’s the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

The way he said it made your belly clench, your cheeks flushed deep red at his bluntness, at the way he said those filthy words with reverence, it made your head spin.

“You’re so wet, baby. It’s all soaked,” he muttered, staring at you like he was hypnotized.

You squirmed, embarrassed, instinctively covering your face with your hand.

“No, no,” he said gently, pulling your hand away. “Don’t be embarrassed. ’S a good thing.”

“Is it?” you asked shyly.

“Yeah. Means I’m doin’ my job right. Means ’m gettin’ that pussy all ready to take me.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, and you nearly jerked off the couch. Your hips bucked, chasing his touch, your body burning for more. He started rubbing slow, deliberate circles, and the feeling was like nothing you’d ever known, you couldn’t quite understand such pleasure, it was white-hot, intoxicating, overwhelming.

“Feels good, love?” he asked, his voice low and patient.

“I—it…” you moaned, your breath hitching. “It feels weird.”

He chuckled softly at your innocence. “Bad weird?”

“N-no… it’s good. K-keep doing it.”

“I will. Just relax, love. Don’t think, just feel.”

You closed your eyes and let yourself go. Let his fingers carry you away, let the warmth spread and grow and gather. You’d have never guessed sex could feel like this, you’d been taught it was about biology, about duty, about giving men children. But never about this, about trembling and pleasure and the way your thighs started to shake as he circled your clit again and again.

Suddenly, the pressure snapped, it tore through you like a wave crashing against the shore. It was as if all the pleasure you were feeling had intensified for a few seconds. Your body arched, a ragged cry escaping your lips, you didn’t fully knew what was happening in your body, but you felt the world stopping for a second.

He slowed his fingers and leaned over you, smiling. “Jesus, you look like an angel when you’re cummin’.”

“I-I don’t know what that was,” you gasped, eyes still wide.

“You’ve never had an orgasm before?”

You shook your head.

“Did you like it?”

“It felt so intense… like nothing before. God, it was amazing.”

He beamed, proud and hungry, he’d given you your first orgasm, you’d chosen him to be your first. A second letter you felt his tongue flicking out, dragging a long, wet stripe up your slit, making you shiver violently, he was now licking your pussy, and it felt filthy, perfect and everything in between.

His mouth was merciless, that long tongue exploring every inch of you with patient, devastating precision. The wet, firm drag of it against your hypersensitive skin sent you reeling again, your back bowing with a gasp. He didn’t rush, he just tasted you unhurried and deep, letting his tongue slip inside you before licking up to your clit again.

“Mmm, you taste amazin’,” he growled. “Sweet lil’ pussy.”

“Joel… I want your—” You didn’t dare say the word cock, or dick, and you felt that penis was way too formal for such a filthy context.

“I know. We’ll get there. But I need to work you a little more if ya wanna take it. Gonna be a good girl and let me use my fingers?”

“Y-yes.”

His middle finger circled your entrance before sliding in, making you gasp, the stretch making your body tense.

“You’re so tight, baby. You gotta relax if you wanna take my cock.” His voice was low, guiding you through your first time. “Just breathe—yeah… slow breaths. Just like that.”

You forced yourself to breathe, your chest rising and falling in shaky rhythm. He eased his finger in deep, letting it rest for a moment before starting to move, slow and steady. The rhythm was hypnotic, each stroke of his finger brushed something deep inside you that made your toes curl. You could hear how wet you were, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

Then he added a second, and you whimpered in response. The stretch burned, but it also made you moan. He pumped his fingers in and out, watching your face, gauging every sound, every twitch of your body, it was almost too much, you felt so full of those thick inside you, but the burn was addictive. Your hips started to rock on instinct, needing more, desperate for what was coming next.

“You think you can take another one, love?”

“Yes—yes, please, Joel.”

His third finger pressed in and your walls clenched at the way he curled them just right, searching until he found the spot that made you gasp. Then he kept hitting it, slow and focused, coaxing more slick out of you, he needed all he could get so he could slide easily into you without hurting you.

“I think you’re ready, baby… you’re all pretty and opened up f’me.”

He sat back, unbuckled his belt, and dropped his pants and underwear, blessing you with the glorious sight of his cock for the first time. It looked so thick, hard, flushed red at the tip, leaking clear fluid. It made your pulse thunder in your ears, holy fuck, it was huge and heavy and veined, and it twitched as he stroked himself.

“We can stop if you want.”

“No. I want to. Please. Keep going.”

“I know it looks scary, baby. But I promise I’ll be real gentle. I won’t hurt you.”

He stroked himself slowly, one—two—three slow strokes, and then guided the leaking tip through your folds, slick gathering on his cock as he dragged it through your soaked heat, teasing your clit with the swollen head. You were dripping for him, open and trembling, your body aching for the stretch of him. He positioned himself on your tight hole.

“Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low and tender, a deep rumble that vibrated through your bones, steadying your nerves... and then he started to push in.

It was too much, too fucking big, too overwhelming. The blunt pressure at your entrance forced your body to open inch by inch, your inner muscles fluttering in protest and desire. Your hands clawed at the couch cushions, closed eyes squeezing, feeling the pain of being split open. It felt like pressure, like heat and stretch, every inch of him pushing you wider, deeper, fuller, and you couldn’t stop the little sob that slipped out.

“Oh god—shit,” he groaned. “You have no idea how fuckin’ good you feel. S’ warm and tight… Jesus—Tightest little cunt I’ve ever felt.”

You whimpered, your thighs couldn’t stop shaking, your chest rising and falling with short, gasping breaths.

“You alright, love?” he asked, his voice was full of concern behind it, he wanted you to have a good first time, one you remembered with a smile on your face.

“I’m alright… don’t stop.”

He kept his thrusts gentle and controlled, each push was deliberate, patient, giving your body time to bloom around him. He didn’t rush, he needed you to feel every second, every inch, to take him fully. It was only the tip first, only a little at a time, inch by inch. Letting your body get used to him.

“My love… so good f’me. Doin’ so good. Takin’ me so good… Lettin’ me fill you up all full and nice.” He breathed, his voice was trembling with restraint because he’d kill to go faster, to get his cock deeper inside you, but would never do anything that hurted you.

He kept carefully slamming into you, scared to go too harsh, but you adjusted to him rather quick, your body learned him, molded around him, grew greedy for the stretch.

“Takin’ your virginity like this—fuck, baby. You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.” He murmured, brushing your hair from your face.

The pain began to blur into pleasure, enjoying the way he felt. The stretch faded into fullness, every slow drag of his cock against your walls made you clench tighter, made your toes curl and mouth fall open, each time he pulled out even slightly, your cunt ached to pull him back in, to feel that deep pressure again. You couldn’t believe something so big could fit inside you, that it ould feel so good.

“Harder, Joel,” you whimpered. “Please… harder.”

And he gave it to you, his hips slamming forward, the sound of his skin smacking yours echoing in the room, wet and rhythmic.

“You’re doin’ so good f’me, sweetheart. So damn brave, lettin’ me have this first. S’proud of you.” He muttered.

It was deeper now, his cock was bottoming out inside you and your body welcomed him with every thrust, greedy, slick, shaking. Your head lolled back against the couch cushion, parting your lips in ecstasy.

“You take this cock like it was made to be inside you,” he grunted. “Your little pussy was made to take me.”

The filthy praise made your walls flutter, your nails dragging down his back in helpless, desperate pleasure. His name spilled from your lips over and over as he rutted into you like he was trying to pour himself into your soul.

“’M close, baby… ’m really close,” he panted. “Gonna pull out—”

“Inside,” you said quickly, clutching at him. “Please. Inside, Joel.”

His hips snapped forward one last time, there was no use in refusing you when he was dying to finish inside you as well. He groaned loud into your neck as he came, deep and hot, emptying himself inside you with everything he had, painting your walls withwhite sticky cum. You felt every spasm of his cock, every pulse of heat flooding your core, it made you gasp, made your body clench tight around him, milking him dry.

He didn’t pull out, not right away, he stayed deep inside you, cradling your body against his, like he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart even for a moment. His skin was damp with sweat, his breath warm against your temple. He just held you, breathing hard, brushing his fingers through your hair in slow, soothing strokes, like he was trying to memorize the texture of you, anchor himself in the reality of what had just happened.

“Y’okay?” he asked softly. “I didn’t hurt ya too bad, did I?”

“I’m good—I…” You suddenly felt overwhelmed, a flood of insecurity creeping in. “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” he murmured, looking down at you.

“I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t very good. I’ll get better and then—”

“No,” he said, cutting you off. “Don’t even think that. Not for a goddamn second.”

He cupped your face, stared into your eyes, there was nothing but honesty in them, nothing but fierce and protective love. As if he could see every ugly thing you believed about yourself and wanted to tear it all down.

“Doin’ this with you was the most amazin’ thing in the world.” He kissed you, starting on your cheeks, going though your nose, your chin, your forehead. Each kiss was slow, deliberate, meant to heal you, to tell you wordlessly that you were enough, that you were everything he’d ever dreamed of. “I promise you I’ve never felt this good. Not ever.”

You stayed there, without any rush, any care in the world, just being in his arms, safe. The weight of him on you was protective, as if nothing could touch you so long as he was near. His heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath your cheek, the warmth of his chest wrapping around you like a blanket, anchoring you to the moment. In that moment, nothing else mattered, the world outside, the weight of your past, the fear of the future, it all slipped away in the comfort of his hold.

“I don’t want you goin’ back there… with your parents,” his voice was soft, you could feel the tremble in it “Come live here with me.”

“As if they’d ever allow it,” you said quietly. You knew all the risks. Their control, their wrath, the strings they’d pull, the shame they’d sling like daggers.

“Then let’s run away. Together. Just you and me, startin’ over somewhere else.”

“Joel—”

“No. Don’t Joel me. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t do it. You’ll be free, we’ll be happy together.”

“Because you’ll get bored of me. And you’ll leave me. And then I’ll be all alone.”

The confession fell from your lips before you could stop it, your voice cracking under the weight of your deepest fear. It was the kind of truth you never meant to say out loud, the kind that lived in the corners of your mind and poisoned everything good. The words felt like blood drawn from a wound you thought you’d hidden well. Your throat tightened and your eyes burned, you couldn’t even look at him.

“Did they tell you that? Did they make you believe that bullshit?” He said it with anger—not at you, never at you—but at them. His voice was shaking, laced with fury that anyone had made you feel so small, so disposable. He hated the ones who planted that fear in your head like poison. His jaw clenched, and you felt it where your cheek rested on his chest, his hands were gentle even as his voice shook.

“Baby, I love you more than I love myself. What do I have to do to convince you?” His hands braided your hair softly, each motion was careful and reverent, like he was weaving pieces of you back together, undoing all the harm they’d done, knot by knot. Each stroke of his fingers through your strands was a vow, it was the kind of tenderness you’d never been given, not once. You closed your eyes and let the slow rhythm calm you, ground you.

“You’re the most important thing in my life, my top priority. All I want is to keep you safe and happy. Y’know I’d do anythin’ f’you.”

“When?” you asked him, barely above a whisper. The question trembled in the air like a fragile thing.

“You pack your things and let me worry about the rest. I’ve gotcha.” His voice was low, full of certainty, not a single ounce of hesitation. Just a promise, and you knew, right then, he’d burn the world to keep you safe with him.

And part of you wanted him to... wanted to watch him light the match, watch it all go up in flames, just so you could finally be free with him.

I'm not doing taglists anymore, follow me on my Updates account

A/N: Soo, to the person who requested this, I really hope i didn’t let you down and it was everything you wanted and more. Thank you so much for your request!!🫶🫶

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint had always been a man of few words. He never needed them, not when his actions spoke louder, not when he could show you exactly how much he adored you with the way he touched you, worshiped you. And God, did he worship you.

You barely had time to register the way he pulled you into bed, hands gripping your thighs, parting them with a desperation that made your breath hitch. Clint had that look in his eyes, the one that said he was about to ruin you and the one that made your body tremble before he even laid a finger on you.

"Been thinkin’ about this all damn day." He muttered, voice rough with hunger as he pressed kisses up your inner thigh. His scruff scratched against your skin, sending shivers up your spine.

Your fingers threaded through his messy hair as he settled between your legs, inhaling deeply, like the scent of you alone was enough to drive him mad. His large hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer to his mouth and before you could say anything, his tongue was on you, slow, deliberate and savoring. "Clint…" You gasped but he only groaned in response, the vibrations making your thighs twitch around his head.

"You know better than to talk, sweetheart." He murmured against you, his tongue flicking over your clit in a way that made your breath stutter. "Just let me take care of you."

And he did.

Clint was relentless, devouring you with an obsession that left you weak. He licked, sucked and nipped, memorized every little sound you made, every little movement of your hips. He wanted you shaking, coming undone on his tongue, over and over, until you were too blissed-out to do anything but whimper his name. His grip on your thighs tightened when you tried to move away, too overwhelmed by the pleasure but he wasn’t letting you go, not yet. "Stay still, baby." He murmured, voice thick with need. "Ain't done with you."

Your back arched as his tongue worked you over again, teasing, torturing, until you were gasping, pulling at his hair, your body trembling under him. He ate you like a man starved, like he’d never get enough of you because he wouldn’t. And when you finally shattered, thighs clamping around his head, your body shaking with the force of your release, Clint only groaned in satisfaction, licking up every last drop of you like it was his lifeline.

As you lay there, boneless, breathless, he kissed his way back up your body, his lips brushing over your heated skin, smirking against your cheek. "Still with me, pretty girl?" He teased, his voice full of pride. You could barely form words, still floating in the haze he’d left you in. But Clint? He was already thinking about the next time because once would never be enough. Not when it came to you.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

Dave York had many obsessions, precision, control and more. The satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan. But none of them compared to you. And more specifically, the way you tasted. It was the one thing that shattered his discipline, made him reckless and made him a goddamn fiend.

Tonight was no different.

You barely had time to process before Dave had you spread out on the bed, your silk nightgown pushed up to your waist, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs. He wasn’t even pretending to take his time, he needed this, needed you.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he tasted you. “Fuck.” He muttered against your skin, his grip tightening on your thighs. “How do you get sweeter every time?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he devoured you, licking into you like a man starved. The heat of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the way his scruff rubbed against your sensitive skin, it was too much. “D-Dave.” Your voice was already shaking, your thighs trembling around his head but that only seemed to spur him on.

He growled, a deep, needy sound, and wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place. “Not done yet, sweetheart.” As if you had any say in the matter. He feasted on you, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making your back arch off the bed. You whimpered, thighs trying to snap shut but his grip was bruising, his strength impossible to fight.

“That’s it.” He murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt. “Give me everything, baby.”

Your body obeyed, hips rolling against his face, chasing the high he always pulled from you. And when you finally broke, when pleasure crashed over you so violently your entire body trembled, Dave didn’t stop, didn’t let you go.

You tried to push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation but he just laughed, pressing his tongue flat against your clit again. “Who told you we were done?” He murmured against your soaked heat. “I’ll stop when I’m finished.” And you knew, there was no stopping him now. You were his and he was going to ruin you.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

Dieter had many vices.

Drugs? Sure. Booze? Of course. Attention? Absolutely.

But nothing compared to his addiction to you. Specifically, your pussy.

It was almost ridiculous how often he had his face between your legs. You could be doing anything, reading, scrolling through your phone, even talking to him about something completely mundane and suddenly, Dieter would get that look in his eyes. That lazy hungry gaze.

Like now.

You were sitting on the couch, dressed in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, scrolling through your emails. You barely noticed Dieter shifting beside you, draping himself over your lap, nuzzling against your thighs like a cat begging for attention. It was when he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh that you finally glanced down.

“D…” You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “I’m busy.”

Dieter hummed, completely ignoring you, nosing the fabric of your shirt up so he could kiss higher, closer. “You can’t really be that busy.” He murmured against your skin. “Not too busy for me, right, sweetheart?”

“You literally ate me out this morning.” You arched a brow. 

“And? That was hours ago.” Dieter grinned, nipping at your thigh.  You sighed but the anticipation was already pooling low in your stomach. Because you knew Dieter wasn’t going to give up. He never did. 

With a content hum, he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled, dragging you down until you were half-sprawled against the couch. You let out a soft yelp as he pushed your legs apart, settling between them like a man ready to worship at the altar of his favorite religion. “I love this pretty little pussy.” He murmured, eyes dark as he ran his fingers along your already damp folds. “I swear baby, I could die between these thighs and be the happiest man alive.”

“You’re insane.” You let out a breathless laugh. 

Dieter smirked. “I’m just a man who knows what he likes.” And with that, he dove in. His mouth was hot, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked a long, teasing stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.

“Fuck, Dieter…” Your head fell back against the couch. He groaned against you, like he was savoring the taste, like he’d been starving for this. Because he was. He never rushed. Never got bored. Never stopped until you were a shaking, whimpering mess underneath him.

And tonight? He was taking his time.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

It was late aboard the Razor Crest, the hum of hyperspace a soft backdrop to the warmth cocooning you within your shared bunk. The dim glow of the overhead lights bathed the cramped space in shadows but none of it mattered, not when you were beneath him.

Din had you sprawled out on the thin mattress, his beskar discarded, his helmet resting on the shelf beside him. His dark eyes were fixed on you, hungry and full of devotion, as he pressed kisses along the inside of your thigh. His gravelly voice, thick with need, sent shivers through your already trembling body. "You're shaking, cyar’ika." He murmured, lips ghosting over your sensitive skin. "And I haven't even started yet."

Your fingers curled into the sheets as you whimpered, your body betraying you. The sheer intensity of his gaze, like you were the only thing in the galaxy that mattered, left you breathless. "Din, please." You whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

A low chuckle vibrated against your thigh. "So needy." He murmured, dragging his tongue over your skin, slow and teasing. "You know I love it when you beg."

You gasped as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, trapping you beneath his unyielding strength. And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue swirling, lips sealing over you with an insatiable hunger that left you writhing beneath him. You cried out, arching against him but his grip tightened, holding you down and forcing you to take it.

"You taste so fucking good, my riduur." He groaned against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. Your fingers flew to his hair, tugging, desperate for something to ground yourself. But Din only growled, doubling down, lapping you up like a man starved. His obsession with this, with you, bordered on madness. And you were helpless against it. Utterly and completely at his mercy.

Ezra (The Prospect)

Ezra has always been an indulgent man. The kind to savor his pleasures, to take his time. And when it comes to you? He’s downright ravenous.

It starts with a kiss.

It always does.

A slow, lazy thing, Ezra’s lips pressing soft and warm against yours as he pulls you into his lap. His hands, calloused and sure, trace the curve of your spine, skimming lower, gripping just enough to make you sigh against his mouth. "You’re too good to me, sugar." He murmurs, his breath ghosting over your jaw as his lips move lower. "Ain’t right, how lucky I got."

"And what did I do to deserve such praise?" You smile, threading your fingers through his hair. 

Ezra hums, dragging his lips down the column of your throat. "Exist." And then he’s gone. Down, down, lower, his hands gripping your hips as he lays you back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, his broad shoulders parting your thighs as he settles between them.

And God help you, because you know what’s coming. Ezra is obsessed with your pussy. And he’s about to prove it.

He starts slow. Dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. Savoring, worshiping and teasing. "You’re soft everywhere, sugar." He murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "But this? Right here?" His thumb presses against your slick heat, parting you, and he groans. "This is my favorite part."

Your breath catches as he dips his head, his tongue flicking out to taste.

And then Ezra moans like he’s the one being pleasured, like he’s just been given the most decadent meal in the universe. His good hand grips your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread and vulnerable for his mouth. He licks deep, dragging his tongue through your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.

You jolt, your hands flying to his hair, thighs trembling around his head.

"Ezra!"

"That’s it." He rasps, pulling back just enough to press a wet kiss against your swollen bud. "Say my name, sugar." He licks again, slower this time, his tongue curling just right and you keen.

"God, Ezra!"

He groans against you, the vibrations sparking pleasure up your spine. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he devours you, his mouth moving in slow, deliberate strokes, building you up, winding you tight. And then he flicks his tongue, fast and sharp, before sucking hard.

And you break. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body arching, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. But Ezra doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He keeps going, keeps licking, keeps sucking, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him, gasping, whimpering. Only then does he finally pull away, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown with hunger.

"You taste like heaven, sugar." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your trembling thigh. "Think I might need another bite."

And then he dives back in.

And you?

You’re gone.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

Frankie wasn’t ashamed of it. Hell, he’d scream it from the rooftops if he could. He was obsessed with his wife’s pussy. It was his, after all.

And right now, he was devouring it like a man starved. His broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his scruffy beard scratching against your inner thighs as his tongue worked you over, slow and deliberate, savoring the way you squirmed beneath him. Your back was arched, your fingers tugging at his curls, your breath ragged as you tried and failed to keep up with his relentless pace.

“F-Frankie!” Your voice hitched as his tongue flicked against your clit, his arms tightening around your thighs, locking you in place.

“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, his voice gravelly, deep, vibrating against your soaked cunt. “Let me hear you.” You whimpered, legs trembling around his head, but he just held you tighter, lapped at you harder, his tongue dipping deep, tasting everything you had to give him.

“Always so sweet, honey. Always so perfect.” You shuddered, your body tensing, that familiar heat building, rising, coiling tight.

And then Frankie sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling, flicking, pushing you over the edge. Your cry filled the room as you came undone, your thighs clamping around his head, your entire body shaking beneath him.

But Frankie wasn’t done, not yet. “One more, baby.” His voice was thick with hunger, his hands spreading you open again, his tongue diving back in before you could even catch your breath.

And the only thing you could do was take it like a good little girl.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

The penthouse was dimly lit, the glow from the city skyline casting soft shadows across the bedroom. Outside, the world was still alive, cars honking, sirens wailing, people laughing in distant bars but here, none of that mattered.

Here, it was just you and Harry.

And Harry was hungry. His hands were possessive, large palms gliding over your bare thighs as he spread you open beneath him. The warmth of his breath tickled your skin, sending a delicious shiver up your spine. “Look at you.” He murmured, eyes dark with need as he settled between your legs. “My perfect little wife.” His lips pressed to the inside of your knee, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. Every inch he covered made your heartbeat hammer against your ribs, your breath catching when his nose brushed against where you needed him most.

“Harry…” You whispered, already trembling beneath his touch.

His lips curved against your skin. He loved this, loved how eager, needy and utterly wrecked you became under his hands. He had barely touched you and yet you were already coming undone for him. “You know I can’t help myself.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the softest part of your thigh. “Not when you taste so fucking sweet.”

And then, he devoured you. His tongue was hot, skilled, and utterly merciless as he dragged it through your slick heat. You arched off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as your fingers shot down to grip his hair, holding on as he took his time tasting you.

Harry groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He loved this. Loved the way your thighs tried to clamp around his head, the way you whimpered and gasped his name with every flick of his tongue. His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread for him as he feasted. Every slow, deliberate lap of his tongue had you trembling, your body coiling tighter and tighter with unbearable pleasure.

“Oh, god! Harry…” You gasped, hips bucking against his mouth. “I…I'm gonna…”

“Go on.” He growled against you, tongue pressing deep, voice husky with obsession. “Give it to me.”

And you did. Your body shattered, pleasure ripping through you so violently that you couldn’t even scream, just a silent, breathless cry as your vision whited out. But Harry wasn’t done. Even as you trembled beneath him, legs twitching, breath shaky, he kept going.

“Too much…” You whimpered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you down.

“Uh-uh, sweetheart.” He rasped, looking up at you with hungry, darkened eyes. “I’m not done yet.” And then he dove back in, tongue relentless, dragging you into another devastating wave of pleasure.

You were his. His beautiful, perfect little wife. And he was going to worship you all night long.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels prided himself on many things, his skill as an agent, his precision with a lasso, his ability to hold his liquor better than most men. But above all else, there was one thing he cherished, one thing he could never get enough of: you.

More specifically, the sweet little prize between your thighs.

And tonight? Tonight was no different.

You were sprawled across the bed, your body trembling beneath him, your breath coming in ragged little gasps. The silk sheets beneath you were already wrinkled, your fingers tangled in them as you tried to keep yourself together. But Jack had other plans. “Oh, honey.” He drawled against your soaked folds, his voice thick with amusement and hunger. “Ain’t no use runnin’ from me.” Your thighs jerked as his tongue dragged through your slick folds, his hands gripping the plush flesh to keep you still. He’d been down here for what felt like hours, working you over with that devastating mouth of his, taking his time like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

And for Jack, that was true. He had you all to himself, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“J-Jack…” You whimpered, your voice wrecked and needy, barely a breath.

His cock throbbed at the sound, at the way you begged so prettily for him without even realizing it. He nuzzled against your swollen clit, letting his scruff drag against the sensitive skin before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

You cried out, arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair as your thighs instinctively tried to clamp around his head. But he was stronger and faster, he pinned your legs open with ease, spreading you wide for him. “Uh-uh, darlin’.” He murmured, looking up at you with dark, hazy eyes. “You know better than that. Let me see you.”

Your chest heaved as you met his gaze, your body quaking beneath him. He looked downright ravenous, his mouth and chin glistening with your slick, his pupils blown wide with hunger. “Prettiest damn thing I ever laid eyes on.” He muttered before diving right back in. His tongue worked you over, alternating between slow, teasing licks and deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. He devoured you, like he was a man starved and you were the only meal he ever needed.

Your stomach tightened, pleasure coiling low, your muscles locking up as you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge. “Come on, sugar.” Jack murmured against you, his voice vibrating through your core. “Give me another one. Know you got it in ya.”

And oh, you did.

With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body seized, pleasure ripping through you as you sobbed his name, your vision going white-hot as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Jack groaned against you, his grip tightening, holding you steady as he licked you through every last aftershock, determined to prolong your bliss for as long as he could. Only when your body finally sagged against the bed, spent and trembling, did he pull away. His lips were wet, his beard glistening, but that smirk was firmly in place as he crawled up your body, pressing his hard, aching length against your thigh.

“Think you got another one in ya, sweet thing?” He murmured, nipping at your jaw as one of his hands trailed between your legs, his fingers teasing your overstimulated clit. You whimpered, your entire body shuddering as a fresh wave of need coursed through you.

Jack grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Javi Gutierrez had always been a devoted man. To his work, to his friends, to the things he loved. But nothing held his devotion quite like you did. Especially when he had you like this. Sprawled out on the bed, limbs trembling, thighs spread wide for him as he buried his face between them like a man starved.

He wasn’t even pretending to pace himself tonight. From the moment he laid you down, he had been relentless, tongue hot and wet as it flicked over your clit, his lips sealing around the swollen bud just to suck, pulling desperate whimpers from your throat. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you still even as your body tried to escape the pleasure he forced upon you. You were shaking. Shaking beneath him, body writhing against the sheets, fingers tangled in his thick curls, tugging, pulling, pushing. Not that he ever listened to your weak attempts to get away. If anything, your resistance only spurred him on.

He groaned into your soaked heat, the vibration sending another shockwave through your already overstimulated body. “Tan dulce, mi amor.” He murmured, voice muffled as he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit before sealing his lips around you once more. “I could stay here forever.”

“Javi…” You whined, thighs trembling in his grasp. 

But the plea was cut off by a sharp gasp as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his mouth never ceasing its delicious assault. His free hand splayed over your stomach, feeling the way your muscles tensed beneath his touch. “Give me one more.” He coaxed, voice thick with arousal, tongue circling your clit in slow, deliberate movements. “One more, cariño, I know you can.”

You didn’t stand a chance against him. Against his tongue, his fingers, the overwhelming hunger he had for you. And when you finally shattered, crying out his name, Javi moaned like he was the one coming undone, lapping up every bit of your pleasure as if he could drink you in. Even as you lay there, panting, skin glistening with sweat, body too spent to move, he still wasn’t satisfied. Because you were his favorite meal.

And Javi Gutierrez never left a plate unfinished.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

Nights with your husband had always felt like a dream, heavy with warmth, golden with affection. But tonight, something different simmered beneath the surface. Javier had been watching you all day. From the way your sundress clung to your curves as you folded laundry, to the delicate stretch of your legs on the couch as you flipped through a magazine, lost in your world. He looked at you like a starving man, slow, focused and reverent.

And now you were lying in bed, bathed in the soft lamplight of your shared room. A breath caught in your throat as he hovered above you, still fully clothed, yet somehow already unraveled by you. “Javi…” You whispered, fingers curling around the front of his shirt.

“Shh, baby.” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest with quiet, burning reverence. “Let me take care of you.”

You swallowed, heart racing, as he trailed kisses lower, slow and deliberate, fingertips skimming down your sides as if he were learning your body all over again. “You’re always so good to me.” He whispered, his voice rough and low. “Always so damn beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath hitched as he settled between your thighs, warm palms spreading them gently but firmly, like he couldn’t wait another second to worship you properly. And when his mouth met your skin, it wasn’t rushed. No, it was worshipful, slow, focused and obsessed. You gripped the sheets, legs trembling as he groaned into you like he was the one being undone. As if the taste of you was the only thing he ever wanted, the only thing he craved.

“Javi, oh my god!” You gasped, your voice catching as your body arched beneath him.

He didn’t stop. Not when your fingers tangled in his hair. Not when your legs threatened to close around his shoulders. And especially not when you were trembling beneath him, so sensitive you could barely breathe. He pulled back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh and look up at you with that devilish proud smirk of his. “You shaking, baby?” He teased, breath hot against your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

And when he kissed you again, slow and deep, you realized Javier Peña wasn’t just obsessed with you. He was starving for you. And he wasn’t stopping until you melted completely in his hands.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

Even after all these years, after all the ash, blood and grief the world had dumped at your feet, Joel Miller still looked at you like you were the last good thing left on Earth.

And tonight, he touched you like it too.

The house in Jackson was quiet, the walls still and the fireplace crackling low in the distance. Joel had returned home from patrol just hours earlier, his hands rough and cold from the snow, his body tense, his eyes tired. But the second he walked through the door and saw you curled up on the couch in nothing but one of his old flannels, your thighs peeking out and lips glossy from your nightly tea, something shifted in him. That dark intensity in his gaze sharpened, zeroing in on you like you were a meal he hadn’t had in days.

And truthfully?

He hadn’t. Not the way he needed to.

Which is exactly how you ended up like this, legs trembling around his broad shoulders, your fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper curls as he buried his face between your thighs like a starving man at his last supper. “J-Joel…” You gasped, back arching off the bed as he moaned against your soaked heat, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him like it was nectar, his hands gripping your thighs tight, holding you open and in place.

“Shhh, darlin’.” He murmured against your skin, voice rough and low, vibrating right through your core. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til you’re shakin’ for me. You know that.”

He always said that. Every damn time.

And you always did.

Joel was obsessive in the way he worshiped you, taking his time, learning every inch of your body, every twitch, every gasp, every whispered plea. His beard scraped against the tender skin of your inner thighs and you felt it when he smiled, smug and greedy, like he could feel your pleasure in his own chest. He shifted slightly, dragging his tongue slow and deliberate, before sucking that sensitive spot in a way that made your whole body jolt.

“I-I can’t!” Your breath hitched. 

“You can, baby.” He growled, tightening his grip, his voice wrecked with hunger. “Gonna come for me. Gonna soak my fuckin’ face like a good girl, huh?” You cried out, the coil inside you snapping, unraveling as your body shook beneath him, just like he wanted. Just like he always wanted.

Joel didn’t let up. He never did. He kept going until your thighs trembled and your lungs burned from how hard you were panting. It was only when your legs started to twitch from overstimulation that he finally pulled back, mouth wet and beard slick with you, eyes dark and blown wide. He looked like a man possessed. And you looked like a goddess completely wrecked. He kissed your inner thigh reverently, gently now, almost as if apologizing for how fiercely he’d devoured you.

Then he crawled up your body, slow and deliberate until his face was hovering above yours, eyes searching yours with that same intense affection that always managed to shatter you a little. “Don’t ever get tired of that.” He rasped, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Could do that every damn day ‘til the day I die.”

“You say that like you haven’t already been trying.” You let out a soft, breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Damn right I am.” Joel grinned against your neck, pressing a kiss to your pulse.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

To the empire, you were his sweet delicate wife. A vision of beauty, grace and modesty, always draped in soft linen, eyes lowered in public and your voice rarely raised above a gentle whisper. The senators adored you and the noblewomen envied you.

But Marcus Acacius, Rome’s most brutal and revered general, knew the truth. He knew how you trembled in your shared bed. He knew how your soft moans sounded at midnight. He knew how you tasted when you were soaked and aching just for him.

And gods, he was addicted.

The lanterns burned low. The white marble walls of your bedchamber glowed gold in the candlelight, casting shadows that danced across their silken sheets. You sat at your vanity, brushing your hair, clad only in a thin white shift that clung to every curve. Marcus stood behind you, freshly bathed from the private spring, his broad body wrapped in a loose robe. His eyes devoured you through the mirror.

So soft. So sweet. So his.

You caught his gaze and smiled, shy and knowing. He stepped closer, large hands landing gently on your shoulders. You stilled as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Lie down.”

Your breath hitched and obeyed. Marcus was slow with you. Reverent, like a man kneeling before his goddess. He pulled the thin shift over your head, letting it slip to the floor. You lay back on the cool linen sheets, your body already warm from anticipation.

He knelt between your thighs, his hands parting them with care but no hesitation. His eyes were dark with hunger. His voice, low and rough. “You don’t know what you do to me, carissima.”

You whimpered softly as his thumbs stroked your inner thighs, lips ghosting lower, breath hot on your already wet folds. Marcus kissed the inside of your knee. Then lower. Then lower still. Until his mouth found your aching dripping cunt. You cried out softly, hips jerking. But his arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue slid through your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. Your fingers gripped the sheets.

“Marcus…”

“Shhh.” His voice was muffled, buried between your legs. “Let me taste my wife.” He licked you like a man starved, like you were the only thing he ever wanted. And maybe you were. He didn’t rush. He worshiped. He kissed, sucked and flicked his tongue over your clit until your moans filled the room, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

“You’re shaking.” He murmured against you, voice dripping with satisfaction. “You feel how wet you are for me?”

You nodded frantically, hips lifting and chasing his mouth.

“Tell me.” He growled.

“You… you make me feel so good, Marcus. I…gods, I can’t!”

“Oh, but you will.”

He grinned, lips slick with you and dove back in with even more hunger. His tongue flicked faster now, fingers spreading you open, licking deep until you were writhing, panting, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your thighs shook violently and then you finally broke. You came hard, gasping his name like a sacred vow.

But Marcus didn’t stop. He lapped up every drop, sucking your clit until you sobbed from the pleasure, your voice hoarse from moaning out his name. “I love how you taste.” He whispered, dragging his tongue up slowly. “I’ll never get enough of you.” 

And in that moment, as you lay boneless and quivering beneath your general, your husband, you knew the truth: Marcus Acacius may have conquered nations. But you were the only thing he would ever worship. And he worshipped you well into the night.

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

Marcus Moreno is a patient man. A disciplined man. A man of control. But when it comes to you? All that restraint shatters. Because he’s obsessed with you. With the way you fall apart beneath him. With the way your breath hitches when his lips graze your skin.

But most of all?

With the way you taste. It always starts the same way. A simple kiss, slow and lingering. Then another. And another. Until he’s got you spread out beneath him, his mouth trailing lower and lower. Until he’s right where he wants to be.

You whimper when he kisses the inside of your thigh, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Marcus.” You sigh, fingers threading through his dark curls. “Please…”

He shushes you, eyes dark with hunger. “Patience, sweetheart.” Then, with a slow sinful smirk, he devours you. He loves this, loves how your thighs tremble around his head and loves how your back arches, how you cry out his name like a prayer. He lives for this. For the way you come undone, legs shaking, body writhing, completely at his mercy. And he’s not stopping. Not until you’re gasping. Not until you’re clenching your fingers in his hair, babbling, pleading and begging. Not until you’re so overstimulated that you have tears in your eyes.

Only then when you’re thoroughly wrecked and limp beneath him, does he finally lift his head, his lips glistening, his expression utterly feral. And when he leans up, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He grins against your mouth. “Such a good girl.” He murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Think you can give me another?” And despite the way your body still trembles you still nod.

Because Marcus Moreno?

He’s not done with you yet.

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

The soft glow of golden evening light spilled through the bedroom windows, casting warm lazy rays across the sheets that were still tousled from your earlier nap. The quiet hum of the city below faded into the background as your husband, Marcus Pike, leaned in the doorway, watching you stretch slowly across the bed like you were the most beautiful piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.

His tie was already loosened, jacket tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. And that look on his face, soft and reverent, made your breath hitch.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked with a small, teasing smile.

“Like what?” Marcus stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“Like I’m about to be worshipped.”

He leaned down, bracing one knee on the edge of the bed as he brushed his knuckles gently along your cheek. “Maybe because you are.”

Your heart thudded at the low, husky tone of his voice, full of something tender, something hungry, something devoted. He kissed you then, slowly and deeply, like he had all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that melted your bones, made your skin tingle and reminded you just how safe and loved you were in his arms.

“Marcus…” You whispered, fingers curling into his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes serious but warm. “You know I could spend the rest of my life just appreciating you. Every inch. Every sigh. Every little sound you make when I touch you.” You’d been married long enough to know he meant every word. Marcus didn’t rush through intimacy, he savored it, savored you.

He was gentle but firm as he coaxed you to lie back against the pillows, his hands skimming down your sides as he took his time, memorizing every reaction you gave him. He kissed a trail down your body, murmuring soft words of praise, of adoration. His lips were warm, his stubble brushing over sensitive skin and every motion felt like worship. You gasped when he kissed your inner thigh, his breath warm and slow as he rested there, holding you like you were the center of his world.

“You always take care of me.” He murmured, pressing a reverent kiss just below your navel. “Let me take care of you tonight.” And you let him. You let him pour his love into you, every kiss and touch whispering the truth, that Marcus Pike loved his wife with every fiber of his being and that there was nowhere else he’d rather be than wrapped around you, worshiping you like you were his whole world.

And to him, you were.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

Marriage can change a man. At least, that’s what everyone told Max. He heard the horror stories, how the passion faded, how the excitement dulled, how men started avoiding their wives instead of worshiping them.

What a joke.

Because Max?

Max Phillips was obsessed with his wife. You were his pretty little thing, his perfect girl, his everything. And there was one part of you he loved the most.

It started like every other morning. You were barely awake, your body soft and warm against the sheets, wearing one of Max’s old t-shirts and nothing else.

Perfect.

His favorite way to wake up.

Max slid beneath the covers before you even registered what was happening. His hands pried your thighs apart, his breath hot against your skin.

"Max." You mumbled sleepily, shifting slightly. "What are you…?"

And then his tongue was on you. You gasped, your fingers clenching in the sheets as pleasure rocked through your half-asleep body. Max groaned against your heat, lapping at you like a man starving. He never got tired of this. The taste of you, the scent of you, the way your thighs tremble every time he sucked on that perfect little clit. It was everything. And Max was never satisfied.

By the time he was done with you, you were wrecked. Your body was trembling, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. You lay there, panting, eyes dazed as you tried to process what just happened. Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning down at you like the smug bastard he was. "Morning, sweetheart." He murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

"You’re insane." You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. 

Max chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss against your still-sensitive core, just to watch you jerk from overstimulation. "You married me, baby." He reminded you, voice husky.

And as he slid two fingers inside you, grinning at your whimper. "You knew what you were getting into."

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Maxwell Lord was a man obsessed. To the world, he was a tycoon, a businessman, a man who commanded respect and wielded power like a weapon. But behind the closed doors of his penthouse, stripped of the expensive suits and the cutthroat deals, he was just a man desperate for you. And he had no shame in showing it. His mouth was already on you, hot and eager, his grip firm on your thighs as he spread you apart. The silk sheets crumpled beneath your trembling hands, your back arching at the first slow, deliberate drag of his tongue.

"Max…"

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "You know better than to say my name like that, mi amor." He murmured, his voice a dark promise against your heat. "Not unless you want me to keep you here all night." His tongue flicked again, teasing, coaxing, tasting.

You did want that. You always wanted it. Your husband was relentless, worshiping you with a devotion that bordered on madness. It wasn’t enough for him to simply touch you, to make love to you, no, he had to devour you, to drown himself in you until he couldn’t breathe. And right now, he was starving. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as his mouth worked you over, slow and indulgent, like he had all the time in the world. He loved doing this to you. Loved feeling you unravel beneath him, loved the way you gasped and writhed and whimpered his name like a prayer.

"You taste so sweet, cariño." He groaned, his voice thick with need. "So perfect for me." Your fingers tangled in his golden hair, hips lifting, desperate for more. But Max was in control and he wasn’t going to let you rush him. Not when he could keep you on the edge for as long as he wanted. Not when making you fall apart was his favorite thing in the world.

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The estate was quiet now. The party had ended hours ago, leaving only the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet. Moonlight spilled through the wide windows of your bedroom, casting silver shadows across the expensive linen sheets, catching in your hair like a halo. You were already in bed, curled beneath the silk covers, a book forgotten on your lap. But your mind wasn’t on the pages.

It was on him.

You heard him before you saw him, his measured steps down the hallway, the soft clink of his belt being undone, the rustle of his jacket as he shrugged it off. When the door opened, your eyes lifted and there he was.

Lucien.

His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his dark hair tousled from his hands, always tugging when he was stressed or when he was thinking about you, which lately, seemed like all the time. "Still awake?" He murmured, voice low and rough with something darker.

"Couldn’t sleep." You shifted onto your back, watching as he stepped into the moonlight, eyes raking over your form like you were a goddamn miracle.

Lucien crossed the room in slow, measured strides. You could feel the heat radiating off his body before he even touched you. “I saw you tonight.” He murmured as he knelt beside the bed, his hand reaching to slowly push the sheets down. “The way you looked in that dress, smiling, talking to everyone, pretending like I wasn’t five seconds from dragging you out of that ballroom.”

“You didn’t say much at the party.” You shivered under his stare, the heat in his voice licking over your skin. 

He tilted his head, his hands already trailing up your thighs, gentle and reverent. “Didn’t trust myself to.” His fingers curled beneath the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up. “You drive me fucking insane, mi amor. All night, I could barely think. All I wanted was to get you alone.”

“Lucien…” You gasped as his mouth brushed against your inner thigh, soft slow kisses that made your toes curl. 

His eyes flicked up, wild and tender all at once. “I married the most beautiful woman in this world.” He whispered. “And I will never stop worshipping her.” And with that, he buried his face between your thighs. The first stroke of his tongue was slow precise, like he was savoring you, like this wasn’t something rushed or expected. It was an offering. A ritual.

Your fingers tangled into his hair instinctively, back arching as he sucked gently on your clit, tongue circling with maddening patience. Lucien groaned against you, like he was starving, like this was what he craved most in the world.

He loved this. Loved how your thighs trembled around his face, how your hips bucked helplessly, how you whimpered his name like a prayer. He gripped your thighs tighter, pressing you down as you started to squirm, overwhelmed by the waves of heat crashing through your belly. "You always taste so fucking sweet.” He growled, voice muffled. “My pretty little wife… this is mine."

“Lucien…” Your voice was breathless, shaking, your body already close.

But he didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, flicking his tongue faster, rougher, his hands locking you in place as he devoured you like a man possessed. You were shaking now, legs trembling uncontrollably, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it. You came with a cry, your entire body clenching as the world shattered into stars.

But Lucien didn’t stop. Even as you begged, soft stuttering, “too much” falling from your lips, he kept licking, moaning like he was the one being pleasured, like your shaking body beneath him only fueled his obsession.

“I’ll stop when I’ve had enough.” He murmured darkly, kissing your overstimulated folds, then licking slow and deep again. “But I’ll never get enough of you.” And you believed him. Because Lucien De Leon didn’t just love you, he worshipped you. Every inch. Every tremble. Every shattered breath.

And tonight, like always, he would ruin you, slowly, thoroughly and completely. And you’d let him.

Every. Damn. Time.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

The warm Dornish night wrapped around the palace of Sunspear like a silken embrace, the air thick with the scent of citrus and salt from the nearby sea. The moon hung high, casting silver light through the open balcony doors, the soft billowing of sheer curtains whispering against the stone. But inside the grand bedchamber, there was only heat.

Oberyn Martell lay between your thighs, eyes dark with hunger, lips curled into a lazy, sinful smile as he pressed a teasing kiss to the inside of your knee. His large hands held your legs open with ease, fingers tracing idle patterns against your flushed skin. "Look at you." He murmured, his voice like honeyed wine, deep and thick with desire. "So beautiful like this, my love. Spread out before me like a feast meant only for my lips."

You shivered beneath his touch, your breath hitching as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him most. Your fingers tangled in the silk sheets, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as he deliberately avoided the place where you ached for him. "Oberyn." You gasped, hips shifting in silent pleas.

He hummed in amusement, his nose brushing against your inner thigh as he nipped at the sensitive skin, dragging his teeth along it before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Patience, sweet wife." He chided, though his own restraint was hanging by a thread. "I plan to savor you tonight."

And savor you he did.

His mouth descended upon you, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes. The first contact sent a jolt of pleasure through your spine, your back arching off the bed as a breathless cry fell from your lips.

Oberyn groaned at the taste of you, gripping your thighs tighter as he buried himself deeper, drinking in every sound you made as if it were the sweetest melody. He licked, kissed, and sucked with expert precision, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before dipping lower, teasing, devouring.

Your fingers found their way into his dark curls, tugging desperately as the coil of pleasure within you tightened with every stroke of his tongue. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body.

"Oberyn, gods, please!" Your plea was met with a low chuckle but he didn't stop. If anything, he doubled his efforts, his hands pressing your hips down to keep you from writhing away from the overwhelming pleasure. He wanted you shaking beneath him, wanted to hear his name fall from your lips like a prayer, wanted to ruin you with nothing but his mouth.

And when you finally shattered, when your body trembled and arched and you cried out his name like it was the only thing you knew, Oberyn didn’t stop. He licked you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were boneless beneath him, your body twitching with aftershocks.

Only then did he pull away, his lips glistening with evidence of his devotion as he crawled up your body, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "Perfect." He murmured, voice thick with pride and desire. "But I am not yet done with you, my love." And with that, the night stretched on, filled with whispered praises, gasping breaths, and the relentless worship of a man utterly devoted to his beautiful wife.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The evening crept in quietly, the golden light fading behind the hills and casting a soft glow through the cabin windows. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the cozy warmth of their little home wrapped around them like a thick quilt. Pero had been watching you for a while, admiring the way your hair spilled over your shoulders as you finished the last few rows of his sweater. His heart, often guarded and rough around the edges, softened completely in your presence.

And now, he couldn’t resist you any longer. He set the knitted sweater aside carefully, eyes smoldering with a kind of hunger that only you could inspire. "Lie back for me, cariño." He murmured, voice low and deep with promise.

“Now?” You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as a soft, knowing smile played on your mouth. 

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Now…” He repeated, his fingers already slipping under the hem of your dress, coaxing you gently to lie back across your bed.

You complied as you sank into the pillows. Pero wasted no time, kissing a path down your stomach, worshipping your body with every press of his lips. He loved how soft you were, how you trembled when his stubble grazed your inner thighs, how you sighed his name like a prayer. “Relax, mi vida.” He whispered, spreading your legs with reverent care. “Let me take care of you.” And he did, thoroughly.

His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you steady as he indulged in the sweet taste of the woman who made a hardened soldier like him feel utterly undone. Every flick of his tongue was precise, every kiss intentional and it wasn’t long before your breathing grew shallow, your hips subtly lifting to meet his mouth.

“Pero, oh gods…Pero, I… I can’t…” You tangled your fingers in his hair, gasping as waves of pleasure built and rolled through you. 

But he didn’t stop. He was lost in you. Obsessed with how you responded to his touch, the way your thighs trembled against his cheeks, how your voice shook when you whimpered his name. He was a man on a mission. And his mission was to worship every inch of his pretty wife until you were trembling beneath him, completely undone and thoroughly loved.

And when you finally reached that peak, body quivering, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries, Pero held you gently through every wave, his own name echoing in your voice like a song. When you collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and breathless, Pero kissed the inside of your knee, then your hip, then your belly before crawling up beside you and wrapping you tightly in his arms.

You were still catching your breath when you turned to him, flushed and glowing. “You’re insatiable.” You whispered with a sleepy smile.

“Only for you, mi amor. Always for you.” Pero chuckled, brushing a damp strand of your from your face. 

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

Reed had always been a man of intellect, of science, of logic. But when it came to you? All reason was lost. It wasn’t just love, it was obsession. An insatiable hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way your body trembled beneath him when he had his head buried between your thighs.

Tonight was no different. Your fingers tangled into his salt and pepper curls, back arching as his wicked mouth latched onto the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you gasping out his name.

“Reed, fuck!”

He groaned against you, his large hands pinning down your trembling thighs, refusing to let you squirm away from his torturous pace. “You taste so fucking sweet.” He murmured, dragging his tongue in a slow languid motion, savoring you like you were the finest thing he had ever had.

And to him? You were.

His brilliant mind, capable of unraveling the universe’s deepest mysteries, was reduced to one singular thought, his neverending devotion to you. His pretty little wife. His obsession. His addiction. “More.” His voice was hoarse, desperate, his grip tightening around your hips. “Give me more, sweetheart.”

As if you had any choice. He devoured you whole, until your body shuddered, until your breath hitched and your nails raked against his scalp. And yet, even as you came undone beneath him, he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

Reed pulled back only for a moment, darkened eyes drinking in the sight of you, flushed and wrecked, completely at his mercy. “I hope you don’t think I’m finished, darling.” His lips curled into a smirk, glossy with your slick. “We’ve barely even started.” And with that, he dove right back in.

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

Tim Rockford had a problem. A serious, all-consuming, mind-numbing problem and it was you. More specifically, your pussy. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t get enough. It didn’t matter how many times he had you, he was always aching for more. Always desperate to taste you, to bury himself between your thighs and ruin you in ways that made you sob his name.

And tonight was no different.

You had barely crawled into bed when Tim was already reaching for you, big hands sliding up your thighs, warm and insistent. "Tim." You murmured, blinking sleepily as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. "What are you…"

"You know what, sweetheart." He muttered against your skin.

A small gasp left your lips when he nipped at the soft flesh, dragging his mouth higher, closer to where you were already warm and aching for him. "You don’t have to." You breathed, even as your legs parted without hesitation.

"Yeah, I do." Tim huffed a low, wicked laugh. Because it wasn’t a choice, not anymore. Not when you were already so soft, so wet for him, just from a few teasing kisses. Not when the scent of you had him damn near losing his mind. He didn’t waste time, didn’t tease and didn’t make you beg for it. No, he devoured you, spreading you open with his fingers and dragging his tongue through your slick folds like a man starved.

"Oh, my God!" Your hands flew to his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as your back arched off the bed.

Tim groaned into you, lapping at your swollen, sensitive clit, slow and purposeful. He could feel you trembling already, thighs twitching against his shoulders, but he wasn’t stopping. Not until he had you sobbing for him. Not until you were shaking and soaking his face, pulling at his hair, begging him for something you couldn’t even put into words.