call me pea!

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

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

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

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

“You, too!”

“Tell your dad I said hi!”

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

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

Shortly, the one in front of you creaked open.

Joel stood there. His brown eyes shone.

“Hey, kiddo.”

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

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

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

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

That was when both of you learned you liked roleplay.

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

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

And yet you did, every single time.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nuh-uh,” you answered.

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

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

“No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

“‘Am not.’”

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

Sure you wanna go this way, sweetheart?

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

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

Simultaneously, your phone vibrated again.

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

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

“I’ll eat it, Dad, I’ll—”

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

OK.

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

Another two painfully loud vibrations sounded.

From: Harry Castillo

Make it home OK?

Missin’ you pretty lady

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

Outwardly, you bat your lashes at your pretend father.

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

“Who the fuck is Harry?”

Well, it just wasn’t fair.

A dipshit like that texting at a time like this.

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

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

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

You weren’t getting fucked anytime soon, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey you

Just got back to Oxford 😌

And then:

Make it home OK?

Missin’ you pretty lady

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

Torture you.

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

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

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

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

Your head fell back on a soft moan.

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

“Oh, fuck, Dad. Fuck me, please.”

It was lewd.

It was wrong.

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

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

Still, you keened, whining petulantly.

“Owwww! That hurts, Dad.”

“Does it, sweetheart?”

Why that fucker was grinning was beyond you.

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

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

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

‘Is not’ you could’ve corrected him.

But you didn’t. Joel went on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inspection, that is.

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

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

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

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

“She has.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise, Dad. Didn’t…do…a thing.”

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

That lined face was handsome. Warm. Watchful.

“You wear this bikini out on the beach?”

“I— P-Please—”

“By the pool?”

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

Gently, Joel prodded at your entrance.

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

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

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

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

Then that middle finger pushed its way inside.

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

It happened with one flick of his tongue.

One measly little lick, Joel groaning:

“‘S’all mine, ain’t she, honey?”

And then you were finished.

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

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

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

“But— But— it’s wrong. We shouldn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you did.

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

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

“I do.”

“—pressured.” he finished.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure it’ll fit, Dad?”

You played up the bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not once?” Joel questioned.

“N— No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Darlin’ girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated only a second before peering back down:

“You gonna cum again for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Joel was pulling out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starting to stroke his cock again, he went:

“You want Dad’s cum, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

Again, you didn’t think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dimly, you remembered what your dinner had been.

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

Smothered in gravy.

Joel was finished.

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

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

Then, meeting your gaze, he finally spoke again:

“steve-” you try, but the second you open your mouth, he’s shoving two thick fingers into your mouth.

“fuck-” he groans, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you. you gag softly, finally able to release more noise with his grip having departed from your throat. “fuck, baby.” he snarls, scissoring your tongue with his fingers. “spit.” he orders, and you oblige, drooling all over his fingers. “uh-huh,” he mocks, tsk-ing. “never gonna leave you. fuckin’ love you.” he says, sincerely. “you know that? c’mon, baby. try for stevie.” he coos, pulling his fingers from your mouth, running them along your lips to gloss them in saliva.

you don’t even know if you can form words at this point. but you know the answer in your head.

“never—” you mumble against his fingers, playing with your lips and tongue. “say it.” he orders, “wanna know what it feels like when you say you’re mine.”

your brain short-circuits.

“i’m-” you moan, feeling his cock fill you. stretch you. your walls grip to his cock, milking it desperately. “i’m yours, steve.” you babble, your spit dripping onto your tits as he feels the words against his fingers.

that’s all it takes.

“gonna fuckin make you my wife. gonna fuckin’ get you nice and full for me, yeah? make a little family, hm?” he poses, and you nod desperately. “s’all i want, steve-please-” you beg, “m’so—”

“close?” he finishes, adorned with his infamous chuckle. “i know, baby. know it better than you do.” he coos, nipping at the shell of your ear. “fuckin’ come. come on my fuckin’ cock.” he orders. “you com’inside.” you retort, and the noise he lets out is animalistic. primal.

he holds you tighter than he ever has, both of your breaths staggering as you focus on your release. you vision blurs, screaming his name as he pounds into you relentlessly, feeling yourself unravel on his cock. not long after, his cock is filling you up, releasing all the cum he has. his balls have ached until now.

your breaths are desperate and ragged, dragging against your dry throat as you both fight to return the air to your lungs. “i love you,” he says, spinning you around to face him. “and, uh, i know this is bad timing, but..” he clears his throat, i meant what i said. about making you my wife.” he says, and you soften.

“i know,” you say, a gentle grin. he cocoons you in his arms, overlooking the city with you, a stupid grin plastered on his face. you lift the diamond ring adorning your finger, both of you admiring it as he peers down over your shoulder.

“i do good?” he asks, rustling your hair with a grin.

He wraps his hand around his cock, already hard just from listening to you talk about goddamn fries. His breath stutters, but he keeps it quiet.

“And then Max said—Steve? You’re awfully quiet.” Your voice dips, concerned but teasing.

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice low, strained. “Just… listening.”

You keep talking, completely unaware of the way he strokes himself slow, thumb circling his tip, smearing the precome that keeps leaking out for you. His hips lift into his palm without him meaning to, sheets rustling softly.

You ramble about Hopper nearly dropping a box of something, and he bites back a groan because your voice tilts up sweetly at the end and he pictures your mouth forming every word.

His pace quickens; he imagines you lying on your stomach on your bed, kicking your feet gently, twirling the phone cord with your fingers. And he’s here, fist working up and down his cock like he’s starved for you.

“Steve,” you laugh, “you’re really quiet tonight.”

He swallows a moan and somehow forces out, “Just tired. Keep goin’, honey.”

And you do, because you trust him. Because this is what you and Steve do—you talk until one of you falls asleep. You don’t hear the breath hitch he smothers into the back of his wrist, you don’t know he’s imagining your lips brushing his neck the way they do when you hug his arm.

“You okay over there?” you ask, voice softening with real concern now. “You sound a little... out of breath.”

His hand tightens around himself, stroking faster, his hips rolling up into the heat of his palm. “Yeah,” he gets out, barely, “just—long day.”

You hum, soothing and sweet, and he nearly comes from that alone. He pictures you lying next to him instead of across town, your hand resting on his chest, your voice rumbling against his skin as you ramble right into his ear. He imagines you shifting closer, leg draped over his hip, not meaning anything by it—just instinct. He pumps his cock harder, jaw clenched, chest rising in quick, desperate breaths.

“And anyway,” you finish, “I guess it wasn’t that interesting, but—are you sure you’re okay?”

“‘M fine,” he whispers, thighs tensing, stomach tightening. “You’re—fuck—you’re fine.”

You giggle softly, thinking he’s just being dramatic. “Well, good. I’d hate to bore my best friend to sleep.”

Best friend. Jesus. He grinds into his fist, the word making his whole body tense with wanting—wanting more than that, wanting you in ways he should not think about when you’re explaining Dustin’s homework meltdown. “Never boring,” he pants, trying to keep it quiet. “Never.”

“Steve? Are you sure—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, biting down on the sound so you don’t hear it. His come spills over his hand, chest jerking, breath caught hard in his throat. The phone crackles softly as he tries to breathe normally again, wiping his hand on the sheets and praying his voice works.

You wait patiently—curious and sweetly oblivious. He clears his throat. “Sorry, dropped the phone for a sec.”

“Oh! That’s okay,” you say brightly. “You wanna hear what happened after that?”

He smiles, “yeah, honey,” he murmurs, settling back into the pillows. “Tell me everything.”

extra notes: i had like a day left on my canva free trial so i tried making a gif with the title, even though it'll probably be the only time i do it, lol (unless i make another account and use the free trial there... which is entirely plausible)

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

You knew that Steve wanted to fuck you since the day he met you. He wasn't exactly subtle about it, pants getting tighter every time you wore a riskier outfit, eyes not leaving your body for even a second while imagining all the positions he could put you in.

But you didn't expect his eagerness would end up in your bed getting broken, snapping under the weight of him pushing into you.

It started slow, intimate, fingers intertwined beside your head. It was divine, with him praising you, worshiping your body with his mouth, his whole being like life depended on it.

Steve was taking care of you like no one ever did before, making you arch into him, boobs squeezing into his chest as you moaned nonsense, too drunk on him and his cock to even care. 

Steve loved it–and that made him lose it.

His strokes became harder, deeper, reaching new places and making you speechless with all the pleasure he was giving you. Your body moved with him, eyes rolling back at the perfect friction.

"Jesus, baby, you're so good. So good to me." he panted, breath ragged as he plunged into you.

With his name on your tongue, you came hard, shivers running down your spine in the most delicious way. You squeezed around him, prolonging that feeling as much as possible, and when he felt it, he went dumb. 

Steve was fucking into you like he never wanted to stop, cock twitching as his own release approached. 

So just as he started to whine above you, a loud crack echoed through the room. Warm liquid spilled into you, and your bodies slumped on the mattress slightly when the wooden boards split under it.

"Did you just..." you muttered in disbelief, but smiled widely after processing the situation.

Steve Harrington fucked you so hard that the bed broke.

"I'm sorry." a quiet laugh escaped him, little embarrassed but still clearly proud of himself for what he did. "I promise I'll get it fixed, or buy you a new one if that's what you want."

You beamed at him, arms wrapping around his neck and bringing him closer to your face. His cheeks were still red, hair tousled, messy from all the times your fingers ran through them. So handsome.

"Now we can't fuck on my bed again." you teased, looking up at him innocently.

But he just smirked and leaned to whisper against your ear, lips softly touching the skin there.

"It's fine." his hand came up to graze your hardening nipple, the intimacy of his actions making you wet again. "I'll just bend you over the desk. See how long it takes to break that."

And Steve was a man of his word after all.