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seeking what is desirable, five: crescentina

Joel Miller x f!reader Explicit, 18+ Series masterlist | AO3

Series summary: Albert Camus said that "A man is always a prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them,” and it made me wonder how we justify romantic affairs — if we are free when we enter them in secrecy or only truly free when we have burned the bridges we ran over to reach the arms of the other.

Chapter summary: There is no place in the world like this one. Tucked into each other, so seamlessly connected that you’re not sure where one of you ends and the other begins. Finally you can have this, you can have it all.

Warnings: Smut, infidelity, age gap (25/47), no use of y/n, reader is curvy but it's not a plot point, no outbreak AU, reader and Joel are married to OCs, spousal neglect, size difference, size kink, possessiveness, fluff, body worship, dom!Joel, unprotected PIV, creampies plural, mild degradation, dirty talk, ass play, bondage, a truly insane amount of fucking and sucking, oral (f, m receiving), discussion about Joel’s old FWB who is named, angst, guilt, graphic descriptions of Joel feeding Ladybug (iykyk), intense DDLG dynamics, certain tags left out to avoid spoilers.

Word count: 11.5k

A/N: omg smut and fluff only this chapter… only like a sprinkle of angst…. that is sooo not ominous at all, right? right???

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You speed home from work at four on Friday, barely obeying the speed limit with your fingers tapping on the steering wheel, waiting impatiently at every stop light, come on, come on, come on, desperate to get the weekend started. A whole weekend with Joel, with your— well, what exactly is he to you? Because in another life, where there was no ring on his or your fingers, he would be your boyfriend, and this weekend would be one of many, rushing home and then to his house, to stay over and enjoy each other’s company for a few days. He has the house to himself until Sunday, with Sarah and Gwen gone on a girl’s trip, and Ellie staying with her parents.

Just as you pull into your empty driveway, your phone buzzes with a text, one you open and see is from Joel.

“Excited to see you in a bit. Bring your toys. xoxo”

Your heart flutters at the sight, responding before you get out of the car.

“Yes daddy <3”

You open a new text after, one to Jeremiah.

“hey J, just in case u forgot, i’m sleeping over at gianna’s until sunday. will bring my grading, dw ;) there’s food for u in the fridge. viv coming next friday instead. have a good night :)”

You pulled a Tupperware container of lasagna up from the freezer before work, putting it in the fridge before heading out, leaving you with as few tasks as possible before heading to Joel’s. All you have to do is pull a duffel bag out from under your bed and fill it with a couple outfits, pajamas, some toiletries, a phone charger, your wallet, your keys, and the papers you already graded on your lunch break — lest Jeremiah starts getting suspicious.

With the bag almost full, you reach into the back of your closet and pull out the box that only you know the contents of. You’re not entirely sure what Joel has planned for you, so you might as well be on the safe side, and pull out your favorite little vibrator, your glass dildo, a butt plug, and an unopened box of pale pink colored silk rope. You bought it, what must have been three years ago, and never got to use it, too timid about your wishes and desires, afraid Jeremiah would think it was too much, reading up on it in secret then bitching out on date night.

The pink little box is tossed into your bag, the big box shoved back into the closet, and you’re on your way out.

—

Joel’s truck is the only car in the driveway when you arrive at his house, but with his neighbors in mind, you park on the side of the street. Your duffel is pulled out of the front seat with a hurry, opening the door and looking around to see if the coast is clear before making your way to his home, hoping the address is correct. The sky is a clear blue, only a few fluffy little clouds to be seen far away, slightly chilly in the wind but still warm. After finding what you assume is the right house, you ring the doorbell and feel your heart racing as you wait for him to open the door.

The sound of the handle turning is nerve wracking but the sight of him is the most overwhelming relief. You squeal at how he looks in his plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, sitting taut over his shoulders and his thighs, stretching over his biceps when he holds his arms out to embrace you, to pull you in over the doorstep. He flips the lock behind you while he leans in for a kiss, one that says I’ve missed you and I can’t believe you’re here and God, what I wouldn’t give for this to be every Friday and every other day of the week.

You barely say hi, tongues twisted together as he walks you into the living room. The house is quiet and warm, rays of sun still shining in through the window behind the couch, the one he nearly drags you towards, until he sits down and brings you onto his lap, lifting your hair over your shoulders and licking into your mouth. He’s already hard underneath his sweatpants, steering you back and forth over his erection, grunting and growling while you get wetter by the second, knowing you’ll need to get a little something out of your system before you’re able to relax, or to even talk coherently.

He lifts you up and pushes your shorts down enough to pull one leg through it, not bothering with the other, pushing down his own pants just enough to take out his dick and hold it up for you while you sink down on it with a breathy moan of relief, one you don’t have to keep down. He lets one out too, a low, rumbling moan from the visceral sensation of being inside of you again.

“Jesus, we can’t keep doin’ this… Fuckin’ irresponsible,” he drawls, low and smooth like honey, pulling at your hips, flexing his bare cock inside of you just to feel how tight your grip is, “I should wear a condom, baby, you're ovulating again. And I can feel it so don’t lie to me, alright? Don’t be a little weasel.”

“We should,” you sigh, then pout and bat your lashes at him, “But I don't want you to… I wanna make you a daddy, a real one, again. Is there something wrong with that?”

He groans, wraps his hand around your nape and pulls you in until his lips meet your ear with a whisper, “How ‘bout I just put it on when I'm about to come?”

Another coo, then a reluctant nod. “You’ll have to let me know when… And then you’ll have to push me off, cause I’m not getting up until you’ve fucked me.”

He breathes a laugh and says he promises, lets go of your neck and lets you lean back to get a better view of his shoulders and chest, lost in the movement of his muscles under the t-shirt, how the fabric is pulled and stretched, how it lays on the thick slope between his neck and his shoulder.

“You needed this, huh, baby?” he murmurs, and you halfheartedly nod, rolling your hips and moaning in his ear, listening to his own groans of pleasure, his deep, raspy grunts, just feeling him, feeling his girth stretching you open, feeling how he fills and nudges and massages your insides, your cervix and your g-spot. His cock is perfect, the perfect size and the perfect shape, barely fitting inside of you and rubbing every little spot that needs his attention. Your clit drags across the hair on his pelvis, grinding and bringing you closer, five minutes barely gone by since you walked in the door. “Love fucking you like this,” he coos, “Love feeling how wet you are, just for me.”

“Gonna make you come, then I'll make you dinner, okay?”, he whispers, rocking you slowly on his lap, knowing, by now, what will make you squirt, dancing on the edge of triggering your release, wanting to save it for when it can cover his naked body. Your acceptance of his offer is little more than incoherent babbling while you slowly ride him, feeling how he holds you back a little, just enough to make you come but not enough to make you soak him.

His hand curves around your asscheek, smacks it quickly then grabs it with a firm grip, inching back until the tip of his middle finger touches in between. He brings his finger to his mouth and wets it with his saliva, reaches down and teases your asshole for a moment before inserting it slowly, letting you relax around the intrusion while he slowly fucks you. You dig your face into the crook of his neck, arms over his shoulders and your hands dangling somewhere off the backrest of the couch, listening while he mutters to you under his breath, “You'll let me do anything to ya, won’t you?”

Yes, daddy.

“Let me fuck you how I want?”

Yes, daddy.

“Whose little slut are you?”

Yours, daddy.

“That’s right. You gonna come for me now? Let me make you dinner? Let me take care of you all weekend like you deserve?”

You don’t get to respond, too overwhelmed by the feel of him in you, around you, rocking you slowly, holding you tight, praising you when you come, when you flutter around him and whimper into his neck.

“Don’t make me come yet, baby, don’t make me come, don’t do that—” he breathes, gritting his teeth and growling, trying to settle you with his hands, to halt the roll of your hips, but you squeeze around him too tightly and he can’t stop his own climax from approaching. He erupts inside of you, tipping his head back and groaning while he twitches and paints your insides with thick spurts of his come, unprotected and at the worst possible time, the best feeling that has ever manifested itself in his physical form.

“Shit, honey, I’m sorry,” he grunts with his eyes closed, pulling your hips down a little, pushing himself in further, nudging into your coated cervix, while you shake your head with a smile, “I’ll get you a morning after pill tomorrow… But fuck, that felt good, felt so fuckin’ good.” He grinds it deeper, tightens his grip and fucks into you again. “Coming inside you—” he murmurs, grunting as he moves you and your walls clench around him, “I wanna do it again, and again, as many times as you’ll let me.”

—

You sit at his kitchen island and watch him cook, observing how he bastes your steak with butter, listening to the slight scraping and the fizzy bubbles, feeling equally fizzy inside, no longer full of his come but covered in his scent already. He’s talking about work and you nod along, humming in affirmation, unable to repeat a word he says. It could be so normal, so natural — this could be your every Friday evening. It could be you and Joel, with the house to yourself, eating together, watching a movie, going to bed and letting him come inside you, hearing him whisper that he knows it’ll take this time, that soon enough you’ll be growing the manifestation of your desire for one another in your womb. And he would take care of you then too, he would cook for you and help you relax and pleasure you and look at you with those deep, dark eyes, surrounded by the softest little wrinkles, just like he does now.

The two of you wait for the steak to rest for a few minutes, and your fantasies have done nothing but arouse you and make you desperate for him again. Typical. Thoughts of the life you could have together fill you with the deepest happiness you could imagine, and you can’t keep your hands off of him for another second, needing to claim him for yourself, so you saunter over to him and drop to your knees, grabbing at and palming his bulge, purring and telling him how wet he makes you, until he gets hard and you pull his sweatpants down, take him in hand, lick his slit, let the saliva pool in your mouth and take him all the way back to your throat, licking and sucking and feeling his hand in your hair until he tells you he’s close and you move a little faster, pushing him over the edge and swallowing his load, smooth and musky and his, the very essence of him.

Rising to your feet, he kisses you and slaps you on the side of your ass, retracts his hand and slides it into the front of your shorts instead, under your panties, slipping through your soft folds to find your dripping entrance, oozing wetness from the taste of his come and your body’s need for him, tonight and forever. He slicks up his finger, the one he brings up to your clit to rub you until you moan and tremble, and he gets hard again, shaking his head at what you do to him, kissing you and swallowing your whimpers when you let go for him.

You sit across from him and eat, stealing a bite of his steak and insisting it tastes better cause it’s his, as if everything that is his in this world is better, just like you’re better when you’re his, when you’re in his arms, in his thoughts, when you haunt him in his dreams at night. He reaches his utensils over and cuts off a piece of yours, then feeds it to you, lowers his fork to collect some the mashed potato and feeds that to you as well, nodding when you swallow and cutting off another piece, ignoring his own dinner, too focused on feeding you yours, drawing his fork across your plate to scoop up the sauce, stabbing the roasted vegetables, charred from the grill, lifting them to your mouth, watching you chew. When you swallow the last bite, he returns to his own food and lets you ogle him as he eats, your chin resting on the palm of your hand, leaning over the table, so in love you can barely stand to sit across from him and not on his lap.

“What now?” you ask, and he shrugs in response.

“We can do anything you want,” he smiles, “We got all night, all weekend... Can do anything you wanna do, just tell me.”

“Can we watch Finding Nemo?”

—

Joel fucking cries at the movie.

He tries to hide it, tries to keep his eyes on the screen and subtly clear his throat and blink away the tears collecting in his waterline at the fish father and his fish son. You admire so many things about Joel and yet it’s his softness that makes you weakest for him, the way he shares his emotions with you, his feelings, his thoughts. He seems to hide nothing from you, telling you as often as he can how much he feels for you, that he’s missed you so badly, that he needs you close at all times, that he lays in his bed with his wife at night and his heart aches for you, and for his daughters who he is so afraid of hurting that he feels paralyzed most of the time, that he wants to do the right thing but doesn't know what it is, exactly.

His hand is resting on your waist, your head leaning onto his chest, the two of you tucked into a blanket on his couch with snacks and wine glasses scattered across the coffee table. The affection, the love, the domesticity — it feels so good it hurts. Not once have you felt this way with your husband, not once have you felt this way for your husband.

Husband. All your heart screams to you when you think of that word is Joel, Joel, Joel. Your heart is about to burst out of your chest at the feel of his other hand on your leg, stroking you carefully, like he always does. He is everything a man should be, the perfect, shining, poster board example of masculinity that is healthy and wonderful and soft and rough and responsible and alluring.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly, looking up at his scruffy jaw, at the silver and gray whiskers, feeling so infatuated and hypnotized by the sign of his age, the evidence that he has lived, that he is experienced, that he knows what life is about, knows how to handle things, how to raise children and save for retirement and do repairs on the house. You want to give him a baby so badly, you want him to raise your shared children, you can’t deny it for a second, it’s all you think of, this persistent, nagging, aching need to have a family with him.

“No,” he says, his voice shaky, followed by a sniffle.

You stifle your laughter and snuggle into him closer, and he puts both arms around you, digs his nose into your hair, kisses the top of your head and rests his face there while you inhale him, slowly shifting around until you’re in his lap, held like a baby against his chest while he watches what’s happening on the screen, with your face in the crook of his neck, about to drift off.

“You fallin’ asleep?” he coos, a hint of a laugh behind his words.

“Mm-mmm,” you shake your head, then reluctantly let a little yawn slip out, one that makes him smile and angle your face up with his hand, to look at your closed eyes and feel how you relax onto him, how your heart rate has synchronized with his own. He lifts your hair away from your shoulder, runs his hand over it as it drapes down your back, and lowers his head so that his lips touch your skin. He knows he shouldn’t say it, but at this moment, he is holding his hopes and dreams for his own future in his hands, and the words have been simmering inside his veins for so long that holding them in has started to feel like a betrayal, like they’re about to boil over and splash everywhere, burning everyone around him if he’s not careful. He wants to be careful, but his control is slipping through his fingers, his resolve going with it, lost in you.

“I love you so much,” he breathes, whispering into your hairline, convinced you can hear his heart beating so loudly in his chest that it echoes in his ribcage, “I’ve never felt like this… I mean, I knew I’d love you but I didn’t think I— I didn’t think I was capable of this— of this kinda love.”

“I love you too, Joel.” And that is when you open your eyes and gaze up at him again. That is when he kisses you, and repeats it again and again and again, I love you, I love you, I love you. And he does, he loves you in a way he has never loved before, loves you in a way he can taste and feel, a love that has burrowed itself into the depths of his being. He will never be the same, not after tonight and not after the day you met. You’ve changed him, and he wants to change you too, just as much.

In the light of your revelation, your confession, your love, with your arms around his neck and his hands on your waist, you kiss each other with a neediness that neither of you can put into words. You trust him, and he wants to feel your trust, wants to hold it in the palm of his hand. He bites your tongue, swallows the saliva you give him in return, slides his hand up to wrap around the back of your neck, and leans his forehead into yours.

“I wanna do somethin’ to ya,” he murmurs into your lips, opening his eyes to gaze into yours, to bore into them, “Wanna do somethin’ I haven’t done in a really long time, that I just couldn’t forget. Been thinking about it for a while, didn’t know if it’d be something you’d be interested in, but— I don’t know, I just… I wanna have all of you, want you to trust me, fully, with your body, with your mind, everything, every part of you. Want you to let me take care of you like I want to, you understand?”

He’s nervous, looking between your eyes. His breaths are shaky, a little worried about what you might think if he tells you what he’s been fantasizing about, if he tells you how much he wants you to submit to him, show him your trust, be his toy, his doll, his bunny.

And when you nod, he confesses. “I wanna tie you up,” he mutters, moving to the side of your neck and leaving kisses up and down, his lips pressing into your skin every few words, his breath sending goosebumps up your arms, “Wanna play with you for as long as I want… Wanna lick you and fuck you until I decide you’re done, wanna make you come as many times as I see fit.”

“Yeah?” you nearly moan.

“Yeah,” he pulls back to gaze into your eyes again. “Saw that box of rope in your bag — made me think.”

“Think about what?”

“About you, naked, with your hands behind your back,” he says, collecting your wrists from the tops of his shoulders and bringing them to the small of your back, pinning them together, “Your legs spread, tied up, unable to move.”

You whimper when he tightens his grip, and a growl rumbles in his chest.

“You trust me, little bug? You gonna do as I say?” he asks.

Your eyes trace over his nose, his lips, and his jaw as you answer, “Yes, daddy.”

“Alright,” he nods, then sets you down on your feet, giving the side of your thigh a little tap, “Bedroom, now. Ain't tellin’ you twice.”

—

Piece by piece, he peels off your clothing and discards it on the floor of his room, then pushes you onto his soft sheets, a warm shade of golden brown, standing you up on your knees, turned away from him while he rummages through your bag and takes out the little box. He throws it onto the bed and digs a little further, and you hear the buzzing of your vibrator behind you as he clicks it on. The sound goes straight to your clit, and he must know that, because he lets it buzz for a few moments, coming up to the edge of the bed and touching the vibrating tip of it to the back of your thigh.

He traces it over your hamstring, around the curve of your asscheek and over its slope, holding it at the base of your spine until you whimper for him again, and all of the muscles in your core contract at once, mimicking a little shudder. It moves again, over your hip and down across your mound, finding your clit and rubbing circles onto it. Your gasping breaths tell him all he needs to know, and he shuts off the toy, still using it to rub you for a moment before taking it back and letting out a devious chuckle.

“Come here, my love,” he commands, collecting your wrists and pulling you back before the silky rope makes contact with your skin. He stacks your forearms on top of each other, behind your back, and winds the rope around them, cooing to you, praising you, telling you to breathe, to not be nervous, to trust him. And you do trust him, you trust him with every fiber of your being.

“You know what I remember?” he asks, crooning in your ear, tightening the rope that circles your forearms and wrists, incapacitating your upper body, rendering your hands useless, elbows stuck on either side of your waist, “I remember the night we met, before I sat down on that couch. I was lookin’ at you from across the room, saw you when you walked in, and I was— I was stunned.” He ties the ends and takes your chest in his hands, rubs your nipples with his thumbs and feels them harden, urging your head to rest on his shoulder.

“I saw you and I felt like the whole world stopped, like time stopped and I was just frozen — couldn’t get my eyes off you. You in that little dress, Jesus… Tommy was talkin’ to me and I didn't hear a word, nothin’, I just… My heart was beating out of my chest, I was so nervous. Then Tommy wanted me to go talk to someone, one of his buddies, and I ended up on that couch, and I faced away from you on purpose cause I just—” he exhales with a chuckle, “I knew if I looked, I wouldn't be able to stop staring. Then you bumped into me and my heart was in my fuckin throat.”

You giggle at the memory, your arousal coursing through your body as you close your eyes and feel him rubbing and pinching your nipples, pulling at them gently, kissing the slope of your neck, biting the muscle. His erection teases your back, through his pants, right below where your arms are confined.

He turns you around, circles your waist with his arm and lifts you up before laying you down on the mattress, resting on your back and your forearms, spreading your knees and folding each leg before grabbing another rope. You watch him as he winds it over your mid-thigh and around your calf, opening him up for you, wrapping it several times before winding it over itself, finishing with a knot, moving over to the other side while he talks, “And, fuck, did I ever want you. I’d had a shitty day and I felt like you'd just been placed right there in front of me, like a little angel.”

He incapacitates you so deftly, with no hesitation, binding you with ease, looking at your glistening, drooling pussy and your pebbled nipples as he works, his train of thought disappearing somewhere out of his grasp.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, “It's not too tight?”

“No, it feels good, I like it,” you assure him, lashes fluttering, biting your lip.

“You don’t have to do anything, okay? You’re just gonna let me play with you, and if you want me to stop, you tell me, then I’ll stop right away. If you want me to untie you, you only have to tell me once. “

“Okay.”

“Good girl.”

His kisses begin along your neck, they cover your chest, your tummy, he mumbles something into your skin and lets you squirm around, constrained and confined by the ropes, aching for him to touch you, to rub, to lick, to put you out of your misery. He sits beside you, one hand on your nipple and one on your mound, rubbing with one, entering you with the other, coating your clit with your slick and bringing you to the edge, letting you go and shifting down, using his tongue on you then, holding you on the edge before pulling back. Again, again.

You don’t beg to come — you ride the waves of his push and pull, savoring the feeling of your own arousal, the feeling of him where you’re most sensitive, the sight of him taking off his shirt, too hot and too sweaty from watching you, pushing down his own pants to take his cock in his hand and stroke himself, groaning into your pussy when he settles and begins to lick.

When he lets you come, you’re no longer coherent, submitted to him entirely, soft and boneless and pliable, his hands on your spread thighs, wet, thick cock pushing into you while he tells you how much he loves your body; your waist, your tits, your legs, your ass, your cute little clit and your wet pussy. He thrusts deeper, stabilizes on his elbows, lays over you and looks you in your eyes, gazes deeply, and tells you how much he loves how caring you are, how kind, how funny, how smart. He loves how cute you are with him, giggling and squirming, making him feel needed.

He pulls out, grabs hold of the harness on your back and one of the binds around your legs and flips you over, lays on top of you and enters you from behind, shoves you into the mattress and tells you that he loves your skin, the tiger stripes on your ass and hips, the shake of your flesh, the jiggling muscle and fat in his hands, everything that makes up the softness of your body. And when all he gets in return from you are incoherent moans and coos, he whispers to you, “Look at this little girl being a fuckin’ whore, huh? Look at her, being a little whore for her daddy.”

You half-giggle, forcing it out between needy moans, too fucked out to feel anything other than his cock inside you and his hand on your hip, moving down to the sheet and sliding under you, finding your clit and rubbing soft little circles that you grind into.

“Whose whore are you?” he coos, pausing when he feels you come, feeling the way you flutter around him.

“Yours, daddy, you make me so weak,” you whine, nearly going cross eyed, your cheek shoved into the sheets, arms sore from the stretch, “I'm so fucking weak for you.”

“Make daddy come, sweetheart, I’m almost there,” he pants, too worked up, no chance in hell that this’ll last as long as he wants it to, needing to mark you now, needing to fuck you full, “Tell me to fill you up, baby.”

“Come inside me, fuck me, anything you want, please, please,” you beg, whimpering and moaning for him, “I’ll— I’ll get plan B, just—”

“Shhh, don't think about that, just think about making me come.” He grabs the rope around your legs and yanks you closer, rises up on his palm against the mattress, and watches you squirm and writhe as he strokes the spongy spot inside you that makes you tremble, and the shudder in your body at his movement pushes him over the edge. He comes inside you, barely managing to pull out when half of his load is already covering your walls, letting the last few spurts coat your folds while he jerks the head of his cock and lets out a rough moan.

—

Ten minutes into some show on the Food Network and you’re both back on the couch, in the darkness of the living room, a single lamp illuminating the space as it hangs over the dining table, the two of you warm and sated, high on oxytocin, high on your love, on the experience you’ve shared, and your eyelids weigh a ton, sleep grabbing onto your arms to pull you in as you sit on Joel’s lap, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

“Okay, baby,” he whispers, then kisses your forehead, cradling you in his arms, stroking your cheek with this thumb, looking at the fan of your lashes, your closed eyes, “I think it's time for bed.” He tucks your hair behind your ear and kisses you again, smiling when you don’t respond, giving you a gentle shake.

“Okay, daddy,” your murmur, pulled most of the way into the haze of slumber.

“Time for little ladybugs to sleep, hm?” he says, and your eyes are still closed. He marvels at how you fit in his lap, in his arms, how easily you fit into his routine, how much he wants to fit you into his life.

“You’re just a little bug,” he whispers, tracing your eyebrow with his finger, then the shell of your ear, holding you in his left arm, the weight of your torso held in his embrace, “My baby bug… So little, you need me to take care of you, huh?”

Your sleepy silence, and then the answer to his own question, “Yeah, you do.”

He carries you upstairs and lets you wake up in his arms as he tucks you into bed, suddenly alert and awake when he rounds the corner and gets in under the duvet.

“Can I listen to your stomach?” you ask, not waiting for his answer before you shift down on the bed, pulling the duvet with you to reveal Joel’s wide torso, settling your head on the smattering of hair over his stomach, with your ear pressed to his skin. He’s so warm, so soft, you look at the waistband of his boxers and at his bulge while you listen to the gurgling sounds inside of his tummy. You turn around with a giggle, laying your other ear on his belly button, so you can look up at him and try to imitate the noises, making him chuckle and setting off another set of gurgles. It’s so innocent, a sort of tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a situation like this. What you’re doing is supposed to be dirty, it’s supposed to be wrong and wracked with guilt and stress. But instead, it’s soft and safe. It’s warm, like the feel of his skin on your ear and his hand on your thigh.

“Let me try,” he says then, urging you up and laying you down with your head on his pillow. He moves down slightly, lays his arm over you, pushes your top out of the way and puts his ear to your belly. All you can do is look into his eyes and study the little specks of gold and honey in the dark abyss of his irises, so deep you could drown in them if you stared for too long.

“I can't hear anything,” he says, adjusting his ear and scowling at you with no seriousness at all, warm hands slipped under the small of your back.

“Listen closer then,” you insist, and the two of you lay in silence until he hears a tiny growl and begins to laugh, that wonderfully deep, rumbling laugh that calms every nerve in your body when you hear it. He turns his face and kisses where his ear has just been, and you push a hand through his hair, separating the thick curls he does nothing to style or mess with, that still somehow twist and turn perfectly around his ears and at the nape of his neck.

“You’re beautiful,” you tell him, drawing out the vowels without meaning to, letting go of his hair to thread through it again while he gazes up at you, a little shy as he nuzzles into your stomach, and you can see the smile he’s trying to hide. Shut up, he murmurs into your skin, his eyes fluttering closed as he kisses you again, trapping you in the softest possible way. “I mean it, Joel, you’re stunning.”

He shakes his head then, his lips and the tip of his nose dragging against the little goosebumps washing over your tummy, “Don’t gotta flatter me, ‘m not thirty anymore.”

You smile at him, tracing your finger down the slope of his shoulder, then up and back over his neck, scratching lightly with your nails. “I like that you're not thirty,” you whisper, “I like that you're an old man.” Two fingers come to the underside of his scruffy chin, tilting it up to your attention.

“Old man,” he grumbles, sliding one hand out from under you to swat yours away before tucking it back where it belongs, “You're too good for me.”

“I think I’m just what you need,” you giggle, rising up on your elbows while he shifts between your legs, broad shoulders holding you open, still resting his face right above your womb.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, I think you need someone to remind you that you're not actually that old. Plus, I think your crows feet are cute.”

And there they are, those little wrinkles appearing while he smiles and rolls his eyes at your words. “I don't deserve you.” He looks down and presses kisses to your stomach, nuzzling his nose into your skin again, breathing you in.

The moment of silence between you stretches, only filled by the sounds of his lips on you, his breathing, and the sound of your heart beating, your blood rushing in your ears as you look at him and remember that you have him to yourself now. And it might be the only time you ever have him to yourself, but you try not to think about that now.

“How did you know how to tie me up?” you ask, unable to keep your hands away from his hair again, “You said you haven’t done it in a long time, so…”

Joel looks up at you with one of those looks in his eyes that could be desire or lust or admiration or love or fascination, never entirely sure how it is he feels when he looks at you, but knowing that what he feels cannot be put into words so easily, that he’ll need a whole list of words to even give you and indication of the effect you have on him.

“There was this girl I messed around with, for a few months, when I was in my mid twenties,” he says, cracking a smile, seeming to recall the memory fondly, speaking about her with respect in his voice and kindness in his tone, “She was really into gettin’ tied up and she taught me how to do it to her, and I did it, well, quite a few times, actually. It was just somethin’ we did.”

“What was her name?”

“Sasha.”

“Sasha…” you repeat, low as a whisper, “How did it start? Or— how did she bring it up?”

He shrugs and slowly shakes his head. “I’m not sure, I can’t remember the conversation exactly, but—” he says, taking a moment to think, “I don’t know, I think we just used to talk about what we wanted to do, fantasies and that kinda thing. And at some point she brought that up, that she liked havin’ someone tie her up and play with her… Liked being submissive, I guess, giving the control to someone else.”

“Did you like it?”

“Of course I liked it,” he chuckles, “I remember I was, like, twenty five or somethin’ — your age — and some friends dragged me to a party at the university for some reason. She was there, gettin’ a master’s degree, I remember, and she lived on campus. After that night, I got her number and we just started hooking up, here and there, then it became a more regular thing and I think she felt comfortable sharing that kinda thing with me. Now it’s just muscle memory, I guess.” He winks and you can feel a little flash of heat over your cheeks, a smile pulling at your lips as you try to imagine Joel at your own age, thinking about what he might have looked like at the time.

“Did you start dating her?”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

He takes a breath, huffs a laugh and looks around a little, not entirely sure himself. “I guess I didn’t feel like I was good enough for her so I never really tried to turn it into anything… Probably could’ve, we saw each other a lot, I took her out sometimes. But, usually, I just went over to her place and we watched movies and had sex.” He laughs a little at the memory, and you smile with him, with no jealousy burning in the pit of your stomach, but rather, curiosity.

“Then she got a boyfriend, and I met Gwen not too long after. Just wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

“I get it,” you say, pushing your hand through his hair again, too hot and too gorgeous and yet that little sliver of insecurity always reveals itself to you. “Did you ever do it with her? With Gwen?”

He shakes his head at that, not taking his eyes off yours, “She doesn’t like being told what to do, so...Never even brought it up, to be honest.”

“How did you meet?”

“Mutual friends. How about you and Jeremiah?”

“Mutual friends,” you laugh, and there’s not much more to say about it, really.

The history Joel shares with Gwen is so vast, with deep roots and heavy branches, holding onto so many years of entanglement, legal ties and financial commitments and the very blood that runs through Sarah’s veins. You feel stupid for thinking that it could ever be easy for Joel to walk away, that he could ever really choose you. But hope comes in the form of his kisses along the insides of your thighs, across your folds, on your clit, his tongue drawing out an orgasm you thought you couldn’t possibly give him, before he settles next to you and you nuzzle your face in his chest hair, falling asleep right there, hearing him say something while you drift off, and mumbling back, I love you too.

—

Joel wakes up before you, with your head on his bicep, your body tucked into his front, his arm around your waist and his hand on your stomach. You’re swaddled in him, held in the warmth of his safety and love, fed and sleeping soundly, at your most vulnerable, just for him. God, how it fucking hurts to remember whose bed it is you lay in together — a stabbing pain between his ribs at the thought of sleeping here alone again, of feeling the distant warmth of another person who does not want to be here. Maybe you and Gwen have something in common, maybe someone else has asked his wife the questions he asked you that time at your dining table.

You don’t want to be here, do you?

She doesn’t want him anymore, at least that’s how it seems, and yet he can’t know for sure, the most frustrating aspect of it all, that can’t seem to peer into the depths of her mind, can’t understand the words she doesn’t say. Has he taken you for himself out of nothing but his own pain?

He remembers when it was his wife who was tucked into his arms, when she was the one who slept with her face in the dark, warm crook of his neck, when she was the one who inhaled his sleepy scent in the morning and pulled him closer. That also hurts to think about, and while he sweeps your hair away from your neck to plant a kiss on your skin, he feels a coiling, slithering feeling of guilt spreading through his veins.

Before he opens his eyes, he breathes in the scent of your shampoo, your hair products, your perfume. It soothes him just enough to push away the thoughts of what he’s doing to his family, how he’s slowly pulling the rug out from under them, chasing his desires and selfishness and leaving them in the ruins of what will inevitably be a destroyed marriage. It will not end without a confession, it will not end without the burning truth standing in front of them, turning their history and the love they used to share into nothing but a layer of soot, bound to cover every surface of the house they share. He has stayed for so long that this cycle cannot be broken without the incriminating, wretched truth of the matter coming out — that he has betrayed her, that he has gone behind her back and not only given himself to another woman but let himself fall for her, let himself stumble and not bother to catch himself, lead by his heart and his dick and nothing other than a primal need he cannot understand, for someone he, for some egotistical and deranged reason, believes is made for him.

His erection pulses against your lower back, your asscheeks pushing into his thighs, and he’s never been as hard as he is when he’s with you. You make him ache and throb, make the veins bulging out from his shaft twitch with the flow of his blood, every cell in his body prepared to give him over to you, to fill you with his seed and rub his scent all over your skin. Your shared heat warms you under the duvet, sheltering you from the cold breeze rolling in through the open window only a few feet from the bed. Everything around you is cold and bitter and desolate — a little flame igniting between you when you’re together, skin to skin, finding each other and creating some sort of happiness amongst the misery of your existences, an escape and a reprieve to cling to when you feel the most alone.

He feels it when you wake up, just like he thought he would, by the gentle twitches in your arms, the faint stretch of your legs, your breath hitching for a second before calming again, your little coo as you burrow into him and he lifts his head to kiss your neck, to rest his face between your jaw and your shoulder. He feels it when your eyes open and you start to squirm, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you back as he tuts at you. “Nuh-uh, you ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he murmurs, tightening his grip. You roll your eyes and squirm a little more, not entirely sure where you’re trying to go when the only place you want to be is right there.

“Soften,” he says, then shushes you like a baby, his touch and his voice coaxing you into compliance, into laying still when your lashes flutter and you turn to look at him for only a moment before he scatters kisses across your shoulder and turns you over onto your back, guides you down with his hands, the heat of his palms warming your skin as he shifts down, folding your legs open.

“My beautiful baby,” he coos under his breath, pushing your top up over your chest, revealing your pebbled nipples to him, the goosebumps surrounding them, his thumbs coming to brush over the little peaks while his fingers fan out over your sides. He exhales as he kisses your skin, warm over your stomach and hips, making his way down. “Let me make you feel good, huh?” he whispers, placing a kiss to your mound, then another, then even more, interrupted by his own words. “Let me show you—” his tongue peeks out to lick once over your clit, sending a shiver through your body, sensitivity spiking, your arousal throbbing in your core, tightening and contracting. “What I wanna do to you—” he murmurs, taking your folds in between his lips and sucking on them gently.“Every morning—”, he moves to the other side, torturing you with his teasing, “And every night.”

Joel looks up at you, and you can see every morning and every night, right there in his eyes, between your legs, under his hands. He lets go of one breast and takes your little hand in his massive paw, threads his thick fingers through yours to interlock them and tugs it down to the mattress, to feel the tips of your nails digging into the backs of his palms, then lowers and kisses your clit, over and over, his tongue sneaking out to lick when he closes his lips. He squeezes your hand, circles your nipple with his thumb, groans and slowly coats your clit with his saliva, sucking it into his mouth for a moment, lifting his torso to let you arch your back and rock into how he eats you, gently, as soft as he told you to be, as soft as he always makes you.

“Joel—” you moan, “Daddy, I—”

“No talkin’” he murmurs, laving his tongue over your clit in broad strokes, even slower than before, “Just enjoy it, let me make you feel good, baby, let me make you come.”

You nod, barely, closing your eyes and arching higher, opening your hips for him as much as your bones will allow, lifting your other hand to card your fingers through his beautiful hair, his soft, stunning curls, smooth and thick under your touch, tightening your grip on his palm, the pleasure coursing through your veins, your insides fluttering and your heart twisting at how intimately he knows your body. He always knows what to do, always knows when you press into you harder, when to draw his length out slowly, when to withdraw completely and pull back to lick you until you soften for him even more.

Your moans dissipate into the cold air of his bedroom, your body held still by his grip while he brings you to your orgasm in waves, lightening up when he feels you begin to tremble, licking and sucking when you moan louder, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue and suckling until you come, his name spilling out between heaving breaths, opening your eyes while he lets go of your hand, to watch him pull his boxers off and get between your legs, hold around the base of his cock and feed it to you as if he can’t take another second without, slipping a hand under the small of your back and letting his head rub against every soft little spot inside of you, filling you all the way until you’ve stretched out as far as your anatomy will allow, and his hips shift back, pulling his glistening shaft halfway out, covered in your slick and his own saliva, then pushing it back in, deeper this time, grunting softly, his limbs loosening and his body relaxing again.

He fucks you slowly this time, lifts your legs up to wrap around his hips, holds you close to himself, groans and grunts into the side of your neck, stabilizes on his elbow and leans down to kiss you while he gives you his cock in deep, long strokes, mumbling into your lips, “Will you let me come inside you again?” His voice is laced with desperation, breathy and forced out. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth and pulls on it, sinks his teeth into your flesh so carefully, just enough to feel your pulse, then lets go, kisses you again, thrusts into you with his bare cock, leaking precome, close already. “Let me fill you up, my love, please, I need to feel it again, need to come inside you.”

You’re not one to object, not one to deny Joel of anything in this world, and so you plead him to give you what you want so badly, that you shouldn’t have, that you shouldn’t need, “Please, please, please, daddy.”

“You gotta know how it feels to be full of my baby,” he grunts, returning to instincts so primal and deeply set that his mind enters a feral place, with no wants and no needs other than marking you. “Fuck, I wanna get you pregnant,” he’s mumbling now, delirious, lifting your hips to fuck into you harder, looking down to see himself disappear into you, then leaning over to rub your clit with his pelvis, grinding into it with every stroke, as if nothing matters aside from making you come, “Want you to have my kids, wanna take care of you and do everything for you, never want you to lift a finger no more.”

You come for him, at his desperation, clawing at his back, pressing your heels into his muscles, squeezing your legs around him, filling his ears with moans so desperate in kind that they border on sobs, not a word enunciated, barely even trying. It forces his own climax onto him, the one he has gritted his teeth and held back, knowing he should not fill you with, aware that he will become addicted to this, as if he isn't already, to the feeling of your walls pulsing around him while he comes inside of you, while his seed spills out of him, warm and viscous, covering your cervix, with nothing there to stop it from entering the deepest, most devastating part of you, that he will make a home for himself in if neither of you decide to be careful.

He couldn’t give less of a fuck.

Panting breaths fill the air, the crisp morning breeze and the heavy heat between you, the sticky connection of his stomach to yours, covered in both of your sweat, his spend beginning to leak out as he slowly softens inside of you.

He looks into your eyes, rubs the tip of his nose along the bridge of yours. “Imagine if we had one of our own, huh? Our own little baby,” he whispers, “You could sit in my lap and feed her… Bet she'd have your eyes.”

You shake your head and smile, tugging at his curls, feeling the sweaty roots of his hair. “She’d have yours,” you whisper back, and he chuckles at your insistence.

“Your hair then,” he concedes, “Your smile, your nose. Probably look just like you.”

—

“Ellie got me those windchimes for my birthday last year… Weird ass present,” Joel says, pointing up at the decoration dangling from the edge of the roof, his back porch facing a large yard with a pool, blue and shimmery, “No idea why, but she insisted I would like them for some reason.”

The wind ripples through the little silver tubes, an ephemeral sound dancing from the clatter, soothing despite its irregularity.

“Well, do you?”

“They grew on me, I can’t lie, kinda relaxing to listen to,” he says with a soft laugh as pulls you closer and tucks in the blanket covering the two of you on the sofa, surrounded by the unseasonably cold air. Late December, close to the turn of the year. You rest your head on his chest, your hands wrapped around the coffee he brewed while you ogled him across the kitchen island, your legs swung over his lap, wearing your shorts and one of his long sleeve t-shirts he dressed you in, swimming in the fabric that smells of him, secretly hoping he pulled it out of his laundry hamper so his sweat can permeate your skin.

You drink your coffee in silence, listening to him taking sips of his own, the faint slurping sounds and the way it passes through his throat when he swallows. You listen to his breathing, to his heartbeat through the fabric of his hoodie. He rests his mug on your knee, and his free hand finds your shin under the blanket, stroking up and down before passing over your ankle and taking your foot in his hand, so small with his fingers wrapped around it. He drags his thumb over your toes, over the French tipped nails, breathing a soft laugh and shaking his head, still wondering how you have the patience for those tiny artworks, until you set your cup on the low table in front and shift around until you’re in his lap, thighs splayed out on either side.

Holding his mug in his other hand, he tucks the blanket in around your legs and settles his hand on your ass under it. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

“Thank you, you are too.”

“Wish I could wake up with you every day.”

“Me too.”

Your lips find each other easily, eyes closed as his hand squeezes the flesh on your hip and your hand sneaks down the back of his hoodie, tasting the coffee on one another’s tongues. His lashes flutter when you pull away, eyes opening so you can gaze at their stunning color, the shades of brown turning golden in the sunlight. It reflects off the silver threads in his hair, the concentration of them around his temples, the ones scattered across his beard.

“Are you in love with me?”

“I am. I’m very much in love with you. Are you in love with me?”

“Yeah, how could I not be?”

More kisses, more squeezes, more scratches to his skin, more rubbing the tip of your nose against his. He leans over to set down his cup, to put both hands on your hips and pull you close. He always, always pulls you closer, anytime you’re in his vicinity, reaching out to feel you and then bring you into his space.

Maybe Joel is delusional, he thinks, maybe he has completely lost his mind somewhere along the way. He looks at your eyes, your lips, your ear, as he wraps his hand around your hair and places it on your back, twists it around on itself and lets it scatter over the fabric of his shirt, loving the look of you in his clothes. He looks at the slope of your shoulder and down at the little hand on his chest, feeling the other still scratching the skin at the nape of his neck, leaning into it. No one exists but you, in this moment, not even himself. It’s just you, only you.

“When do you wanna have kids?” he asks, so casually, as if you were a few years into a relationship, into a marriage, as if he’s allowed to fantasize about giving Sarah a sibling.

“I could have them right now,” you say with a smile, “I don't really feel a need to wait. I’m ready.” He squints as he nods, looking towards the sun for a moment, then back at you, trying to ignore the feral urge that claws at him, the wish that weasels itself into his mind — that the piece of him still inside of you will find what it is meant to, and will begin to grow. “How about you? Do you want more?” you ask.

He breaths a laugh again, one that sounds more like a sigh as he looks down, avoiding your eyes, “I shouldn't really want that, but—”

“But you do?”

“Yeah.” He inhales, then nods, subtly but self-assured, “I always wanted to have more kids.”

You pull the ends of his sentences out of him, sure he doesn’t want to admit it himself but feeling the heavy weight of his words lightening when they leave his mouth. “And Gwen didn't, I assume?”

He tilts his head, contemplative or unsure. “She wanted one,” he tells you, “She was happy about Sarah but she never wanted any more. As bad as it sounds, I guess she kinda lost interest when Sarah wasn’t a baby or very little anymore, when she started becoming her own person and wasn’t as clingy with her mom, and that's when I started becoming more responsible for her.”

A hum of acknowledgement fills the air while you pause, while he waits for your response. “I read somewhere once, that young children are very attached to their mothers for a while, then they discover their other parent, usually the dad, and then become more obsessed with them, if that makes sense. And then it evens out, sort of, like, they recognize both as their caretakers, I guess.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

You lay your head on his shoulder, the tip of your nose brushing his neck, close enough to smell him, unable to stop the delirious truth that spills out from between your lips while you twist one of the curls at his nape around your finger.

“I wanna have kids with you, Joel,” you mumble, wrapping both arms around him, letting him tug your hips closer to his stomach in response, so you can feel him breathe. “I want you to get me pregnant, I want you to watch me give birth. I want you to feed our baby my own breast milk when I'm out of the house. I want you to teach them how to walk, how to ride a bike… I'm crazy for you, absolutely batshit crazy for you. I want you to be the father of my children so badly, only you.”

His hand comes up to the back of your neck, the other resting on the small of your back, holding you trapped while you scatter a few little kisses on his skin, eyes closed, breathing him in, feeling his heart beating faster at your words, arms tightening their grip, pulling you impossibly close.

“Why would you want kids with me when I’m this old?” he whispers into your hair, too afraid to accept the compliments buried in your confession.

“You’re not that old,” you giggle, raising up to look at him again for a second before laying back down in the warm space at the top of his chest, “And you’re such a wonderful father, I’ve seen it. All the stories you’ve told me about Sarah and Ellie… You’ve been there before, I haven’t. I want you to show me how.”

The wind chimes coo in the silence between you, while he swallows your words, your truth, the validation of so many wants and desires and dreams he has spent months trying to stifle and push out of his mind, that boomerang right back and hit him even harder, knocked off balance, falling to his knees.

“I’m crazy about you too, by the way,” he whispers, “Can’t think straight anymore, can't stop fantasizing about the same thing… Making you a mama, giving you a baby.”

—

You’re back at the kitchen island again, spinning around on the barstool, your chin resting on the palm of your hand, on the verge of drooling at the sight of pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and the tray of hashbrowns he takes out of the oven. He plates your food, sets it down in front of you, and when your first few bites are too slow for his liking, too busy ogling him, he feeds you again, stabbing a piece of your pancake and pushing it around in the syrup before lifting it to your mouth.

“Eat,” he says sternly, not giving you a chance to pick up your cutlery, collecting a bit of everything on his own fork, one mouthful after the other. You stare into his eyes at every bite, every time your lips close around his fork and he gently pulls it out, as you chew and swallow, lifting your coffee mug to take a sip. He eats his own food in between feeding you, rolling his eyes as he does it, as if you’d begged him for every forkful.

You’re not above begging. Not with him.

—

Back on the couch, you yawn as you stretch your legs over his thighs and your arms over the armrest, stretching out and curling back into him, sneaking your way onto his lap again, your favorite place.

“Daddy?” you coo, disrupting his view of the movie you put on and insisted he would like.

“Mhm,” he responds, tucking your hair behind your ear, “What do you want, baby?”

Your eyes shift side to side, tongue bitten between your front teeth before you lean forward and purr, “I want your cock.”

“You need sex?” he asks, his hand grasping your jaw.

“Yeah.”

“We just had sex,” he murmurs, gazing at your lips, lids going heavy, pupils widening.

“And?” you put, “Can I just touch it, at least?”

He rolls his eyes again with a huff of a laugh, and you shift back while he pulls down his sweatpants, revealing his soft cock, already thickening from your pleas, only slightly above begging. You run your fingertips down his silky skin, tracing the curve of his head, watching his blood flow shift and go to where you touch him, where you gently stroke with the pads of your fingers. He gets harder by the second, twitching as he comes alive, making your mouth water at the sight.

You shift onto the couch cushion beside him and lean over to sniff the crease between his groin and his thigh, inhaling the musky, concentrated smell of his sweat, stick your tongue out to lick it up, humming at the salty taste while you see his cock bobbing in your peripheral vision, and the hair on his soft stomach where you’ve pushed up his hoodie.

Then you take him into your mouth, stroking with one hand, cupping his balls with the other, giving them a light squeeze while your work your tongue over his shaft, then his tip, licking and sucking while his head rolls back on his neck and he looks down through hooded lids, groaning as he puts his hand on the back of your skull.

The sounds he makes are so wonderful, so deep and rumbly, so breathy and wrecked. “Jesus, honey—” he starts, and the end of the sentence never follows, only turning into a moan, too distracted by the feeling of your throat constricting around him. He manages to enunciate one singular full sentence while you have him in your mouth, when you suck him a little slower to give your jaw some rest.

“Fuck, I love the way you suck my cock,” he interrupts himself with a groan, looking down at you and holding his breath for a moment, “Best head I’ve gotten in my life, every time.”

And then, with his hand wrapped around your hair to pull you off, before he’s about to come, “I gotta fuck you again.”

In his bed, on his sheets, clothes scattered on the floor, you sit down on his dick and lean back into his chest, your feet planted on the bed between his thighs, his hand wrapped around your neck as you hold onto his hips behind you, riding him so that he strokes your g-spot at every thrust.

“Gonna fuck you so hard after you come, gonna make you beg, gonna make you cry for me,” Joel mutters into your ear, “You’re gonna feel me for days, baby, gonna feel your daddy right here.” He snakes his hand around to your front, caresses your lower stomach, then reaches down to rub your clit, tightening his grasp on the sides of your throat. You mewl as your orgasm builds in your stomach, stroked so deeply by the wide head of his cock that you have to hold back your climax.

He notices, of course he notices, and rubs you a little faster as he whispers to you, “You can squirt, baby, it’s okay.” He pushes you closer and closer, thrusts into you and holds you down on his cock, rubs and massages, “Don’t hold back, I know it feels good, I know, just let it out.”

And with a desperate moan, you feel the sudden stream of your release squirting out of you as you come, with your clit between his middle and ring fingers, your head rolling back, pussy fluttering around him so intensely, almost attempting to push him out. “Look at that. Doesn’t that feel good, baby? Soaking my fuckin’ sheets?”

Mhmmm, you whine, while more spurts out of you and drenches the mattress, and he growls at the feel of it on his fingers, restricting your breathing so you gasp for air, making your blood rush in your head and your vision blur, still rubbing your overstimulated nub while he praises you, “You're the only one who’s squirted like that all over this bed, you know that? Such a good little girl, coming for your daddy.”

He lets go and flips you over, pushing you into the soaked sheets and entering you as he kneels between your open legs, placing one hand around your throat again and throwing your ankle on his shoulder. You try to babble something but your words come out as incoherent moans when he slides his hand up the back of your thigh.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” he whispers, pressing his cock into the deepest part of you, feeling the beads of his precome seeping out into you, right to the mouth of your womb, “Just a little more, takin’ my cock so well.”

“Daddy, daddy, it’s so good, so good—” Your moans fill his ears as he watches himself slide out of you, eyes fixated on your slick, stretched open hole, how you gape around him to make space. He can feel the very end of you, and you feel him in your stomach.

“Your pussy was made just for me, huh?” he coos, gaze sliding down your naked form, held in his big hands splayed across your hamstrings, pushing you open for him, “So beautiful, my love, so pretty—”

“I can't, I can't—” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut and giving him hiccuping little moans, trying to arch your back, feeling your release spurting out of you again, covering his shaft, dripping down on the sheets and creating a blooming dark spot beneath where he fucks into you. You listen to him curse under his breath, but his grunts are suddenly muffled by the unmistakable sounds of creaky steps in the staircase right outside of the door.

Your eyes spear open, and your gaze fixates on Joel’s face but you can’t hear a word he says — everything is drowned out by the ringing in your ears, turning the sounds of his curses, his thrusts, and your moans into a deafening silence only pierced by a high pitched static ring. Your vision goes blurry aside from his face, his lips forming words you cannot hear, it's okay, it's okay, cooing to you like he always does, with no awareness of the creaking steps making their way to the bedroom, and the shadow that appears in the doorway.

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