#fuckin BOPS HARD

[mushtoons]

hi

thats all

[fortjester]

god sometimes i'm devastatingly reminded of how fucking good car seat headrest's music is

[courfeyracs-swordcane]

I got tagged by @tesho-travels to do ten songs I have on loop lately!

1. Danny by Grover Anderson and Jimbo Scott

2. My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars by Mitski

3. The entire Equalizer Robobs playlist

4. Goodbye Yellowbrick Road by Elton John

5. Funeral Pyres from ARISTOS: the Musical

6. Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet by Fall Out Boy

7. Hallelujah

8. This Is Love by Air Traffic Controller

9. Telephone Wire from Fun Home

10. Draft Dodger Rag by Pete Seeger

Tagging @nosongunsung11 @wildfandom @coyotefang1987 @lemonade-comet @nplutonian @theparallaxview @dogliker73 !!! And anyone else who wants to do it just say I tagged you I like seeing people’s music

[astro-inthestars]

Oh god, I'm getting obsessed with Chloe Moriondo's Blood Bunny album. how coincidental

[emoloser2001]

Favorite Twenty One Pilots songs?

oh jeez, theres a few for sure.

taxi cab is probably my favorite of all time, but goner and truce make me cry every time i listen to them, so they're up there as well.

but honestly, besides taxi cab, the one that i listen to the most is holding on to you. its just such a good song.

[gutsby]

Waiting Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.

At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.

All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.

From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.

Joel frowned.

“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.

“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”

That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.

Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.

“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”

“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.

He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.

You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.

“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.

But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.

“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”

In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.

“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.

“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.

“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”

Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.

A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.

You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.

“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.

Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.

You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.

Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.

Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.

The police officer hadn’t bought it.

He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.

You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.

Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.

This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.

But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.

“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.

“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”

He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.

“Needin’ a room?”

The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking, please.”

Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.

“King or two Queens?”

“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.

At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.

“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”

No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.

“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”

The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.

“Alright.”

Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.

Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.

He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,

“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”

You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.

You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.

You turned back to Joel.

“Here you go, Daddy.”

In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.

“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”

In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.

If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.

A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.

Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.

He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.

Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.

He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.

So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.

He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.

Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.

To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.

Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.

Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.

Fuck, he needed a shower.

Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.

You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’

But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.

Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.

All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.

That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.

For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.

Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.

Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.

Fuck this.

He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.

And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.

You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.

“Sofa’s broke,” you said.

Joel blinked.

“Broke?”

You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.

The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.

“You can sleep there.”

Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.

“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”

Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.

Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.

“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”

Fuck.

“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.

“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”

By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.

“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.

“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”

Joel swallowed.

“Tails, what?”

“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”

Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”

Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.

“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”

“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”

You raised both brows, mildly amused.

“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.

“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.

Joel tensed under your touch.

“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.

It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.

“What game?” he asked.

“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”

“Too Hot?”

“You heard me.”

“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”

Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.

The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.

Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.

“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.

He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.

“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”

Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,

“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”

To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.

“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”

Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.

And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.

You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.

“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.

“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.

“I bet you will.”

The man was a menace when he had the will to be.

At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.

“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.

“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.

Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.

His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.

Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.

“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”

Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.

“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”

“Twenty since I felt one this good.”

You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.

It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.

Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.

Even through the towel, he felt huge.

You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.

“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.

“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.

All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.

He peered down at you with a curious look.

“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.

You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.

You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.

“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.

Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.

“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.

You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.

“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”

Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.

“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”

Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”

Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.

You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.

“Joel.”

Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.

“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.

Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.

Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.

“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”

“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”

“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”

So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.

Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.

“Touch me, Joel, please.”

His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.

“Nah.”

Curt and cruel as ever. Then:

“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”

He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.

“Motherfucker.”

“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”

And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,

“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”

It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.

At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.

You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.

And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.

A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.

While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.

“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”

“Out.”

This motherfucker.

“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”

Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.

“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”

Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.

You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.

“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.

“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”

“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”

You stared him down, incredulous.

So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.

“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”

You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.

You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.

You were still hungry as shit.

Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.

You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.

By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.

You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.

You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.

Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.

What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.

You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’

Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.

In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.

You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.

Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.

You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.

Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.

“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.

You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.

You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,

“Like this?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.

A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.

The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.

Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.

Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.

Well.

You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.

You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.

You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.

“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.

“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.

Daddy?

There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.

“Y’all been spying on us?”

“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.

You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.

“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.

It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.

“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.

“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.

You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.

Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.

“We’re about out.” Micah announced.

Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.

“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.

You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”

“Do I?”

You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.

He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.

“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”

The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.

“You think so?” you hummed.

“I do. I really do.”

“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.

“Wyatt can fight.”

Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”

Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.

“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”

“Six.”

“Fifteen at least.”

You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.

This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.

“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.

“Twenty.”

“Honey?”

The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.

It was Joel, of course.

Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.

Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.

“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.

Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.

Instinctively, you recoiled.

“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.

He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.

Joel raised both eyebrows.

“No?”

His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.

“Fuck no,” you answered.

A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,

“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”

“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”

No one moved.

Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.

Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.

“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.

“You’re a brat,” he fired back.

In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.

“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You�� you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”

“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”

Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.

“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”

Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?

“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”

“If that’s what you—”

“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”

Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.

“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.

You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.

Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.

So you took off running.

Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.

You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.

“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.

Fat chance, Miller.

You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.

Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.

Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.

It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.

“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.

“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”

You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.

Then he pulled you over his lap.

Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”

You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.

“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.

Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.

“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.

Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,

“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”

You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.

“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.

Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.

“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.

Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,

“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”

You fuck with my head.

Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.

“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”

You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.

“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.

“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”

At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.

Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.

“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,

“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”

It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.

Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.

“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”

His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.

“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”

Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.

You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.

“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.

No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.

Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”

At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”

Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.

He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.

“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.

“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.

“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.

It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.

“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”

The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.

He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.

“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.

“Cobwebs and all.”

Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.

“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.

“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.

“So Prohibition-coded.”

“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”

You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.

At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.

Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’

No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.

No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.

Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.

“Good?”

“Great.”

You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.

“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”

“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.

His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.

“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.

The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.

In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.

When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.

Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—

“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”

Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.

“Joel, please,” you begged him.

“Baby, I’m—”

About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.

“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”

On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:

Dad 💙

Fuck.

FUCK.

Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.

You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.

Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.

“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.

Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.

“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”

But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.

It stopped.

Then started again.

The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.

It stopped once more.

The screen stayed black.

You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.

Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.

“Answer,” you hissed.

“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.

“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”

Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.

“He-e-y man.”

You were so fucking dead.

Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.

“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”

A beat.

“She’s good, she’s good.”

For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”

“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”

“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”

You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.

When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.

You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.

At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.

“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”

You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.

The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.

Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.

“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”

You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,

“This is not a fucking game.”

He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.

In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.

Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.

By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.

When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.

The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.

His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.

The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.

“Joel,” you choked.

Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.

With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.

He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”

Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.

He couldn’t finish off like this.

Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.

Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.

He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,

“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.

You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:

“Hey, dad!”

Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.

Might as well make it fun while it lasts.

“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”

Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.

You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.

He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.

Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.

“My sweet girl.”

“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”

“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”

From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.

At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.

“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.

Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest���his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.

“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”

As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.

He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.

So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.

He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.

You covered the mouthpiece.

“I can’t, Joel.”

“Sure you can, sugar.”

“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.

Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:

“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”

Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.

“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”

You didn’t need much more instigation than that.

You came. He followed.

And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.

Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.

Until it was in you.

Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.

You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.

“Did it…”

“What?”

“Joel!”

You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.

“JOEL!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”

Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.

“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”

Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.

“What’s…ovulating?”

You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.

There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.

“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”

That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.

“Where are you going?!”

“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”

Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.

“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.

“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.

Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”

Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.

As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.

Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.

“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.

Joel turned his head and almost groaned.

Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.

Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.

Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:

“I’m not actually her dad!”

All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:

“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”

[vampiresbloodx]

Soaked.

summary: What does natasha consider more important, the team or her girl?

pairings: natasha romanoff x reader

word count: 1,097

warnings: smut, strap on use, daddy kink, dom!nat, sub!reader, breast play, f!reader, praise kink, she/her pronouns for reader, begging, established relationship, "good girl" use.

“Yeah, just like that, baby.”

If the team had any clue on why Natasha really had to bail on them at the last minute, they would never guess it was because of you.

“Good girl, so good to me, so good for daddy.”

She wasn't an easy person to tease, mess with. But with you, it was on a whole different level. 

You knew how to fuck with her mind, and she liked it, no, loved it.

She'd let it play on, letting you have the upper hand for the most part.

But it goes back to her. 

It always does. 

She has her hand gripping at your head, pushing you down as you have your mouth taking her fake silicone cock. She's been wearing this all day, purposely messing with you, pressing against you, so you can feel it, know it's there, making you wet and unable to focus, that's how she likes it, she likes to fuck you dumb.

Your drools cover her dick, she's almost surprised at how soaking wet you've got her cock drenched in. She wants to take a photo, but she knows she can't. Not with hers, not with her burner phone either. She needs to find another way.

“That's it baby, take it, take it all in that pretty mouth of yours” she moans, her voice low, husky, sending a shiver down your spine.

You'd do anything she asks. 

Anything.

She hums, keeping her gaze on you as she hears the quiet mumbles of whimpers you're trying to not let escape. It's cute. Really, how hard you're focusing on pleasuring her and her only. Trying not to think about the ache in between your legs.

She couldn't help it, Nat smirks, moving her boot more closer towards your cunt, you were on your knees before her naked, bare, she likes when you're like this, it feels vulnerable, and it's for her eyes only.

You gasped, feeling her boot nudge against your dripping pussy. She was tempting you to grind on her like a devil. But you didn't move. Only kept your eyes on her as you bop your head up and down.

“Ah, my girl is behaving well, is she?” Natasha purred, her hand coming down to caress your cheek as you felt your face burn, as you leaned more into her touch. “I think someone deserves a reward, hmm?” She starts to pull her cock away out of your mouth, you whined.

“But daddy I haven't finished…” you murmured, she raised an eyebrow at you, daring you to protest more. 

“Sorry, what was that? No, go on, I was listening” she says, spreading her thighs apart as she waits for you to continue. 

When you don't, she nods, going back to what she was doing. 

“Good girls get rewards, don't they?” She grins, loving this a bit too much. 

You were at a loss for words, that's how she likes you to be. Natasha gets up, gently pushes you down onto the floor, it's not necessarily the most comfortable place, she knows you aren't exactly worrying about that right now. 

She smiles down at you, with so much love and lust in her eyes, she wasn’t sure if anyone could make her feel such things, but here you are, beneath her, doing the impossible. 

Natasha teases the tip of the strap to your entrance, hearing you whimper, she grins, placing your legs over her shoulders as she slips her cock fully inside you. 

Your mouth opens an O as she pushes into you, starting at a steady pace. 

“Please…. I need more” you choked on a sob, biting down on your bottom lip. 

“Yeah? This ain’t enough for you?” she huffs, thrusting her hips harder against yours as her hands come down to play with your breasts, squeezing at them, making you gasp and squeal, it's all cute, the noises you make. “So fuckin’ needy, you want daddy’s cock that bad, hmm?” she laughs, grunting when she feels the back of the strap hit her just right as you fuck yourself on he dick. 

You whine louder, knowing daddy likes it when you cry out for her, she grips onto your hips, pushing yours against hers, moving faster, she can see your cunt clenching around her cock, taking it all in, god, she loved it. 

“Please daddy, let me come” you cried, “I’m so close.” 

“Oh yeah? This is only the first round baby and you already wanna come, you wanna be filled with daddy’s come too?” she asked, fucking into you harder. 

You looked confused, she loved it, the surprise she didn’t tell you what type of dildo she brought for this occasion, she was gonna use it on your anniversary, but she couldn’t wait. You looked so good, she can’t help herself. 

As she pumps harder into you, faster, hearing how wet your pussy is was driving her insane, she can never get bored of it, you were always so wet for her. 

When it hits you, she smiles, watching your face contort into pleasure as it takes over your body, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you try to keep them open so you both can stare into each other's gaze. It's something she likes to do with you, it feels vulnerable, personal, intimate. All the things she’s not used to. 

But you make it so much better. 

Then she waits until you feel it, the magic, the surprise. She grins wickedly, as your eyes shoot open back up at her, as you feel a gush of wetness enter your hole, and you do something she wasn’t expecting, you push your hips down to hers further as you can take it, you want to have all of it inside you. 

She moans, meeting your pace as you both whine and gasp, it’s not long until she collapses onto you, her strap still inside you. 

She kisses you up along your skin, admiring every inch of your body as you shudder, smiling at her, with those adorable eyes she loves. 

She feels her phone vibrate, sighing, she goes to grab it out of her jacket that she threw somewhere off near you two, and it’s a text from Steve asking where you both are. 

“Seems like we are needed, baby” she murmurs, running a hand through her hair. 

“Sad, I was hoping to suck your come off” you pouted, her eyes turned dark as she wished Steve would have texted her ten more minutes later. 

“Later. You can make it up to daddy.”

[artemismoorea03]

DP x DC or Marvel: The Help of The Dead

I won't lie this could work for either

When Phantom joined the team almost everybody had the same thought; "He's just a kid, how could he help?"

They insist on protecting him in fights, especially when he makes it clear more than once that he wont fight living humans. So when it comes to armies of people they have to deal without the child on the battlefield, which is fine by them. One lest child on the front lines is one less ass to save when shit hits the fan.

But then one day that suddenly changes.

An evasion with scales unlike anything they had ever seen before which is saying something. Together the teams had fought countless battles but in that moment things seemed truly like they were too much.

Until Phantom finally clapped, jumped off the table. "These aren't living humans right?"

They weren't human, far from it. The team had mentioned this more than once but it was hard to tell if he was just double checking or if he hadn't been paying attention to anything.

"Great. Pull the team back, I got it."

"You really don't expect us for you to fight this alone, do you?" Superman or Captain America would ask as Phantom just laughed.

"Don't be ridiculous, who said I would be doing it alone. Now pull them back. I won't say it again." Then Phantom simply vanishes.

The orders are given, timidly but their given. Moral of the people left in the 'danger zone' drops and things seem to drastically change when a massive green cloud begins to swirl in the sky before ripping open into a portal that sends chills down the spines who see it.

The heroes fear it's a second wave or some kind of superweapon going off, but then a figure flies out, does a flip and strums a guitar.

"HELLO, WORLD! WELCOME TO THE SHOW! FOR THE BASTARDS TRESSPASSIN' I SUGGEST YOU GET CRUISIN' BEFORE YOU GET ONE HELL OF A BRUSIN!"

The team is confused until the portal explodes, a large mass of things fly out filling the sky blocking out the sun to the city. The heroes panic, the heroes don't know what to do. But the mass isn't attacking, in fact there's a wave of movement until who shows up at the front of the lines, a regal cape, a flaming crown and a glowing ice covered ring.

"Phantom." Nobody knows who breathes the name when they all realized what was happening.

Phantom simply waves his hand, a green megaphone forming out of thin air as he speaks into it.

"Attention invading forces. You have trespassed on territory claimed by the King of the Dead. You were given your chances to leave, and since you chose to stay then this must mean you have enjoyed your visit and wish to make your stay permanent. Don't worry, we'll help you with that. If you wish to leave, now is your chance. Either evacuate or drop your weapons of we will drop you."

The invading forces refuse, hell they even go so far as to scoff at the idea. Phantom simply shrugs then gestures to the one with the guitar, as she begins to play again and Phantom bops around for a second before he holds up his hand.

"By the order of the King of Death you are here by to protect the living souls of this world and destroy any who are not human, animal, or under our protection. There will be no ransacking, no obsession chasing, and no harming of the living. This is the decree now... take out the trash."

The slaughter is over before the one with the guitar finishes her third song. Two days of fighting over in less than nine minutes with no human lives lost in the attack, more captured enemies than dead, and without Phantom having to lift a finger.

The team is surprised, not only was Phantom working for the King of the Dead but the Army of the Dead was fuckin' terrifying. When Phantom was confronted with this information later, he simply laughs, shrugs and says;

"What can I say? Sometimes you have to let the kids outside to play or they'll go stir crazy."

"Why didn't you fight?" Another one of the heroes would ask as Phantom looked at them.

"You heard the decree, didn't you. 'No obsession chasing', my obsession is 'Protection'. I stayed back because if I was involved I would have probably caused more damage then our enemies."

After what the heroes had seen... this threat was terrifying.

Suddenly they realized that Phantom did help - by staying back - and the day he was actively in the fight...

Not even the mysterious 'King of the Dead' would be able to save the souls who went against Phantom.

[devilanon]

omg omg what about Simon coming home with a collar and a leash!! being excited/nervous how they'll react? btw i LOVE your writing and you should know you're super talented :D

thank you anon :-) i do my best. contains both collaring for simon and reader. [nsfw below cut, gn reader, pet play? choking tw]

He just kind of slaps it on the table without preamble. He comes home, toes off his shoes, and gestures to the inconspicuous black bag he's brought home with him. “Got you a gift,” he says, tone flat. If it were anyone else you’d find it rude, but it’s Simon, so you see it as more of a mark of anxiety than anything else. He seems unwilling to meet your eyes, looking at you, then the wall, then the bag. He’s not normally so… twitchy. “Oh, what is it?” You peer over the table at him, waggling your eyebrows, just to needle him a bit. It works. He lets out an irritated huff. “Just fuckin’ open it,” he says, pushing it further toward your person, and now he really can’t look at you. (He's flustered. How sweet.) You open the (now conspicuous in how discreet it is, given the context) packaging to reveal a studded leather collar and a chain. "…Oh."

FOR HIM.

You blink up at him, holding the chain heavy in your hand. “For me?” He clears his throat a little, and you can see a flush rising onto the apples of his cheeks. “For me,” he clarifies, voice low and gruff. …Say no more. You can work with this.

Simon is not a good puppy. Not at first, anyway. He’s always been headstrong, difficult. He has an attitude, a sort of cockiness about him that needs to be... trained out of him.

For instance, on one occasion, you collar him and then set about doing paperwork while he's sitting at your feet, quiet, looking pensive. Over time he inches closer until he's resting his head on your knee. It's actually quiet cute, his big stone-gray eyes looking up at you, the collar affixed neatly to his thick and muscled throat; not too tight, just enough room to slip two fingers under the leather and tug. He's looking for attention, so you give it to him. You card your fingers through his short-cropped hair and he flutters those pretty eyelashes at you.

And then he's humping your leg. Grinding his half-hard cock against your clothed calf, making no show of hiding it. You gasp, yanking him back by the leash, and he lets out a choked gasp at the pressure on his neck. "Bad!", you chide, frowning down at him.

He's undeterred, because of course he is. "You like it."

You quickly learn punishment doesn't work. Edging is a pain because he can and will outlast you, should he put his mind to it. Impact play just gets him harder. In fact, he'll act out just to get a slap on the face, a bop to the nose. It almost becomes a game to him, frustratingly.

What does work is praise.

You have to ignore Simon when he's acting up, and reward him when he's being good. When he sits with his head in your lap innocently, keeping his hands to himself? "Good boy." He lets out a satisfied little chuff, closing his eyes when you rub a thumb over his cheek, let him suckle on it as you press it to his plush lips. (He has an oral fixation, but that's another story entirely).

When you pull him closer into your sex while he's giving you oral, chain wrapped tight around your hand, babbling praises at him as he sucks and licks at you, he looks like he's died and gone to heaven. He nods, eyes glazed, mouth slick with spit; yes, yes, he is a good boy, keep saying that to him, thank you.

Pull on his collar when you're on top, riding him, making his vision blur and his breathing stutter, and he's a goner. Even better if he's fucking you from behind and you yank the chain over your shoulder, forcing him deeper into your heat.

FOR YOU.

"For me?" You delicately trace the studs on the collar, feel the cool metal, the weight of it in your hand. "For you," he answers, looking at you curiously, trying to gauge your reaction. He gives you an out, then, nodding to the collar - "If you're interested." Of course you are.

He isn't too mean, despite what some may assume; it's less about dehumanization and more a show of dominance, ownership, caretaking, even.

He slips his fingers through the slack of the collar, using it to pull you up and down on his cock as you suck him, the slow drag of your mouth making him groan and curse. He heaps praise on you; "Good puppy, taking me so deep. Good fucking puppy."

He'll have you ride his boots, leaving them wet and shiny with your spend. He'll lean back in his office chair, legs spread wide, his thick, muscled thighs straining in his jeans, and he looks down at you with something like disinterest, like he's watching some a pet of his do something mildly irksome. "That's it, puppy. Hump my fucking boots. I know you want to." He wraps the leash around his knuckles, pulling so that you're forced to look up at him, eyes wet with tears and face burning with embarrassment.

Definitely yanks the shit out of the leash when he's fucking you from behind, though, so he can force you into a deeper arch while he slamfucks you, the fat of his hips clapping against your ass. It drives him a little wild, the sounds you make with your windpipe compressed.

[lovelyhan]

wonwoo & emotional orange’s don’t be lazy!!

this was honestly such a bop wtf,,

⟣ don't be lazy ⟢ wc: no idea bc mobile ㅠㅠ minors do not interact!

"that all you got? don't start slacking off, baby."

you shoot wonwoo a death glare from where you're perched on top of his lap. he looks so fucking smug, all relaxed on the bed with an iron tight grip on your waist. if you weren't so desperate to get off, you would've wiped that smirk off his face.

your thighs are burning from the strain of riding your too-conceited fuck buddy for the past ten minutes. the sweat that beads across the side of your head is a testament of your effort, but it's clear that he isn't about to start appreciating it when he's got you right where he wants you.

wonwoo has always made quips about how you're so fucking lazy during sex—a bona fide pillow princess who'd rather let him do all the work. can he blame you, though? you actually liked letting him manhandle you before getting fucked to an inch of your life.

but when he casually mentioned how the girl he brought home the other night rides dick like a fucking champ, you couldn't help but feel like you had to prove something.

"fuck off," you mutter, shifting your weight more evenly across both knees as you grip onto his broad shoulders for balance. "you're the one who said you liked it better this way."

wonwoo lets out a breathless chuckle as you ease yourself back onto his length—biting back a moan as the fat head of his cock breaches your entrance once more.

"when did i ever say that?" he asks, ravenous eyes never leaving your tits as you start to bounce on his cock. "then again, you always did like twisting my words. what, did you get jealous because of that little story i told you?"

"s-shut up," you stammer with a prominent frown. "i don't care about that, okay?"

for someone who 'doesn't care' about their fuck buddy's other sexual exploits, you're being awfully determined at proving a point when you clench the muscles of your pussy around his hard length—making wonwoo hiss between his teeth as his fingers dig harder into the meat of your ass.

the lewd squelch that each pass of his cock makes rings loudly in your ears. but no matter how deeper he manages to fuck into you when you're riding him like this, there's always something missing when you're the one on top.

"god, you're so fucking stubborn," he growls, thrusting his hips up to match your erratic pace. "you don't have to push yourself so hard. just say the word and i'll fuck you just the way you like it."

"and if i told you i like it when i'm on top?"

"then that just makes you a fucking liar, princess."

wonwoo is quick to turn the tables on you when he roughly flips you over—breasts pressed against the sheets as he forces your spine into a delicious arch.

you realize what you've always craved every time you ride him when wonwoo presses his chest against your back—dwarfing you with the build of his torso as he sinks himself into your pussy. you fucking love it when he's pressing you beneath his weight, firmly enough so you can't even squirm.

"wonwoo—" you half-gasp, half-moan as he starts ramming his cock into you with an unforgiving pace. "fuck, please!"

"see? that wasn't so hard, was it?" he growls, fisting your hair in one hand as he makes a mess out of your cunt. "you never want to lift a finger, do you? always just waiting for me to use your perfect fucking pussy like a cocksleeve."

"y-yes, yes, yes," you babble, inhaling sharply when the hand in your hair migrates to your throat—fingers pressing down just enough to make you lightheaded. "wan' you to use me, wonwoo. need your cock to fuck me all the time..."

he breathes out a shuddering breath as he forces you back down onto the mattress, both hands gripping the globes of your ass like they've always been his to take. "you don't have to ride me to prove a thing, baby. i'll fuck this needy pussy stupid in missionary for the rest of my life if i have to. 'cause that's just how good you fucking feel around me."

you nearly cream yourself at his words, but wonwoo is intent on keeping his word. he flips you over once again so that your gazes can meet—slipping back inside you not a second later so he can continue ruining you with his cock.

"is this what you like? being treated like a pillow princess? getting fucked dumb on my cock?" wonwoo breathes against your lips as you mewl with every thrust—craning your neck so he'd give you a kiss. "oh, baby, you're so greedy today. making me do all the work and asking for a kiss? do you think you deserve it?"

"i do," you moan, fingers tangling in his messy hair as his strokes start losing their careful precision. "i deserve a kiss. and i deserve your cum. give it to me, wonwoo, please—"

"fuck," he swears hoarsely, a satisfied grin plastered on his face. "you're such a demanding little princess, aren't you? you'll take everything i'll give like a good girl?"

just when you're about to open your mouth to respond, the pinnacle of your orgasm crests out of nowhere—making you thrash and writhe under wonwoo like a madwoman.

wonwoo growls as your walls clamp down on him like a vice as you ride out your release, and he swears he feels you come again when his hips finally stutter—spilling his hot cum deep inside your cunt.

the post-sex haze has become one of wonwoo's favorites because the fucked out look on your face after he's had his way with you is enough to make him hard again. wonwoo bears no mind to the fact that you're still coming down from cloud nine—propping you back on your knees with your ass high in the air.

you whimper his name again as he glides his cock along your sloppy pussy, uncaring of the fact that his load is still dripping out of your ruined entrance.

"don't be lazy, baby." he grins wickedly. "we've got all night."

end notes: he is so filthy in this... thank you sm for giving me the opportunity to write wonwoo into such a nasty light 😩

[theplumsoldier]

before the guests arrive

summary: you're hosting a small bbq for some friends and find that you want something from joel while you're still alone pairing: joel miller x reader warnings: 18+: oral sex (male receiving), vulgar language, pet names, dirty talk, established relationship. word count: 724

It was scorching outside and you were regretting inviting friends over on such a hot day. Joel was standing by the grill, flipping burgers in shorts, flip-flops, and a buttoned - all the way - down shirt. A sight making you capable of drooling enough to fill the pool. It wasn't needed though. You were already enveloped by the chlorine water, hanging on to the edge as you adored him.

"Joel, baby, won't you come here for a sec?"

Casting a glance over his shoulder, a deep chuckle rumbled through his chest at the innocent smile on your lips.

He knew what you wanted.

"You should probably put on some clothes, hon! Jay and Ann'll be 'ere soon," grinned he.

You coaxed him closer, grabbed his wrist, and looked at his watch.

"Still got about 20 minutes, baby."

He had kneeled down to you at that point, chuckling as he pressed a lovesick kiss to your forehead.

While Joel retreated, you held onto his wrist, not thinking twice before mushing your face against his shorts, mouthing the familiar shape of his cock through them.

Joel grunted as you looked up at him through wet eyelashes, nudging your chin upward with his calloused fingers. "What'ya think ya gettin' at, baby girl, hm?"

The tsk, tsk, tsk in his tone was drowned out by his Texas drawl.

"You know," moaned you before sticking your tongue out, pressing it flat against his growing member.

And Joel was almost too easy to convince.

In a matter of seconds, you had him at the edge of the pool, his thighs supporting you by your shoulders with his feet dipped in the water.

Sticking out your tongue, you maneuvered up and down his shaft, coating Joel's cock in drool and spit. You hummed at the feel of him in your mouth, his cock so heavy and hard on your tongue that it made you realize you would need a better angle if you were to take him further down.

While you were bopping up and down his dick, Joel made sure to keep your hair out of your face.

"Always so good for me, hon," he praised, gritting his teeth and sucking in a deep breath when you looked up at him. "Mm--so fuckin' pretty with my cock in ya mouth."

With a little jump, your mouth hovered him and took his full length down your throat, making his leg twitch and splash in the pool.

With a clawing grip on the sides of his ass, you easily took his length, balls deep. His grip on you tightened, and while his thighs clenched around your head, his handyman's hands guided your mouth over him with a hungry vigor.

"Fff--uck!"

Your throat resounded with gagging as he fucked into your face, nowhere to run as tears trickled from your eyes.

Honey-dipped eyes locked on yours, Joel smoothed the crease between your knitted brows, praising you for taking him so well.

Each rut of his hips brought him closer to his release, the thought of your guests coming early making him both panicky and aroused.

You didn't care. You wanted to please him so bad you were ready to get fucked through cloud nine with a standing ovation and he knew it.

Hissing at the sight of you, teary fluttering eyes blinking up at him, strings of drool forming between your nose and chin and the base of his cock, his hips snapped.

Rugged groans rumbled in his ribcage as his member was sheathed in your throat, shooting hot spurts of cum into you, coating your being so nicely in a velvety milky layer.

Falling limp on the flats of his hands, you breathed heavily, lips fluffy as yous swallowed the taste of him.

With a brief, sucking motion you leaned over to hallow your cheeks around him, making him moan and chuckle with overstimulation, twitching.

Succeeding in your task, you pushed a kiss to Joel's abdomen and jumped up beside him, casually patting him on the back like a friend would.

"Good job, baby. Imma take a quick shower."

Joel was too overwhelmed, still coming down to respond, and it was only when you called his name he was torn from the celestial plane, a bewildered pout on his pretty face.

"Might wanna check the burgers, love. Smells a bit burnt over 'ere!"

[jvkeh]

Vernon praise kink+ thigh riding?

CLOUD 9

⤷ c.w thigh riding, praise kink | chwe vernon x reader | © jvkeh

hii guys my inbox is closed atm so i can get to my requests! here u go anon hope u like it 🥰

“oh, fuck baby.” vernon groans at the feeling of your bare cunt rubbing against his legs. tightening his grip on your waist, he throws his head back and let out a throaty sound. “you’re too good for me.”

vernon couldn’t lie, he was confused when you first brought up the idea of thigh riding. it was ten in the morning and he was inhaling cereal like water at the kitchen table, before monumentally pausing when you dropped the admittance that you were really into thigh riding and choking on the pieces (to the point where his face got red and your hand was assaulting his back to get him to spit it out).

but god, he’s so glad he listened. when you pulled your nightdress up, panties still intact, he felt the immediate response from his dick at your soft and squishy clothed pussy rubbing against his leg. so he made you take off your panties and place it in the waistband of his boxer shorts to use later, and now he was able to feel all of your hot cunt oozing against his cool leg.

“so fuckin pretty.” he says aloud, vocalising all his true thoughts when he looks at your cunt. “such a good fucking girl for me, rubbing against my leg like a obedient slut.” your face heated at him blandly dismissing you, only focusing on your pussy and treating it like it’s his girl. while you normally would be more whiney and irked at his words, it was turning you on more in the situation of riding his thigh.

you weren’t faring much better, moans leaving your mouth every second at the feeling of his leg. when he tensed it every so often, stimulating your cunt. you started to bounce on his leg, making vernon all the more turned on as your chest followed suit, breasts defying gravity as they bounced so hard, your nightdress straps were threatening to leave the room.

he began to bop his leg up and down, matching your bounces as his thigh made more contact with your pussy. “shit, ver.” you mumbled, as vernon’s left arm exited your waist and sneaked around to settle between your legs. a playful finger extended from his hand, before diving into your cunt to find your clit within mere seconds.

“god, this cunt destroys me.” he states as he feels you react to his finger’s explorations. adding two more, he pinches at your clit to further stimulate you. you let out a loud cry as you arch your back, still continuing to ride his thigh but with less intensity than before. the smell of your arousal was filling the room from all the cum oozing out of your cunt and laced across his thigh.

“we should do this more often.” vernon thinks as he witnesses you cry out again, feeling the telltale signs of your incoming orgasm. you began to shudder as you slowed down and vernon used this opportunity to start rubbing against your clit aggressively, making you whine out.

“mm- gonna cum!” you screech out, your words coming out inconsistent due to your hazy brain thinking purely of vernon’s thighs. “come for me, baby.” he soothes, feeling a stream of liquid make contact with his fingers that were still inside you. “just like that baby, let it all out.” vernon words only drove you further down in your orgasm as the cum poured out of your pussy like rainfall. vernon was tempted to bend you over the couch and suck up every drop for himself instead of watching it drip over his legs, but he had to play by the rules, your rules, and that is sitting down and letting you thigh ride him.

once your body settled from your orgasm, you leaned over and rested your head against vernon chest to catch your breath. an arm snakes to hug you, while the other goes back between your legs. “vernon.” you groan out, not ready to be overstimulated by his hand after your first orgasm. “baby.” he imitates your whine, earning him a light slap on the leg. “hey!”

taglist

@enhacolor @duolingofanaccount

[tiredcreatur3]

what do you think would toji’s reaction be to you asking him to buy you a leash/collar?

ohhh that’s an awesome question! thank you!

-

he’d definitely be a bit confused, tease you and make fun of you. something along the lines of:

“are you a fuckin’ dog or what?”

and you’d just begin to babble and try to save your ass because no matter how hard you tried, you could never read his expression and what he’s thinking about at the moment.

he sort of laughs in your face and that’s the end of the conversation, or so you thought.

you then forget about it, few days pass by. but he doesn’t, he’d never admit it but oh, the thought of you sitting by his feet with a pretty collar around your neck, a leather leash resting in his closed palm.

“you mind comin’ here, baby?”

you hear him say as you just entered the room after taking a shower, wearing nothing but a little cropped tank top and toji’s boxers, coming over to him obediently, smiling a little bit as you stopped in front of him.

“sit. on the floor.” he hummed out, only now noticing the black leather leash and collar he held in his hand, getting all excited and maybe, just maybe (definitely) a little bit wet.

your cheeks got all pink, nodding your head shyly as you slowly got down on your knees, inching closer to him and resting your cheek against his thigh, hands resting between his feet, staring up at him with soft eyes.

“atta girl..” he let out, knowing how much you loved praises and oh, he only praised you when he felt like you really deserved it, gently caressing your cheek.

he soon crouched down to your level, placing a small kiss to your forehead before tightening the collar around your neck, making sure it wasn’t too tight but also not too loose, attaching the leash to it.

“i-i thought you didn’t li-“ you tried to say, surprised as the male tugged you with the leash towards him, having you now on all fours as he sat down on the bed.

“shut the fuck up if you wanna stay a good girl.” he stared down at you, it definitely doing something to him, seeing you all helpless like this, pouting up at him, the collar looking so pretty around your little throat, loving the control he had over you, how flustered you could get.

moments later, you don’t even know what you wanted to say before, eyes all glossy and half lidded as you deep throated the male’s cock, gagging quietly while saliva dripped down your chin and to your thighs, the older tugging at the leashes which was tightly wrapped around his knuckles to keep your cute little mouth on his stiff cock, your nose bopping his lower stomach.

and all though toji was being so so mean to your throat now, fucking it like you were nothing but a filthy whore, he didn’t forget to praise you the whole time, muttering under his breath as he groaned and moaned, dark eyes never leaving your cute little face full of pleasure and pain.

and despite feeling embarrassed at first after asking the male if he’d buy you a collar and be willing to explore this part with you, you didn’t regret one fucking second of it now.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 7/30/2023

this post half brought to you by viewers like you! thank you!

listening

all my brain wants is charli xcx's apple on repeat. i understand there's a very popular dance with it but it's not H-O-T T-O G-O so i don't know anything about that. extremely effective song to have on loop while writing. peppy but very even and easy to just sort of bop along to in the background. looking forward to this being my #1 most listened song on spotify this year after the (DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT) number of hours last night working on yeehawgust.

thank you to my real-life sister for 1) teaching me about brat summer after i sent her a pic of the neon green pool outside and 2) telling me i would like this album. i do!

-

reading

i saw a photo on here several weeks ago of Balfour Tower, a brutalist residential building in London where all the mechanics are in the little tower on the right and said to myself "what the FUCK is that. how does it WORK."

someone else who said "what the FUCK is that. how does it WORK." was JG Ballard, previous tuesdaypost feature. there are only two books i reread most years, Jane Eyre in the fall and Ballard's The Drowned World in the summer (one of the nicest vintage hardcovers i own, from @morrak ).

let's yoink the description off wikipedia bc it's the most succinct:

The story describes the disintegration of a luxury high-rise building as its affluent residents gradually descend into violent chaos. As with Ballard's previous novels Crash (1973) and Concrete Island (1974), High-Rise inquires into the ways in which modern social and technological landscapes could alter the human psyche in provocative and hitherto unexplored ways.

it's less "the building is evil" and more "by incentivizing residents to not leave the building by providing everything they need, including a liquor store, the building is a petri dish for fucked up british social interaction".

Ballard is extremely good, on a very technical sentence level, of creating an immersive cocoon of dreamlike unreality in the middle of an otherwise functioning world. this is Not good for my brain when i am having a particularly prolonged bout of The Morbs. High-Rise was extremely effective in creating its particular pocket of fucked-up happenings in the middle of the "real world" but was EXTREMELY not the book i needed at this particular moment.

-

watching

The Burglars (1971, dir. Verneuil). this is a french heist film but i'm just going to drop my letterboxd review here.

do you want to see an all-in-one safecracking kit in a beautiful imitation leather suitcase straight from the catalog? with a computer to make a punchcard for the key cutting device also in the suitcase? do you feel strongly about emeralds? do you want to see a fuckin lupin iii style real life car chase where they run a little red fiat ragged? a man dumped out the back of a dump truck to fall down a slope half a mile long? do you want to see tits? do you want to see omar sharif get grain entrapped? this movie may be for you!

i would do anything for omar sharif and his big brown eyes.

the title sequence and a remarkably spare morricone soundtrack go SO hard. graphic design IS my passion!!!

how'd i find this: needed to use up some credits on kanopy. the gadgetry in the actual heist part of this film... mwah. a very poorly paced movie, but by god does it Look.

-

playing

thank you VERY much @sybilius for gifting me Pentiment! i would describe this as a point-and-click/visual novel murder mystery rpg?

it's endlessly charming. it is dense with medieval sociopolitical factions. i would expect nothing less from je sawyer. i loooove the different fonts: the printer in town has a custom font for his dialogue, other characters' dialogue changes fonts as you learn more about them (a noble's font changes from scrabbly handwriting to fine lettering after we learn he's got some education under his belt).

much like High-Rise, but for visual novel pace reasons and not content/atmosphere, this is not quite the right game for my brain at this time, but i am very excited to loop back around to it when better brain weather rolls in!

-

making

yeehawgust prep! i manage to do one prompt every other year but we'll see how this one goes

[diodellet]

walking lie detector (platonic hcs ft. the angels)

Summary: "It's no use trying to lie to an angel, we see right through it." (Luke, Ruri Tunes 8-4). This is what lying to the angels looks like and how it makes them feel. content warnings: -the relationship depicted for all three angels in this set of hcs is platonic -implied threats of physical violence towards you, the reader. word count: 1.08k words

Luke

When you lie to him, his face scrunches up immediately. Like he tasted something sour or smelled something bad.

Insert 🎶Why the fuck you lyin’, Why you always lyin’🎶 Kidz Bop Ver. here

Which causes two reactions in you: 1) it makes your heart squeeze from how adorable it makes him look and 2) it makes your stomach sink in guilt

Because he was the first one who told you that lying to an angel is pointless.

To Luke, hearing you lie feels like a sunny day suddenly becoming overcast. It feels like unfurling a piece of fabric and immediately spotting a dark stain on it. Either the fact that he’s a young angel or the fact that he used to work directly under Michael could be the reason why his lie detector senses are so strong.

More than that, it feels sort of like tinnitus, a ringing in his ears that tells him what you were saying was wrong. 

Not that it physically hurts, but for an angel as transparent as Luke, his reaction to the sensation would immediately show on his face.

No matter who’s around, he’ll immediately call you out.

If you double down on your fib, he’ll get annoyed and tell you off (🎶Hmmm oh my god, Stop fuckin lyin’!🎶)

To the others (especially the demon brothers), it’s kind of funny seeing you being lectured by a young angel.

(But what really hurts is afterwards, when he sulks and ignores you for lying to him. Or worse, when he talks to a third person in the room to pass messages to you even if you’re right there.)

“Solomon, could you ask them to pass me the TV remote?” “Simeon, will you tell them that we’ll be dismissed late tomorrow?”

—and so on, all while sending huffy glances in your direction. (No! He doesn’t feel guilty about getting angry, he’s waiting for you to apologize and own up to your mistake.)

If you backtrack and admit the truth (the correct decision), he’ll still admonish you for still lying in the first place but he’ll bounce back to his usual excitable self.

Raphael

His face doesn’t show it, but he knows.

(If he had his wings out, it’s a whole different story. They’re the best mood/reaction guide.)

(Correction: If you are a soul brave enough to stare at Raphael’s resting bitch face while lying to him, you can see his brows furrow juuust a teensy bit more than usual.)

Lying is futile. Give it up, you amateur fibber.

He’s just like Luke lmao, #2 in Immediately Calling You Out™️

But the interesting part for Raphael is that the sensation depends on the degree of the lie you told.

If it’s a little white lie or if you’re gently skirting around the subject, then it feels like a faint shiver down his back. Similar to the slight chill from a nighttime breeze, the brief moment before you get static shock. It is a slightly bothersome sensation, but one that isn’t a complete hindrance.

“Why did you say that? You’re completely free for the entire weekend.” “Hm? Then just say that you want to rest at home, it’s not that difficult.”

(Being honest and dealing with the consequences is fucking hard, Raphael!)

However, if it’s an outright denial of the truth, then it feels like a hollow pang in his chest. It’s similar to the scent of ozone right before lightning strikes.

Except there’s no lightning, just his nerves standing on edge, that moment of complete vigilance stretching on and on until Raphael knows for sure that he’s facing the complete truth.

And Raphael will get the truth out of you.

Either by pestering you repeatedly or threatening you, you don’t get to choose. The correct answer was that you shouldn’t have lied to Michael’s errand boy in the first place.

Not that he’ll run you through with a spear, he’s working to fix his use of violence as a crutch.

It’s just that divine beings as a whole have either remained pitifully gullible or developed unhealthy coping methods in response to being taken advantage of.

And Raphael refuses to have the wool pulled over his eyes again.

Simeon

Maybe it’s because he’s been around Lucifer and the other demons for longer, but he’s pretty unbothered at being lied to.

Don’t worry, he won’t call you out for it. A part of him is aware that you don’t have to bare all your intentions, and additionally, different factors can affect how much you’d want to share with him. It’s as simple as that.

(But he will take note and remember this for later. And it’s only fair that he uses his own methods in revealing the truth, is it not?)

Just like Raphael, he’s a pro at hiding the fact that he knows.

He could just go, “Oh, okay!” and pair it with an innocent smile. And if you’re easily affected by your guilty conscience like me, that simple acceptance is enough to push you into admitting the truth.

(And oh how he loves catching you red-handed.)

“So, would you mind telling me why you were at Madam Devian’s with Beelzebub? I seem to recall that you had remedial lessons.” “Oh, I won’t tell Lucifer, I can imagine how that would turn out. Just… try not to hide that from me next time, alright?”

Also, depending on how big of a lie you’re telling him, the sensations also differ for Simeon.

White lies feel ticklish, that’s why they’re so amusing to Simeon. That’s why his first reaction is to fucking smile in the face of a lie. Like, he knows Luke told you that angels can see through dishonesty but you’re still trying and it’s so endearing.

Sidenote: for some reason, Simeon tends to feel them along his upper arms and shoulder area. 

More serious falsehoods feel worse. Sort of like a hot itch under his skin. Something vile and gross bubbling under the surface. Something threatening to claw itself out.

But he could count the number of times that has happened to him on one hand and he plans on keeping it that way.

All in all, the occasional white lie to Simeon isn’t a big deal so long as the truth eventually comes out. He trusts you, after all.

If anyone would have told him how horrible it was to lie to a loved one, it still wouldn’t be enough to prepare him for the burden of hiding his sins.

A/N: I'd first like to thank @jessamine-rose for betaing this short spontaneous draft😭thanks girl ur dabest betareader😭as someone who's too weak to progress through the main story of obey me and as someone who knows 0% of raphael's charac litrally everyth i know is from ms. maam jessamine, i wasn't able to do my usual amount of research. but as long as the writing's bearable enough to read then thats good enough for me ig huhuhuu in other news, im thinking of writing a 2nd part to this but in a romantic💕💕 context with simeon and raphael (because OF COURSE my brain would have taken this revelation in That™️ direction) but it won't be posted any time soon, i only have scraps of a scene in mind so far, soo ig this won't be the end-end of me milking this wonderful angel lorebit

[goodlucksnez]

hi, hello, hola, bonjur, (don’t know if I spelled that right, my french origin is failing me!) so remember that poll you did that said we could vote between erasermic or huskerdust? And huskerdust won and u said to put down our ideas? Well I finally have one! Could you do one that angel and husk are cuddling and angel is petting and comforting which is causing husk to purr and husk is sick, and he’s purring and sneezing because the purring tickles his nose and gets a little annoyed at himself and angel kisses him and tells him he’s ok?

love your wavs btw (also credits to @ghostlychill for the congested purr headcanon)

thank you so much for the prompt I tried my best to make it

I present h/uskerdust cuteness

cw: purring, scratching, moaning, sneezing (duh), suggestive comments,cute nicknames

(no one gets to talk bad about my angel dust voice okay, accent are hard and i am still working on it)

❗ PLEASE NO REBLOGGING TO NON-KINK BLOGS ❗

script

*purring and cat napping husk*

Aww Whiskers. Seriously, the motorboat could wait.

*moaning and angels scratches him behind the ear*

That feel good whiskers

Shut up

Never snookums

*sniffs and rubs his nose into his chest fluff*

OH we gonna take motorboat to a whole new extreme, aren't we? You enjoying the fluff?

 If you don't shut up. I'll rip it off.

You know, I ain't afraid of a little pain.

*Sneezes into fluff*

Hey, watch the merchandise, baby? Do you know how much I'm worth?

Mm-hmm. And you're free to. *hitch*

 Ohh no, no, no no, no.

*grabs his nose*

Ugh Thanks.  I don’t know what’s *stifles in angles hand* fuck

 I think you have a cold.

No I dont

right, so you just like sneezing on my tits do you?

Do You have to say it like that.

 What? The truth? I thought you adored that.

Too tired to argue with you

 You want some scratches, kitten?

*purring and groaning*

 Oh, we haven't even gone anywhere and you're already moaning.

Shut up.

*Scratches and hitches and sneezes*

Aww bless you. Bless you. Goodness. That kitten noses of yours is mad at you.

You know it's all connected, right?

What?

Vocal cords and my nose *sneezes*

Are you telling me that you're sneezin’ because you're a cute little purr? Ohh, that's just hysterical.

It's not funny

Ohh, come on, little funny. Gotta admit that.

I don’t think it's that funny Angel

Ohh. Of course not kitten You know you wanna cuddle all this.

 You know, most people aren't really thrilled to cuddle a arachnid. There's a whole phobia against it.

The only phobia that I see is you being alone now, come here.

You do not get a complain if I sneeze on your tits

Never I’ll never, ever complain about any of your fuckin fluids on me. I mean, look at your cute little nose already bursting. *bops his nose*

 Angel, I don't want to sneeze anymore, so if you don't mind, could you refrain from messing with it.

Bless you.*kisses* You just fall asleep now Whiskers and let Daddy take care of everything.