Katee, Help Me Pls I'm In A Daddy Mood And I Would Like To Ask U If You Would Please Write Some Daddy

Katee, help me pls I'm in a daddy mood and i would like to ask u if you would please write some daddy Marcus for me 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 THANKIE LOVE OF MY LIFE

ahhahahaah please enjoy some smut, baby girl. also i needed some resolution to daddy!marcus and i loved this too much.

~~

know better

a/n: SMUT, daddy kink, fluid transfers, big ass age gap; unbetaed, flinging shit out bc i'm a horny bitch; marcus might be a little OOC here

word count: ~1600

pairing: marcus pike x fem reader

read on ao3

~~

He shouldn’t be doing this.

He really, really shouldn’t be doing this.

What the fuck is he thinking?

He shouldn’t have you stretched out over his thigh, your little skirt bouncing as he rocks your hips back and forth, your drenched panties moving over the rough material of his slacks. He sits in his office chair behind his large oak desk, your pretty legs clamped onto each side of the thigh he’d lowered you onto when you leaned over to kiss him, unwilling to listen to him bullshit you anymore.

His fingers shouldn’t be digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. He shouldn’t be shirtless in his office. Marcus knows better than this, is better than this, but your open mouth emits whimpers that drain all thought and reason from him. He’s drunk off of you.

And you’re so young. So willing and pliant and soft. He should’ve had you transferred months ago before it went this far. Before you came to him in his office a week ago and offered him something.

To his credit, he declined at first. Said he didn’t think it would be a good idea. You are so bright and shiny and new, and his exhaustion from work, from dating, from life has settled itself in his bones. Your quick, witty flirtations make him feel young, but he can’t be that guy. Right?

You’d walked out looking so sad and embarrassed, and it broke him. He’d pretended he wouldn’t go home and spill himself all over his own stomach as he remembered you telling him you wanted him. He watches you now. Lost in your own pleasure, your clit pressed hard into his muscled thigh.

He watches your tits bounce, both pebbled nipples showing beautifully through your knit blouse. Before he can stop himself, he leans forward and bites one, eliciting a whimpered moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, biting the other and lifting your shirt up to suck on them. “Taste so fuckin’ good. Your tits are so fuckin’ pretty.”

You rock against him with your eyes closed, high off of the praise.

“I lied,” he says, gripping your hips again, moving you faster.

“I know you did,” you whisper.

“Sweetheart, you don’t know what you do to me. You make me feel so out of control,” he admits, pulling you close to him so he can kiss your neck. His lips glide over your smooth skin and he inhales sharply as your thigh brushes against his length. His cock strains against his zipper and he bucks against you, desperate for some kind of friction.

“Why, Mr. Pike?” You breathe. Your voice is high, breathy, girlish—he growls.

“You know you can’t just—you know why—you’re doing this on purpose—”

He snarls into your neck, trying to keep himself under control.

“You’ve done this before, right?” Marcus asks.

“Yes, a few times,” you pant. His heart lurches. He stops you then, trying to ignore your whine of protest that makes him dizzy.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, “you...don’t have to do this. I don’t know if you’re ready for what I want to give you, and I don’t think I can hold back. I don’t want to do anything to—”

But you stop him with a kiss and wrap your little fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand to your soaked panties. He doesn’t resist—how could he? He pulls your panties aside and dips his fingers into your folds—how are you so fucking wet?

“You won’t hurt me if you get me ready,” you whisper in his ear. He snaps, then. His mind turns off, and something primal inside of him takes over. He’d take care of you, get you ready, he’d take you right here. He’d keep you.

He throws you over the desk and rips your panties off of you, positions himself in between your legs and dives into your cunt like you’re his last meal.

“Beautiful little girl,” he murmurs into your folds.

You gasp, reaching into his hair. None of the boys you’d fucked had done this before. You think of the times you were alone, pretending, wishing that the pillow between your legs or your own hand was any part of him. Of the times you’d make yourself come over and over thinking of him, his name tumbling off of your lips, and that darkest, most secret desire—that word you wanted to call him; the one you could barely admit to and had only whispered allowed when you’d exhausted yourself enough to relax into it.

But his tongue feels so much better than what you do to yourself. It’s hard to keep anything in. It’s late and no one else in the office, but you throw your hand over your mouth to keep anything from spilling out. Marcus licks and sucks and bites any bit of skin he can get to. He slides one thick finger inside of you, and even that fills you up. He groans into you, and you feel his arm jerking at his side in quick strides, the sound of his first moving around his cock.

“You taste so good, honey,” he says. You tense up because you feel that string about to snap and he moves his finger inside of you, hitting a spot that sends a wave of tingles through your body and you shudder. The flat of his tongue presses, and you let go—

“Daddy,” you breathe. It just comes out and your legs are shaking and you are so much wetter than you remember being before. You hope he didn’t hear it. You’re half humiliated and half thrilled.

Marcus stops. He stops touching himself and removes his face from your pretty cunt. You’ve thrown your arms over your eyes, trying to hide your face, cheeks burning. There’s a flurry of movement and two big hands wrench your arms down by your side, pinning you on the desk and caging you in. You open your eyes and he’s staring down at you, his lips and facial hair still wet with your slick. You cannot read his face.

“What did you say?” He asks. You can’t read his voice, either.

Marcus’s breath comes in shudders—he has to pull himself back, has to stop himself from fucking you into the desk, but he needs to know—what did you call him? And can you call him that again? And if you call him that again, can he fuck you until you cry for him? Can he do it again and again; can he make you his baby? His heart beats wildly, waiting for your response. Your voice comes out small.

“Daddy,” you say.

“Say it again,” he snarls.

“Daddy, please,” you whine.

“That’s my good little girl. That’s right, baby, you listen so well,” he says, smoothing his thumb, wet with his pre-come, over your bottom lip. He jams his thumb into your mouth and you can taste the salt and musk of him, and something guttural comes from you.

“You like that, baby girl? Sweet girl,” he coos. He rubs the tip of his cock some more and smears it over your mouth. “You like how Daddy tastes?”

You writhe underneath him. You’ve never been at anyone’s mercy like this, and you wonder, for a moment, if you should be more afraid, when he leans down to kiss you softly and puts his lips on your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop this right now, sweetheart. Please,” he says, and he sounds like Marcus again—patient and sincere. He waits for you to answer with soft eyes, stroking your cheek.

“Please—no, I don’t want to stop this. I want you to ruin me, Daddy,” you whimper.

You’re so lovely, spread underneath him, and he’s going to ruin you.

He brushes his cock against your folds and fucks into you without warning. He gives you no time to get used to it, and he’s so fucking big it stings. Marcus hauls you up to him so you can hold on to him and you dig your fingernails into his skin.

“Tell Daddy if it gets to be too much, baby,” he says into your ear. You can’t speak, so overwhelmed are your senses. He stops inside of you and grabs your chin.

“Answer me,” he says.

“Okay, Daddy.”

Satisfied, he sets the most brutal pace you’ve ever experienced.

“H-how long have you wa-anted this, little girl?” he asks.

“Since—the—beginning,” you say. He fucks you like a ragdoll, holding you up, enjoying your helplessness.

“God, you’re so fucking innocent,” he says, and you reply with a long whine. He reaches between your legs and plays with your clit, pressing and circling. “Come for me, baby girl. Come around my cock. Soak Daddy’s cock.”

It’s hard to resist that order. Your orgasm is softer this time, but it still grasps his cock and he groans into your mouth.

“Oh—oh—oh,” you whimper, and he can’t stop now. He fucks into you, harder and faster, his hips snapping into you.

“Come in me, Daddy,” you say. He slows a little. “I’m safe.”

He shouldn’t.

But he does.

His hips stutter and he bites your tits again as his warmth fills you, whispering that you’re a good girl.

“So good for me, so wet for Daddy, such a good fucking girl,” he murmurs as you stroke his hair. You let out a contented sigh, sticky with his come. He drops to his knees and licks himself out of you.

“Marcus,” you sigh.

He’s at your side in seconds.

“Is everything okay? I didn’t hurt you?” He asks, and his sweet brown eyes grow wide.

“No,” you say, carding your hand through his hair. “We made a mess of your desk.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s okay. Come home with me.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise.

“I wanna...wanna take care of you tonight. And maybe a few other nights. If you’ll have me,” he says, pressing light kisses to your jaw. “Let me take care of you, little girl.”

You close your eyes and sigh into his lips as he covers your mouth with his own. That didn’t sound so bad.

tags:  @cannedsoupsucks @thewayofthemandalorian @i-ship-it-ironically @sergeantbannerbarnes @greeneyedblondie44 @phoenixhalliwell @dindaddy @bootyliciousbilbo @sleep-tight1 @autumnleaves1991-blog @northernpunk @salome-c @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @thirstworldproblemss @thepoisonofgod @starlightmornings @yespolkadotkitty @keeper0fthestars @songsformonkeys @sarahjkl82-blog @simsiddy @pedro-pastel @toomanystoriessolittletime @mothandpidgeon @silverwolf319 @generalfoolish @notabotiswear @foli-vora @the-witty-pen-name @pedrobsessed @leaiorganas @doin-stuff @wyn-dixie @kesskirata @janebby @julesorwhatever @221bshrlocked   @mad-girl-without-a-box @danniburgh @maharani-radha @starlightmornings @ladytrashbird @charnelhouse @jaime1110 @dihra-vesa @riddikulus-obsessions 

PEDRO PASCAL October 16th, 2023 | Los Angeles, California

On The Green: 1

Ezra x f!reader

Rating: Mature (violence, slight gore, killing - typical Ezra 😌 — will be explicit in later chapters)

Summary: Two strangers meet.

a/n: New series alert! Man alive first chapters are hard, and so I am going to yeet this into the universe before looking at it anymore. I owe everything to @bageldaddy for educating me hardcore and for being so extremely kind and thorough, and to @the-ginger-hedge-witch for her Ezra eyes and inspiration and to @familyvideostevie for her support and enthusiasm and notes. It took a VILLAGE to get through this one. Enjoy meeting our stranger. :)

--

You come to surrounded by unnatural stillness.

An absence felt in the air surrounding you, there is something about it that tugs at the foggy corners of your brain, beckoning you closer to the surface. You try to listen for anything beyond the ringing in your ears, and there is…something.

A beeping sound emerging through the fog, its incessant chirping grows clearer. You blink slowly, your limbs made of lead when you try to turn your head. Instead of trying to investigate, you let yourself slip slowly back into the lush darkness, closing your eyes.  

But the strangeness of the silence tugs at you, and the beeping gets louder. 

Splices of memory come through in sharp flashes: 

The deep, bone-shaking tremble of turbulence. 

The grating sound of tearing metal. 

Beeping - so much fucking beeping, every sensor in the transport pod going off - and the whole cabin jerking to the left, your body weight pushing against the fabric restraints, your dad’s voice raw with hoarseness as he screams orders at you and –

Oh shit. Your dad. 

Your eyes pop open, and you sit up - or rather, you try to, but every muscle resists. Battered and bruised, you fumble at your harness with clumsy, shaking fingers. Looking up as it finally clicks open, you’re about to leap from the chair when you freeze. 

He’s there next to you, unmoving. 

Dead. 

“Dad?” you whisper. 

You can see without even checking for a pulse that he’s gone. That’s the feeling that pulled you awake, the vibration of life gone from the air. The stillness weighs heavy in the small space, and the beeping gets shriller somehow, more noticeable in the utter silence. 

The pod shrinks to a claustrophobic dome, and your breathing starts to come fast. Harsh, rapid exhales out of your open mouth and then you’re vomiting, right onto the floor. A cold sweat breaks out under your thermals, and you swallow hard against more bile that threatens to come up. 

There is blood splattered on the dash, pooled around the buttons. A deep gash gouged across his temple, his left eye already swollen beyond recognition. You stare at the dark, pulpy wound that runs with blood and with a heave, lose the remaining contents of your stomach. 

To have hit his head like that, he must have unbuckled and tried to fix something mid-crash, but why? Why the fuck would he do that? He knew better than that. You try to think about the sequence of events, but there is only a blur. A foggy, black spot in your memory, hazy images obscured by panic. 

You remember pieces: watching Puggart Bench grow smaller as you ascended through the atmosphere. The vague details of your father’s latest scheme, along with promises that this would be your last job. The frustration you felt at those words – ones you’ve heard a million times. 

You remember rolling your eyes and slipping on your headphones, and then scolding you for not paying attention after he jabbed you in the shoulder to take them off, and then…this. Somehow this. Guilt settles deep in your gut. 

Keeping your dazed eyes glued to the floor, you ignore the blood and beeping and the dead fucking body. You crouch low in the safety of your chair, winding your grip around the harness strap as an anchor and you sit for a moment, trying to steady your breathing. 

You sit. 

And sit. 

–

“Think she’s got anything left?”

The words spread condensation across the lower half of his visor, and Ezra listens for an answer he already knows isn’t coming. 

He always asks anyway: a constant dangling bait, in hopes his partner will bite. 

He hasn’t yet. 

Ezra bends back over the rough dug pit, his fingers splaying through the loose dirt. Anything worth digging for is sealed in his case already, but he stalls, thinking. 

He had watched the pod streak across the sky; the sight not unusual on the Green. Mercs and prospectors landed here every day to try their luck on the uninhabitable planet, but the speed in which the pod broke through the sky was unusual. Ezra could tell it was going too fast, even from the ground. His dark eyes had tracked the potential opportunity’s descent from behind the shield of his visor, and when the ground shuddered with the impact, he felt it through his gloves. 

If it had landed safety, protocol would be to keep his distance – no use needlessly engaging in a potential threat. However, he doubted that was the case after watching it fall to the earth like a stone. If he had to guess, the occupants were probably dead, and therefore, in his favor. 

His old pod flashes through his mind; nonfunctional and by now, probably stripped bare. If he doesn’t get there quickly to stake his claim, this one could fall to the same fate. It didn’t look sizeable by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn’t need big. 

He just needs enough to fit one man, and his case. 

Ezra keeps his voice light and conversational. 

“Did you feel that?”

He looks up at his silent partner, and is met with a blank stare. Or at least Ezra assumes it’s a blank stare, with the man’s visor blackened. He can’t see his face, and has never been able to. He’s had many offers of partnership while on the Green - some out of desperation, some through coercion, some forced upon him – and though his current partner is one of the latter, he had been secretly pleased at the sheer size of him. Brute strength a valuable commodity; the hulking man is more of a utility than a partner. 

“Think it’s worthy of our time to investigate, or do you suppose there won’t be much left after a landing like that? If you want, I can go it alone?”

Met with more silence, both from his partner and from the unforgiving atmosphere of the Green, Ezra grimaces with annoyance when his partner starts to walk in the direction of the site without him. 

“Hang on now. We approach together.” Climbing out of the pit, the loose soil slips under his boots. He scrambles up as quickly as he can, unwilling to see his chance at the remains slip through his dirt-crusted fingers. 

“Now then,” he breathes heavily. “I think it would be befitting of us to use caution in our approach. The passengers may still be alive, and feeling panicked enough to pose a risk. I think –”

The hulk appears to listen to half of what Ezra says, and then turns abruptly mid-sentence, walking away. 

Snatching up his case, Ezra switches off the comm link in his helmet and his expression falls from tactful to annoyance. His eyes narrow on the man’s broad back, his fingers itching for his thrower. 

Grumbling, he follows. 

“Fucking idiot.”

–

You’re going to have to touch it. 

You wonder what it will feel like – stiff with rigor? Still pliant with traces of warmth? Heavy and impossible to move?

In all the ways you imagined you’d probably find your father dead, you somehow hadn’t thought about the logistics of actually moving his body. You imagined someone else would be the one responsible for it. Medical staff, most likely, who were used to the clammy skin and the stiff weight of death. 

Not you. 

Yet another thing you’ll have to do unwillingly for him. 

The reason you’re on this godforsaken planet in the first place, he’d forced you along to help him pay a debt owed for those fucking drops he relied on to get through his days. Days that bled into nights spent waiting for him, more his parent than his child. A freefall into the nomad life since your mother died, you’d been trailing behind him for years - an afterthought, only remembered when he needed something. 

A reluctant digging partner when he forced you to be, but also a navigator, a cook, a laundress, a caretaker. You were a lot of things to him, but never the one you wanted to be the most. 

Never a daughter. 

Your eyes slowly scan the disarray of the cabin, taking in the damage. For all the things he asked you to do, he had kept you in the dark when it came to any actual useful skills that might help you in this situation. Prospecting, digging, self-defense – anything that would have afforded you a glimpse at the possibility of independence – all of those were kept from your reach. 

Never a mechanic either, unfortunately for you. How the fuck you’re going to fix this thing, you have no idea. The manuals for it were tucked away somewhere, but they required at least a basic understanding, and you have barely that. 

You could stick with the harvesting plan he had vaguely outlined to you on the way here (assuming you could even find the gems, let alone dig them up), try to come back and fix your pod during the evenings (assuming you could even figure it out) and then try to catch the next slingback home (assuming you could even get off this planet). 

Your other option would be…none. There are no other options. 

The entire situation expands into something overwhelming, each step far outside your base of knowledge and your breathing starts to come fast again. You scold yourself, willing it to slow. 

Panicking again isn’t going to help shit. 

Wrestling with your emotions, you take a deep inhale and close your eyes, focusing on the first step. 

Before anything else, you have to move him. 

–

Through the edges of lush greenery, a pod. 

Ezra tries to tamp down his excitement, kicking his senses into high alert to scan for whomever it belongs to - but there is nothing. 

Fucking silence, the bane of his existence. 

Though in this case, a good sign. 

His own pod taken from him months ago in a standoff between himself and his former crew, this off-white piece of rubbish appears as treasure to him. It’s banged up for sure: one of the engines loose from the frame and the metal surrounding the bottom crumpled from hard impact. Unlikely that anyone survived the crash, anticipation thrums through him at the harvest in front of him. 

Keeping his expression measured, he beckons his partner to approach with him, silently advising caution. 

The idiot doesn’t though. Instead, he stomps forward and punches at the hatch button with force. 

Ezra frowns deeply, anger slipping into his tone. “Hey,” he reprimands sharply. 

The man pays Ezra no mind as the ramp slowly opens. 

–

One hand extended towards your dad’s shoulder, it hangs hesitantly in the air for a moment. Inching forward, you try to summon every ounce of bravery that you have and just when it’s about to touch— 

A loud thump sounds outside the pod, and your hand jerks back. Crouching low along the side of the pod, you crawl through the ship's scattered contents all over the floor and grab the thrower, trying to desperately wind a sufficient charge for a shot or two. The rummaging outside grows louder, and you crouch behind your chair, gripping the weapon in your sweat slick hands. Panic floods through your veins, the sharp stink of fear oozing from your pores as your body shivers with adrenaline, and you flex your hold on your weapon.

The door to the pod opens with a hiss, and two men emerge. 

One slighter than the other, which isn’t saying much—anyone would be slight compared to the size of the second man. You aren’t even sure how he managed to get into the pod, between the width of his body and his height. 

Rising swiftly, you point the weapon at them. 

“Stop,” you force out, trying to mask the tremble in your voice. 

The lithe man freezes, surprise showing on his face for a split second before disappearing. Tilting his helmet in thought, he speaks. 

“Now this is something I’ve never seen in all my time in the Green,” he muses with a drawl. “A little girl.” 

A statement, not a question, and you bristle while he continues to study you curiously. 

“Leave, or I’ll shoot.” 

Your finger flexes on the trigger, and he raises his hands in front of him. 

“Calm down, little bird. My partner and I merely ventured this way to see if all was okay after that crash we heard.” His eyes scan the cabin, a scattered mess. “Seems it was quite the landing.”

Shuffling your stance a fraction closer, you keep the thrower trained on them. “I’m fine. Now please. Go.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re fine.” He sounds completely unbothered, like you aren’t pointing a weapon directly at him. Taking a slow step forward, he peers around you. “Your partner sure doesn’t seem fine.”

“He’s not my partner. It’s my –” You freeze, scolding yourself for immediately volunteering information and his gaze drops down to your father’s lifeless form. The stranger's face sobers, and he looks back at you. 

His jaw shifting in thought, his partner seems to grow bored of the conversation and takes a heavy step forward, advancing on you. 

“Stop,” you try to order, panic creeping into the command, but he doesn’t. He keeps going, his large arm reaching towards your thrower. His massive grip choking the barrel, he rips it clean from your hands before you can even think about stopping him, and you crouch back behind your chair, trembling.

“My apologies for my partner, little one. He’s not keen on having weapons pointed at him. You can understand, I’m sure. Why don’t you come out from behind that chair and let’s talk. A deal, if you’re open to it.”

You don’t want to strike a deal with them. You know that any deal you attempt to broker on your behalf is going to be in their favor no matter what the conditions are. Your father never taught you the skills of negotiation – those were always done out of sight. Your mouth dries, sweat beading along your nape. What fucking deal could there even be to make that doesn’t end up with you dead? Or worse?

With so much happening in the last two hours, it’s hard to process anything, let alone a negotiation with deadly strangers on a hostile planet. How you handle this situation could be literally life or death for you, and you beg your brain to pick up pace. 

Please. Please. Come on, think.

Your mind still struggling but knowing you’re running out of time, you force yourself back up. 

“The deal was leave, and I won’t shoot.”

He only grins at that, and rage at the unfairness of it all flares bright through you.

“Besides, why should I believe anything you say? You’ll probably just kill me the first chance you get.”

“Why would you assume I intend harm?”

You don’t have anything to say to that, instead looking at his partner. Fear at his sheer size displays clearly on your face no matter how hard to try to mask it. “Why else would he steal my gun? Shoot me first before I can shoot, right?”

“If that was the case, he would have shot you already.” He lets a beat pass, his eyes narrowing in their focus on you. “Still could though, I guess.”

There is something behind the indifference in his voice, something in his eyes that begs you silently to listen to him — but then his partner raises his thrower, and several things happen at once.

You whimper, dunking behind the tattered chair. 

The smaller man whips his railgun from his hip, pulling the trigger.

You scream, and the bullet hits his partner square in the chest. 

The larger man stumbles forward as if to grab him but the smaller one shoots him again, the second shot landing in his gut. The force of the close shot pushes the larger man backwards, his heavy body slamming into the pod wall. 

He slumps down, collapsing into a lifeless heap.

There is a beat of weighted silence; your form frozen. 

The roguish man’s profile faces you: dark features partially obscured by the dome of his helmet, you can see closely shorn brown hair in matted disarray with a shock of white that smears just above his temple. Black eyes that glimmer in the fluorescent light, the edges lined with age. Tanned skin, a strong nose, plush lips under a mustache. 

He stares at his dead partner with something akin to satisfaction, and it turns your stomach to think of not only how quickly he resorted to violence, but also how much he seems to enjoy it. 

“Well would you look at that. Now we have two to move.” 

Still in shock, the violent scene in front of you startles you just as much as his nonchalance does. You watch as he turns to face you; a hooked scar marring the skin under his eye. 

“Now little one,” he says with seeming politeness. “You ready to hear that deal?”

Prospect fic: In So Many Words

for day 13 of my hyggetober ficlet challenge. today’s prompt is “writing.”

Ezra/f!Reader, rated mature (contains non-detailed sex) (also contains a glut of em dashes and run-on sentences). 925 words. thanks (begrudgingly) to @heatherbel for forcing me outside of my comfort zone by suggesting Ezra for this prompt. also thanks to the multiple people who gave me very good advice on how to write Ezra, almost none of which i took because i was trying to get this done so quickly. also? for the record? i probably WOULD have attempted an Ezra babyfic just for the fun of it, but i didn’t want to hurt @mourningbirds1‘s feelings. so this has zero babies in it. i’m as sorry about it as you are.

  Ezra is ephemeral. He comes and goes as he wishes, floating in and out of your life, your house, your bed, fitting himself into your old kitchen chairs and sliding his lithe body between your sheets with all the comfort and grace of someone who lives there, someone with a fixed place in the universe that happens to fall right between your thighs. He makes a place for himself and as soon as he almost seems settled, he disappears again and you go about your days, knowing better than to wait for him to return.

Keep reading

amateur [joel miller x f!reader]

summary: After a breakup, Joel invites you over to watch a football game and you arrive a little earlier than he expects. Or: Joel gets caught watching porn. ratings/warnings: E [smut, fluff, age gap (reader is 24, Joel is 40), dad's best friend, a sprinkle of daddy kink, dry humping, male masturbation, Joel indulges in Internet pornography, reader wears a skirt, reader calls him Mr. Miller, use of baby girl, Joel is confused about the Internet, a smidgen of insecurity, soft Joel, bossy Joel, some very light teasing degradation, Joel likes bush, I think that's it] wc: ~3.7k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! Remember to read the warnings, please and thank you. I know I just updated a fic but I'm clearing my WIPs out and I've never been very patient. I've never done an age gap/dbf thing and I always wanted to, and I thought this lent itself pretty well to the trope. It's pretty much just smut lol. I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope y'all enjoy it, too! shout out to @mothandpidgeon for the beta and also to everyone who has listened to me yap about this<3

masterlist | joel masterlist

To: JOELMILLER1967@hotmail.com From: XXX_LONELYHOTBABES_XXX@lycos.com Subject: GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS

Joel has no idea how these websites get his email address.

Honestly, he doesn’t. 

He suspects Tommy could be to blame—it seems like something he’d do with a smirk on his face, thinking he was just so goddamn funny, knowing good and well Joel doesn’t know how to make the emails stop. 

Joel is still getting used to this whole Internet thing. He only uses it for work, and he really only got it for Sarah to use for school. For the most part he prefers doing business by telephone, but every now and then he gets an email inquiry. 

He always calls them back, though. 

So he doesn’t spend a lot of time—what’s the term he’s heard?—surfing the web. But these damn websites get his email address regardless, and sometimes…well, he’s only a man. 

A single man who doesn’t get a whole lot of time alone; not since Sarah was born, at least. Usually for him, “time alone” means a quick shower and his hand and his imagination. 

And lately that imagination includes a whole lot of you.

Way, way too much of you. So much of you that when he found out from your dad that you’d broken up with that no-good loser boyfriend of yours and had been moping around the house ever since, he jumped at the chance to invite you along to watch the Cowboys game. You’d been much more eager to agree than he’d anticipated, and he’d had to tamp that excitement down in front of your dad. 

You know, his friend. His very close, personal friend. Your father. 

It’s not that he thinks anything could ever happen—you’re sixteen years younger, after all—but he couldn’t help himself. Not when you’d looked so sad the last few times he’d seen you. 

He hasn’t always thought of you like that. Certainly not when he’d first met you in the middle of your second semester of freshman year in college, back when you were much too cool to have any time to spare a second glance at your old man and his friends. 

But then you’d worn that costume for Halloween two years ago—the one with knee-high boots and a dress that skimmed your thighs, so short he’d caught a glimpse of your lacy panties when you bent over to grab your bag before you left the house.

He’d looked away immediately, scarlet-faced and guilty, taking swig of the beer in his hand just to have something to do. He’d told himself, over and over, he hadn’t seen the outline of your pussy, that the light had just played a trick on his eyes. 

It’s been hell seeing you ever since then, but one he gladly endures if it means spending a little time with you. 

Another email pops up as he back out and he rolls his eyes, but accidentally clicks “open” instead of “delete”. 

CLICK HERE TO SEE MORE OF ME

In the body of the email, a picture loads slowly to reveal a scantily clad woman crawling toward the camera. He swallows as he realizes she looks a little bit like you. 

He clicks.

There are many, many categories to choose from, but he zeroes in on a thumbnail of the woman that looks like you underneath. 

Amateur, it says above it. 

What exactly does that mean, he wonders.

With Sarah at a friend’s house for the night, he has the place to himself for another hour or so while he waits for you and your dad to show up. He still checks over his shoulder as though he’s found a dirty magazine and doesn’t want his parents to catch him. As though he doesn’t pay for this house with his hard-earned money; as though he isn’t a grown man. 

But there is still something deeply thrilling to him as he opens the link and finds rows and rows of thumbnails with women who are decidedly not porn stars. 

It isn’t like he’s never seen a naked woman before—he’s seen plenty of them, thank you very much, but all the porn he’s ever seen before this was polished and plastic; waxed pussies with landing strips at the most, dicks so large he’d always wondered how they got enough blood flow to get hard, flat stomachs, perfect asses, fake tits. The people on his screen now, though, look nothing like that. 

These women are soft with little dimples in their thighs, stretch marks dappled across their hips and bellies, asses that jiggle when they’re grabbed and spanked. He imagines you might look like that, too. 

Real. 

Some of them even looked like what he imagined you do under your clothes. And he imagined that a lot, he’s ashamed to say. Soft skin with little dimples, an ass that jiggles when it’s grabbed and spanked. 

He finds the woman who looks like you again. She’s kneeling again with her tongue sticking out, and his hand has migrated to his lap, stroking absently over his growing bulge. 

The clock reads five P.M., and you’ll be here at six. 

Along with your father. 

Joel scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck it,” he mutters as he hits play. 

The camera’s shaky, held by a man hovering over the mystery woman as he rocks into her. She whimpers, but it doesn’t sound fake or overdone. Her glossy, lust-blown eyes roll back as she arches off of the bed.

“Feel good?” The man grunts, pointing the camera to where their bodies join, revealing her finger circling her clit as he thrusts into her deeply.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Mmhmm. Gonna come.”

“Come on, baby girl,” the man murmurs. 

Her eyes flutter and she sighs as her body tenses up, a soft squeal falling from her lips. “Daddy,” she whines. “Daddy, daddy, daddy.”

Joel’s breath hitches.

He is aware of the fact that some people use this word during sex. It’s not something he ever explored, ever thought about at all, mostly because he became a single father at twenty-two, and it seemed a little odd to him.

But the way she says it makes the top of his head tingle, a rush of electricity shooting through his whole body as his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

He gets it. 

She whimpers the word a few more times as she comes back down to Earth, reaching for the man above her with both arms.

It’s…fuck, it’s sweet. Joel misses the feeling of being wanted like that. He clicks play on the next video and closes his eyes, palming the bulge in pants and pretending it's your hand groping him, your little whimpers of “Daddy” in his ears.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, legs spread wide as he watches, transfixed and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing in a slow, torturous circle, precome soaking his boxers and leaking into his jeans, so transfixed he forgets the front door is unlocked; that he’d told you to come on in when you arrive; that he has simply lost track of time. 

He doesn’t notice your reflection in the monitor until it’s far too late. 

This is probably your fault. 

You get there way too early, even after stopping at the grocery store for snacks for this football game you have no real interest in. It’s a pity invite, obviously. Your dad had definitely told Joel about you moping around the house the last few weeks.

“Why don’t you come watch the game with us Thursday night, sweetheart?” Joel had asked with an encouraging smile. How could you possibly say no to that?

You’ve had a crush on Joel Miller from the second your dad introduced you to him, age difference be damned. But Joel’s never spared so much as a glance in your direction that wasn’t completely innocent, so you nursed your little crush for years in silence and hoped he didn’t think you were too awkward as you tried not to flirt with him. 

And your dad was always there, of course. It’s not like you could do a lot of flirting in front of him. Tonight might be a little different, though, because your dad suddenly felt sick.

“You go on without me, honey, Joel’ll take care of you,” he’d said, trying not to cough on you.

You try to ignore the phrasing.

But God, you wish he would take care of you. You’d texted Joel to let him know it would just be you, but he never answered, and now you’re sitting in his driveway twenty minutes early, wondering if you should go in.

It’s a little weird to show up and barge in, right? But what if he looks out of the window for some reason and you’re just sitting there? That’s weird, too.

You should’ve timed this better.

Eventually you stop arguing with yourself, walking up to the door with your arms full of chips and beer, struggling to reach the knob and stumbling in. Hopefully, he didn’t see that little display of grace. 

But he’s not in the front room, or in the kitchen. 

“Joel?” You call out softly, walking past the living room toward his office. 

Maybe he’s on a work call?

You don’t hear his voice, though, and the closer you get the faster your heart beats. This feels more private, more intimate than just hanging out in the living room.

You hear it before you see it.

A soft, feminine moan followed by a man’s voice—not Joel’s voice, though.

“Yeah, there you go, baby,” the man says, and she moans again, louder this time. “Let me hear it.”

Only the back of Joel’s head and the monitor are visible to you, but the sliding glass door gives him away, the curtains open just enough that his reflection betrays what’s got him so occupied right now. He’s sprawled out in his chair, legs spread open as he palms himself over his jeans. 

And holy fuck, you do not need to see this (you desperately do need to see this).

It’s not hard to deduce what he’s doing. He doesn’t make much noise, just a few grunts every time the woman on the screen whines or arches her back. The scene changes as the man sets the camera on a dresser, now capturing the full length of her body. She turns her head and smiles at him, giggling as he makes his way back to her and crawls back on the bed and gives her a sloppy, needy kiss before he straddles her.

You squint at the monitor. Does she look like you?

Leave leave leave—

“Come on me,” she begs.

Joel lets out a groan, loud enough to make you jump. 

He freezes when he sees your movement in the monitor, ripping his hand away from himself in a flurry of movement as he tries to shut off the video and compose himself.

You should give him a minute.

Instead you bite your lip, wide-eyed as he flounders in front of you. 

“Sweetheart,” he starts weakly, looking especially sweet and guilty as sin. “I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to see that.”

Joel won’t even look at you—he’s still hard, still waiting for you to scold him, but you have absolutely no intention of doing that. 

“Don’t apologize,” you breathe. “I was so early. Didn’t mean to just barge in.”

“Shouldn’t have been doin’ that. Knew you were comin’ over and just lost track of time,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, his big brown eyes pleading for you to believe him.

“It’s okay,” you say, trying to gather your courage to tell him why you’re not upset. Should you tell him? It seems as good a time as any, but it’s entirely possible your pussy has taken over your brain as he stands there in front of you in a thin t-shirt that hugs his biceps, still red all the way down to his chest. “I’m not upset or anything. I…didn’t mind.”

Please, please take the hint. 

Joel swallows and takes a hesitant step toward you. 

“That woman you were watching,” you murmur. “She looked like me.”

“Goddammit,” he says, scrubbing both hands down his face. “It ain’t—it ain’t like I’m a pervert or somethin’. You just…”

“I just what?” You ask, inching into his space.

His eyes are still lust-blown as he wets his plump lips with his soft, pink tongue. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he says.

“You think I’m beautiful?” You breathe. 

“Christ, honey, of course you are,” he groans, eyes dropping to your lips as he cups your chin with one big hand. “So damn pretty.”

“Joel,” you whisper as you lean toward him.

“Can’t do this,” he mutters. “You’re too—”

“Too what?”

“Too young, baby,” he says weakly, but you shake your head. 

“Not that young. And you’re young, too,” you tell him. His cheeks, to your delight, tinge pink.

“Your dad’ll be here any—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “No he won’t. He’s sick. It’s just me. I texted y—”

But you don’t get to finish your sentence, gasping as he pushes you against the wall, pressing his lips to yours in a messy kiss. He groans into your mouth, one hand squeezing your waist and the other braced against the wall.  

“Tell me,” he murmurs between kisses, “if this is too fast. But I need you real fuckin’ bad, baby girl, real fuckin’ bad.”

And it might be too fast, but after so long with someone who was rarely interested in fucking you and could barely make you come when he did, you need it. You want it to be too much, too fast; need him to overwhelm all your senses and make you sob his name. 

“It’s not too much,” you assure him, frantic as your tongue runs across the seam of his lips. “I need you.”

He pulls you with him toward the little loveseat at the other end of the room and drags you down onto his lap, groaning as you roll your hips instinctively. 

“What do you need? What can I—” You beg, wanting so desperately to please him. He grunts as you roll your hips again and whine as the friction presses against your clit.  

“Need you to come is what I need,” he grunts, kneading the meat of your ass. “Can you get off like that?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

“C’mon then,” he growls. “C’mon. That why you’re wearin’ that little skirt, sweetheart? Easier to rub your little pussy on me?”

Your head spins, cloudy with desire—it’s all happening so fast. Maybe you should care a little more, but all you can think about is fucking yourself against his bulge, his hands clamped over your hips as he guides your pace. 

“That’s right,” he grunts, looking up at you with dark eyes. “Fuck, you’re so sexy. Humpin’ me like a dog, desperate little thing.”

You wouldn’t let anyone else talk to you like that, but something about the way Joel says it humiliates you and drives you wild, arousal dripping out of you as you hide your face in his neck. 

“Don’t be embarrassed, baby, you rub your little pussy on me as much as you need to, hm? Get yourself ready for my cock—”

It hits you out of nowhere, your cunt pulsing, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as you gasp and writhe. “Attagirl,” he murmurs. 

He strokes your back, pulling you flush against him as you ride it out. You barely register the soft kisses to your cheeks until you open your eyes and find him gazing at you with a fond smile that you can’t help but return.

“You good?” He asks, and you’re suddenly shy, as if you hadn’t just made yourself come all over him seconds ago. 

“Good,” you pant. “I’m good. I’m…” 

“What is it, sweetheart?”

His eyebrows are pinched together, lips pursed as he waits for you to answer. He’s still holding you against him, hand skating down your back. “That woman, the one in the video, she—would you do what she wanted? Would you come on me?”

Joel’s eyes darken as he flashes a devilish grin. “Dirty little girl, aren’t you?” He teases, but it doesn’t bother you. 

“Not with everyone,” you say, and he lets out a little growl as he taps your thighs and signals for you to take his place. 

“I’ll tell you what, sweetheart, since you asked so nicely—you show me your messy little pussy and I’ll come wherever you want me.”

“I, uh—yeah, okay,” you say, only faltering for a second, but he catches it. 

“What’s wrong? We ain’t gotta do anything you don’t want, sweetheart,” he says, dropping to his knees between your legs. He is so fucking sweet it might kill you.

“I want to,” you clarify. “I just, uh, I haven’t really prepared lately. Dry spell and all.”

“Don’t give a shit about that,” he says, smoothing his palms over your thighs. “Still a wet pussy, ain’t it?” 

“Yeah,” you giggle. “Sorry, some guys do.”

“Little fuckin’ boys do,” he says, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull, and you suppose he’s right. Your ex never was very interested in growing up. Joel’s thumb slides under the gusset of your panties, groaning as he pets at the soft curls you’d been so worried about. He hooks his fingers under the waistband and looks up at you with big eyes, waiting for your to tell him it’s okay. 

“Please,” you murmur. He slides them down your legs and sighs, pushing your legs open until he has a full view. You tug your shirt over your head, now just wearing a bra and your little skirt. “Come on me, Joel.”

Joel’s breath catches in his chest as you pull off your shirt and gaze down at him. He doesn’t know where to look—he’s greedy; he wants all of you. He hopes this isn’t the last time. He hopes you’ll let him take you apart again and again. Who gives a fuck about football?

His eyes drop to your open legs and he just can’t help himself—he leans down and licks at you, just a little, relishing the squeal that comes from above.

“Look at all that,” he grunts, kissing your thigh as he retreats. “Came hard for me, huh? Been all pent up, sweetheart?” 

You’re too young for him, he doesn’t care what you say, but he can’t seem to stop himself now. His self control is somewhere on the floor behind him with your panties.

You squirm in front of him, closing your legs on instinct at his gentle teasing, but he throws a stern look at you as he unbuckles his belt and your legs fall back open for him. He gathers some of your slick on his fingers and pulls his cock from his jeans as he stands, towering over you. Your eyes flick back and forth between him and his cock, licking your lips as he moves his hand up and down his shaft. 

He’s so hard it aches. 

He wonders if you’d ever use that word—if you’d ever open your mouth and whimper “Daddy” as he fucks you. He wonders if it’s too much, if you’d hate him for even asking, but God, would you? 

He almost hates himself for thinking about it while you’re underneath, all vulnerable and unsuspecting. Then he imagines it garbled around his cock, and he doesn’t care that much about the ethics of it all anymore.

“Joel,” you sigh, and he bites down, ticking his jaw as he tries to keep from embarrassing himself. Sweat gathers at his temples and he grunts as you pull the soft cups of your bra down, bare tits and stiff nipples begging to be marked by him. With his free hand he cups your breast and squeezes gently, thumb brushing over your nipple and pulling a moan from you. 

“Want me to come on these, baby girl?” He asks through gritted teeth. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You smirk as you look up through your lashes, eyes full of mischief. “Please come on my tits, Mr. Miller.”

Joel closes his eyes and breathes, squeezing the base of his cock. Fuck, it’s not Daddy but it’ll goddamn well do. He wants you to call him that again, preferably while he splits you in half. 

“Say it again,” he says, leaning over and bracing himself with one hand against the wall. “Say it.”

Your tilt your head all the way back, looking him right in the eyes. “Come on my tits, Mr. Miller.”

There’s no stopping it now. 

“Oh, fuck,” he snarls, painting himself all over you chest. He comes so much it shocks him even as his orgasm tremors through his body—you’re covered in him when it finally ends. He cups your jaw and leans down to kiss you, sucking softly on your bottom lip before stuffing his softening cock back into his jeans. 

You’re a sweet, bashful mess underneath him.  

“Hang on a sec, sweetheart,” he says.

Joel leaves the room, giving you just enough time to start wondering if he’d want you to leave right after. You gingerly pull your bra back into place, trying not to get any of his spend on it.

He comes back with a wet cloth and a bottle of water, and it’s so…gentlemanly. Not something you’re used to with guys your age. He cleans you off, dropping to his knees again to help you put your panties back on. 

“Really like this skirt,” he murmurs as the thumbs the hem. You reach out and run your fingers through his sweaty hair, tugging slightly on the silver-threaded dark curls. He closes his hand over your wrist and kisses the inside of your palm, and your heart thumps at the intimacy of it. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Your momentary feeling of safety falls away and you stiffen, waiting for something to ruin all of this. “Sure.”

“Nothin’ bad. I did this backwards,” he explains. “Could I take you out? Or…in? If you’re wantin’ to stay a while, that is.”

The sun has started its slow descent and the early evening golden light glimmers on his cheekbones, his eyes sparkling with hope. “I would really love that, Joel,” you say, scrunching your nose and grinning at him. “Could I maybe shower, though? You can join, if you want.”

He stands and holds out his hand to help you up. “I like the way you think, darlin’.”

“Lead the way, Mr. Miller.”

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