paanchusblog

[paanchusblog]

Hard to Love [dave york]

Two negatives make a positive. Or, two people, both alike in loneliness, fall in love where they shouldn’t.

my masterlist! pairing: professor!dave york x f!student!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), professor!dave york AU, dave is not a hitman, teacher/student relationship (and the power imbalance that accompanies this), divorce, obsessive!dave, jealousy, age gap (reader is early 20s/dave is 40s), yearning and pining and longing etc., what do you expect from me by now, dom!dave, so much sexual tension that it morphs into melodrama, seriously i was on something here, forbidden romance on multiple levels, deeply enthusiastic consent from both parties, f! and m!masturbation, reader has no physical descriptions and is able-bodied, law firms get their own warning, fingering, sexting, sending dirty pics, phone sex, pussy pronouns, light light spanking, some free use, dirty talk, liberal use of "sir" word count: ~ 15.5k a/n: hi friends! just wanted to say that there are likely a million conflicts of interest in this fic and none of them are good and also please don’t fuck your professors. that being said, i love you all and i hope you enjoy!! this is just a one-shot for now, but i love these freaks so much that maybe i'll continue writing for them in the future!! thank you as always to @cavillscurls for being my incredible beta and matching my freak xoxo

By mid-September, at least twenty students have dropped the course. 

Your designated seat is in the second row. The windows in the cavernous lecture hall filter greyish light into the room. Dust particles float in the air and it smells of rainwater. People are shaking off their umbrellas as they pour inside, grumbling to their friends, shuffling to their seats. Every now and then, someone walks in wearing heeled shoes, and the click-clack, click-clack echoes throughout the room. 

You see eye bags and yawning mouths and slumped shoulders and you straighten your posture, aligning your pencil parallel to the lines in your notebook. The seats on either side of you have been empty since the second week of classes. 

Whispers crescendo as more students enter the lecture hall. How do you think you did on the test? That was fucking brutal. Do you think the midterm will be as bad? Should we start, like, a class group chat so we can all trade notes? When’s the deadline to drop a course again? Do you think you could ask the professor for an extension on the paper? God, no, I’m not talking to him if I can help it—are you crazy? You hide your printed paper underneath your notebook and tune them out to the sound of the rain pounding against the windows. 

Silence chokes the room as Dr. York strolls in, sliding his bag off his shoulder and unpacking his books. A stack of worn, yellowed texts on God-knows-what. Most times, he doesn't even consult them. You suspect he likes to keep them around for decoration, to intimidate the students. Maybe they're a security blanket. 

“Good morning,” he says without looking up. He turns to the chalkboard as he always does and begins to write a series of websites and books in list order. He never uses the projector that hangs from the ceiling. “I know a lot of you are on the pre-law track, but a lot of you also can't seem to write a grammatically correct sentence to save your lives.” 

A nervous smattering of chuckles. He doesn't appear to be joking. 

“Copy these resources down and study them. You're in university; you should know how to write and how to cite a source. If you're going to stay in this class, don't expect me or my TAs to be lenient.”

The sound of scribbling pens deafens the rainfall outside. Dr. York shucks off his jacket—the facilities management workers have finally turned on the heat in the North building—and rolls his shirtsleeves up with two measured flicks of his wrists. There's a Cartier watch on the left one which he never takes off. When he's reading a passage from one of the weekly case studies, he puts on a pair of glasses. His dark hair is always combed back and rarely gelled. A permanent frown has seared a wrinkle between his brows. He sits on his desk while he lectures. His Ferragamo loafers could pay your rent for a month; they're scuffed at the toe. 

A few girls behind you snicker to one another. You calmly open your books. Dr. York’s voice, rolling darkly over the room like oncoming thunder, sits heavy in your chest as he gives his lecture. He speaks clearly and quickly; stray even a few seconds behind and one will find themself scrambling to catch up to the present moment, sneaking glances at their neighbour’s notes. He goes to the wire and by the time the second hour is over, the sound of the students around you packing their bags is lethargic and winded. You shrug your bag over your shoulder, covering a yawn, and make your way to Dr. York’s desk at the front of the room. 

You wait for a line of brave students to clear from the queue, a great number of them looking dejected. Subconsciously, you adjust your sweater as you step up to the plate. He turns around, assesses you quickly as if he can uncover your reason for approaching with just one clinical sweep up and down your body, and speaks before you can open your mouth. 

“I’m not providing extensions on this assignment, so unless you have a broken wrist or the Black Plague—”

“I’m not asking for an extension,” you cut in, more than a little wounded by his judgement, sliding your paper from between the pages of your notebook and placing it, title page facing skyward, on his desk. “I’m finished.”

He frowns, somehow deeper than usual, and his eyes flicker up to yours at last. “Are you sure?”

You lift your brows. “I’m sure. Law school applications are due soon, so I’d like to focus on those.”

He leans back against his desk and folds his arms over his chest. “Most schools’ deadlines aren’t until November. Sometimes December. Your definition of soon is a little skewed compared to other students in this class.”

“I work my best when I have plenty of time to prepare.” You don’t know why you feel so ready to defend yourself. Perhaps it’s his too-righteous-for-thou attitude. 

“You won’t always get plenty of time in the real world,” he says, and oh, your pride prepares a winding swing in retaliation at that.

Your smile is a brief violent slash across your face. “It’s a good thing I work well under pressure, too.”

Should I show you my resume, Dr. York? I’ll glue my internships and volunteer efforts and research assistantships to your smug face.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Rubbing his fingers over his mouth, he observes you with that infernal stare, the pools of his eyes black under the awning of his lashes. He’s stone still for a long while. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the paper on his desk.

“Is this sufficient?” you ask, indicating your assignment, code for Can I please leave now, for the love of God? “Stapled on the left.”

He’s trying to scare you off. In his eyes, you’re just another overeager student trying to land a networking opportunity by way of his good graces. You’re fairly certain Dr. York wouldn’t know good graces if they kicked his dog, but you’d prefer not to make him hate you before the first month of the school year is over. He probably knows many powerful people who could make or break your chance at a good career. It’s best that you keep your interactions with him to a minimum. 

“In my experience, early papers are sloppy and rushed,” he says.

Does he try to diminish every single student he comes across? Does he have to duck his head when he enters a room to keep from bashing his ego on the frame? You level him with your chilliest stare.

“I’m confident with my work, Dr. York. I don’t really have the time to tuck my tail and run off to go fix whatever you think is wrong with it.” Your bag is starting to weigh on your shoulder. The spare change you have in your pocket designated for your morning coffee still jingles around, unused. 

He finally looks down at the title page of your neatly-printed essay and picks it up with the rest of his things. “All right,” he says. “I’ll have feedback for you before the end of next week.”

You blink. That’s it? 

You’ve already wound up your throwing arm for a professionally-worded parry against his next underhanded comment, but it never comes. Instead, he turns, slides his books—with your paper—into his bag, and leaves the lecture hall. You’re left standing alone in the room until the motion sensor lights dim to a slow death.

“OH MY GOD!” you shout. “Ohmygodohmygodohmy—”

A fist pounds on your bedroom wall from the other side. “Can you shut the fuck up in there? Some of us are trying to have sex—not that you’d understand.”

Not even your roommate and her new conquest will dampen your spirits—not when you’ve opened your email to a shiny new internship offer. 

Your eyes skim the bulk of the text, gathering the important information first. We here at Gladwell Family Law seek to uphold an enthusiastic and challenging work environment… Please enter the building through the side door to avoid ongoing construction on Fifth… Fatima will meet you in the lobby to give you a key to the building… You will be working closely with your supervising lawyer John Gladwell on his current case… We look forward to seeing you Monday… 

Your hand is glued to your mouth as you continue to scan your eyes across the screen. In the next room, you hear your roommate’s headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall. 

You've organized your entire schedule around this internship, leaving your Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights free so there would be no class or extracurricular conflicts that could reflect negatively on your time management skills. You've meticulously designed your LinkedIn to tailor to their interests. You've suffered through weekend nights, sipping coffee and drowning out your roommate’s cries of Oh, yes! Fuck me harder! so you could practice every possible answer the interviewer would throw at you. All so you could snatch this position at Gladwell. 

Another email crowds your inbox and your pulse spikes. Maybe you should keep a blood pressure monitor handy. 

From: Dave York

Re: Feedback

You sigh, your cursor hovering over the attachment labelled “Feedback.docx.” Creative. 

Leave it to Dr. York to sour your mood. Dread twists you in your seat as you debate opening the file. It looks like your only bottle of wine will remain corked another night. 

You wince as you click on the attachment. Scrolling through the many track changes to the bottom of the document, you see his final comments in red. A.

A. He gave you an A.

I’m impressed with your work. See my marginal comments for details on how you can improve for your next assignment. 

— DY

The dread uncoils in your stomach and you can feel it well up with frustration. No apology for how condescending he was this morning. You aren't surprised. He’ll forget about you by tomorrow. You just hope he's a little ashamed that he thought so little of you. 

You reply just as coolly: Thank you for the quick feedback. I will take your suggestions into account and look forward to the next assignment. Feeling a little high off your academic success, you add, I hope you have a great weekend. 

After all, he must be equally antisocial, grading a student’s paper on a Friday night instead of drinking stale beer at a bar and crunching peanut shells underfoot. A shard of sympathy sings in your chest. 

You decide to uncork your bottle of wine in the end. 

Georgia Gladwell’s stern face peers down her glasses at you from her framed picture in the lobby. She sits above your new desk, her arms folded, surveying your every move as you methodically unpack your bag and settle into the swivelling chair behind the receptionist’s desk. 

A shiny new key to the building jingles on your ring. When you aren’t shadowing your supervising lawyer John on his case, you’ll be manning the phones at the front desk, familiarizing yourself with the firm’s clients, environment, and routine. Everything is pristine, sterile, and faintly smells of eucalyptus. Smooth jazz pours slowly from the speakers. The effect it has on you is instantaneous: having missed out on your morning coffee trying to decide on the perfect First Day outfit, you feel your eyelids drooping. Perhaps it’s a psychological tactic—to imitate a spa day so that the stressed parents in custody battles and angry ex-spouses will feel disarmed. 

You twirl a pen in your hand as you finish reviewing your contract. The pay is typical of a work study, but your scholarship has assured that you won’t need to work three jobs to make it through the rest of your undergrad. At least the other baristas don’t bother you much; they seem a little afraid to approach you most days, in fact. But friends are a luxury good these days and you can’t seem to find one to save your life. You suppose it’s mostly your fault.

Signing your name, you slide the pen through the clipboard with a finalistic flair and rise to find John in his office. Failing to calculate an appropriate walking speed, you nearly barrel right into someone’s back as he emerges from an office nearby, clapping his hand in another man’s for a firm handshake. You gasp, stumbling backward to avoid a collision course as you come face-to-face with Dave York in the narrow hallway. 

The sound of the office door closing makes you jump out of your skin. The plaque on the frosted window reads: 

John Gladwell, Esq.Family Law Attorney

Shit.

You clutch the clipboard close to your chest and give him your most polite smile. “Sorry, Professor.”

A suit jacket is draped over his forearm and his silver watch gleams at you, the rising sun reflected in its face. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows and his hair is dishevelled, as if his fingers have spent a good amount of time abusing it. His lips part, his brows drawing together as he assesses you, something circling the pupils of his dark eyes that you can’t extract. He’s handsome in this light, unkempt and a little golden, and maybe it’s your imagination, but he smells of eucalyptus.

He clears his throat, courteously dips his head, and your spine locks. 

You aren’t sure why his vacant frown stings, but you look down and curl your fists around the clipboard as if to squeeze some of your pride from the cork. He doesn’t remember you.

It’s all right, you tell yourself, bitterness oozing. It’s only been an entire weekend. He probably sees a hundred students a day. 

“Was it helpful?” 

His deep, rasping voice chills you. When your eyes flick upward tentatively, testing the waters of how much of your embarrassment to give away, you feel his gaze peel you apart, layer by layer. It feels less like he’s trying to remember your face and more like he’s trying to dig his way inside it.

“I’m sorry?” you say weakly. Twice now you’ve apologized to him for nothing.

“My feedback,” he says, and your bones feel like they could melt under the temperature of his voice. There’s a distinct melody to it; it recedes from the tide and pushes back in, always coated in the warm, sticky nighttime one feels on the coast. It’s humid and it sits on your skin like dew. “Was it helpful?”

You swallow. He remembers. “Oh. Yes. Very helpful, thank you.”

“You write well,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”

He sounds so close to conversational, to pleasant, that your neck begins to ache from the whiplash. “I’ve wanted this internship for months,” you reply. “I’ve pretty much organized my entire life around it in the hopes I’d get to shadow an attorney here.”

He loosens his tie slightly and you notice that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. A bullseye tattoo sits between his thumb and forefinger. 

“And…” You lick your lips, anxiously tapping your fingers on the back of the clipboard. “It looks like I’ll be shadowing yours.”

He rubs his hand over his jaw and you notice the beginnings of a beard he has yet to tame. “I’d prefer if you didn’t say anything about this. Don’t really need all my students knowing their professor can’t hold a marriage together, let alone a class.”

You’re taken aback by the fractal of vulnerability lodged in his expression, the slight wince accompanying his request. “I don’t have anyone to tell,” you say earnestly. “And I wouldn’t if I did.” 

Something inside you hums at the way his eyes flicker across your face, up and down your body, as if scanning lines upon lines of print. What does he see when he reads you this way? “Thought you’d have more friends than you can count.”

Your face feels hot under his scrutiny. “It’s mostly just me. I’m busy, so… you know. I mean, there’s my roommate, but she’s occupied most of the time. And she’s sick of me playing my study music until three a.m.”

You swear that’s a smirk on his face. “Studies show sleep is actually good for your health. You should try getting some.”

You tsk at him. “Don’t think I haven’t caught you micro-napping at your desk during class breaks, Dr. York.”

“Call me Dave,” he says. “While we’re here, at least.”

You hesitate. It’s bad enough that your supervising lawyer is handling your criminal law professor’s case; if you make even one misstep, it could mean your chance at a career. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”

His frown morphs into something softer, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. His intense gaze should frighten you. It should turn you on your heel. Instead, you want to lean your ear in and hear more of his voice. You want to open your eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you realize where they’re heading. “About your divorce. It must be hard.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, and it sounds close to a question, as if the words sit too heavily on his tongue and he’s trying to swirl it carefully around them. “I thought you would be different. And I judged you.”

You shake your head. It's nothing. You haven't figured out what about him makes his presence so suffocating. “I have to get my contract to John, so…”

Wordlessly, he steps out of the way, and you feel distinctly like prey being eyed by a lion as you knock on John’s door. 

“You deserve to be here,” says Dave. He's close enough that his breath wraps its warm fingers around your neck. You cannot suppress a shiver. “Don't forget that.”

“I won’t,” you say, your back to him. And you won’t let anything compromise this.

You learn things about Dave York over the next two weeks. 

He's rarely jovial; you’d go so far as to call him a grump. He has no patience for latecomers and even less tolerance for whisperers. He writes on the chalkboard because he seems averse to all kinds of technology. His cell phone flips open like a jewellery box and fits in his breast pocket. He gesticulates with his hands as he talks and rarely sits still. He's an engaging lecturer. It's no wonder his course has a reputation. 

The sound of laptop keys clicking irritates him and the sound of pen scratching across paper soothes him. He rarely strays from a black or blue suit, though you think he'd look charming in brown. He plays with his cuff links when he's thinking. His soon-to-be-ex-wife is Carol. She rarely stops by the firm, but when she does, her own lawyer in tow, she makes her meetings with Dave and John quick. You keep to yourself in the corner of the room, scribbling notes in your own shorthand. 

Carol seems lovely, but there's a chill between her and Dave. Neither of them seem inclined to show affection; if you didn't know they'd been married six years, the polite handshake they share at the beginning of every joint meeting would never give it away. 

He has no children. Carol has two daughters, and they had been living with their father until she realized she’d fallen in love with him again. If Dave thinks she's been unfaithful, he doesn't seem broken up about it. 

No love lost, you wrote in your notebook, underlined in bold red pen. 

As for Dave, he keeps his distance from you, mostly. He chews on the inside of his cheek or bounces his leg when he's feeling restless or impatient. He doesn't speak to you, the shadow, during his meetings with John. You do a decent job of making yourself invisible. 

Sometimes you watch him from afar, your notebook balanced in your lap or the phone tucked under your chin. It's so strange, you think. He's perfectly polite to everyone in the office and he treats John as one would any colleague. But he seems so detached. He can glance at every single face in the room and it feels like he's sizing them up to swallow them whole. 

It's hard to picture him in love. 

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

You jump at the sound of his voice and scramble to gather the papers you scattered across the table. Night fell some time ago, and you really don’t have much of an excuse for staying so late in the office when half the city is already asleep. 

Dave leans against the doorframe to the conference room, jacket folded over his arm (does he ever wear the goddamn thing?) like a waiter’s towel. His frame is illuminated by the dim hallway light, which occasionally flickers out when it senses no bodies nearby. You can hardly see his face in the darkness, but you know yours is starkly lit by your screen, your features on display for him to take apart piece by piece. 

“I should be asking you the same thing,” you reply. “John left hours ago.” 

He prowls toward you and lowers himself into a chair, leaning forward on his knees. “I was planning tomorrow’s lecture, actually.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, home?”

His mouth twists and your eyes are helplessly drawn to it. “Don’t you?”

“You’re down to the wire, Professor.”

“Mm. I like the thrill.” Your pulse hastens and you have the sudden urge to button your blouse to your throat. “Doesn’t seem like you enjoy it so much,” he adds, glancing at an unfinished personal statement on your laptop screen. The cursor has been blinking at you from the left margin for nearly twenty minutes now.

“My LSAT wasn’t as hard as this.” You rub your brow. “I should be wowing them with my achievements, but I’m stuck wondering if I have anything meaningful to say about myself at all.”

He frowns. “You’re an exceptional student.”

“Can you repeat that on record for me?” you say miserably. “It’s just… I’ve spent my whole life working toward the next goal, winning the next scholarship, getting the best grades. None of them would want me if they knew how little of a life I really have.”

He studies you for a moment, his thumb gliding across his mouth, his dark eyes inscrutable. Leaning toward you, he folds your laptop shut and the room is bathed in darkness. The only light to be seen filters upward through the floor-to-ceiling windows from the streetlamps outside. Even the jackhammering and shouting has stopped. For a moment, you catch his scent as he pulls away, cologne and leather, the bridge of your nose stinging with him. 

“Not like this,” he says softly. “Not now, and not tonight.”

“Dave…”

He shuts you up with a look, his brows lowering, his eyes burning you to the spot. It’s infuriating. You can’t seem to reel even a sliver of him into you. He’s impossible to study. You try to cast your line once more and your hook is caught in the air between you.

“You have a life,” he says, “and you’re gonna do incredible things with it. But you’re not sleeping. You’re living on coffee. This isn’t how you get there.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Has he been watching you, too? “You don’t know me.”

“I know me,” he says. “I know working myself to the bone and letting the work swallow me alive. I ruined my marriage before it even began.”

Your heart squeezes. You can hardly imagine this Dave reaching for his wife’s hand, cupping her face, laughing with her, kissing her. You wonder if he used to bring her flowers or arrange picnics or pay for her shopping trips. Did they have an all-consuming love? Did they fall into one another’s arms and kiss in the pouring rain and dance in the middle of a crowded restaurant the way they do it in the movies? Does he mourn what he could have had? Does he regret the small, sweet things he never did for her?

“Are you… still in love with her?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “We were friends for a long time. When she left Rob, I was there. And she loved me as hard as she could, until I stopped being there, and she couldn’t anymore.” He traces the contours of the wooden table, his eyes downcast. “I don’t blame her for any of it. How could I?”

You shake your head. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe you weren’t made for one another.”

“You think?” He scoffs like it’s a ridiculous thing, to think for even a second that he isn’t guilty. “You believe in meant to be?”

“I think if you believed it, you would have tried harder to keep her,” you tell him, and his head slowly tilts, considering, watching you so closely that you wonder if he can sense the minute shift in your breathing. 

“And you?” he says. His voice rattles your ribs. “Have you ever been in love?”

You pull your lip between your teeth and he doesn’t miss it. “I’m hard to love,” you tell him.

A muscle twitches above his brow and you wish you could know what it means. “Then nobody’s tried hard enough.”

Pressure stings behind your nose and you hurry to gather your papers before he can see your eyes well with tears. You try to say something like, I should be on my way home, but you don’t make it past the first couple words before you’re choking on the rest. 

You shrug your bag over your shoulder and Dave’s hand curls around the strap. “Let me take you home,” he says. “It’s late.”

“I’ll take a taxi,” you say, with more bite than you intended. “Thank you, Dr. York.”

He takes a step forward and it’s too close. Too warm. Your coat scratches like wool and the hairs on the back of your neck rise as he slowly slides the bag off your shoulder. “It’s late,” he says, and it’s stern, cool, but you’re burning up under his gaze, a popsicle abandoned on a hot pavement. 

“Okay,” you whisper. You can’t manage much more than that.

The seats are leather and you’re afraid to touch anything in case you scuff the interior of his car. He closes the passenger door after you and you're suddenly overcome with the panic of being caught inside your professor’s vehicle. You hug your bag close to your chest and refuse to touch a single control on the dash. Dave settles into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition. 

You begin to laugh and he eyes you quizzically. “You listen to the Pet Shop Boys?”

He turns down the volume. “Is that disturbing?”

“I took you for… I don't know, a Hadyn or Grieg sort of guy.”

He pins you with a look. “Not everyone over forty listens exclusively to classical music.”

“You're telling me you don't have a CD collection hidden in this car somewhere?”

He chuckles and pulls away from the curb. “No comment.”

The ride back to your apartment is quiet. Occasionally you provide him with a Turn right up here or a Left at the next light, and he makes the turn with grace, his watch ticking away the minutes. Your head lolls to the side as you watch the city pass by outside the window, bars lined up around the block and grates steaming and streetlights glowing red. Your heartbeat slows to the steady purr of the engine and your panic ebbs. You're safe. Here, in the dark, covered in a coat of night and smelling his cologne, the world feels like something you can conquer. Maybe it won't swallow you after all. 

“Up here, on the right,” you tell him, and he pulls up to the curb outside your brownstone. “Thank you, Dr. York. I mean it.”

“Dave,” he says again. “You're not the most difficult passenger I've had.”

You laugh. “No. I’d put money on Colin.”

“Yeah?”

“You haven't noticed him digging through the trash bin each night to see if someone accidentally dumped an important receipt?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head as if doesn't know whether to laugh it off or check his pockets for an important receipt. “I can honestly say I’ve never noticed that.”

A passing car bathes his face in light and it dances in his eyes. For a moment, you're struck by the fact that you can see him so clearly. He isn't obscured in the shadows or giving you that impenetrable stare. He looks deeply human, maybe for the first time, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a scar on his nose and a five o’clock shadow. 

Your hand trembles as you reach for his arm and gently squeeze. His eyes follow a path from your shoulder to your fingers. 

“I know you’ll figure it out,” you say. “Everything with Carol. You're a smart man.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Tell me something.”

You don't know why you agree so quickly. “All right,” you say, your fingertips tingling. His jacket is rumpled where you touched him. 

“Why did you take my class?”

You smile. “Because I need the credit.”

His grin is lopsided, almost boyish, and it makes you flutter. “Good. An honest lawyer.”

It feels like his eyes are writing his name into your skin. “You never answered my question, you know. You never told me if you still love her.”

“I figured you'd think I’m an asshole,” he says, “if I told you I never did.”

Frankly, you're surprised to learn he thinks anything of your opinion at all. You open the passenger door. “That's not why I think you're an asshole, Dr. York. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You know he's watching you the entire walk up to your door, but you don't turn back to look. 

The weeks chug forward, overcast and gloomy, and midterms are fast approaching. The libraries are overcrowded from morning through evening and nothing much has changed about your dismal sleep schedule. Only now, you meet Dave outside his office every Friday after class and he drives you both to Gladwell. 

He chipped away at you until you were nothing but flesh and bone, even though you'd put up a fight. I can take the bus, Dr. York. I really don't mind. 

Well, I do, he replied. It can be dangerous. 

You sound like my father. 

He levelled you with a glare. Defiant, you folded your arms in front of your chest. We're going to the same place, he said. Stop being so proud. 

My pride is my proudest feature.

He just opened the passenger door and stared you down. If we keep arguing, we’ll be late. 

That convinced you. You slid into the passenger seat of his Audi and begged him to let you pay for coffee. All was well until he slid his card in front of the machine while you were making small talk with the barista. 

Dave, you protested, I don’t want to owe you any more than I already do. 

He took your coffees from the barista with a curt nod and shouldered the door open for you. You owe me when I say you owe me. A coffee and a car ride aren't going to set me back. 

Must be nice, you grumbled, plucking your latte from his hand. Your fingers brushed as you touched the cup and the contact nearly jolted you into dropping it. 

Ever since Dave caught you in the height of your writer’s block in the conference room that night, the air has felt different around him. Charged. You don't know what to make of it. The pair of you have been perfectly skirting the edges of professional, ignoring one another during lectures, tolerating the quiet during the drive to Gladwell. But your skin electrifies when he draws near. You lean forward from your shadowy perch in the corner of the office when he speaks, your pen drooling ink through the pages of your book. He asks you about your day and you stumble over your words, where you’d once been cool and composed in the face of his righteousness. Your pulse spikes when you pass one another in the hallway or when John CCs you on an email to Dave. 

It’s the smallest moments that slot together into this jagged, confounding image of him. It’s him pulling a pen from the inside of his jacket when you sheepishly admit that you’ve forgotten yours. It’s him offering to read the first draft of your personal statement just because he thinks you’ve got a real shot, that you have what it takes. It’s the silence of just sitting with him in the conference room, the Newton’s cradle on the long glass table tick-tick-ticking away, lulling you to sleep or insanity, listening to him typing on his laptop while you study until your eyes melt off your face. He makes it easier, somehow.

It’s Monday now, and you’re yawning widely as you step off the bus. It lets you off a stop early thanks to the construction and splashes you as it drives off for good measure. The cold rain pelts your umbrella as you hurry down the block. You have two minutes until you're officially late. 

The muddy rainwater soaking through your pants is starting to make you shiver as you wait at the crosswalk. Someone bumps into you from behind and you grit your teeth, holding onto your umbrella for dear life as the wind picks up and nearly carries you to the other side of the street. 

Outside the firm, you pick through each of the keys on your ring until you find the right one and practically shove the door open. The lobby is peaceful and quiet and your ears pop as you shut the door against the torrent outside. You store your umbrella with the others, take off your waterlogged coat, and pat your pockets for your wallet. 

Panic zips up your spine as you dig your hands into each of your pockets only to find a gum wrapper and lint. Your wallet was in your coat pocket. You're sure of it. You always keep it where you can easily—

Recalling the stranger who bumped into you at the crosswalk, you feel your blood freeze over. “No,” you croak. “Nonono. Fuck, fuck, this can't be happening.”

“Hey.”

The gentle rumble of his voice startles you. Ducking your head, you squeeze your eyes shut and hope he will go away. You're too humiliated to turn around and face him. 

“Hey,” he says again, his voice achingly soft. “You're shivering.”

You sniffle, hugging your arms close to your middle. “Just cold.”

“C’mon.” You could melt under the heat of his palm, your body guided by his hand on your elbow. He takes you in as you shamefully meet his gaze, his frown deepening at the sight of your tears. “You’ll catch a cold like this. Come with me.” 

His soothing rasp beckons you forward. Your feet carry you to John’s office and Dave shuts the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and draping it over your shoulders. His fingers curl gently around your arms, rubbing them up and down through the soft material of his jacket. The gesture is tender, so giving, and this couldn’t possibly be the cold, detached Dave York who spends his Friday evenings grading papers, who drove his wife away because work always came first. He swipes the pad of his thumb under your chin to nudge it upward, to make you meet his eye.

“Tough day at the office?” he teases.

A weepy laugh stumbles its way out of you. “You could say that.”

He clicks his tongue, his eyes scouring your body. “Vivian keeps spare clothes in the lounge. If you don’t mind advertising for Gladwell Family Law.”

“I’ll advertise anything if it means getting out of these clothes,” you tell him, your fingers trembling as you pull his jacket taut around your shoulders. It smells like his cologne and you’re hit with a dizziness that forces you into the closest chair. Dave returns with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt emblazoned with the Gladwell crest, and he stretches his hand toward you, palm-up, an offering. 

Your fingers glide along his lifelines, his calluses, closing at last around his knuckles. His brow wrinkles, his eyes fixed to where your hands meet, following the road back to your face. You feel your lips part subconsciously, searching for something to say, but the cold and the wet bleed the energy from your bones. 

You think of how this must look, and the urge to pull your hand away is quelled by the tender way he pulls you to your feet, steadying you with his other hand on the small of your back. For a moment, your faces are so close that you can count the freckles on his jaw—there's another tattoo just behind his ear—and your head feels stuffed with him, smell and sight and touch. 

A shiver starts at the apex of your spine and hits every knob on the way down. Dave’s head moves, his strong nose inches from your temple, and you're reminded of a lion sniffing at its prey, nudging its way around the body. You could claw at him, fight back, but you're frozen, deerlike, and you aren't sure you even want to run. 

He abandons the kill, stepping back with a sharp inhale and squeezing your hand. “Bathroom,” he rasps. “You can change in there.”

Right. You hurry past him, taking the change of clothes from John’s desk, your hand slipping from Dave’s. Locked safely in the bathroom, you peel yourself out of your clothes and step into the freshly-laundered sweatpants. The methodical act of dressing is a welcome distraction from the fact that soon you'll have to emerge from the bathroom and face Dave York once more, knowing that for a moment, you'd thought about kissing him. 

Stupid. The weight of his big, warm hand on your back still lingers, severing you at the waist, dismantling you for parts. If John had been in his office, none of this would have happened. And if John had walked in on the two of you, you could say goodbye to your internship. You're upset, and stressed, and Dave was there. He always seems to be there. But this—whatever this is—cannot continue. You cannot let it. You’ll cut your feelings at the roots and let them wither underground. Dave York is not an option, for more reasons than you can count. 

You freshen up in the bathroom and meet him back in John’s office, your soiled clothes bundled into a damp ball. “Hi.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets and stops pacing, turning to face you where you stand cautiously in the entrance. “You look…”

“Professional?” you offer, performing a halfhearted twirl. 

He rubs his jaw and there's something burning in his eyes that you can't—don’t want to—unravel. “Warm,” he says. 

You swallow hard. The air is sinking over your head and beginning to choke you. “I guess… we should wait for John.”

“Yeah.” His voice has retreated into his chest and the low rumble makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “Listen, I—”

“Dave,” you say weakly, hugging your old clothes to your chest, “let's just… I shouldn't have…”

“Honey,” he says. Your heartbeat is throttled into submission as he steps forward and takes the bundle of clothes from your arms. “Just tell me what happened.”

And you're so grateful for the change of subject that you sigh, lowering yourself into a chair. Dave sets your clothes next to his bag as if he expects to take them home with him. 

“Someone stole my wallet,” you tell him, looking down at your folded hands. The embarrassment sings through your cheeks. “God, I need to cancel all my cards, replace my ID… I even lost the keycard for this building.”

Dave leans on John’s desk, towering over you, his forearms taut with muscle. You wet your lips. 

“I’ll handle it,” he says, and fuck, you want him to. You want to crawl into bed and sleep for days and let him handle everything. He'd field your calls, order you brand-new cards, pick them up himself. He'd intimidate the goddamn mugger himself into giving you back your wallet if he could. You know it. You know he would. 

But you're shaking your head, wrenching your shears around the root. “I wasn't careful, and I’ll take care of it. You've done enough for me, Dave.”

He assesses you, sizing up your stubbornness, calculating how far it will go. You can see it play out in his face, all the way to the end. He knows you'll never budge. “All right,” he says at last. “Then come out for a drink with me.”

You blink up at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry?”

“A drink,” he says, “after I’m done here.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Is that… appropriate, Dr. York?”

He tilts his head to the side, and your body reacts under his gaze, your posture straightening, perspiration tingling on your temples. His eyes flicker down to your mouth and there’s so much intention in his lowered eyes that you free your bottom lip from between your teeth. “It’s just two colleagues,” he says, so quietly you can barely hear, “getting drinks together.”

“Just two colleagues,” you echo, and you may as well be in a trance, watching him rise from the desk and stand a mere two feet from where you sit. You crane your neck backward to look him in the eye and he seems pleased. 

“Meet me at the front desk.”

The gentle command blooms from your core, warm and sap-sweet, and you’re beginning to worry that the roots have multiplied beyond your control. You nod your head and rise from the chair, your eyes catching the watch on Dave’s wrist. 

“John will be here soon.” You’re leisurely in your visual pursuit up his muscled forearm, his broad shoulders, the angle of his jaw, his nose, the plush softness of his mouth. “You didn't have to get here so early. Why did you?”

He isn’t subtle in the way he watches you, either. There’s something voyeuristic about his eyes dipping between your collarbones, catching the hard peaks of your nipples under the fabric of your borrowed shirt. It’s more than wanting to undress you. You’re halfway convinced he wants to eat you alive. 

His nostrils flare and you’re more than convinced you’d let him sink his teeth into you.

“Do you want me to answer that?” His voice rumbles deep in his chest.

Yes. Please, yes. 

Tell me all the ways you want me. Tell me how much it’s killing you not to touch me. Tell me you show up early each day because you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of me.

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “Not yet.”

His tongue darts out across his lower lip. “Good,” he says. “You’re a good girl.”

Impulsively you nod again, more desperate in this moment to please him than to get far, far away before John walks in on you both. “I’m not dressed for the bar,” you say, and it feels pathetic before you can even finish the sentence.

The corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. He can barely get out a syllable in response before John opens the door and steps into his office, briefcase in hand. “Good morning,” he says breezily, frowning at the bundle of clothes on the floor next to Dave’s bag. “Everything okay in here?”

Your blood chills as reality rudely intrudes into the space between you and Dave. You’re being astronomically stupid, letting him stand so close to you, letting him say the things he does. Letting yourself fall into him like he’s some bright star, when you know giving in will only ruin everything. 

“All good,” you say pleasantly. “Got splashed by the bus on the way here.”

You retreat to the shadows with your notebook and pen and promptly ignore him for the rest of your work day. He and John are beginning to close in on agreements with Carol and her lawyer, which means that soon he’ll no longer be tied to Gladwell. And you’re happy about it. You’ll be glad to see him free of the stress that’s been straining his brow. But a part of you aches at the thought of having to part ways with a cordial smile and a handshake. A part of you wonders if he’ll just slip away someday without so much as a syllable. Maybe whatever exists between you, whatever green thing has started to poke its knotty fingers through the earth, will be killed by the frost. It will be winter soon. 

He’s wearing his glasses now, flipping through a paperclipped pile of papers from the bank, thighs spread wide in his chair. Your body hums at the sight and your pen quivers in your hand. You can’t let this continue. You can’t.

But God, you revel a little in his attention and you hate yourself for it. Every time you yawn, stretch, give your input to John, ask him to clarify something, Dave’s hand curls around the arm of his chair. He clears his throat, adjusts himself in his seat, watches you when John isn’t looking, the tip of his pen chewed to mulched plastic. He watches as you leave the room and he watches as you return. 

His desire is warm and it’s sunny and you can’t help yourself but stretch yourself out in it, filling every little nook and cranny. 

He meets you in the lobby, opens your umbrella over your head to shield you from the rain, and guides you into the passenger seat of his car. By now, you’ve filled it more times than you can count. It’s second nature to meet him out in the staff parking lot every Friday and settle into the cool leather. But you hold yourself more reserved now, his blazer draped warmly over your shoulders, refusing to fiddle with his air conditioning or the volume of his music. 

One afternoon, you were digging through the CD collection in his glove box on the drive to Gladwell. And what is this, Dr. York? you said, triumphantly holding up a burned disc upon which Dave has scrawled in his neat handwriting, Mozart.

He snatched the disc from your hand. Show me a university professor who doesn’t listen to this shit to calm down.

Oh, yes. Of course. You laughed. You have such tough students, after all.

Yeah, I’m looking at one of ‘em.

Sonata No. 16 is trilling softly through the speaker system now. You glance at him and though he doesn’t look your way, the corner of his mouth twitches. The ride to the bar is quiet, and you like it this way. You've never needed to fill empty space with him. 

The bar, Ricky’s, is a couple blocks away. Inside, the tables are dusty and the grey daylight filters lazily through the windows. A couple regulars—you assume they must be, kicking their feet up and watching the tiny televisions that are broadcasting the Cubs game—keep on minding their business when you and Dave walk in. 

“It's quiet,” you point out. 

He chuckles. “Expecting an authentic club scene at four o’clock in the afternoon?”

“I guess I thought a guy like you would like something a bit more along the lines of a… well, I don't want to say speakeasy—”

Behind you, he dips his head to whisper in your ear. “How old do you think I am?” 

You shiver at the feeling of him so close to you. “Do you want me to answer that?”

“What can I get you folks?” says the bartender as she wipes down a beer tap. 

Dave orders a beer and you play it safe with a rum and coke. His foot rests on the bar of your stool, keeping you close, and you can't tell if it's the relaxed lighting or the muffled noises of traffic outside, but he looks more at ease than you've ever seen him. And he's so handsome like this: sleeves rolled to his elbows, a couple buttons undone on his shirt, his large hand choking the neck of his beer as it sweats over his knuckles. His hair is tousled from the wind. When he smiles or drinks, little creases appear next to his eyes, and you find yourself leaning closer to him to see all these details. 

“So,” you say tentatively, “what made you ask me to get a drink with you, Dr. York?”

He takes a tactical swig of his beer and Jesus, his mouth fits so nicely around the lip of the bottle. “What made you agree?”

You roll your eyes. “Apparently, I’m a people pleaser.”

“I know,” he says. “I know you work overtime because John asks you to and you can't say no even if you have ten other things on your plate.”

“I always have ten other things on my plate. One more doesn't hurt.”

“You think it doesn't,” he says softly, “but you're running on steam. Adrenaline. I know a little bit about that.”

“Yeah, well, I can't afford to rest.”

“That's right,” he says, clearly amused. “You wanna catch the bad guys.”

You turn your chin up a little. “That first day I came up to you with my paper, I thought you were a total jackass.”

He hums, unaffected. “And I thought you were some try-hard who would get a B-minus at best.”

“And you're still a jackass,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. 

“But you're nothing like how I thought you'd be,” says Dave. “You're different. Every time I look at you, it's something different.”

“You look at me a lot?”

He takes another swig and pride bubbles up into your throat. 

“Carol always said I never made enough friends. I didn't go out enough.”

You lift your brows. “And is that what we are now? Friends?”

His eyes perform a daring swoop over your body. “I’m not very good at friends.”

“But you're so warm and welcoming.”

“Mm. And you’re so funny.”

But he’s smiling, hiding it behind the drink he takes, and it's charming enough to make your cheeks warm. 

“I’m going to ask you a question,” you tell him, “and I want you to answer honestly.” 

He watches you expectantly and you feel consumed by his attention, your back ramrod straight, your palms clammy. “Did you ask me here so nobody could walk in on us?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth and you imagine kissing him. “I can be selfish,” he says, setting his bottle on the bar. He won't quite meet your eye. “I've been selfish with my money, my things, my work. I’ve taken things I didn't deserve because I didn't want someone else to have it. I fought hard for my job at that school even though I knew it would take me away from Carol, and I was already losing her. I just kept driving in the nail.”

He turns to face you and the black of his pupils seems to pool outward, drowning his irises. 

“And I’m selfish with you,” he says. “Your time. Your attention. I can’t get my goddamn fill of you.”

His words are dizzying. “Dave…” 

“Come here,” he says. 

His stern tone is fucking intoxicating. Thrilling. You're in public, out in the open, and any pair of prying eyes could stray toward you. They could find you standing between your professor’s thighs, his hand cascading down your spine until it rests, content, on the small of your back. You're caged, trapped, on all sides by him, and you're drunk with the smell of cologne. 

He lifts his other hand, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip. You let him, and you're fucking pleased to, enjoying the way he carefully explores you, dancing around the real taste you know he wants. 

“Maybe I asked you here so nobody could see,” he says, and you're melting into his touch, gooey and warm where his knuckle traces the shape of your jaw. “But maybe I want them to.”

You gasp as he hooks his fingers at the nape of your neck, holding you like a kitten by the scruff. His mouth inches closer and you want to beg him, plead on your knees, to finally kiss you. But you're at his mercy like this, and your mind is delightfully empty for once in your life. 

“Maybe,” he says softly, cradling your head like it's more precious than gold, “I’m just some dirty old man, and I want what I shouldn't take.” His thumb slides around your throat and presses gently into your pulse. “But your heart’s beating like crazy.” 

“Maybe I’m afraid,” you say, your head dipping back into the weight of his palm. 

He hums, his other hand toying with the hem of your shirt. “Are you?”

“Yes,” you say, your eyes contemplating the line of his jaw, the slope of his mouth. “But not of you, Dave.”

His brow furrows. A lion releasing the wounded deer from its jaws. He's applying pressure to the small of your back, the slightest push, and you're floating closer to him. 

“Well, I’m afraid of you,” he says. 

You shake your head. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're smart, you're driven. You're more than I’ve become in twice your lifetime.” He swipes the pad of his thumb over your chin. “I could follow you from a speeding train and never catch up. And Jesus, I don't want to. I want to keep following you forever. And where does that leave me?”

And God help you, but it doesn't feel selfish. There's nothing selfish about the tension lining his mouth as if he's trying to pull away from you before he makes a severe mistake. There's nothing selfish about the way his eyes squeeze shut when your fingers gently trail down his neck. 

You think he'd let you sink your teeth into him. 

“Maybe I’m afraid,” you say hoarsely, “because you can fuck up my whole future.”

“And you can't risk it.”

You swallow hard, your head tilting as you lean toward him. “And I can't risk it.”

He leans in too, and you can smell the beer on his breath, the cologne on his collar. You can see the black of his eyes swell as he nears your mouth and your lips are nearly touching when his cell phone begins to ring. 

He pauses, and you pull away altogether, your fingers hovering over your mouth. Oh, God. 

You almost kissed him. Your fucking teacher. 

You back away and stumble into your stool as Dave, clearing his throat and scratching the nape of his neck, fishes frantically for his phone. Your eyes are drawn to the large bulge in his pants and your cunt clenches. Fuck, you almost kissed him. The phone rings into the din of the bar and you consider fleeing. You consider hanging up the phone for him. You consider dragging him to the bathroom, dropping to your knees, and taking his cock in your mouth. 

Instead you stand, frozen, as he finds his phone and answers the call. As he speaks to John, his voice taut, syllables clipped, his eyes don't leave you for a heartbeat. It feels so filthy, so wrong that for a moment you contemplate quitting on the spot, but oh, he's devouring you whole and it tastes sweet. You sit on the stool, rubbing your thighs together to relieve some of the tension in your core, and his chest is heaving as he watches it all. You feel dirty. But you can't stop. You don't leave. You sit, prim and proper, and something in his starving gaze tells you that you're being good. A good girl. 

And you'll be good for him. 

So when he hangs up the phone and demands that you hand him yours, you give it over without a moment’s hesitation. 

“When I drop you off at home,” he says, sounding out of breath although he's only just had the briefest of phone conversations, “I want you to get in bed and touch yourself until you come. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You open your mouth and find you're equally short of breath. Your heart keels over at the sound of him calling you baby. “Yes.”

“And when you’re done, I want a picture,” he continues. 

Your knees are trembling. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flare and you like this. You like making him crazy. He gives your phone back with his number in your contacts. He’s put his name as “David” and for some reason it makes your heart flutter. Another small piece of himself you get to keep tucked in your pocket. 

“You could get in trouble,” you say softly. For so many reasons. 

“I’m already in it,” he replies. 

By the time Dave pulls up to the curb outside your apartment, you're so dizzy you can barely look him straight in the eye. The lust is consuming you from the inside, severing your sensibility, eating you to bones.

“I want you to know,” he says, his voice velvet-dark, “how good you are. I need you to know it. I’m not going to fuck this up. Not you. Not the way I did before.”

“Dave,” you say. “You're a good man.”

He looks your way and there's a melancholic curve to his mouth. “Just didn't meet the right person the first time around, huh?”

“Yeah.” You give him a smile and he echoes a sliver of it. “Doesn't make you bad.”

He reaches across the console and squeezes your thigh, so you place your hand atop his. He scans your face, fondness evident in the care he takes to do it, and you're a puddle of water in his palm. “You trust me?” he asks.

“I trust you.”

His hand trails further up your thigh and you squirm in your seat as you watch your own hand follow. “Trust me enough to play with this pretty pussy?” he muses, his eyes fixed between your legs. When you don't respond right away, too busy trying to level your breath, he gives your thigh a smack. “Answer me, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you plead. “Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

You've never been so aroused in your fucking life. “I trust you to play with my pretty pussy. I want you to. Please.” 

“Oh, baby,” he says, a mocking tone of pity colouring his voice, “I will. But I want to see you play first. Go on inside.”

Feverishly, you open the car door and gather your things, slipping out and hurrying up the stairs to your door. You risk a glance behind you, and Dave’s there, watching you intently through the car window. He rubs his hand over his mouth as you wiggle your fingers at him in farewell. 

Two can play, Professor. 

Dave's phone buzzes in his pocket before he pulls in the driveway. 

His back is aching as he locks the front door behind him and tosses his keys and bag onto the bench. The thud echoes down the hallway. The walls of the spacious living room are cold and bare since Carol left with her myriad of artwork. The thermostat is set to a chilly sixty-eight because he tends to overheat. There are three bedrooms and he only uses one. It's empty and it's serviceable and he mostly despises it. 

He can't help but wonder how you'd fill the space. Your bare feet padding on the cold tile. Your body sprawled across the couch in front of the 85-inch television he rarely turns on except to let it scroll through dynamic screensavers. Your shampoo and your perfume clouding his head all hours of the day. He’d bend you over in front of the bathroom mirror and watch himself take you, your throat cradled in the nest of his palm, his every nerve falling keenly into you, bending to your will. 

His cock is already straining uncomfortably against his zipper as he wrenches his tie from around his neck and rubs the sore muscles there. Sitting at his desk, Dave pulls his phone from his pocket and finds a message waiting for him. 

His cock swells at the sight of your name alone. Yanking off his belt with one hand, Dave opens the attachment you've sent him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. Your simple cotton panties are pulled to the side as if you couldn't wait to slip your hand inside and touch your pussy. Your fingers spread your lips apart so he can see your pearly, swollen clit, your slit wet and messy with the arousal that webs between your fingers. 

‘all for you, sir’

His thighs flex as he practically tears off the button of his trousers in his haste to unzip his fly. His cock, heavy and leaking, curves up against his belly, and he can't help himself as he squeezes the base for relief. 

‘Call me,’ he types. 

He only needs to wait a few seconds for you to obey his command. “Hi,” you say softly, your voice tinny and a little out of breath. 

“Did it feel good, baby?” he says hoarsely, spitting into his palm and wrapping his fingers around the head of his cock. “You give that pretty pussy what she needed?”

Your little gasp oozes down his spine and his cock twitches in his grasp. “Are you touching yourself?” you ask him. 

“Yeah,” he says, his head lolling back over the edge of the chair as he begins to drag his fist over his length. “Fuck, yeah. Sent me such a pretty picture, sweetheart. Couldn't—fuck—couldn’t help myself.”

“Dave.” There’s desperation in your voice now and he squeezes his eyes shut, picturing you on your knees at his feet. “It felt so good. Felt so fucking good, thinking about you licking my pussy.”

“Jesus,” he grunts, precum dribbling from his tip, his thumb smearing it over the head, his brain clogged with the sound of your filthy words. “Bet she tastes so sweet. My sweet fuckin’ girl.”

“Want you to taste me,” you say, and fuck, you're touching yourself. He can hear it in the hitch of your breath, the muffled rustling of your bedsheets. “I want you so badly.”

Dave’s grip is ironclad around the phone as he fists himself, his teeth bared as he imagines sliding his cock over the flat of your tongue, feeding himself to you inch by inch, working you up on his terms. Making you plead for it. 

“So goddamn impatient,” he growls. “Close your eyes.”

“Yes, sir.” 

That's his favourite sound. Your obedience, your trust. You’re so quick to pour yourself into any cast he decides. He’s going to have fun with that. 

“Play with your tits,” he commands, and he knows it slides down your throat like warm honey. “You don't touch your pussy ‘til I tell you to. Understand?”

You whimper, the sound melted butter in his ears, and he can see you pinching your nipples, your naked hips writhing for the touch he can't give you. “That's it,” he says, his fist sliding up and down his cock, the obscene sound of it echoing off the walls. “Such a good listener. Always so smart.”

Your heavy breathing is almost enough to make him explode on the spot. “Wish I could touch you. Wish I could suck your cock, sir. Wanna show you how good I am.”

He’s blind with lust, his cock angry red at the tip and begging to slide inside something warm. Oh, he'd fit so nicely between your thighs. You’d swallow him whole and beg for more still. 

“You wanna take my cock in your mouth, sweet girl?” he says, and the vision is decadent: your eyes blinking up at him, tears streaming from the corners as you hollow your cheeks around the girth of him, taking him so slow, your mouth hot, spongy, drooling for his cock. “Is that what you touch your pretty little pussy to? Sucking your teacher's dick? Hmm?”

“Yeah,” you whine, and he knows you're on the verge of begging. Just where he wants you. “Wanna be your best girl. Your only girl.”

And God help him, his heart squeezes at that. His cock likes the sound of it too, throbbing in his fist, so desperate for release that he’s beginning to feel lightheaded. 

“My best fuckin’ girl,” he grits out. “The only fuckin’ girl I want. You’d let me stuff you full, wouldn't you?”

“God, yes. Yes, I want you inside me. I'd let you do anything to me.”

“I know,” he says. “Now rub your clit for me. Nice and slow.”

The moan he hears when you obey his order makes his balls pull up and goddammit, he doesn't want this to be over so soon. “Fuck,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck, that feels so good.”

“Yeah? That feel nice, sweet girl? Go a little faster.”

He's got seconds left and he’s going to make them fucking count.

“Dave… fuck, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

“Let me hear it, sweetheart. Give it to me.” 

You cry out his name, and he groans low and loud, opening his eyes to watch his cock pulse in his hand, cum spilling over his hand and onto his belly. Every moan he hears from your mouth urges more from him, and it doesn't fucking end. It's sticky, filthy. And he doesn't feel guilty about a second of it. 

“Fuck,” he says, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. “I was gonna take things slow.”

You laugh, a little delirious with pleasure, and pride simmers low in his chest knowing he's taken your mind off things, even if it's just for a while. 

“Thank you, Dave.”

He’d do any-fucking-thing to hear that again. To make you feel good. 

“You busy tonight?” he says. 

You hum, and the flirtation in your tone makes him feel twenty years younger. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I decided I want to see you again,” he replies, “and I’m an impatient guy.”

“Are you inviting me into your home, Dave York?” 

“Are you saying yes?”

“Of course I’m saying yes. I’m incapable of saying no, remember?”

And he’ll work on that. But he likes it when you go easily to him. “I’ll come pick you up. We’ll have dinner.”

“Dave, you were just here. I’ll take a cab.”

“You know I love arguing with you, baby, but I’m feeling generous.”

“Well, sure you are. Orgasms will do that.”

He chuckles. “I’ll be outside in twenty.”

You're practically skipping to his car when he arrives. The drive back to his place is serene. Idle chatter fills the space as you discuss your week: the assignments piling up for each of your classes, your dentist appointment that isn't fully covered and the extra shifts at the café you'll need to pick up, the days getting shorter. Your fingers toy with the cuff of his leather jacket and his hand rests, contented, on your thigh. It's hard to believe you made each other come over the phone not half an hour ago. These moments in between, when everything falls quiet, are the peace he rarely gets. 

“When you meet with Bentley tomorrow,” he says, “don't let him intimidate you into being his research assistant. He’ll talk up the position, but you'll get paid dirt and he’s a shitty boss.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Because he was my boss for a summer, and it nearly made me quit law altogether.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe my constitution outweighs yours, Dr. York.”

“I know for a fact it does,” he says, “but I’d rather not have anyone else try to monopolize your time. That's my job.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna have to start paying for my time.”

“Happy to,” he says. “What's your price?”

You study his face as he turns into the driveway and parks his car. “I haven't decided yet.”

He turns off the ignition and darkness falls heavy and silent. Still, he can see the glow of your eyes through the black and he's momentarily stunned by the fondness softening your gaze. It’s so warm and sticky that for a moment he's disarmed into believing he's earned it. 

“Hungry?” he asks the darkness. You incline your head. 

His skin hums for a real taste of you. Dave offers his hand to you as you climb out of the car, and he doesn't miss the way your eyes follow the line of his arm down his chest and torso. Always so observant. Slipping your hand into his, you rise, and his cock twitches at the scent of your perfume drifting breezily toward him in the crisp air. 

He doesn't let go of your hand. Instead he laces his fingers through yours and guides you toward the door, locking it behind him so he can turn around and press you up against the cool wood. 

Your soft gasp sends a shockwave down his spine. “Dave.”

“I couldn't wait,” he says, his other hand sliding achingly slow down your spine, letting himself luxuriate in the softness of your sweater, the feeling of drawing closer and closer to its hem. He presses his palm into the small of your back, where he knows you'll curve so sweetly against him, and already the haze is descending over your eyes. It's fucking exhilarating to watch you slowly give yourself over to him, to let your thoughts spill from your mouth where it whispers his name. 

“Tell me I can't kiss you.” His eyes are fixed to your mouth, looming over it like a starving, circling hawk. “Tell me you don't want this, and I’ll stop.”

“I can’t.” Your brow furrows and he wants to press his mouth against the point of tension and feel it melt away. “I should shove you away. I should have stopped this a hundred times. But I can’t. I don't want to.”

“You want me to kiss you,” he says, unfolding his hand from yours and splaying your palms flat against one another. “Say it, sweetheart. Say it and it'll feel so good.”

“Yes.” 

And you can barely begin to say it before Dave is crowding you, slanting his mouth to fit yours, the permission still echoing off the cold, dead walls. 

Your soft whine makes his ears ring. He knows he's practically suffocating you but you seem all the more eager to crush his body into yours, one hand encircling his bicep, the other sliding your fingers through his hair. The tingling sensation of your nails along his scalp makes him growl into your mouth. 

It's heaven to answer your little pleading moans with another kiss, to oblige your wants even as you crumble completely under his touch, to mold his perfect girl to the shape of him. It's so easy to take your bottom lip between his teeth in a teasing bite. It’s so easy to catch whatever piece of you may fall and slot it back into place. 

Dave coaxes your mouth open so he can lick his way inside, and your arms wind around his neck to bring him closer. His hands wander, bunching up the hem of your sweater so he can drink in your soft skin, clenching the fabric around his fists, willing it away. You taste like coffee and mint and he folds himself into you, the door frame creaking with his weight. 

Your fingers grasp greedily at his hair and the sting of it goes right to his cock. Your needy hips push against his and he groans at the thought of fitting himself between your thighs, settling in at your molten core like he was made for it. He thinks he may be. 

Dave’s hand coasts up your back and cups your throat lightly, tilting your head back. Nipping your chin, he guides his nose along your jaw, his mouth puffing hot breath over your skin, letting it bloom, letting you writhe as he continues his careful exploration. He kisses and bites at the spot below your ear and answers your breathy little moan with a gentle squeeze of his fingers around your throat. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he says, his lips ghosting down your neck and back up again, planting himself in every pore, ensuring it's his mark that’s left behind. He bares his teeth and sinks them playfully into your shoulder. 

“Dave!” you gasp, your nails carving half-moons into the back of his neck as you keep him fixed to you. 

He shuts you up with another kiss, prying you open, tipping himself inside, his hand applying a little pressure to the sides of your throat, getting you nice and warm and pliant for him. And fuck, it works like a charm. Your whimpers knock on his ribs. They slither into the grooves of his brain. He’s a goner. He was a goner from the moment you walked up to his desk that first day. 

His watch beeps on the hour and he reluctantly pulls away from you. He smirks at the way you follow him for a moment after his mouth leaves you, and he brushes his knuckle under your chin to get you to meet his eye. And Jesus, your pupils puff up when you look at him, panting, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. It seals his fate then and there. 

He nudges his nose against yours. “You with me?”

You pout, and he swoops down to nip your protruding lip in reproach. “It's getting late,” he says. “And I promised I’d feed you.”

You shake your head as if in a trance. “I don't need dinner right now,” you say, trying to pull him toward you for another kiss. 

Dave chuckles, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose instead. “I decide when we eat,” he says firmly. “You’re not gonna argue with me, are you? When I’ve been so nice?”

Your hand trails up his bicep and he needs to be vigilant or he'll give into your every single whim. “No, sir.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the inside of your wrist, your pulse throbbing tenderly under his lips. For a moment, you stay just like this, the both of you orbiting one another, trading atmospheres, your quiet breaths mingling in the dark of the room. 

It's so hard to remind himself that this is wrong. When he looks into your eyes and puts his mouth on you and feels your body sing under his touch, he's never felt more certain about anything. 

You're wearing his favourite sweater today. 

You file into the room and float to your seat without so much as a glance his way, and he can smell your perfume. Curling his fingers around the edge of his lectern, Dave distracts himself with his notes. But the scent of you circles his head like little butterflies, and you’re still embedded in his fucking skin. 

Carol was at Gladwell yesterday and he could feel you skirting around him because of it. All day, Dave itched to get you alone, to find a quiet little corner where he could have a taste of you, but you kept it so professional he was almost convinced he'd dreamed all of your time together. 

He knows you're afraid of being found out, of throwing away your career and his too, but now that he knows how it feels when your body melts into him like candle wax, he's struggling to let it go. And a day without your attention is practically giving him the shakes. 

You ended up staying late at his place Monday night. He made space at the dining table for you to spread out your work and continue to fine-tune your personal statements and application letters. Every so often you asked him for advice and he leaned over you, his thumb massaging a knot in your shoulder. You hummed happily and he held your jaw so he could kiss you. 

When he decided you'd worked for too long, he sat at the opposite end of the table and patted his knee. You closed your laptop, his silent command carrying you, and lowered yourself into his lap. He lost track of how long he kissed you that night. 

You're chatting with the student beside you, some kid he doesn't recognize, and Dave works his jaw. Impulse wins. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he sends a text. 

You pull your phone out of your bag and squirm in your seat, struggling to pay attention to the conversation you're having. Dave’s chest puffs up a bit. 

Time ticks down to the hour and he gestures for the class to quiet down. A hush gradually descends over the room, and he begins.    

You bite your lip when you write. Sometimes, you'll pause for a moment, look up at him through your lashes, and quickly avert your gaze when you find him already staring back. He's memorized your penmanship from your ‘A’s to your ‘Z’s. He knows the shape of the loops in your ‘Y’s. He knows how fast you type and he knows that you can only work when there's white noise churning in the background and he knows that John wants to keep you around at Gladwell after your contract is up because you're more competent than half their team. (“But don't tell her yet,” said John.)

He knows the way your eyelids droop when you're sleepy and he knows how your voice pitches up when you try to convince him you're wide awake. He knows the pace of your inhales and exhales. He knows your pulse better than he knows his own. 

He tries to keep his sweeping gaze from stuttering when it falls on you. But he's drawn to the tilt of your head and the movement of your pen. He likes the way his heart spills through the bars of his ribs when your eyes meet. 

You’re so goddamn attentive to every word he says that he's inched his way behind his desk to continue his lecture so nobody will see how hard he is.  

You yawn from your seat, blinking hard as you try to focus on your notes. You haven't been sleeping well. Last night, he turned up the thermostat by two degrees so you wouldn't have to bury yourself in layers and blankets next time. 

Next time. 

Yeah, he thinks. I’m fucked. 

Dave clears his throat. “Any questions?”

“What about smothering my grandma to death with a pillow if she's already got terminal cancer?” pipes up some kid from the back of the classroom. “Like, hypothetically, obviously. My grandma’s fine.”

Dave schools his face into a cool mask of anticipation. He's used to outlandish hypotheticals and typically leaves it up to the class to answer them for him. “Anyone?”

You raise your hand and answer, “People vs. Brackett.”

He smirks. “Year?”

“1987.”

That’s my girl, he thinks. Instead he gives you half a nod and says, “Good.”

You bite your lip and give him the most wicked smile and Christ, he nearly forgets where he is in the middle of explaining the case. By the time the hour is up and everyone is hastily packing their things, his cock is greedily stealing all the blood from his brain. 

A gentle knock sounds on the other side of the door not long after he's back in his office. “Come in,” he says, adjusting his pants as he best he can from where he sits. 

You poke your head inside and his heart swells with fondness. The sweet smile you give him sends his pulse skittering. 

“I got your message,” you say, dropping your bag by the door. 

“Lock the door,” he says plainly, and you obey, turning the lock until it clicks. He leans back in his chair to take in all of you as you approach, standing between his spread thighs. 

He slides his hands up your hips, fingers fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “Missed you yesterday,” you tell him, your fingers scratching at the nape of his neck. 

He can practically hear himself purring under your touch. “Yeah? Have I been neglecting you, sweetheart?”

“No, sir,” you sing. “Just… missed you.”

“Looks like you made a new friend today,” he says, his tone practised. 

“Hm? You mean Kevin?” you say airily. “No, he's just a classmate. He wanted to ask if I was still tutoring.”

He squeezes your hips possessively, heating up under his collar. “And is Kevin offering a good rate?”

You give the back of his head a gentle smack. “Are you jealous, Dr. York?”

“Please. Of that kid?” He scoffs. “Wouldn't know what to do with you if he tried.”

“And do you know what to do with me?” You crowd him, your body heat singing through him, and he cranes his neck back to look up at you. “Why'd you ask me here, Professor?”

Oh, your boldness is intoxicating. Dave guides his hands up your waist, dipping beneath your sweater, and cups the soft swells of your breasts in his hands. You exhale, a sharp little puff of air, and he unclips your bra with a flick of his wrist. 

“I asked you here,” he says gruffly, “because I wanna play with my toys. Turn around.”

You obey, and he vocalizes his pleasure, ordering you to take your bra off under your sweater. It lands in his lap, a pretty blue thing he knows you wore just for him because he's seen it in the pretty little pictures you send him late at night. ‘your favourite colour, sir.’

Dave tucks it into his bag. Coasting his hands over your thighs, he gives your ass a swat and you yelp. 

“Gotta be quiet, baby,” he says. “Don't want anyone to hear us, do you?” 

He reaches for your zipper and slowly slides your pants down your thighs, exposing the matching blue panties covering your ass. You shiver in the cool air of his office and his cock twitches at the sight of you so exposed. His windows overlook the entire campus. If he wanted, he could press you up against the glass and take you for everyone to see. 

Your pants pool around your ankles and Dave admires the sight, grabbing a handful of your ass. Already, a dark spot blooms on your panties, your pretty pussy soaked for him, and he's so hard he can barely see. “On my lap,” he commands. 

And you go so easily, lowering yourself onto him, looking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him. But he grasps your jaw between his thumb and fingers, clicking his tongue. “Did I say you could peek?”

“No, sir,” you gasp, your hips writhing, your core making sizzling contact with his hard cock, separated by the fabric of his slacks. You whine, but Dave just smacks your flank. 

“You do what I tell you,” he says, sliding your hips toward him, “and you take what I give. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's right.” He's enjoying his exploration, squeezing your ass, teasing his thumbs over your stiff nipples, his nose nudging your temple, guiding your head back onto his shoulder. It lolls against him, your sleepy eyes fluttering. “You like this, don't you? You like me touching you when you know anyone could be walking by outside that door.”

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Dave…”

“Shhh,” he coaxes, pinching your nipple and rolling it between his fingers. “Relax, sweet girl.”

Your laboured breathing is thunderous in his ears. Dave slides his hands down your body, one easing your thighs apart while the other plays at the waistline of your panties. You grasp his hand and he thinks he hears you whisper, “Fuck.”

Dave nips your jaw as he dips his fingers inside your panties, just enough to feel you writhe, to feel your heartbeat this heavily under his mouth where his lips rest over your pulse. To hear your breath hitch in your throat at the mere promise of his touch. 

He’s fairly certain his cock has never been so hard in his life, and yet the thought of taking any pleasure from your body flees his mind before it can take root. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he says, coasting his palm over your pelvis and cupping the warm heat between your thighs. “You feel so goddamn good.”

“You haven't even… touched me,” you pant. 

He presses his mouth into your cheek, his lips curved into a mocking pout. You turn your head toward him to try and capture his mouth in a kiss, but he grasps your jaw and tuts. “You speak,” he says, “when I tell you to speak. Open your mouth.”

You do, dropping your jaw as you bat your eyes expectantly. Dave slowly spreads your folds with two fingers and drags them through your wetness. Your whole body shudders into him. His cock throbs under your ass. 

He lifts his fingers and hooks them on your tongue. Obediently, you close your lips around them and swirl your tongue, tasting yourself on his skin. 

“That's right,” he hums. “That's what this pretty mouth is good for.” 

As you clean him off, he slides his other hand under your panties and circles your entrance with the pad of his middle finger. You whimper, your mouth stuffed with his fingers, and he slides in to the knuckle. 

You cry out, your fingers curling around the arms of his desk chair. Bucking your hips, you try futilely to squirm, but he grasps your jaw tighter and you take the command to stay still. Dave curls his finger, pressing his palm to your needy clit, and drinks down the sound of your heady moan. 

“Shh, shh,” he scolds lightly. “Quiet, sweet girl.” To make it harder on you, he adds another finger, stretching you out on him, pumping in and out, in and out. 

You're a fucking wreck, the slick sounds of your pussy music to his ears, his hand and wrist covered in your pleasure, his eyes fixed to the junction of his fingers and your mouth. Your eyes are drooping, your neck glistening in sweat and mingling with the tears of your efforts to stay quiet. He wants to spool every thought from your pretty head until his name is all that's left. 

Dave’s fingers circle your clit and your thighs instinctively jerk closed, shying away from the pleasure with a sweet little whine that nearly has him coming in his pants. But he scolds you with a soft Tsk, tsk and you ease your legs open once more, your muscles trembling. 

“So good,” he says, rewarding you with a slow kiss along your jaw, his lips tracing its shape until he finds your mouth. He removes his fingers so he can turn your head toward him and kisses you long and sweet. 

He lets you grab him by the back of his neck, your nails scratching just hard enough to send small shockwaves to his cock. He rubs your clit as you kiss him, a little sloppy, teeth and tongues clashing, and he grins against your mouth. 

My good girl, he thinks, and maybe he mumbles it all the same, losing himself in the daze of All mine, my sweet girl. You're writhing now, bucking your hips to meet his fingers, and he knows you're close as your mouth freezes open. Your lips slide along his cheek as your body stutters. Dave captures your jaw, sliding his hand over your mouth, and holds you firm to him as you come. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coos in your ear. “I've got you. So good, sweetheart. You did so good.”

Your cry puffs out against his palm, your fingers curled in his hair, your eyes rolling back. He coaxes you through it, his fingers slowing and dragging up your body. Your skin erupts in goosebumps where his touch strikes your nerves. Cupping your breast, he feels your heartbeat slow gradually under his warm hand. For a moment, he feels as if he's sharing it with you. 

You both bask in the silence for a long while. Dave’s ears begin to ring as his head lolls back against the chair, his hands pulling you into him. 

Your laugh rings out through the quiet like bells. Turning around in his lap, you hook your arms around his neck. His hands slide up your back beneath your sweater. “This a first for you?” he teases. 

You lift a brow. “Is it not a first for you?” 

He smirks. “Not if you count my dreams.”

“Oh, please,” you purr, leaning down to nip his bottom lip. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Dr. York.”

“Really? I think it got me…” He gives your ass a firm squeeze. “Everywhere.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Are you gonna give me back my panties?”

He pouts up at you. “I thought those were a present.”

“Just this once,” you say, and your kiss tastes sweet as candy. 

“You feel good?” he says, running his hands along your arms. 

You incline your head. “I feel good.”

“And your work?”

“Hmph. A guy fingers a girl in his office and he doesn't wait two minute before putting his professor cap back on.”

“Well, I've got energy for more,” he says, nudging his nose into yours. “Do you?”

You laugh. “I think my applications are all lined up. Just need to…”

“Pull the trigger,” he finishes. “You're gonna get it, baby. All of it’s there for you.”

“You don't know that.” But you're already slipping, your eyelids drooping, and Dave reaches up to grasp your jaw between his thumb and fingers. 

“I know,” he says, “how smart you are. And I know you need to trust me when I tell you.”

You shrug. “But I like it when you keep telling me.”

“I heard John put in a good word.”

“He was generous,” you say, biting your lip. Dave brushes his thumb across your mouth and you press your lips to the pad in a lingering kiss. “I’ll spend tonight reviewing everything, and then I guess there's nothing left for me to do.”

“A fun Friday night,” he says. “My wild girl.”

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders. “Wherever I go,” you say, “whatever happens… This'll have to end, won't it?”

He frowns. “Why should it?”

“Dave, it's too risky,” you say quietly, as if the words are fighting your tongue. “My whole career could explode in my face if we… if this doesn't work out.”

“Hey,” he says, pulling you closer with his hands on your hips. Your eyes are fixed on his tie. “Look at me. C’mon, baby.”

Tentatively, you meet his gaze. “My life just feels so real now.”

“And this isn't real?” he counters, slipping his fingers through yours. He places your palm to his chest. “Feel my heartbeat? Feel how goddamn crazy you make me?” 

You draw in a shuddering breath. “Someone’s going to find out.”

“You think I’d let that happen? You think I’d let anyone hurt your chances at the life you deserve?”

“That isn't up to you. If we get caught…”

He shakes his head, turning your palm up so he can put his lips to the heel. “We won't,” he says. “We won't.” 

Tears glitter like jewels in the corners of your eyes. “I'm not easy to love, Dave.”

It wedges firm in his heart, a chisel poised to hammer away at the rock. “That's the problem, sweetheart. It's too easy. It’s too fuckin’ easy.” 

You shake your head, your thumb smoothing the wrinkle in his brow. “I like who I am when I’m with you. I don't need to be more than myself.” 

Dave’s heart swells so big it lurches out of its cage to catch you inside it. 

“And what if I don't know who to be when I go out into the world?” you wonder. 

“You will be you”—he cups your face in his hands and gives you a little shake—“because you are smarter and better and stronger than anyone else who'd tell you different. And wherever you go, I’ll be following behind, running to catch up even though I never will.”

You let out a teary-eyed laugh. “You will?”

“I'd follow you,” he says, “even if you pushed me off the fucking train. You can't shake me, baby.”

“Good,” you say firmly, “because you owe me a pair of panties.”

THE END.

[paanchusblog]

Wheresarizona’s Masterlist

| Taglist Form | Link to AO3 |

If you'd like to buy me a coffee.

No minors, please! My stories are 18+. Hello there, I’m Arizona, peddler of soft, fluffy, and spicy fics. I will take the grumpiest of boys and make them the softest, sweetest, most lovingly devoted partners. This is my Pedro Pascal Masterlist, but I have a ton of MCU fic on AO3.

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be added to my taglist, please fill out the form or DM me!

My DMs and ask box are open, so feel free to interact! I know it can be scary talking to writers but I promise I’m friendly and love talking to people. Requests are welcome, it’s just not a guarantee on how quickly it will be written.

I reply to comments with my side blog, @wheresarizona-writes.

Reader Inserts unless otherwise indicated.

E: Explicit, M: Mature, T: Teen, G: General

Learning to Live (E)

You met Javier Peña in a grocery store of all places, the man a bit lost as he tries to figure out his life after the DEA and Colombia. Sparks fly the moment you meet, and it’s the beginning of something truly incredible. Or Javier Peña getting the love and happiness he deserves.

Status: Ongoing (400k+ words)

One Shots:

Javier Peña NSFW Alphabet Terra Incognita (E) (f!Virgin Reader)

Don’t Come Yet (E)

Just Ask (E)

Quiet (E)

You Doing Okay? (E)

Caught (E)

September (E)

Joel Miller was the love of your life, your plans to spend the rest of your days with him derailed by the world ending. You got separated on the day of the Outbreak and never saw him again, not knowing if he survived until you find out the smuggler Marlene hired to bring an immune girl to your research hospital is none other than the man you thought you'd lost forever.

Status: Ongoing (60k+ words)

But I Would Die For You in Secret (E)

The relationship you have with Joel Miller is… complicated, and you’re not entirely sure what to even call it. There’s the fact no one can know, so his kid doesn’t find out, and you’re pretty sure he’s ashamed of your age difference—he’s not your boyfriend, but you only fuck each other; this thing started months ago, and Joel does not like it when men give you attention, because he wants you all to himself. But again, he’s not your sexy, older boyfriend.

One Shots:

Big News (G) (Dina/Ellie)

Morning (T)

but now I’m your daisy (T)

Looking: Part 1 (M)

Looking: Part 2 (E)

Please (E)

Blood in The Cut (E)

Bluebonnet (E)

Float Like a Feather (E)

Old Habits (E)

Respite (E)

but he's the one I want (E) (DBF!Joel Miller)

Temptation (M)

sweet dreams (are made of this) (E)

Rulebreaker (E)

Yours (E)

Thanks, Kid (G) (No Pairing)

An Adorably Sweet Man (M)

Creed (E)

Deeply Devoted (E)

A Mandalorian Walks into a Bar Series (E)

Darcy’s Adventures in Star Wars (E) (AO3)

Pairing: Din Djarin/Darcy Lewis

Make It Fun Series (E)

Pairing: Frankie/f!reader/Santi

My Girlfriend’s Moans are Hot (E)

Inspired by Oblivius by @juletheghoul

The Perks (M)

Learned Something New (E)

That Was Good (E)

Inappropriate Waving (E)

Columba (E) (f!Plus Size Reader)

Hold You a Minute Longer (T)

God is a Woman (E)

Nothing Sweeter (E) (modern au)

wreck my plans, that’s my man (E) (AO3)

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/Sansa Stark (modern au)

My Little Thief (E)

The Pedro boys and if they’d wear Crocs

The Pedro boys and if they like Star Wars

The Pedro boys and their underwear

With the Stars Flying Past Us by @bunnelbie

Din Djarin/Darcy Lewis

Take Me to the Lake by @bunnelbie

Din Djarin/Darcy Lewis

Dancing in the Kitchen by @bunnelbie

Javier Peña/f!reader (model as reference)

Thanks, Kid by @rook-on-bough

Din Djarin and Grogu Djarin

Javier and Cielito by @miranhas-art

Javier Peña/f!reader (me as reference)

Din’s Little Family by @miranhas-art

Din Djarin/f!reader (me as reference)

Darcy Lewis, Loki, Bucky Barnes by @dchanberry

Gif headers made by @pedropascalsx

[paanchusblog]

[paanchusblog]

Under False Pretenses masterlist

stepdad!dave york x f!reader

Summary: A challenging mission, whirlwind marriage, and an unexpected yet captivating stepdaughter push Dave York to the brink as secrets, feelings, and loyalties collide.

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ mdni. Stepdad trope. Unspecified age gap but I imagine a lil' baby one of about 5 to 10 years. Soft, yet sexy and intense Dave, several twists, Russian spy ring causing trouble, action, angst, deception, fluff, humor, a puppy(!), a variety of SMUT. Mentions of cancer and being a widower. No use of y/n. Dave will give reader a nickname based on his perception of her. First handful of chapters are a slow burn, then it's game on! Individual chapters will have specific warnings when applicable.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

[paanchusblog]

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he got up :) here i am nursing him back to health

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laughing and gooning through the tears

[paanchusblog]

PEDRO PASCAL Star Wars Celebration Japan 2025 - DAY 1

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Hi so, this is actually insane.

[paanchusblog]

Pedro feeling himself in Dave Filoni’s hat

(PaleyFest 2023, Star Wars Celebration 2025)

[paanchusblog]

😩😩😩😩😩😩

[paanchusblog]

my dumb? founded. my flabbers? gasted. my gob??? smacked

[paanchusblog]

i was only horny* when I said

[paanchusblog]

seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors

[paanchusblog]

PEDRO PASCAL during his 50th birthday party!

[paanchusblog]

GIVE IT TO HER LIKE A MAN!

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

｡𖦹°‧➵ pair: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ wc: 5.1k

｡𖦹°‧➵ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, joel’s pov, swearing, age gap (52/23), semi-public sex (more of a semi-public ALMOST over the pants handjob?), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, spit kink, degradation, pussy spanking, creampie, fucking in your childhood bedroom RAAAHHH, one (1) single line about joel wanting to slap you, one (1) single use of the word daddy, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ nat’s note: hi babies! i'm back! did you miss me? cause i missed you and oh em gee i'm so excited to be rejoining the party. this actually wasn't what i planned on posting but the angsty joel fic is kicking my ass so hard that i had to take a break from it. i just needed to word vomit some raunchy, freak-nasty porn to cleanse my palate! i don’t normally go for the dbf trope but it's just so joel i couldn't not dip my feet in these waters. it's also more like dad's-close-but-distant-acquaintance-joel because in my head that man has little to no friends honestly. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel gives the best graduation gifts...

Joel isn’t the type to get invited to these kinds of things.

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[paanchusblog]

YES GODDDD YK WHAT I'M THINKING

(IGNORE Gregory PLS AND TY)