#younger f

[offbeat-manga-ships]

OU NO KEMONO: ENPEI NO ARCANA / 王の獣～掩蔽のアルカナ～ / THE KING’S BEAST by Touma Rei / 藤間麗 • chapter 12

[fallenbratfiction]

Gym Crush ~ older joel miller x f!reader

A/N: there’s a guy in my gym that looks alike joel in season 2 and he’s scrumptious delicious but I can’t make any moves because I’m an awkward fuck and I'm afraid I'll be a homewrecker howeverrrr today he helped me with the hip thrust machine and that's as close as I'll ever get to him.

warnings: large age gap (reader is in her twenties and joel is around his fifties), sexual tension (no explicit smut yet, but heavy physical tension, intimate kissing...), mild language "bitch", sexual verbal harassment (not from joel!!), protective behavior, threat (joel threatening someone else)

✧ minors dni with me or my blog. i'm not responsible for your consumption.

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

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Joel watched you from a short distance as you picked up a weight almost three times your size and carried it—with all your strength—to the middle of the weight area.

He watched as you got into a squat position—a wrong one—and started moving in a squat motion. He shook his head slightly.

Either you were new or overestimated yourself trying to pull a squat with a 30kg kettlebell. He thought about minding his own business and continuing his own set—but he couldn’t just let you hurt yourself.

He tapped your shoulder gently, and you dropped the weight. Startled, you pulled out one of your headphones and looked up at him.

“Don’t mean to disturb you,” he said, calm and low, “but I couldn’t just stand by and let you get hurt. You should try with a different weight—lower, maybe.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Are you saying that cause I’m a woman?”

“No, I’m saying it ’cause I’ve seen it before—and I’ve felt it. You don’t want to throw out your back or wreck your knee. Trust me—once you hit my age, you’ll regret it.”

You chuckled and crouched to pick the kettlebell back up. Strange—five minutes ago, it hadn’t felt this heavy.

Joel watched your struggle and stepped in again, lifting it easily with one hand.

“Allow me, doll.”

You watched him carry it back to the rack and pick up a different kettlebell. He wasn’t trying to diminish you really, he brought a 25kg weight in one hand and a 20kg in the other.

“Since you seem mighty powerful,” he said with a teasing glint in his eye, “you could probably handle either of these.”

He set them at your feet.

“Try.”

You reached for the 25kg and tried a set. It was okay—but heavier than you wanted to admit. Still, no way you were about to embarrass yourself in front of the gorgeous, gruff man standing over you.

Joel seemed to sense it. He set a hand on your shoulder and gave it a gentle pat.

“That’s alright, shake it off. Try the other one"

You nodded, biting your lip, and picked up the 20kg. Better. Still heavy—but manageable.

“There you go, doll,” he said, smiling like he was proud. “Don’t worry—you’ll get stronger and lift heavier. The key is not to mess up your back.”

With that, he walked off. Back to his own set—but now with one eye still on you. Just in case. If you grabbed another too-heavy weight, he’d be there.

By the end of your workout, you crossed paths again—this time at the walking pads.

“Hey, savior,” you smiled, setting your water bottle in one holder and your phone in the other.

He chuckled at the nickname.

“You save lives often around here?”

“I don’t mean to, I just observe a lot and happen to intervene”

“You new here?”

“I try not to,” he said with a shrug. “I just watch a lot. Sometimes I step in.”

You nodded, heart still a little elevated.

“You new here?” he asked, glancing sideways at you as you started the pad.

“Yeah,” you nodded. I moved to the city about a month ago. Still getting used to it. New job, new apartment, new gym…” You smiled. “Figured I’d build a routine before the chaos set in.”

“Smart,” he said, nodding. “You’ll get the hang of it.” Then, a small smirk. “Already off to a strong start.”

You laughed at that—something about his voice made compliments sound earned, not empty.

The treadmill kept humming under your feet. Comfortable silence. Just the two of you walking, letting the post-workout adrenaline settle.

“You come here every morning?” you asked after a beat.

“Most days,” he replied. “Early’s quieter. Fewer idiots, usually.”

“Except for me and my tragic squat form.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

“You’re not an idiot. Just new. Big difference.”

You smiled to yourself and let that be the end of it.

After that day, you continued showing up. And so does he.

It becomes a routine without either of you naming it. He spots you during your sets sometimes. You bring him a spare protein bar once. He teases your playlists. You tease his ancient headphones.

You think about him more than you’d admit. But you never cross the line. Not even when he lets his hand linger on your back a little too long. Not even when he brushes your fingers as he passes you a weight.

You don’t make a move.

Because—what if?

What if he thinks you're just a silly girl with a crush on the hot older guy?

What if it makes things awkward? Or worse—makes him leave?

What you don’t know is he’s thinking the same damn thing.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye every time you laugh at one of your own jokes. Every time you push through a hard set. Every time you flash that proud little smile when you hit a PR.

He tells himself he’s just being friendly.

He tells himself he’s too old to be looking at you like that.

But it’s getting harder every day.

Then, the tension happens.

You both stayed a little longer than usual, finishing up extra sets. The gym is quiet—just a few stragglers and the soft echo of music bouncing off the walls.

You’re at the stretching area, tying your hair up again, when Joel walks over, towel slung around his neck, shirt damp with sweat.

“Still at it?” His voice is low, that rough rasp even more gravelly this late.

“You know me,” you say, sitting back into a stretch. “Trying to prove I can handle more than a 20kg bell.”

He huffs a laugh and crouches beside you, adjusting the towel on his shoulder.

“Told you—you’ll get there. Already stronger than most.”

“You always say that, but I'm still stuck with 20."

“Easy tiger, you're getting there"

There’s a beat of silence. You glance over. He’s already looking at you—his gaze soft but unreadable.

And that’s when it happens.

A flicker. Something unspoken is rising between you.

“You ever train with someone?” you ask, a little quieter now. “Like… actually work out with a partner?”

He tilts his head and thinks.

“Not in a long time. Why?”

You shrug, trying to play it off.

“Just thought—maybe you and I could try it sometime. I mean, you already spot me half the time.”

His eyes linger on you a little longer than usual. Like he’s deciding if it's the right thing to do.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower. “I’d like that.”

There’s something there in his tone. Something new.

You nod slowly, holding his gaze. He nods back.

The air gets a little too still. You’re too aware of how close his knee is to yours. How good he smells—sweat, cedar, something warm and masculine.

And then, almost, he reaches out—just brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

But then someone drops a weight behind you.

The spell breaks.

You both flinch and turn.

He stands up quickly, clearing his throat.

“I should… probably head out.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

You walk out together, but a little quieter than usual. Something's shifted. Something happened.

Not everything, but just enough.

The next morning feels...different.

Not in a bad way—just off. A little too aware of each other. You say “morning” like always. He tosses you a spare sweat towel like he usually does. But your fingers brush a little too long. His gaze lingers a little too low before darting away.

Still, you both pretend nothing happened.

You warm up on your own, trying to shake the strange buzz in your chest. You chalk it up to sleep deprivation. Or the pre-workout drink. Or him.

You're mid-set—deep in a tough rep—when some asshole guy you don’t know struts over. Smirking.

He’s the type who lifts just to be loud. One of those guys. Probably couldn’t spell “glute” if you spotted him the G and the L.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins, stepping too close. “You always squat that low, or is this just for me?”

You pause mid-motion. Eyebrow twitching. Trying to ignore him.

“Busy,” you say, short and clipped.

“Come on, don’t be shy. You in those little shorts—can’t expect a guy to keep his eyes to himself.”

He’s way too close now, crowding your space.

That’s when Joel appears.

You don’t even see him come over. You just feel the shift in the air.

He steps between you and the guy. Slow. Calm. But his shoulders are tense. Jaw set.

“You heard her,” he says, voice low. “She’s busy.”

The guy scoffs.

“Who the fuck are you? Her dad?” He laughs. “Why do you care, grandpa?”

Joel doesn't blink. Doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward—just barely. But it’s enough. The tension radiates off him like heat.

“I think you better walk away,” Joel says, voice like gravel, “before you regret it.”

The guy’s smile falters.

He opens his mouth—then closes it. Realizes what he's dealing with.

“Whatever,” he mutters, backing off. “Bitch isn’t even worth it.”

You flinch at the word. Joel’s hand flexes like he’s holding back from knocking teeth in. But he lets the guy walk.

He turns to you.

“You okay?”

You nod, cheeks burning. Embarrassed. Angry.

“Yeah, I just—” You shake your head, suddenly too aware of your own body. “I probably had it coming. Dressed like this in these shorts.”

Joel’s expression changes. All that quiet fury shifts—not at you, never at you—but at the fact you’d even think that.

“Don’t say that.”

You glance up, surprised at how serious he sounds.

“There’s not a damn thing wrong with you or what you’re wearin’. That guy was a prick. That’s on him. Not you.”

You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out.

He softens. His hand grazes your arm gently.

“You hear me?”

You nod, throat tight.

“Yeah. I hear you.”

Truth was, Joel had been staring at you, too.

It was impossible not to.

He told himself it was pride—he’d helped you with form, corrected your weight, spotted your squats more times than he could count. He should be proud your glutes had grown the way they had.

But lately?

Pride was harder to separate from something else.

He kept it subtle. Discreet. Respectful. Not like that asshole. Joel knew how to look without making you feel small. Without making it about him.

Still, when you bent over to re-rack your weights, or dropped low into a perfect squat… Yeah. His gaze lingered a little longer than it should.

And he hated himself for it.

But God—you were a sight.

After that scene, Joel insists on walking you out.

“Just to your car,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like his hands hadn’t just curled into fists over you.

You don’t argue. He walks a half-step behind you, gaze still sharp like he’s expecting another problem to round the corner. Silent the whole way.

When you reach your car, you turn to face him, hand on the handle and smile up at him.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quieter now. “For stepping in. And for walking me.”

He gives a small nod, hands in his pockets.

“Didn’t sit right. That guy was outta line.”

“Still…” you hesitate. “I’m sorry he said what he said...about you.”

His jaw tenses, but he shrugs.

"He's just an asshole. Words don’t mean much comin’ from someone who can’t even rack his own weights.”

You laugh softly, then pause—because you can feel it. The shift. That weight between you.

Joel glances at your car, then back at the gym, hands still in his pockets.

“You good to continue alone tomorrow?” he asks, voice rough. Then, more carefully— “Or… you wanna train together?”

The question lands softly—but it lingers. Like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s not just asking about sets and reps. Like maybe he wants to be there for more than just that.

You look at him in the light—really look. Hair damp at the edges from sweat. That gray t-shirt hugging his chest. Hands flexing like he’s trying not to reach for something.

You nod, heartbeat picking up.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

He starts to turn, giving you one last nod, and turns around to step away—

That’s when you do it.

Quick, instinctive—you reach for his wrist. He stops. Looks down. Then up at you.

You step in closer.

The sunlight makes everything sharp. No shadows. No excuses. Just you and him standing there in plain sight.

Joel’s eyes search yours—quick, wild, unsure—pupils blown wide even in the harsh daylight. His chest rises like he’s holding his breath.

You kiss him.

No warning. No words. Just your mouth on his, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

He freezes—for the briefest moment.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

One hand grips your waist, the other slides up your back, pulling you flush against him. His mouth moves with heat, control slipping by the second. It’s not gentle. It’s not frantic either.

It’s pent-up.

Like every lingering look, every soft-spoken “good job, sweetheart,” every moment spent standing a little too close in the weight area—was leading here.

And in the full light of day, right there in the gym parking lot, he kisses you like he’s starving.

When it ends—when breath becomes necessary—he pulls back just an inch, eyes still closed, like the sunlight might take it all away if he opens them.

You break apart just enough to breathe.

Just enough for him to whisper against your lips:

“Wasn’t expectin’ that.”

You manage a shaky smile, heart pounding.

“Would’ve done it sooner if I thought you wanted me to.”

He lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-growl—low and wrecked.

His forehead rests against yours. He shakes his head once.

“Shit, darlin’…” His hand grazes your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You have no idea.”

There’s a pause. Long enough for the silence to throb between you.

Then he leans in again, lips hovering beside your ear—

“Hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

You step back, just enough to breathe again. Smile—nervous, dizzy.

“See you tomorrow?”

Joel smirks, slow and sure, like a man already plotting something dangerous.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You get in your car, still shaking slightly, and look at him one last time through the window.

He’s standing there—hands in his pockets, chest rising slow.

His jaw is clenched.

But his lips?

Curved into the faintest smirk.

Not cocky. Not smug.

Just… wrecked. Quietly wrecked.

Like a man trying hard to look composed— but already ruined by the taste of something he knows he’s not going to stop wanting.

You drive away.

And he watches you until you’re gone.

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Part Two coming soon...

✧ reblogs, likes & comments are deeply appreciated ♡  

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

[prophicc]

5 sons of rhaenyra targaryen

[thursdaysyme]

candace flynn the biggest mamas girl on planet earth

[barbiesmuse]

ᡣ𐭩 DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS.

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָsimon riley + fem!reader

summary: in which simon riley decides to message you after a year of no contact!

tags: angst, romance-ish, talk of abusive parents, simon's an asshole, slight age gap (27 - 30!), cursing, very slight body image issues, simon is a wreck, not proofread oopsie! talia talks: this is my first post!! this account is inspired by @audisive, much love to this blog! if this does well a part two will be out soon!

One year. Today officially marks one year since Simon left without any warning. He didn't even leave a note. You were a wreck. No one was able to get in contact with you for a month. Simon was your first everything. You questioned yourself over and over. You often find yourself looking in the mirror. You studied your appearance in the mirror. Was it the way you looked? Was it your age?

It took almost two months for you to even begin working again. It wasn't as if Simon was your world, but he was a very important part of it. After you got yourself back on your feet life was beginning to get better. You moved to a new city, got a new job, found new friends, and left your old self behind. A change of pass, at least that's what you wanted. 

No matter how much you wanted to forget the day he left you couldn't. He was always there in the back of your mind. The sound of his voice replaying over and over again. You would catch yourself staring into space, thinking of what life would be like if he was here now. How would he touch you? Simon left a large wound, and you felt as if it wouldn't heal anytime soon. You wondered if would you be engaged or married. Simon left like you were nothing to him, but it was quite the opposite.

Leaving you was the hardest thing Simon had ever done. Simon wasn't one for crying, he despised it. Yet as he took one last look at your once-shared home he felt a singular tear slip down his cheek. The salty liquid traced the curve of his face and slipped into his mouth. The taste of his tears brought him back to himself. Crying? Pathetic.

Simon Riley grew up in a rough house. His father was either absent or drunk. His mother died when Simon was young. He grew up hardened by abuse and war, but when he saw you it all went away. You were the light of his life. He often got lost in the darkness, thoughts of trauma and PTSD clouding his thoughts. You, you were the one thing that stopped him from destroying himself. Now that he didn't have you, he told himself he had nothing to lose.

Simon had stopped going to work, he had stopped eating, and he had stopped speaking. It was as if he wasn't living anymore, like his heart stopped. Simon was staying with his godmother, she was the only constant thing in his life now. He stayed in his room, only coming out once a week to eat. His godmother, Delena worried about him. She had known Simon since he was a child. She watched him grow up, and this was not like him.

Today was the day that marked a year, and you and Simon were both a mess. You wanted nothing more than a warm embrace from Simon. You imagine the creaking in the floorboards was his large boots trudging up the stairs. You imagined he had just come back from deployment, you would smile as he walked into your once-shared room. The sound of your phone “ding!” brought you out of your daydream.

Simon.

As Delena knocked softly on Simon's door she heard the sound of Simon's heavy breathing. Delena didn't wait for confirmation to walk in. She found Simon on his bathroom floor. A bottle of Disaronno lay by his side. His phone was cracked and his balaclava was nowhere to be found. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and his hands were shaking. He looked up at Delena with tired glossy eyes. He stayed away for a reason, he was going to ruin you. He wasn't healthy, no part of him was healthy. He was toxic, the only good part about him was you. But he didn't have you anymore.

Simon looked at Delena as she sat down next to him, her back sliding against the wall until she hit the ground. She chuckles softly and his lips curl into a tight grin. “I texted her,” Simon says, he picks up his cracked phone and shows it to his godmother. She gives him a sympathetic look and rubs his back. She knew that you were going to text back. She wished deep down you wouldn't. He had left you, who's to say he won't do it again? But she could never say that to her godson. 

“Well, that was very brave of you, Si.” The older woman says. Her hair was a gorgeous silver color. Her nails were painted a dark red. Simon liked the way she carried herself, with class and elegance. Simon, on the other hand, was a mess. She sighed as she realized there was a slight chance he might never get better. Delena wasn't sure if she was okay with that. She was getting too old.

Your breath hitched as you read the text. Simon had texted you? Why? You didn't want to respond, you hated him. He left you, he never called or texted. Not even a letter, so why should you respond to his text? Yet as you open the message, your heart drops.

Simon. I miss you, love.

talia talks: this was fun to write!! part two will be on it's way soon! xoxo!

[lizmidfordsblog]

Imagine living your life post-Cataclysm, being a little snarky shit, casually getting beaten up by Park Jin-Tae and his goons — only to suddenly be kicked out of the driver’s seat in your own body with zero context, experience a lifetime’s worth of memories of another older you (one of which is literally living in a fantasy world and beefing with a god btw) and then watch that version of you literally speedrun your life for you.

And to be completely cool with it, even a little on board.

[ittiebittiebaby]

ignore the messy mirror 🥺

[imyourbratzdoll]

Hello,Can you write Steve Rogers smut with the age gap? Please

hi baby, I thought I’d do something a bit different and instead of an older steve… we’re gonna have younger steve with older reader🫣 this was only supposed to be short… don’t know what happened.

summary - steve knew he shouldn’t be feeling this way towards his neighbour, especially since you’re married.

warning - smut, cheating, age gap, swearing, slut is used, creampie.

18+ only please, the gif I use isn’t mine, divider by @newlips.

Steve knew this was wrong, he shouldn’t be feeling this type of way towards you. Especially with you being married, you and your husband lived right next door to him. It was wrong of him to lust after you, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when you’d smile so prettily at him when you’d leave your house or accidentally leaving some skin exposed when you wore that silk robe of yours.

Steve couldn’t count on one hand the amount of times he’d tug on his throbbing cock to you. The way your plump breasts would jiggle with each movement or how your arse would bounce and your hips would sway were stuck in his mind, causing him to constantly be hard.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping the sweat away as he stopped for a split second. Stretching his back slightly as the lawnmower rumbles in front of him.

“Hiya Stevie!” Steve’s head whips around so fast at the sound of your voice, almost stumbling on his feet. You chuckle, waving and he gulps, taking in the tight but flowing sundress that you’re wearing, Steve’s mind imagines how you’d feel against him while wearing it, bending you over the railing and lifting your dress so he can watch himself slide deep inside of you.

Steve clears his throat, lifting his hand in a wave. “Hello, Mrs. Drysdale.” He nods before beginning to move, mowing the lawn.

“You look like you need a drink. Why don’t you come on up? I just made some lemonade. Wouldn’t want you to overheat yourself.” Steve stops again, looking over as you talk. His eyes drift down as you tilt your head and lean against the railing, your breasts pushing up causing his cock to twitch.

“I—I wouldn’t want to be a bother, ma’am and I don’t think your husband would appreciate that.” He practically snarls as he mentions your husband. The man was the biggest arse he had ever encountered and didn’t seem to treat you like the goddess you were. It made him wonder why you even married a man like that.

You wave your hand, dismissing his words. “Don’t worry bout him, Sugar. He’s left me all alone for the week.” Steve’s dick swells as you pout, big, wide eyes staring down at him. “I’ll be inside if ya wanna take up my offer.” He watches you spin and disappear into the house.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He fights with himself, “Do not go in there.” He mutters, continuing with the mowing before he suddenly slams his hand down and turns the machine off. “Fuck it. It’s just for a drink. Nothing else, Steve. Don’t think so much into it.” He growls to himself as he stalks across his lawn and up your stairs, awkwardly opening the front door and walking in. “Mrs. Drysdale?” He calls out.

“In here, Sugar!” The moment Steve rounds the corner, he chokes, hands immediately shooting to the front of his jeans. You are bent over, checking something in the oven, your fat arse sticking up, the dress hugging against it making Steve swear he can see the outline of everything underneath. You stand and Steve quickly moves to stand behind the counter, hiding the giant boner that’s straining against the zipper, begging to be let out.

“Sorry, was just checking on the pie. You like apple?” Did he die and go to heaven? Fuck, you were a dream come true. You tilt your head, leaning against the counter, Steve’s eyes immediately fall to your exposed cleavage and you smirk softly. “You all there, Sweetness? The heat didn’t get to ya already, did it?”

Steve shakes his head, clearing his throat and looking back up. “I’m alright, ma’am. I’m not intruding am I?”

The laugh you let out echoes throughout his ears, causing his heart to swell. “Don’t be silly, I invited you in.” You grab the lemonade and two glasses, filling them. “Come sit.” You slide the drink over to him before walking over to the couch, your hips swaying with each step and Steve gulps, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to get over there without you noticing his problem.

You turn, taking a sip of your drink before patting the spot beside you. He turns and grabs his drink, closing his eyes for a few seconds as he wills his cock to soften. Steve walks over and takes the seat next to you, eyes immediately stopping on your legs before slowly drifting up your body. You give him a sweet smile when your eyes lock, his cheeks turning a slight pink at being caught.

“It’s okay to look, Steve. Nothing wrong with looking.” Steve’s gaze falls to your mouth as your teeth sink into your bottom lip and your eyes move down his body. “Do you ever think of doing more than looking, Steve?”

His eyes snap up, widening at your question and he quickly shakes his head. “N—no, ma’am. W—wouldn’t dream of it.”

You hum, leaning forward to place your drink down onto the coffee table before resting your hand on his thigh. “Are you sure? Lying isn’t an attractive quality to have, Sugar.”

Steve squirms under your touch, gulping as you lean closer to his, giving him a perfect view down your dress. “M—ma’am…”

“Call me Y/N, Steve.” You tilt your head and smile, batting your lashes. “Unless you have some other name you wanna call me.”

“Y/n…” He tests your name on his tongue, his cock twitching with how perfectly it rolls off. Your thighs squeeze together, your tongue flicks out, wetting your lips. “This isn’t right, what about Mr. Drysdale?”

Steve’s gaze darts between your eyes, lips and plump breasts that threaten to spill from your dress. He whimpers when you cup his chin, directing his gaze back up.

“My husband doesn’t have to know.” You move closer, practically climbing into his lap. “Plus, I don’t think he’ll notice, he’s too busy with his own plaything nowadays to remember he has a wife at home.” Steve’s gaze falls to your lips, hardening even more as they form a pout.

His brows furrow, hands moving to grip your hips, pulling you fully onto his lap. “His own plaything? He’s cheating on you?”

You hum, a whimper getting caught in your throat as your cunt brushes against his bulge. “Uh huh, Ransom was never the most loyal.” You lick your lips, batting your lashes as your eyes connect with Steve’s. You cup his cheek, stroking it with your thumb as your gaze moves to his pretty pink lips. “I always wondered what it would be like to fuck a younger man. Younger seems to be the thing when it comes to affairs, don’t cha think?”

His hold on you tightens, digging his fingertips harder into your hips. “He’s stupid to cheat on a woman like you.” His tongue darts out, eyes moving to stare at your lips. “And it would be stupid of me to decline a ladies wish.”

Your hips move gently, rubbing against the hardened bulge in his pants. You hover over his lips, soft whimpers slipping from your lips. “Fuck me please, Steve.” Your hand slides down, resting against his neck. “I’ve seen how you look at me, notice how hard you get when I wear certain things. Been wanting you for so long, yet you’ve never taken the hint.”

Steve groans, grabbing the back of your head and pulling you towards him, devouring your lips into a rough, heat filled kiss. His other hand tightens, helping you move against him, feeling you soak his jeans as you hump him like a desperate slut.

“F—fuck, okay! Uh…” Steve tries to think for a minute but it becomes harder the more you move against him, your lips now attached to his neck, making his brain go all fuzzy. “W—what about the pie?!” He suddenly remembers the food in the oven, only because he thought back to when he walked in and found you bent over. “D—don’t want to have to stop cause the house is burning down.”

You kiss up, moving to his ear and nibbling on the lobe. “Don’t worry bout it, last I checked it had thirty more minutes to go. Can you make me cum in that time, Sugar?”

He groans, flipping the two of you over, grabbing your hands as you go to lift the dress from your body. “No, keep it on.” You swear you became wetter just from his words. “Wanted to fuck you in it, in all your little dresses.” He presses against you, rubbing his jean clad bulge against your soaked core. “Such a fuckin’ tease, always prancing around either half naked or dressed like a slut in these.”

The moan you let out is almost pornographic, not even your husband could bring that sound out of you. Steve’s hands move up, pulling the front of your dress down and groaning as your plump breasts bounce free. “Fuck, so fucking perfect.” Your hands fly to his hair as he leans forward, peppering kisses along your skin before he pays attention to your nipples, licking and sucking, even going as far as nibbling gently on each one.

“S—Steve! Please.” Your hips lift as you rub against him, needing something, anything to relieve you of the tingles between your legs.

He groans against your flesh, rutting against you before he pulls back. “God, you’re so fucking needy. So needy for a younger man, aren’t you?” You nod, hands reaching out to try and grab onto him, any part of him. “Tell me what you want, I need you to say it.” He moves closer to you, letting your hands wander his bare chest.

“Fuck me.”

He unzips his pants, taking his throbbing dick out and he begins to stroke it, half-hooded eyes connecting to your teary ones. Steve grunts, tearing your knickers from your body before lining his mushroom tip against your weeping entrance. “Are you sure you want this, ma’am? Because there’s no going back.”

You nod rapidly, “God, yes. Please Steve.” Your eyes roll back and mouth drops open as he pushes in, stretching you onto his large cock. Your hand rests against his chest while the other flies back and grips the couch beneath you. “Oh god, you’re so big! Fuck.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as Steve continues to thrust all the way inside you.

“Shit, so good, Mrs. Drysdale.” Steve groans, feeling your walls tighten around him. He leans down and tucks his face into your neck, kissing it as he begins to fuck into you hard. Your hand moves to the back of his neck, gripping it. Steve grabs your thighs, lifting them on either side of him and then grabs a pillow, stuffing it underneath you causing your eyes to cross at the new angle. “Feel better? That’s all you needed isn’t it? A good fucking.”

Your back arches, nails digging harder into his neck and couch. “O—oh!” Your toes curl and you tighten around him. You never thought fucking someone younger would feel so good.

“Gonna cum for me, Sweetheart? Gonna let me cum so deep into you that it’ll still be leaking out of your pretty little pussy when your husband gets back?” Your scream fills the house as you cum, walls spasming around his thick length, your juices coating him and the couch. You whine, gripping him tight as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. “So good for me, gonna let me do this again, Mrs. Drysdale?”

“F—fuck yes, please cum in me, Steve!”

Steve shrugs with a smirk, “as you wish.” He pounds into you a few more times before burying deep inside of you, throwing his head back as his balls tighten and thick ropes of cum spurt out of him, coating your walls white. He pulls out, putting you down gently before getting up and heading into the kitchen. You lie there completely fucked out, feeling so good and tingly all over.

Steve comes back, sadly his cock is tucked back in. He gently cleans you with the damp tea towel before fixing your dress. “How do you feel?” You hum, nodding.

“So good but why did you put yourself away?” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you look up at him and he groans.

Steve shakes his head. “Your husband is an arse for neglecting such a pretty thing for so long.”

The whole week before your husband got back, you got fucked so many times in so many different positions. Even when he was home, you would occasionally sneak around with Steve.

Steve couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[pixiefallingout]

you can call me Faerie or Pixie! ♡

| Latina | 19 | Straight | She/her

🧚twitter: fairyfallingout

🧚nsfw

🧚currently selling, dm me for menu~

[random-cockroach]

My brain malfunctioned and I was digging in MTMTE the whole day, forgot to blink, kicked pillow 8 times and was talking with my reflection 6 times

Ended up with 60+ screenshots of nerds being socially awkward/abnormal/straightforward because we use books to talk, not people, silly, cool or sweet, or just facts ahah

[offbeat-manga-ships]

TORA WA RYUU WO MADA TABENAI. / 虎は龍をまだ喰べない。 / THE TIGER WON'T EAT THE DRAGON YET by Inaba Hachi / 一七八ハチ • chapter 14

[fallenbratfiction]

Gym Crush Part 2~ older joel miller x f!reader

part one pedro pascal masterlist

A/N: Here is the awaited part two!! I was at the gym and of course creativity struck!! Thank you for being so patient with me, I've got a lot going on at the moment

warnings: large age gap (reader is in her twenties and joel is around his fifties), sexual tension, explicit smut, oral sex (male and female receiver), sex (piv), unprotected sex, joel miller is hungryyy, use of names "doll" and "daddy", daddy kink, aftercare. If I'm missing any warnings let me know

✧ minors dni with me or my blog. i'm not responsible for your consumption.

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

⟡━━━━━━━━━━⟡

The gym smells like sweat, iron, and eucalyptus spray. Just like always.

You swipe your card and step in, chin up, heart a little traitorous in your chest. You're not nervous. Not really. Just... hyper-aware. Of the fact that Joel is somewhere in this building. That you kissed him yesterday. That he kissed you back. That he held your face like he meant it.

You glance toward the entrance for what feels like the tenth time. No Joel.

Fine. You start without him.

You’re halfway through your second set of squats. Pushing yourself, maybe a little too hard.

You lower into another squat, the bar heavier than usual. Your thighs burn. Your breath falters.

And then—

Two warm, firm hands settle at your waist.

You gasp, flinching forward.

"Hey—hey, it’s me," Joel murmurs behind you, voice low and steady. "I got you. Come on, finish it."

Your pulse spikes. Your knees nearly buckle for a different reason.

"Jesus fuck, Joel!" you hiss through clenched teeth as you straighten, heart pounding. "A little warning next time?"

He helps guide the bar back into place before stepping back, hands lifted in mock surrender. That damn smirk already tugging at his lips.

"Didn’t mean to scare you," he says, clearly not sorry at all. "Just couldn’t let you drop that on yourself."

You turn, eyes narrowed. "I was fine."

His gaze dips—briefly—to your mouth. "Didn’t look fine from where I was standing."

You swallow.

“Didn’t know if I’d see you this morning,” he says, quieter now. Like it means something.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show,” you admit.

He nods. Scratches the back of his neck. "I didn’t sleep much."

You tilt your head. "Regretting it already?"

You bite your lip after saying it, eyes flicking down, suddenly unsure. Like maybe you read it all wrong. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe you were too much, too bold—crossed a line he didn’t really want crossed.

Joel chuckles, low and rough. “Hell no. I just—”

Joel goes silent, thinking of what to say, and your stomach sinks.

"No. Don’t do that."

You blink up at him.

"Don’t look at me like that. Like you did somethin’ wrong." he pauses and steps closer. "That kiss messed me up, sweetheart,” he says, eyes soft now, searching your face. "In a good way. In a real way."

His hand lifts, hovering briefly before brushing lightly against your arm. "Only thing I regret is not doin’ it sooner."

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He leans in, just enough for his next words to settle warm against your skin. "I meant what I said. If we start this, I won’t wanna stop."

You smile, tentative but real. "Maybe I don’t want you to."

His grin curves slowly, dangerously. "Then we’ve got a problem, darlin,"

Your stomach flips. Again.

You break eye contact first, muttering, "I need to finish my set," and start to move away, needing space, needing to breathe, needing to not melt into the floor like warm butter right in front of him.

He follows right after you, not too close, not touching, but he's right there behind you.

"You gettin’ shy on me now, doll?" he drawls, voice low and soaked in smug.

You glance at him over your shoulder, jaw tight. "We’re at the gym, Joel."

He grins. Slow. Fucking lethal.

"Funny. You were the one who made the first move."

You let out a sharp scoff, shaking your head like you’re not seconds away from combusting. “I swear to god—”

"What?" he cuts in, stepping just close enough to brush past you, his arm grazing yours. "You gonna kiss me again?"

Your mouth opens, but you don’t answer. Because yes, actually. You might.

Instead, you try—try—to go back to your squats.

You adjust the bar, reset your stance, but he’s standing just off to the side, arms crossed, watching you with that insufferable glint in his eye. He’s not even pretending to look away now.

You huff, adjusting the weight. "You’re making it really hard to concentrate."

He chuckles, that deep chesty sound that rattles through your whole damn body. "That right?"

You bend down to grab the bar and feel his eyes trace every inch.

"I could leave," he offers, tone full of shit and zero intention.

"You won’t."

"You’re right," he says, without a hint of shame. "Not when you look that cute strugglin’ to keep it together."

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly fall out of your skull.

You try to shake it off. Really, really try.

You set your feet. Grip the bar again. Focus.

But it’s useless.

Because you can feel him behind you, leaned against that column, arms crossed, like a damn movie still—shirt clinging in all the right places, muscles showing, smugness practically steaming off him. Watching you staring at him through the mirror.

The weight slips slightly in your grip.

You mutter a curse and finally drop the bar with a loud clang that echoes through the gym.

He raises a brow.

You turn on your heel.

"Turn around."

Joel blinks, clearly caught off guard for the first time.

You gesture sharply with two fingers. "Back to your own damn workout. Go."

He doesn’t move. Just smirks wider, like this is his favorite show and you just flipped to the season finale.

"You sure?” he asks, his voice dipped in syrup. "’Cause you’re lookin’ like you’re about to lose it, and I’d hate to miss that."

You take a deep breath. "Joel."

"Alright, alright,” he says, pushing off the column, hands up. “I’ll give you space."

But as he walks past, he leans in—just enough for his mouth to hover by your ear, just enough for his breath to graze your skin and send a shiver straight down your spine.

“Hope you got another kiss waitin’ for me when I’m done.”

And then he walks off.

Like he didn’t just say that. Like he didn’t just detonate something in your bloodstream.

You stand there for a second, blinking. Processing. Your mouth parts like you’re going to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

You hate how warm your face feels. Hate even more that your thighs clench of their own accord.

"Asshole," you mutter to yourself.

You try—desperately—to refocus. To pick up the bar again. To do anything besides replay the sound of his voice saying kiss and waiting for me like it’s a promise and a threat wrapped in heat.

Across the gym, you catch him looking.

He winks.

You shove your headphones in like they’re a shield.

Focus. Just finish the damn workout.

You get through the rest of your sets with minimal damage to your dignity, though your mind keeps replaying his voice in your ear.

You hate him. You hate him and his voice and his smirk and his stupid big arms and— Okay. You're spiraling. He's got into your head.

You climb onto the walking pad, setting the pace, the incline, trying to calm your racing thoughts.

But now it’s worse.

Because now you're still. And he's not.

Joel’s in front of you—halfway across the gym, right in your line of sight. Tank top darkened with sweat, muscles flexing through every rep like a problem sent to personally test your limits.

It’s honestly rude.

You tell yourself you're not staring.

You're just looking. Occasionally.

Okay maybe more than occasionally.

You adjust your headphones. Glance again.

His biceps curl tight as he pulls the bar. His jaw clenches. The vein in his arm pops.

And the machine you’re on? The angle? It's practically built to give you the front row seat.

It’s impossible not to watch.

And then he catches you.

You look away immediately, heat flooding your face, trying to pretend you were looking at literally anything else.

But when you risk another peek—

He’s grinning.

That slow, knowing, I-caught-you-watching kind of grin.

And then he has the audacity to roll his shoulders back like he knows exactly what it does to you.

You bite your lip and mutter under your breath as you keep walking...and watching.

You’ve been trying to avoid him ever since he caught you staring.

It’s not going well.

You linger by the mats after your treadmill cooldown, pretending to focus on your post-leg-day stretches, even though your brain is mush and Joel is still doing curls like he’s in a slow-motion montage just to mess with you.

And then—like he sensed you were almost done—he walks over. Towel over his shoulder. Smug smile on his lips.

"Mind if I join?"

You shrug like it’s no big deal, even though your heartbeat kicks up like you're sprinting. "Free country."

He sinks down beside you, way too comfortably, like his body knows the space next to yours already.

You’re mid-hamstring stretch when you feel it.

His hand. Light on your thigh. Guiding. Adjusting.

"Oof. You’re real tight there," he mutters, more to himself than you.

You choke. "Joel—"

"What?" he says innocently, not removing his hand. "Just helpin’. Don’t want you pullin’ anything."

You shoot him a look, but it’s weak at best.

Because now his fingers are brushing over the back of your calf as you reach forward. Steadying. Gentle. And when you sit upright again, his hand trails down slowly, like it didn’t need to, but he wanted it to.

"Maybe next time," you mutter, trying to regulate your breathing, "you actually stretch yourself."

He grins. "I am. I’m stretchin’ my self-control, sweetheart. Real thin."

You blink. Speechless.

He chuckles and pushes up off the mat. Offers you his hand.

You hesitate—just long enough for it to be noticeable—but you take it.

He pulls you up with ease, but doesn’t let go right away.

“Need me to walk you to your car again?”

You don’t answer. Just give him a look that says you better.

The walk to your car is quiet, loaded.

He doesn't say much. Just walks beside you with that easy, confident stride, towel slung around his neck, his shirt clinging in all the right places.

You unlock the car and reach for the handle when you realize—

He's watching you. Very close.

You glance up.

He’s smirking.

"What?" you ask, a little too breathless.

Joel shrugs, real casual. "Just waitin’."

"For what?"

He tilts his head, stepping even closer. His voice drops low, honey-thick. "You gonna give me another kiss, or what?"

You blink. "You’re really just—asking like that?"

"Not askin’, beggin’ would be me on my knees, sweetheart," he says, grinning now. "This is me bein’ polite."

You open your mouth to respond—but don’t get the chance.

Because he steps in and kisses you.

Hard.

Confident.

Hungry.

No hesitation this time. His hands find your hips, pull you in, and you melt. Right there in the damn parking lot. Again.

"Okay—Miller," you breathe, trying to pull back. "I’m gonna be late for work."

He hums against your skin.

And then—he grabs a fistful of your ass. Full palm. Possessive. Confident.

You gasp.

He pulls back just enough to speak against your cheek.

"Then be late."

You scramble into the driver’s seat like your legs aren’t made of jelly.

Joel lingers by the door, arm resting on the roof like he owns the damn car. His chest rises and falls like he just finished a sprint, not a kiss—but then again, it kind of was both.

You glance up at him through the open window, lips still parted, breath uneven.

He leans down one more time, slower now—pressing a softer kiss to the corner of your mouth. Like he’s reminding you he can be gentle, too. That this isn’t just heat. That he means it.

"Drive safe," he murmurs, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

You nod, mute.

Your brain is static.

He starts to pull away—then pauses, one more glance at your lips, like he’s this close to dragging you out of the car and into his.

Instead, he taps the hood with the side of his fist and steps back, making his way back to the gym.

You exhale, shifting into gear.

Only once you’ve pulled out of the parking lot do you let out the laugh, half delirious, half terrified.

Because what the fuck was that?

Because now you want more.

The whole day at work, you're unable to focus on what you're supposed to do, going into meetings like you're on automatic, typing like a robot but barely scrabbling.

I can’t focus. Your fault.

Didn’t hear a complaint earlier. Want me to come help you focus after work?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard.

No reply feels like the right reply.

Because anything you say might be too much. Or not enough.

So you stare at the screen for three full seconds—

Then tap out your answer.

*Home address*

No words, just your address.

You see the bubbles appear, then disappear.

Be there at 8

Now you're just… sitting there.

Absolutely useless to the world.

Thinking about the fact that Joel is coming over.

Tonight.

And you’re definitely not getting any work done.

You barely get the door open before he’s on you.

No words. No slow-burn. Just the slam of it shutting behind him and his hands on your waist—spinning you, lifting you like it’s nothing.

Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, and your breath catches. He’s already kissing you, rough and unrelenting, mouth hot against yours like he needs it to breathe.

Your legs wrap around him on instinct, thighs clenching at his hips. He grips under your thighs, holds you there, like you weigh nothing, like he could keep you like this forever.

You gasp against his mouth. "That way—bedroom, go."

Joel doesn’t ask which door.

Doesn’t hesitate.

He walks the two of you down the hall like a man with one purpose—like he’s been waiting too damn long to pretend he cares about anything else.

He doesn't look around. Doesn't see the half-made bed, the laundry basket in the corner, the dim lamplight still on.

Because he’s not here for your place.

He’s here for you.

You’re barely on the bed before his weight follows. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the skin just under your jaw, and it’s messy—open-mouthed, biting kisses that make you squirm under him.

"Jesus, Joel—"

"I know," he groans against your skin, his voice gravel and need. "Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day."

His hands are everywhere. Shirt pushed up, pants already unbuttoned, the sound of your zipper drowned under the sound of your breathing and the hitch in his when he finally sees you.

"Fuck," he mutters, like a prayer or a warning. "You're so goddamn—"

You pull him back down, fingers threading through his hair. "Less talking, Miller."

His mouth finds yours again. Deeper this time. Slower. Like now that he has you, you're not going anywhere, and he’s going to savor it.

He kisses you like he means to memorize it. Like this is the last time and the first time and something he’ll never recover from.

When he finally pulls back, chest rising and falling, he slides down your body slowly. Hands trailing, mouth brushing every inch—worshipping you with every kiss.

He hooks his fingers under your panties and slides it off your legs before spreading them open.

He pauses and just looks while his large hands grip your thighs, holding you open. The way his eyes darken as he takes you in like it’s holy.

Like this is something he never thought he’d deserve.

You breathe his name, soft, needy, shaky. "Joel—"

He dives right in like you've just given him the green light.

His mouth is everywhere—tongue broad and slow at first over your folds, then sharper, more precise. Like he’s learning you. Devouring you. Like he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing else he wants.

Your fingers thread into his hair instantly, head tipping back as a moan rips out of you, desperate and raw.

He groans into you like he’s the one falling apart.

His tongue is flicking on your clit while his fingers work on you. It's like someone broke into your dreams and stole this thought right out of you.

His hands keep you steady as he licks, sucks, tastes like he’s starved—like this is his idea of heaven and he wants to stay here forever.

And when you come undone, thighs trembling, breath ragged, and voice breaking on his name— He doesn’t stop.

You're already trembling. Nerves frayed. Chest rising in short, stuttered breaths. The kind of climax that doesn't just take your body—but shakes it.

"Joel—" you gasp, voice high and cracked.

He doesn’t stop.

He groans against you, low and wrecked, like he can’t get enough. Like your moans are the only thing keeping him alive. Like he needs to pull another one out of you just to prove he can.

Your fingers clutch his hair, tug hard, desperate, helpless. "Joel, I—I can’t—please—"

He growls softly. Shakes his head.

"Yeah, you can, and you will," he murmurs against your skin. "C’mon, baby. Give me another."

You arch involuntarily, legs trying to close, but his grip just tightens. Holds you open and down. He flattens his tongue, slides it slowly and deeply, and you scream—or maybe whimper—you don’t even know anymore.

"Too much," you breathe. "Joel—fuck—please—"

But he’s too far gone.

He’s moaning into you like he’s drunk on you, lips wet and messy, tongue working you with single-minded devotion. He’s not stopping. Not until you’re shaking again. Until your voice breaks again. Until you fall apart in his hands and mouth all over again.

And you do.

Your whole body jerks, trembling under him as your back arches off the bed, his name ripped raw from your throat.

He finally pulls back only when you push at his shoulder—barely able to breathe, soaked in sweat and sound and aftershocks.

His mouth is slick. His jaw is tense. His eyes?

Black.

And he’s smiling.

He finally climbs up your body, slow and heavy, and when he kisses you, it’s filthy.

You can taste yourself on his tongue—slick and heady, evidence of what he just did to you. You moan into it, let him deepen the kiss, let him take, even though your body’s still buzzing, legs still twitching from the aftershocks.

And he knows it.

Because he smiles against your mouth like the cocky bastard he is.

His hands trail up your sides, calloused palms rough and reverent. He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples before rolling them slow, deliberate, teasing.

Your breath stutters. He keeps kissing you—lazily now, like he has all the time in the world.

“Feel good, baby?” he murmurs against your lips. “You still shaking for me?”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as he pinches just enough to make you gasp.

Until —

Your hand slides down his chest, fingers trailing over the dips and ridges, feeling the heat of him, the tension.

He’s watching you. Careful. Curious.

And then you move.

Fast. Smooth. In control.

You grip his hips and flip him onto his back, straddling him before he can blink.

The thud of his weight hitting the mattress echoes in the room, followed by his low, startled laugh.

“Well, shit.”

His voice is half-breathless, half-turned on.

You’re over him now—hands on his chest, thighs locking around his waist like you own him.

“You like that?” you ask, a little breathless yourself, hair wild, lips kissed raw.

Joel’s hands settle at your hips, firm and possessive, but he’s letting you take the lead. For now.

“I knew you were gettin’ stronger,” he rasps, voice thick. “Didn’t think you were gonna manhandle me.”

You lean down, mouth against his throat. “I’ve been working on it.”

He groans, head tipping back. “Fuckin’ noticed.”

You slide lower, hands on his chest to pin him. “You gonna let me?”

He narrows his eyes up at you, breath uneven, mouth curved into something dangerous.

“For now.”

Right now, he's letting you lead and take full control. But once he's got it back...you're not going to be walking straight.

You kiss down his chest slowly, deliberately, like you’ve got something to prove—and you do. You feel him twitch beneath you when your teeth graze his stomach, his breath catching the lower you go.

Joel props himself on his elbows, watching you with blown pupils and parted lips, trying not to look too affected—but you see it. The way his abs tighten. The way his hips shift.

You settle between his legs, hands tugging at his waistband.

He lifts his hips, lets you drag his jeans and boxers down together, and when he springs free, you swear under your breath.

He’s thick. Heavy. Already flushed and so fucking hard for you.

You look up at him through your lashes as you wrap one hand around the base.

Joel’s jaw clenches.

"Shit, baby—don’t look at me like that," he says, voice hoarse.

You smirk. "Like what?"

"Like you’re about to ruin me."

You are.

You lean in, tongue flat as you lick a stripe up the underside—slow, teasing, never breaking eye contact.

Joel curses. His head drops back, hand fisting the sheet.

You wrap your lips around the tip, suck gentle and slow, just enough to taste him. Then deeper. Inch by inch, until his breath stutters and his thighs flex beneath your hands.

He mutters your name like a warning—but you ignore it.

You pick up the pace—suck, swirl, drag your tongue along the underside in just the way you know will get him twitching. One hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach. The other digs into his thigh.

He’s breathing harder now.

A soft growl breaks from his chest when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.

“Fuck—baby—goddamn—”

You hum around him. Vibrations making his hips buck, just once—just enough to lose that smug control.

“Jesus,” he chokes. His hand threads into your hair, not guiding, not forcing—just holding on.

He looks down at you like you’re heaven and hell rolled into one.

“Gonna make me come if you keep—fuck—keep doin’ that—”

"That's the idea"

And then you dive back down.

This time there’s no teasing. No easing in. You wrap your lips around him again and take him deep—deeper—and Joel chokes.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

His hips twitch, body jerks under your hands, and his fingers grip your sheets like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

But you don’t stop.

You bob your head, pace steadily, tongue working him mercilessly. One hand strokes the base, his balls, the other digs into his thigh to keep him still, to remind him you are the one in charge right now.

He's grunting. Panting. Eyes clenched shut. His hand fists in your hair, but he doesn’t pull—he’s just hanging on.

“You’re—ngh—fuckin’ killin’ me, sweetheart,” he breathes out, and it’s ragged, broken, wrecked.

You hum around him again and that’s it.

That’s what does it.

He bucks, unable to help it, hips twitching as you take him deeper and deeper until his back arches off the bed and he breaks.

He comes with a groan so deep it vibrates through his chest, your name tangled in it—like he’s giving something up, something that only belongs to you now.

His thighs tremble. His breath stutters.

He collapses back to the mattress like he’s been emptied, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy waves.

You crawl up his body slowly, smug and slick-lipped, settling on his chest as he struggles to open his eyes.

He huffs a breath, palm dragging down his face. “You just blew ten years off my life, baby.”

You giggle as you move your hands lightly on his chest, and lean in close.

He’s blinking up at you, trying to re-enter his body, his life, the world.

You tilt your head, all sugar and sin.

“You okay, Daddy?”

And he just—short circuits.

His entire body jerks, like the sound of that shattered something in his spine.

“Oh fuck,” he rasps, hand flying up to cover his face. “Don’t—don’t say that—baby, I can’t—Jesus—”

You grin so wide it’s criminal. “Can’t what, Daddy?”

He groans into his palm.

You can see the shiver ripple through his chest, his abs, his already twitching cock again below you that somehow twitches harder at the name.

His hand drops from his face and he grabs your hips—tight.

His eyes are wide now.

Alert. Dangerous.

“Oh, you’re in for it now,” he mutters.

And then he flips you. Fast. Strong. Controlled.

“Say it again,” he growls, already kissing down your neck, his hands spreading you open for him once more.

You moan, breath hitching. “What—Daddy?”

He groans against your throat. “That’s it. No mercy now.”

You barely have time to brace yourself before he shifts, aligns, and then—he slides in all at once.

Deep.

Hard.

Unrelenting.

Your gasp breaks into a choked moan, head falling back, the stretch sudden and overwhelming. The air punches out of your lungs like he knocked it from you—because he did.

He sets a pace immediately—slow enough to feel, but hard enough that the sound of skin on skin echoes through the room.

Your hands scramble at the sheets, body arching as he buries himself deeper, deeper still, every thrust claiming you like he means to leave you shaking.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked against your ear. “You wanted to play, baby? Sayin’ that shit?”

He slams into you again and you cry out, every nerve on fire.

“You gonna say it now?” he growls, hips snapping forward. “Huh?”

You nod frantically, voice barely there. “Y-yeah—”

He slows—just enough to make you whine.

“Say it.”

You look up at him, mouth parted, breathless, desperate.

“…Daddy.”

His groan is deep and guttural.

And then he’s fucking you, hard, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other tangling in your hair as he drives into you over and over, relentless and wild, like he wants to make sure you never, ever forget exactly who’s in charge.

Your moans spill out, your nails clawing at his back, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how intense it is—how much.

“Daddy—I can’t— I’m—”

"You can doll," he growls against your mouth. "You’re gonna. One more baby."

Your whole body’s trembling, slick with sweat, overstimulated and ruined. His hips grind deeper and you scream—not from pain, but the white-hot pleasure laced with every punishing stroke.

You feel it building again—unreal, impossible.

And then he reaches between you.

Thumb circling your clit.

And that’s it.

Your back arches like a bow, legs locking around him as you shatter in his arms, moaning his name so loud it’s a miracle your neighbors don’t call the cops.

You feel him fall apart with you—hips jerking, breath ragged as he spills inside you with a deep, broken moan, his face buried in your neck like he needs to hide how hard he’s shaking.

He collapses over you, breathing heavy, sweat-slick and silent.

There’s a beat of stillness.

"Joel, you alive?" you whisper, dazed, half-laughing.

He groans and hums against your skin. “You tried to kill me, baby.”

You grin at his reply.

He rolls to the side, pulling you with him, burying his face in your hair as his hand trails slow down your spine.

------

The room is quiet now.

The kind of quiet that buzzes with what just happened—the soft hum of your pulse in your ears, the distant sound of cars outside, your breath slowly evening out against his chest.

You’re both still sprawled across your unmade bed. Sheets half-pulled down, pillows somewhere near your feet, one of your legs draped over his as if claiming territory.

Joel hasn’t said anything for a minute.

He’s just… holding you. One arm tucked around your shoulders, the other draped behind his head as he lazily scans the room like he’s just realizing he’s here. In your space. With you.

You rest your chin on his chest and smile up at him. "What’s going on in that head of yours, cowboy?"

He huffs out a soft laugh through his nose. "Thinkin’ I should’ve maybe taken you out to dinner first. Been more of a gentleman."

You smirk. "Maybe."

He tilts his head to look at you, eyes still dazed and warm.

"But that kiss, doll…"

His fingers trail up your spine. Slow. Thoughtful.

"That damn kiss in the parking lot. You hit me like a freight train. I didn’t stand a chance after that."

You hum, pressing a light kiss to his chest. "Didn’t seem like you minded."

"I didn’t." His hand curls at your waist, grounding. "Still don’t."

You lift yourself up just enough to kiss him again. Slower this time. No rush. Just lips pressed to his, once, then again. He breathes into it like it calms him.

You whisper, "We can do dinner next time."

He pulls you closer, voice thick with something fond and a little wrecked. "Next time, I’m takin’ you everywhere, baby."

You nuzzle on him, breathing in the scent of his skin—sweat, salt, the faintest hint of your body still clinging to him.

“You tired?” he asks, fingers trailing along your hip.

“Mhm.”

“You sore?”

You give a soft laugh. “In places I didn’t know had nerves.”

He chuckles. Kisses your forehead.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart."

⟡━━━━━━━━━━⟡

Part Three coming soon...maybe?

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[amysworld2010]

i need older men to use and abuse my young cunt

[vivdolls]

oh to be put into my place and be punished by a man old enough to be my father or better yet my daddy himself

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

The enmity between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra was passed on to their sons, and the queen’s three boys, the Princes Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron, grew to be bitter rivals of their Velaryon nephews, resentful of them for having stolen what they regarded as their birthright: the Iron Throne itself. Though all six boys attended the same feasts, balls, and revels, and sometimes trained together in the yard under the same master-at-arms and studied under the same maesters, this enforced closeness only served to feed their mutual mislike, rather than binding them together as brothers.

'bitter rivals' and 'mutual mislike' is so funny to me because yeah Jace and Daeron were the same age but Aemond and Aegon how are you rivals with little kids half your age?

Like this is pre-Driftmark (120 ac). This is before the royal family split. At Driftmark their ages are 13 (Aegon), 10 (Aemond), 6 (Daeron & Jace), 5 (Luke), 3 (Joffrey).

Like when Aegon was, say, 11, was he bitter rivals with a 4 year old Jace? That is a wider age gap than Joffrey Baratheon and Tommen. That's not rivalry that's a big kid bullying a little kid.

"poor Aemond it was 3 against 1!" - the 3 in question being an actual toddler and two little kids half his age.

[ittiebittiebaby]

when the age gap is so big we have to keep our relationship a secret