annieisverybored

[annieisverybored]

𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐩

∘°∘♡∘°∘

The evening sunlight shines through the window in golden streaks as Joel dozes in bed. One arm is tucked behind his head as his chest rises and falls with each steady breath. Rather than being beneath the covers, he lies on top of them like he’d only intended to rest for a moment. In his older age, it was getting harder to ward off the pull of sleep whenever it arose. 

The bottom of his t-shirt has risen up just enough to see the small pudge of his stomach and the thin trail of dark hair leading down from his bellybutton. 

After a day at the community center for you, and a patrol shift for him, wanting to tuck yourselves away for the remainder of the evening was understandable. Except, Tommy and Maria had invited you to dinner later, and Ellie was keen on everyone going.  

Carefully, you crawl into bed and settle alongside him. The dip of the mattress prompts his eyes to flutter open, a low groan rumbling through his chest. You offer a small, apologetic smile as he drowsily blinks at you, the pinch between his brows fading. You let yourself admire the bridge of his nose, the slight pout of his lower lip. 

“Doing alright up here, handsome?” you murmur softly. 

Joel nods, humming as you lean towards his raised arm to press a few light kisses to the bare skin of his inner bicep. It’s soft and warm, dotted with a few freckles. The delicacy of it all draws another soft sound from his throat. When you nuzzle into the tender spot, he drops his arm to pull you closer. He smells like musk and the earthy scent of cedar soap. 

“Was just resting my eyes,” he rasps. 

“Oh, yeah?” You lift a hand to rub over his chest in that firm way he likes. 

He swallows, eyes nearly slipping closed again now that you’re here. 

“Yeah,” he whispers.

-

MORE JACKSON JOEL

[annieisverybored]

summary: after a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy. joel miller fucks.

pairing: young!joel miller x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. it's smut, y'all. everything you've come to expect. respectable age gap (10 years ish), tiny bit of spanking, one (1) gentle pussy slap, lil bit of daddy kink, joel miller eats it from the back (oral (f&m)), edging, unprotected piv (do better), creampie, feelings, joel miller's whore mouth.

reader has hair and wears dresses, no other descriptions or name.

wc: 6.9k (wahey)

an: for @schnarfer. my favourite hot priest, i worship in your church <3

Joel went out looking for trouble that night.

Hair curling at the nape of his neck, a beer sweltering in his hand as beads of sweat carved their way down the strong line of his back. T-shirt sticking to his skin, tension wound tight in his shoulders, thick in every muscle, every strand of sinew after work. 

Revelling in the feeling of how the weight of the day lifted the more he drank, the more he relaxed, feeling his smile get wider the more he loosened up in the crowded bar. Freshly thirty five, another year in hand. Tommy buying the shots, introducing him to every new face that walked into the steaming, heavy swell of wood and linoleum, every stranger who leant against the tacky bar, every pretty girl who flicked their hair and batted their eyelashes. 

He’s laughing - held flung back, chest heaving - harder than he has in a long time. Dancing in a way so unlike how he dances with Sarah in the kitchen, welcoming the heavy, slow grind of hips against his own, breathless against a sweet smelling neck. It’s hot and it’s loud on this Friday night in Austin, and he loves it.

Not quite basking in the attention of being the birthday boy, but shouldering the stream of conversation that Tommy directs his way nonetheless. Cheeks flushed pink as he’s hauled up on to the bar top, clumsy, unsure where to look as the bartender encourages him to stand in full view of the crowd. The whole bar, oscillating with colour and light and sound, roaring into a raucous chorus of happy birthday, beckoned by the chime of the bell by the till.

The spectacle of it all makes him look to the ceiling before dropping his chin to his chest, makes him laugh again, watching these people, many strangers, cheer and sing for him. 

He holds his beer to his chest through the first part of the song, cheeks tight with a smile. His eyes swivel to the corner of the dancefloor on the downturn of Joel… catching the flicker and flare of a pair he recognises, scanning your face on the refrain - happy birthday - heart dropping confusingly low in his chest, the world taking a sticky beat as his blood halts and begins to rush again - to you.

He’s not seen you here before. Much more used to seeing you coming and going from your father’s house - bright smile, wicked eyes. Moved back home after spending some time out west when you’d finished your Masters program, always happy to chat for a little longer if you were where he was. Interesting and interested - he’s been regaled by tales of you from your father - the man who’s been overseeing safety on Joel’s latest job site - and listened to more directly from you, lip caught between his teeth as he bit back amusement at the things you didn’t want your dad to know.

Your father is a good man. Kind, supportive. So proud of you in the way he talks that Joel’s taking blueprints for raising Sarah. And you - you. Joel tries to think of you in ways he thinks of other colleagues or acquaintances. Smart, creative, perceptive. Patient, generous with your time and energy when entertaining neighbours at cookouts. Any other thoughts creep in in the dead of night, and he’s quick to try and forget them by morning.

But this - you here, now - is entirely different. It could be the buzz of the tequila in his system, could be the hot blood in his veins, could be the giddy little flash of that smile you shoot him as you clap and whoop with the rest of the crowd, but his feet are itching to find you once he half hops, half clambers down off the bar, accepting claps on the back and other sentiments as he searches for you again.

But you’re gone.

Disappeared, into thin air. Like he imagined you in the first place.

He cranes his neck a little, twisting his head from side to side as if trying to loosen another tight muscle, trying to tamp down the damp disappointment he feels. 

Trying to remember how he tries to forget.

‘Happy birthday, cowboy,’ the words are breathless, squeezed through a smile.

The grin that creeps across his face is slow and wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he turns to face you.

‘Evenin’, darlin’,’ is his reply. Deep, coy, any idea of hiding his thoughts gone, buried. It’s his birthday, and you’re here. You and your sparkling eyes.

‘You gonna let me buy you a drink, or have you got a queue of ladies lining up to do that already?’

He laughs, and you feel the sound glimmer down your body, lighting every synapse, every receptor. You track his gaze as it drifts down your body and back up, spine straightening at his appraisal. 

Delicious thighs beneath the hem of your skirt, soft swell of your breasts above your neckline. 

‘Your daddy know you’re here?’ He asks, delighting in the way you scoff. 

‘My daddy knows I’m out tonight,’ you say, licking your teeth, eyes dropping to his mouth, ‘And he don’t care much about it. I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle myself.’

They’re big words for someone around ten years his junior, but he doesn’t doubt it. He’s heard your bartending stories, about your debates with fratboys. Something about your confidence, your self-assuredness licks a tongue of flame up his back. He bites his cheek.

‘Best buy me that drink, then.’

He went looking for trouble that night. 

And Jesus, he found it. 

Found it on the dancefloor, your soft body grinding against his. The heat and the sweat, how you moved your hips with his, how you’d giggled when he’d turned you around, pulling you flush against him. Your hands grasping for him, clutching at his thigh as you pressed firmly against the bulge growing at your backside, head tipped back, bliss etched across your face as you felt each other.

Found it in his truck when he dragged you outside under the pretence of giving you a lift home, found it when he rucked your skirt up on the backseat, when he pulled the top of your dress down. Inches of skin he had banished fantasies about to the back of his mind, revealed to him in the dim light of the parking lot. The sweat gleaming on your sternum, shining on your clavicles, your neck. He wishes, now, that he had taken more time to tell you how beautiful you looked, how smart you are, how funny, that first time, but the two of you had been too caught up in seeing, feeling, as much as possible. 

His knees had protested as he crammed himself onto the floor, wanting to be between those thighs, wanting to taste you. Pressing, gliding his fingers against your pussy over your underwear, watching you keen and beg, hands twisting tight in the material of your dress, then his shirt collar, then his hair. 

And that first swipe of his tongue when he’d pulled your underwear to the side, that first, most base knowledge of you. The sweet and sour, your smell, the way you became pliant, willing to have your thighs pushed up towards your chest. Quickly obsessed with the way you looked down at him, jaw slack, pupils blown, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Quickly obsessed with the way your pussy looked, puffy, needy, the way it leaked and clenched before him as he leant back to spit on it, how your head hit the headrest with a soft thump.

Too obsessed, everything about that night feeling too good as he lowered you down onto him, as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder to stop himself from coming too early, watching you bounce on his cock, listening to the way you moaned and panted and whimpered his name. The wet sounds of you fucking, the way he held you still, big hands on your waist as he bucked up into you. The way your noises, your breathing stuttered as he thrusted harder, as he dropped you lower. The fogged windows, low bass from the bar, how you clenched and fluttered around him as he wrung two orgasms from your pretty body before spilling himself inside you.

He’s been finding trouble ever since.

Finding reasons to help you grab drinks, bring out nibbles at your dad’s Halloween party. Finding excuses to have you backed up against the tool bench in the garage instead, his hips between yours, soft lips against chapped or your hand tight against your mouth to make sure nobody would find you. Heading back out into the garden with his cock still swollen, tucked into his black slacks, feeling your slick around its base still, your fake blood smeared on his dog collar, watching as you pressed your thighs together in your seat, knowing you could still feel him trickling out of you. He could hear your teasing through the glint in your eye - some hot priest you are, father.

Driving you home from the bar after a night of dancing around each other, after glances were snuck whenever they could be - over his brother’s shoulder, between your friends’ laughter. The crackle of electricity in the truck cab as the warm air threaded itself between you, your sparkling eyes, devious little laugh. 

Walking you to your door, keeping you safe, don't wanna disappoint your old man. 

Jamming his foot between the wood and the frame to come in when you told him he wasn’t home. 

The mornings when Sarah’s waking up, still sugar-high after a sleepover, in a house the other side of town. The mornings he’s awake first, drinking coffee at his kitchen table when you hop down the stairs in his t-shirt from the night before, sleep-stained and perfect. The mornings that start with you in his lap, with kisses pressed to temples, lips, necks, his wide palms snaking under the material, fiending warm skin, finding it, cradling it. The firm weight of your breasts in his palms, the pebbling of your nipples beneath his thumbs. The soft rock of your hips against his hardening length, his fingers reaching to pull your panties to the side, finding you soaked like that first night. How you whine and huff against his shoulder as he sinks one, two, three digits into you, as he twists them, pumps them, as he uses his thumb to toy with your clit. The wet patch you leave, darkening the grey tenting below you, the outline of him something you want to press your face against, nuzzle, mouth at until he’s begging this time. 

Mornings when he takes you apart deftly, until you hover above him, pulling his hard, leaking cock over the top of his sweatpants, savouring that delicious stretch around him, the way he thickens out at the base, the way the wiry hair there catches on your clit. When you can enjoy the way he holds you there afterwards, talking about your days ahead, nibbling at your ear as his cum slips from you along with his softening cock. 

All these moments, and they’re never enough.

Because despite how often they happen, how often he might be able to hold you, kiss you - you make Joel Miller feel like a fucking teenager. 

It’s been years since he’s woken up to the cooling evidence of a wet dream in his boxers. He’s having them nightly now in his thirties; sick and tired of waking up wet and aching and sticky, sick and tired of wishing it was you, not his hand, helping to solve the problem.

He wants you here so much more often than he does. The tip of his tongue on the evenings you call, sunlight fading through the window, orange on his sheets. He wonders, as you talk, what it would look like painted onto your skin. 

He wants Sarah to actually know how he feels about the woman who babysits her every so often, wants Tommy to understand the reason why he turns up smiling to the site every day. And he wants your father to know his daughter has found someone who’ll treat her right, who’ll hold her hand through the bad days and give her all he can to make her smile.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether you have, too. 

Whether you’d confess to your father the crush you have on the contractor, ask if he could put in a good word for you. There isn’t much between you - it would only take some careful wording, an evening where he can present the flowers he’s been dying to give you at your door.

He’s sure your father wouldn’t mind.

But this secret, the sneaking around - he can’t deny the thrill of it. Stolen touches, kisses, whispers in the moonlight. Quiet jokes between the two of you, the looks exchanged around others, the show of you putting your hand on his shoulder - can I get you anything else, Mr Miller?

You’ve only come close to being found out once. Just the once. By Tommy - who else could it have been? 

Tommy, who couldn't hide his delight when he found the underwear you’d left behind in Joel's truck one morning, wheezing with laughter as Joel stuffed your soft, cotton panties into his back pocket. His cheeks aflame, he swore under his breath that he’d kill his little brother if he ever flicked a woman’s underwear at him like that again instead of doing the right thing - kicking them under the seat and pretending he hadn’t seen anything. 

Between gasping breaths, Tommy had managed to make a good point. At least it wasn't Sarah who’d found them.

You gonna tell me who the lucky lady is, big brother?

He didn’t. Not yet.

It’s been so unbearably hot all day.

Too hot to work in the open air, and though Joel’s not grateful for the heat, he is grateful for the chance to stay at home. A chance to catch up on chores while Sarah basks in the AC at school, a chance to work his way through bills and invoices, fighting to keep his head clear of any thought of you and what you might be up to in weather like this.

He keeps his eyes carefully trained on numbers, figures, dates, unaware of the clock, unaware of the calls he’s missing. Only catches himself daydreaming when the lines start to blur.

He makes it to just past lunchtime when he hears a car pull up in the driveway. He knows the rattle of that engine, the heave of noise it makes as it turns off.

He stands from the table, blood racing in his chest.

‘God- motherfuckin’ shit,'

Joel lets the front door hang open behind him, folding his arms across his heart as you try and jam your wing mirror back in place.

‘You kiss your grandma with that mouth?’

You grin, flipping him off as you slam the door closed. The mirror sticks.

‘Yeah. Suck your dick with it, too,’

His lips quirk, watching as you stand with your hip against the front of your car, a box in one hand, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Staring at each other, a little game you play. You watch his smirk grow, feeling the trickle of sweat down your spine.

‘There a reason why you’re here?’

You roll your eyes, like it should be obvious. And it is obvious, but -

‘Freezer’s fucked,’ you huff, and Joel raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I put them in yours?’

You hold the box up to him.

‘Popsicles?’ Joel frowns. You roll your eyes at him.

‘Please, Joel. They’re literally the only thing keeping me sane,’

He scratches at his jaw, pretending to contemplate.

‘I dunno, darlin’,’ he says, ‘The only thing? Surely that AC of yours is doin’ a fine job,'

You scoff at him, folding your own arms. 

‘That old piece a’ shit ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it,’

He chuckles, letting his arms drift to his sides.

‘Guess I can take care of ‘em for ya. Anythin’ else?’

You bite your lip, eyes glinting in the sun.

‘Can I come in?’ you ask. A slow, smug smile grows across Joel’s lips.

‘'N do what, exactly?’

You pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. His cock twitches.

‘Just wanna swim in the pool. Promise I won’t do nothin’ else, Mr Miller,’

‘Nothin’ else, baby?’ He says, lowly.

You shake your head, eyes wide. Picture of false innocence.

‘Nothin’ else,'

If there are two things Joel has come to know about you in the last year, it’s that you’re a great fuck, and a bad liar.

He steps back into the open door behind him, grinning as you skip past him into the hallway. He watches, snicking the catch and lock as you make your way into the kitchen, swinging open the refrigerator door, finding a spot for your iced treats. He follows, leaning against the doorframe, watching as you stand in the cold air flowing from the appliance for a moment, your eyes closed.

He’s looking at your legs when you turn to speak to him, snapping to meet your gaze as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. That ship sailed long ago. You grin at him.

‘Whatcha been doin’?’

He exhales, stepping closer.

‘Workin’,’

You hum, meeting him beside the kitchen table, surveying the stacks of paper.

‘Not too hard?’

‘Hard to, when I'm thinkin’ ‘bout you,’

You grin, twisting to look at him.

‘You sweet on me, Miller?’

He shrugs.

‘Bout time you noticed,’

His hands find your waist as yours make their way up his chest, his shoulders, winding around his neck.

‘I had my suspicions,’ you whisper, before pressing your lips to his. He smiles into it, parting his lips to invite you in, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

‘Missed you,’ you breathe, and he hums in response.

‘Missed you too, baby,’

You’re salty sweet; warm scent of your skin, your sun lotion, your perfume, your sweat. When he’s satisfied, done licking lazily into your mouth, exploring the taste of your lips, he moves to your neck. Laving kisses there, biting, sucking, nibbling as you sigh against him. He bites harder, earning a particularly needy whimper, hands moving to knead the flesh of your ass through your dress.

‘Joel,’ you murmur, ‘You’ll leave a mark,’

He hums, trailing kisses up your neck to the space behind your ear, along your jaw, before finally meeting your lips again.

‘Don’t care.’

He’s grasping your hips to turn you so you’re pressed against the table, your back to his firm chest. You can’t help the gasp, the giggle that floats from you as he tugs you closer, as you feel the heft of him pressed into the small of your back. You shift your hips, brushing against him, slow and purposeful.

Joel groans - a long, drawn out, hungry sound. He pulls your hips tighter to him, moving against you just the same before his hands slide up to your breasts, holding the weight of each in his palms, squeezing and rolling a nipple between his thumb and finger. You tip your head back against his shoulder, and he hums approvingly as you begin to grind against him in earnest. He pauses only for a moment to pull your straps from your shoulders and work your dress down to expose your tits, and then he’s on you again. Teasing and stroking and pinching, your hand gripping his forearms as you huff and whimper, caged between him and the table. You moan his name, bleeding every once of want you feel into it, hoping he can hear just by the sound of your voice how wet you are for him.  

‘Dreamt about ya last night,’ he rasps in your ear, and you flash him a dazzling, breathless smile.

‘Oh yeah? ‘N what’d ya dream about, cowboy?’

You whine as he crowds you, leaning down to suck another bruise into the junction between your neck and shoulders, whiskers bristling against your skin, hands hot and heavy everywhere they can find purchase.

‘Much rather show you,’ he rumbles.

You nip your bottom lip between your teeth, shooting him a wicked look over your shoulder. His eyes crinkle, and as he spins you to face him again, he moves to pinch your jaw, just rough enough to curb your inevitable wise ass response. He watches as your eyes glaze a little, soft slump of your shoulders as he gives your head a little shake. His cock is achingly hard.

‘Upstairs. Now,’

As soon as he backs away from you, you’re sprinting towards the stairs with a shriek. Joel is close behind, and you can feel the heat of him, enough to set your heart galloping in your chest. Something primal urging space between you, something base wishing there was none.

You clatter through his bedroom door, whirling to face him - bare chest heaving, lips curled. He pauses in the doorway - so tall and broad, so imposing - shoulders straining against his t-shirt, curls frayed from your hands. He steps in, swings the door shut behind him, and then he’s closing the space easily - one, two, three - gathering you in his arms until you’re on tiptoes, pawing at the flesh of your ass through your sundress. Obsessed with it. You on him, him on you.

He needs this like air.

His breath is hot against your lips, mouth needy and wet as you open yourself to him. He licks into your mouth, kissing you like it’s something you need to take from him, like there’s something you need to understand through the action alone. He fiddles with the flimsy material of your half-removed sundress, pulling at it a little.

‘Take this off,’ he growls, nipping at your lips. 

You step back from him as you push it past your hips, the fabric pooling to the floor in seconds, leaving you in your panties. He bites his lip, murmuring a fuck before stripping himself of his t-shirt. Glorious tan chest, slightly lighter than his strong arms, shoulders seeming even broader, smattering of hair that leads down past his navel, his smooth belly, the constellations of freckles that join beneath your fingertips.

You busy your fingers with his belt as he cups your face once more, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your cheekbones. You’re giggling, trying to see what you’re doing through the blur of his face and hands, but then his palms are moving lower, groping at your breasts again, swiping his thumbs against your taught nipples, groaning against your mouth as you dip your hand past his unfastened belt and fly, into his boxers to cup his silken skin.

‘How’d that dream go again?’

Joel smiles against your mouth, giving a harsh twist to each peaked bud before beginning to push his jeans further down.

‘Kneel,’ he commands.

You drop to your knees in one swift motion, biting your lip at him as he whips his belt from its loops and throws it to the corner of the room. Your eager fingers curl under the waistband of his jeans, inching them and his underwear down. 

‘Don’t know how you’re wearing jeans in this weather -’

‘Cos I knew you’d be here some point to take ‘em off me,’

You smirk, blinking up at him through your eyelashes.

‘Who, me? I don’t know what kind of girl you take me for, daddy, but…’ You’re chewing your cheek to try and temper your look of amusement, but Joel gives in immediately. Goofy smile, all teeth, eyes crinkling at the edges. He cups your jaw as you wrap your hand around his base, pulling him out of his underwear, soft black material barely holding him in. 

His body moves with the first pump of your tight fist, the swirl of your thumb when you reach the head, spreading the pearl of precum beading there as he hisses. Thick and pulsing in your hand, velvety smooth, you trace its lines, veins with a delicate finger, press a kiss to his tip. Joel’s nostrils flare.

‘So pretty,’ you murmur, and that smirk tugs at his lips again.

‘I say you could touch it?’

You roll your eyes, quirking your head at him.

‘Didn’t think you had to,’ you shrug, ‘Kinda comes with the territory of tellin’ me to get on my knees -’

He scoffs.

‘Alright, smart ass,’ tangling his fingers in your hair, ‘Make me proud.’

You smile broadly, before inching closer, moving your mouth with your hand to chase down his length. You always know how to shut him up, and right now, the sight, the sound, the feel of you taking him all on the first try makes him fucking dizzy.

Hot and wet, the ridges of the roof of your mouth like satin around his cock, jumping as it hits the back of your throat and further, twitching again as you hum around him, opening your eyes - doe-like, watering already, the pinch in your brows telling him what you need to hear.

‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Good fucking girl,’

It’s the encouragement you need, moaning again as you pull back to the tip, taking him back in again as you bring one hand up to scratch at his thigh, the other moving from his length to his balls, cupping them softly, squeezing, rolling, and he’s on fucking fire. If there was ever a chance he was going to hell before, he’s sure the way you make him feel will send him there regardless.

You’re taking it slow, steady, making him feel every inch of your mouth as you moan and breathe, so intense that he can feel his tip heating - a kind of overstimulation - as he lets little moans slip more freely from his lips. Sighs and mutterings, breathless praise, wrecked groans as you start to move faster, jaw falling open. A steady stream of salt on your tongue, the taste making you keen for him, press your nose to the skin above his cock, making you forget anything outside the taste of him in your mouth. The hand on his thigh moving to work his length as you pay special attention to his head, your hips bucking unconsciously. His stomach jumps, lungs heaving as he massages your crown, as you kitten lick and swirl your tongue down the vein on the underside, rewarded with a sharp, wanton gasp as you pull back to slap him against your tongue. 

You watch as his pink tip flushes a darker shade, as it dribbles even more, feeling him jerk in your hand. Spellbound, slack-jawed at the way you take him, at the way you want him, like the taste and the pressure is never enough. How you always need more, more, more, and he’s getting closer, closer, closer -

He pulls you off with a deep, guttural groan - missing your mouth the minute it’s gone, resisting the temptation to shove himself back past your lips and come down your throat. 

You gaze up at him, pouting, straining against the hand in your hair. 

‘What? Didn’t I make you proud, cowboy?’

He tightens his grip, tips your head further to meet his gaze.

‘Bed,’ he commands, relinquishing his hold, ridding himself of his remaining clothes as you do yours, clambering up onto his bed, settling yourself on your knees again, wiggling side to side, your wide eyes rapt, wired. Chin wet, chest heaving, fingers twitching in your lap, he makes his decision almost instantly. Steps forwards, fingers brushing against the inside of your knee. Your legs part automatically, and he follows the contour of soft skin in the inside of your thighs right to the very top, no grace in the way he swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness there. And there’s so much of it, so much you feel proud of the way his eyes darken when he feels it.

‘What’s this, baby?’ He coos, repeating the motion as you whimper, as your shoulders hunch and your chin tips down. He lifts it with a finger and thumb, before cupping your face. You nuzzle into the touch, eyes hungry. ‘Oh, pretty girl,’ he murmurs, smiling again, ‘This happen while you were down on your knees sucking daddy’s cock?’

You snort softly, forehead knocking against his as he crowds closer.

‘Fucker-’ you start, but it’s cut off by your gasp as he easily slips in two thick fingers. He tuts.

‘Try again,’

‘Yes,’ you whisper, ‘Fuck yes, it did,’

He kisses your nose, pumping the digits slowly.

‘Gonna have to do something about that then, aren’t we?’

‘Please,’ you breathe, and he removes his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with another groan, tasting you - fuck. 

‘Hands and knees, baby,’ he says roughly, and you obey.

He pushes you forward so your chest is pressed into the sheets, nipples catching on the fabric, sweat soaking, cooling against the bed. Your breath catches in your throat - good girl, like this - and he’s pulling your hips up towards him, gripping the flesh at the backs of your thighs to spread you. Your knees slide, pliant with the need that scorches through you, and you press your cheek into the duvet, trying to angle your head so you can watch him watching you. 

And fuck, is he watching you. Eyes blown, lips bitten, a depraved intensity settling in the way his jaw flexes. You bunch your hands into fists on the cotton, shuddering as his palms run over your curves - hips, waist, hips, ass, thighs - before they stop, parting you for him again. You can’t help the way you present yourself to him, the way your hips tilt when air meets your bare cunt.

‘Atta girl,’ he mumbles, ‘Look at all that. You makin’ a mess f’me, baby? This pretty little pussy achin’ for what I wanna give her?’

You muffle your response, so fucking desperate, against his sheets, clutching the material tighter. He swipes both his thumbs through your folds, tracing the seam of your cunt, spreading the slick there to shine against your skin, teasing one digit at the entrance of your hole, the other inching its way - agonisingly - towards your clit. You throb, and he watches a bead of slick dribble down your folds, grinding himself against the bed as his cock jumps.

‘Is she, baby?’

You gasp, turning your head to him again. His eyes meet yours, dark, burning.

‘Yes,’ you half-moan, half-sob.

He hums in response, before turning back to your spread cunt. The thumb making its way towards your clit disappears, and you scrunch your brows together in disapproval, mouth working around a strangled please- before the sensation is replaced by his warm breath, then his firm tongue as he licks you from your clit to your hole. 

The cry that forces its way past your lips is strangled, choked, stuck in your throat as you clench around nothing at the contact.

‘Oh, fuck -’

And he chuckles against you, at the way your legs almost give out, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs in an effort to hold you upright. You squeeze your eyes closed as he licks further - Joel, fuck - seeking your clit again, pulling it between his lips, dragging his face against you, like he needs it, like he can’t be apart from you.

He sucks a little harsher, and at the very same time, you feel the tip of his nose edge against your cunt. You moan, a fractured sound, and he pulls you towards him again, pressing the curve of it further inside, moving his tongue in circles. You’re seeing fucking stars.

Breath shuddering out of you in high pitched gasps, toes curling against the pressure that builds so quickly already in your gut, unable to move, to find any relief as he mouths at you - ravenous, cramming his face, his fucking nose, as far into you as he can, slurping and sucking, letting his teeth graze you gently when you try to protest - too much, close Joel, ‘m close, fuck -

He pulls back just as suddenly as he came near, swatting your ass quickly, once, twice, before leaning back in. You barely have time to register the sting, how it flares goosebumps up your back, what it means, drunk on the feel of his mouth on you. He begins the same onslaught, sucking, licking, groaning at your taste before the knot tightens again.

‘Yes, please, Joel, please -’

But he’s gone again, that same firm hand landing on your backside as he pushes himself up, loosening his arms from their vice grip on your thighs. 

‘Not yet,’ he rasps, ‘Not yet, gonna come on my cock, yeah? Get it nice and wet, show me how much you like it?’

You rock your forehead against his mattress, waves of pleasure rolling through you, cunt fluttering, still so exposed to him. You take too long to answer, moaning loudly as he taps his palm against your soaked folds. You jolt, hips moving instinctively, finding nothing. You shudder a breath.

‘Yes, wanna come on your cock, I need it daddy. Need you inside me, need you to fuck me, need to come, Joel, please -’

He pulls you by the hips to the edge of the bed again, one palm kneading the flesh there, the other sliding three fingers through your arousal, bringing the wetness to his cock, slicking himself up. You raise yourself up on your elbows, looking back at him, and Joel's heart almost gives out. That perfect little pout, the sweat dripping down your forehead, the bead of it that travels down the valley of your spine, shining against your skin. Every inch of you so perfect, glossy in the heat, his. The patch he loves so much at the bottom of your back, just before the swell of your ass, even better, impossibly, from this angle. 

He holds you still with the grip on your hip as he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance, and your breath stills in your lungs. That first press, the pressure, the beginning of the stretch, the way you contract around the promise of it, waiting, waiting -

Waiting.

Joel smiles, though you can’t see it. His body pulled taught, barely resisting the urge to push himself further into you. 

‘Go on, pretty girl,’ he says, ‘Wanna see you fuck yourself on it. Show me how bad you need it,’

You hear his breath catch the moment you begin to slide down, and then the room is silent, save for the buzzing of his fans and the sticky sound of you pulling him inside. When you reach his base, nestling against the hair there, you both let out an honest, drawn out groan of relief. You’re so full of him, the stretch welcome, pressing against a sweet spot deep inside you, just enough to leave you breathless. You can feel him pulse in time with your heartbeat, feel yourself grow wetter, begin to drip down your thighs as you breathe heavily, as his grip grows firmer, as his fingers slide to the crease between your thighs and your stomach.

‘Move, baby,’ he pleads, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.

So you do. Slow, methodical, so you can feel all of him. Every inch, every vein that makes you clench around him, that makes him groan low in his throat. You know he wants it faster, that this time he wants more, but you’re too busy indulging yourself, focused on the drag of him against your walls, showing him how he takes care of you, making sure he watches how he fills you, how well you take him. 

When the pressure begins to grow, when he coos at you a little more, you move with more force, fucking yourself back, your noises coming louder, higher pitched, while his grow lower, as he babbles to you more and more. 

‘Fuck, look at you, baby. Look at you. Take me so good, take me so deep. Perfect pussy, made f’me, ain’t she? So pretty baby, so pretty the way you stretch, feel so good, so good, darlin’, fuck -’

He’s almost too caught up in the way your ass recoils against his thighs, the way your pussy moulds itself to him, that he misses the tell tale signs of you about to come. The way you gasp, the way you tighten and throb, the way you fist the sheets around you, the way your body begins to lock up -

‘No. Not yet,’ he grits out, pulling his hips back, pulse pounding in his ears as he watches your body try to chase his before he grips you again, turning you onto your back.

You’re sobbing around your plea - please Joel, been so good, just wanna come around you, please baby - but he’s steadfast.

He wants to see your face when you let go. Wants to watch your eyes roll, wants to watch you arch, wants to see the way your stomach lurches -

You scrabble for him, slurring your words, so fucked out - please Joel please, please baby, god, I just need - as he arranges your legs so your knees are bent, so your pretty little pussy is exposed completely to him - need you, please fuck me - before he swipes his thumb against your clit again, just to hear your broken whine, the hiccuped sigh, the way your body twitches, so close.

He pauses, holds your thighs wide open before him, towering above you. You reach to skate a hand up his tan belly, fingers scraping through the hair there, the muscled lines leading down to his cock, enjoying the thrum of his heart beating through his skin before he knocks it aside, pursing his lips and spitting straight onto where you are connected.

It turns you half-feral, rearing up towards him as he speaks.

‘There we go, baby. This what we need,’

The first thrust in takes your breath away. 

And he doesn’t give you any chance to get it back.

He sets a punishing pace, feeding you his cock with dogged precision, consumed by how you look spread beneath him, with how puffy and slick and shiny your pussy is, how it splits around him. 

Thick heft of him sawing in and out, the way you clutch at him, sucking him back in, tighter and tighter each time, like your body is already missing him. So wet slick is smeared around your thighs, soaking Joel’s lap, leaking down into the cleft of your ass. He kisses you, slow and deep, gasping and panting against your lips. Guttural moans from him, needy little whimpers from you, the sloppy sound of pleasure. 

He breaks away from you when the kisses are splintered by gasps of air, fixing his mouth to your neck, inhaling deeply there, pressing his lips to your shoulder, lower, the top of your breast, your sternum, before closing them around your nipple. You keen as he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive bud, hands flying from his flexing forearms to his hair, scratching his scalp, moaning his name, chanting it - Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

He sucks harder, tongue working around the flesh before he does the same to your other breast, fingers slipping down over the damp skin of your belly towards your sex, seeking that last nudge you need to send you flying over the edge.

Tighter, wetter, arching to meet his mouth as you gasp and plead - gonna come Joel, gonna come, please can I come, please, please -

You barely register his nod against your chest, barely hear him gasp ‘Give it to me baby, good girl, that’s it,’ before the flood overwhelms you, clawing through your body, ripping through you like flame. Your body tenses, jerks, hips stuttering against him, pussy throbbing as you cry out, pleasure flushing through you all the way to the top of your head. Aftershocks flare like fireworks behind your eyelids, hips moving frantically with his to chase the very end of your orgasm.

Joel watches, chest hot, stomach tightening with that tell tale taughtness - oh, shit baby, yeah, s'that good? - before his own eyes squeeze shut, his body faltering, pushing all the way up against your cervix as he pulses inside you, filling you with warmth, spilling himself until it begins to leak between your thighs.

He gives a couple of softer thrusts before he groans again, hearing you whimper, ears ringing, pulling out just to watch himself drip out of you. The sight makes him greedy, makes him press it back into you even as you hiss in protest, too sensitive. He looks up just as you crack an eye open, an arm swinging across your forehead.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you mumble, a smile growing before he breathes a shy laugh at the ceiling. He loves the sound of your giggle as you watch him.

He crawls back up your body, ignoring how the heat begins to creep back in, become formidable again. He presses kisses to your collarbones, your neck, your cheeks, and you thread your spare hand back through his hair, enjoying the way it looks, mussed by you.

His sweaty forehead presses against your sternum, laving affectionate, wet kisses there as you come down from your highs, panting in the warm air of the room. 

You continue to card your fingers through his damp curls, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs and spins above you. Your eyes flutter closed, content.

‘You’ll have to get Sarah from school soon,’

He grunts in acknowledgement, nuzzling into your ribcage, licking at the salty skin before nipping it between his teeth. You giggle, body lurching away slightly before it’s fixed in place by his wide palms at your hips. ‘And I have to be home before four,’

He groans, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast.

‘Come over for dinner,’ he murmurs, ‘Tell your dad we're hangin’ out, gettin’ to know each other. I’ll grill some stuff. You bring some more of those popsicles,’ 

You snort at him, huffing something about how nothing will get grilled if you’re watchin’ me suck on a popsicle, even as your chest and cheeks heat, before he slumps on top of you, plush lips crushing against yours in a searing kiss, tongue licking into your mouth, setting you ablaze again beneath him. You moan as he moves to your neck, sucking and biting and bruising.

‘Come,’ he groans into your skin, ‘Promise you’ll come. I'll make it worth your while,’

You offer him a breathy laugh, a sure at the double entendre with sparkling eyes. Your back arches, hands gripping his biceps as he languidly moves lower, taking your nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the raw bud, grazing it with his teeth before sucking gently.

‘Joel -’ you gasp, clenching your thighs together as you wriggle beneath him, meeting his warm brown eyes as he looks up at you through his eyelashes. ‘We need to -’

He cuts you off with a sharp nip at the puckered flesh. He turns his head to the side, checks the watch he’s still wearing, and fixes you with a dark, hungry look.

‘Reckon there’s time to go again.’

[annieisverybored]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Paring Joel Miller x Reader  

Summary The tenderness and nerves of spending the night at Joel’s for the first time, and the sweet moments that follow in the morning light [1.2k]

A/N This is a snippet into the lives of Joel and reader from the moments in between. Reading that fic is not a necessity because you’ll get the vibes either way. But fun news—right after this fic is posted, they will be receiving their own masterlist where I will post more glimpses into their lives in Jackson!

When yellowed lamplight no longer fills Joel’s room, there’s a brief period of rustling as the two of you settle beneath striped linen sheets in the dark. His bed is small enough that you can feel each other’s proximity, but spacious enough that you don’t have to touch. But you want to. It was your first time spending the night, and enjoying his company in the hours prior had awakened a selfishness you’d never known.

Maybe it was because he gave to you so freely nowadays. His presence, his thoughts, those smiles he no longer fought so hard to hide. It was hardly your fault that all you wanted to do was take, and take, and take. His supply never seemed to dwindle when it came to you. 

As a stillness settles, you extend a hand his way that no sooner meets the softness of his bare stomach. Caught off guard, Joel briefly sucks it in before relaxing again. He’d peeled off his shirt before climbing into bed, claiming to run hot during the night. Your touch is just light enough to tickle as your fingers drift upwards, catching the dusting of hair splayed across his chest. 

Swallowing, Joel takes hold of your hand and brings it to his lips to kiss, his facial hair scratching gently against your skin. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, worried it was his way of asking you to stop. 

“You’re okay, sweetheart.” He sounds gruff. “Just trying not to lose my mind.” He huffs out an amused sound that’s a little breathless. 

There’s a flutter in your chest as you laugh a little. “Just wanted to feel you.”

Joel guides your palm to rest over his heart. “You feel that?”

It beats steadily, elevated just so. You’re glad it’s too dark for him to see the smile that pulls across your face. He scoots closer, his own hand reaching down to grace the skin of your thigh just beneath the hem of your shorts. There’s always a sureness to his touch. Everything Joel does carries a sense of intentionality. From picking up the cool steel of a rifle to caressing the delicateness of your skin. 

As his fingers continue their gentle passes, it’s more dizzying than you’d expected, and you understand what he meant about losing his mind. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to the bridge of your nose, then your forehead, letting his lips linger as if to leave their invisible mark. An overwhelming sense of comfort melts down your body as he pulls away, so thick and heavy that you exhale and let your eyes slip closed. 

•••

The press of your lips is so soft that Joel almost doesn’t feel them. Almost thinks it’s something sweet he’s dreaming up, especially now that he doesn't have nightmares anymore. His eyes open in an eventual flutter, blinking slowly until it becomes clear that you’re really laying by his side. Your lips peppering pert kisses over his freckled shoulder. Being seen in the morning light makes you pull away as if you’d been caught doing something wrong. Joel just continues blinking at you with the softest look in his dark eyes. Like he’d let you get away with anything forever. 

You study him, the way his cheek looks pressed into the pillow, how his hair looks fluffier and disheveled from a good night’s rest. Both his hands are tucked beneath his pillow as he lays on his stomach. The nervous air of excitement that clouded the room last night has lifted, leaving behind a quiet sense of ease. It’s in the steadiness of your breathing, the quiet acknowledgement of the other that doesn’t need the help of words. 

When you shift, a golden ray of sunlight hits Joel’s eyes, making it clear that it’s later in the morning and that you hadn’t shut the curtains all the way. His eyes appear as more of a caramel brown as he squints with a small disgruntled sound. You settle back into your original position with an apologetic smile. 

No matter how much he tried, Joel still couldn’t grasp the luck that brought you to him. It sprung up out of nowhere at a time he least expected. A time when he’d grown to accept the possibility that the rest of his life would largely revolve around Ellie and being whoever she needed him to be. He’d already let too many people slip from between his fingers to welcome another. 

Back in Spring when they arrived in Jackson, and Tommy introduced you two at the Tipsy Bison, he was terrified because he’d never met someone as kind and intriguing as you. Not before the world fell and certainly not afterward. He convinced himself that if he never opened up or let you in, it would at least mean getting to experience you in bits and pieces. This was before he realized how torturous it was to keep restricting and denying himself. 

When the sound of Ellie’s footsteps arises from downstairs, Joel stretches his legs with a groan. “Kid’s got us beat this morning,” he says. The two of you are usually the early risers.

“Mmmm,” you hum, more interested in the rasp of his low drawl. “And what else?” Joel chuckles as you comb a loving hand through his hair. 

He gets a shy look about him, but indulges you. “Means we gotta get up,” he says. “Breakfast’s started at the pavilion by now.” 

Scooting closer, you hook a leg over his. There’s something about the warmth of him, the musky scent of his skin that makes your eyes close all over again as you inhale. Joel just lays there and lets you. Breakfast could wait a little while longer. 

Later, there’s a weight to your gaze as he stands at the sink brushing his teeth. You don’t mean for him to feel it, but he does, peeking back at you from over his broad shoulders. Freckles and moles alike are dotted across his back, but it’s the scars that evoke that deeper sense of wonder.

As he finishes up, there’s something so painfully intimate about watching the way he wipes his mouth with a towel and begins running his hands through his hair to fix it. Your window of opportunity comes as his arms are lifted, and he doesn’t complain as you hug him from behind. 

“She lives,” he lightly teases, hands coming to rest over yours. In the mirror, he can hardly see you from around his strong frame. 

“You left me cold and alone,” you accuse in a murmur against his skin. He shivers when you deliver a punishing nip along his spine and follow it up with a few lazy kisses. 

“I know. That was real awful of me.” 

You tuck your nose into his warmth, murmuring, “Unforgivable." Then you’re quiet for a moment, enjoying the feel of him. “Maybe a kiss could change my mind.” 

Joel can’t help a fond chuckle as he turns around in your arms.

-

Thanks for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think. 

From Here On Out Masterlist

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[annieisverybored]

Once and Future

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f reader

Word count: 500

Summary: a short but dirty interlude with the pussy eating king, long may he reign.

Warnings: oral f receiving, fingering, Frankie’s curls

A word from the author: Oh nothing, just something I think @legendary-pink-dot might like. Little ode to the hair we all love.

They feel like silk. The smooth strands slip between your fingers, twisting and tangling, warm in your hands.

Frankie knows you like it when his curls are wild are unkempt, a rebellion against his early military days or short cropped hair, he lets it grow.

You love the way it spills out from under his trusty blue cap, mocha, hickory, java, chocolate, walnut, and now hints of silver beginning to thread through Frankie’s hair. Despite the tell-tale sign of his aging, his locks are still thick, still called for you to run your fingers through and tug gently, or scratch lightly at his scalp when you kissed him. He purred when you did, and groaned when you buried your nose in his hair and pressed your body close to his. The smell of his sweat and his shampoo were as good as any cologne.

Frankie tightened his arms around you and maneuvered you to your back. He pulled your hands from his hair and pressed them against the kitchen table he laid you out on and kissed you soundly, devouring your mouth, sucking his way down your neck and across your chest, fighting to tug your tshirt up so he could mouth at your breasts and lave his tongue wetly across your perking nipples.

He squeezed your hips as he kissed down your belly to the waistband of your jeans. He made a frustrated sound as he fumbled with the button and the zipper, his thick fingers rushed and clumsy, but he had them undone and pulled down your thighs before you could stop him or do it yourself. He was too overcome with need to stop, anyway.

He forgot about your sneakers, knocking together now as your ankles crossed and your knees were pressed up and open for him. Without hesitation Frankie buried his face into your pussy. He relished it, the taste, the smell, the way your heat radiated against his face. Sucking and licking, he ate you. He felt crazed, greedy, hungry for more and more.

Beneath him, you squirmed, your body seeking his out, blooming for him, open and welcoming. When two rough fingers ease inside, you clench, soaking him, making him moan.

Until now you’d kept your hands where he put them, he made you want to be obedient for him, but as you felt the heat beginning to spread over your hips and thighs and belly, you grabbed his hair in your fists, keeping him right where you needed him, lips and tongue working diligently against your clit as his thick fingers pumped in and out, a warning of the stretch his cock would be.

Your hips and knees jerked as your orgasm rippled through you, like a seismic wave of pleasure, leaving you panting in its wake.

Frankie licked you carefully, kissing your tender pussy until your body relaxed. He took your hands from his sweat damp curls once more, and told you “turn over.”

[annieisverybored]

the lake. l Joel Miller

Summary:  it was an extremely hot day

Warnings:  fluff, a little bit of nudity, some kissing, Joel is a shy guy

A/N: nothing special. your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

Thin rivulets of sweat ran down your back. It was an exceptionally hot day, one of those when your clothes stuck to your body and moving around was like moving through hot soup. 

Joel's back moved in front of you though so you didn't stop as you both patrolled the area. You managed to get through a small forest grove when Joel finally stopped and you almost ran into him.

"What? Did something happen?" you asked, catching your breath.

You could see the wet hair on the back of Joel's neck, this weather was hard on him too.

"The lake." he mumbled, pointing at something in front of you. "See?"

"Do you think it's safe?" you mumbled reaching for the bottle of water in your backpack, you took a sip and handed it to Joel. "Maybe we could go over there?"

"Yeah, we can." he swallowed a few sips of water.

It was easier said than done. You covered the next distances in silence, not having the strength to talk about anything. The sun was constantly warming your backs, so when you reached the shore, you breathed a sigh of relief. It was a nice place, surrounded by a few trees and with the remains of a pier visible on the other end.

"Looks good." Joel looked around the area "Seems safe and... W-What? What the hell are you doing?"

You had already taken off your shoes and unbuttoned your pants, which were stuck to your butt.

"What does this look like to you?" you asked, grabbing the edge of your shirt and taking it off in one smooth movement "I want to go into the water."

"We don't know if it's safe." His eyes moved between you in your underwear and the calm surface of the lake.

"You can stay here and watch." You shrugged, heading towards the water "This water is so nice, Joel. You'd like it."

He felt even hotter as he watched you enter the lake. The sight of your body, although natural to Joel after so much time, still made him a little embarrassed, but in a nice way. It made him feel like he still had some simple, plain feelings inside of him, and he was glad he was experiencing them with you. 

The water was already up to your chest. The sandy ground under your feet gave you a sense of security and soon you were submerged up to your neck.

"Want to join?" you called out to Joel, who was still standing on the shore not really knowing what to do. "Let your guard down, Joel. Come on! It's wonderful."

He shook his head in disbelief and finally put his gun down. His shirt and jeans landed next to your clothes and soon Joel was in the water too. It felt good. He slowly swam towards you.

"I hope I won't regret it." he mumbled and you laughed.

"Right, the owner will definitely be furious." Teasing him, you hit the surface and water splashed his face.

He rubbed his eyes, pushing his wet hair away from his face.

"But you're definitely asking for trouble, darlin’." he mumbled, not hiding his smile.

"Oh, really?" you laughed and sprayed him again. "You can't do anything... Joel!"

You squealed as he grabbed you tightly by the waist and pulled you under the water. At the last moment you caught your breath and soon the water flooded your ears. You struggled for a moment, but you managed to free yourself and swam out, gasping for air.

"You bastard!" you gasped "I can't swim!"

"What?" Joel burst out laughing "You went into a fucking lake and you can't swim?"

"And who was supposed to teach me that, smartass?" you still felt the bottom under your feet so you felt a little more confident.

He watched you carefully. Your breathing calmed down, you pushed your wet hair away and exposed your wet face to the sun. The rays reflected beautifully off your skin, he couldn't take his eyes off you.

"Do you trust me?"

You looked at him with surprise. It was obvious. You nodded though. Joel approached you slowly.

"I'll show you something. Will you let me?"

"Yeah..."

You didn't know what you agreed to, but you trusted him completely. You felt his hand rest on your back, and the other slid under your knees. He saw the panic in your eyes as he lifted your legs.

"Easy... Easy..." he said soothingly and soon you were lying on your back floating in the water.

"Don't you dare let go of me." You mumbled, completely unaware of what you should be doing.

"Relax, nothing will happen to you." Joel smiled clearly enjoying your position. "Breathe, see how nice it is."

He was right. You felt as light as a feather, the water was so nice and cool. He didn't take his hands away either.

Finally you gave him a sign and Joel put you back on solid ground. His chest was shining in the sun, his hair falling over his forehead even though he tried to comb it with his fingers.

"Thank you."

"I could teach you to swim, if you want," he suggested.

"Really? For free?"

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. You punched him in the arm, laughing, but Joel quickly grabbed you again and pressed you to himself. You were sure he would pull you under the water one more time, your laughter echoed around the area.

"You're playing with fire." he stated when you managed to free yourself again.

"Not with fire, but with you." you replied, your eyes shining so much that he couldn't stop looking at you. "I'm safe with you, right?"

He nodded.

Some time had passed since your first and last kiss. Joel couldn't find the courage to do it again, although only God knew how much he wanted it. And you didn't want to rush him in anything, he needed time. 

But in that moment everything was better than you could have imagined. Your heads were free from worries and you could think that the world had become normal again for a moment, and you and Joel were just spending a nice time together by the lake.

You moved closer to him. Gentle brown eyes watched you carefully, following your every move.

"Are you embarrassed, Joel? Because of me?" you asked, he cleared his throat "I'm sure you've seen a woman in underwear, in better condition than mine, before."

A small smile crept onto his lips. "It doesn't matter." he mumbled "It's about you."

"About me?" you were already close, your hands gently stroking his shoulders "Is something wrong with me?"

"Yeah, and I think I know how to fix it."

He took your chin in his fingers and lifted your head slightly. His gaze moved from your lips to your eyes, and there he saw the agreement to what he was planning. Joel leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. It was gentle, lazy, at your pace.

You parted your lips a little and Joel gladly accepted your invitation. His tongue slipped into your mouth, caressing you, deepening the kiss and stealing your breath. Your fingers tangled in his hair above his neck, you felt the warmth radiating from his body, he was like your own private sun.

"See? It's better now..." he said, and you smiled gently "We should go back now." his forehead resting on yours, his fingers stroking your neck.

"Mhm..." you murmured, "Give me a moment..."

He kissed your forehead, and his arms pulled you into his chest. You snuggled into Joel with all your might. You would give anything to be able to stay with him like this forever.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist

[annieisverybored]

that’s the way road dogs do it || one

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this one is a little wild; part two is already shaping up to be even more wild. many smooches to my beloveds: @pedrospatch for all the reassurance and support and for beta’ing this bad boy for me, and to @dinandwhiskey for screaming with me about this idea many many moons ago <33

pairing: ex-boyfriend’s dad!joel x f!reader summary: on a night out with friends, you run into someone from your past. warnings: [no-outbreak au], big girthy age gap [reader is in her 20’s, joel is 50’s], alcohol consumption, allusions to cheating [not by joel or reader], no sarah or ellie but joel has a son, joel has tattoos and is a biker, pet names [darlin’, baby, kiddo], sexualization of the term kiddo [from the deepest darkest pits of my soul…idfc], a little bit of humiliation, panty sniffing, a teensy bit of fingering, a little manhandling, pervy!joel [he’s also a little fucked up and really unhinged but so am i so whateva], pussy pronouns, dirty talk [umm it gets weird lol], daddy kink, degradation, semi-public sex, rough unprotected p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, dubcon [joel takes pictures of her that she doesn’t verbally consent to], smidgen of angst [ofc bc it’s me], creampie, body marking/writing [use of a pen], soft!joel, reader wears a skirt, has hair, wears makeup, and has two tattoos that are described within the story word count: 8.6k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for fic updates!

Bad Habits is the bar where you spend every Friday night after work with your friends. It’s always too loud and too bright for your liking. But they serve good booze for a reasonable price and it’s on the way back from your office. Your Friday night usual; stopping at the bar with some friends from work before you bore yourself to sleep by looking over briefings and finalizing notes you need to send over to your boss in time for Monday’s nine am meeting.

You excuse yourself from the booth and head for the bar, plopping yourself on the velvet cushion of a creaky bar stool as you set your purse on the sticky bartop, ordering yourself another drink. Your phone chimes, and you sigh as you pull it out of your purse along with a pen and notepad, knowing it’s an email with a list of requests from your boss. He did tell you he’d send it to you before the end of the night. 

It’s when one of your hands is pressed to your temple, the other scribbling down your boss’ requests on paper when you hear it — a low, gravelly Southern drawl, a voice laced with honey — that you thought you’d never hear again. 

“This seat taken?”

Your pen freezes for a moment; you could pick that voice out of a suspect line-up. It never left you. But you willingly ignore him and decide you’re going to have a little fun of your own with him, so you continue finalizing your thoughts on paper as he situates himself beside you and orders a glass of whiskey while he’s at it. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ sittin’ in a place like this all by herself?” 

“I’m not alone. My friends are over there,” you throw your thumb, pen in hand, over your shoulder, jutting to your booth. “Just needed another drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving the notepad. 

“Why won’t you let me see your face, darlin?” he asks, head tilting to the side, assessing you. 

You snort. “Why. So you can decide whether or not my face is pretty enough to fuck — Mr. Miller?” Your voice drops an octave at the end of the sentence. 

You finally turn your head so you’re face to face with the man beside you, the father of your ex-boyfriend. 

Surprise flashes across his face; his mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. You watch as the Adam’s apple bops slowly in his throat. For once, the father of your shit-eating, cheating ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a comeback. He clears his throat as he attempts to recover. 

“Didn’t realize it was you, darlin’,” he says gruffly, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. 

You chuckle to yourself a little. “Of course you didn’t. The last time we saw each other was what? A year ago? Maybe more?” you quip. 

“You look different,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes glossing over your figure so quick you almost miss it. 

You raise an eyebrow at him; the corner of your mouth kicks up as you tilt the rim of your glass to your lips, hiding your smirk behind a sip.

“Good. I mean — you look good,” he tips his glass on its heel, eyeing it as he toys with it. 

You tilt your head in a shrug, “I needed a change.”

After Joel Miller’s son cheated on you and broke your heart, after you let the hurt linger for a few weeks and told your sob story to your friends who happily listened, you took their advice. 

You need something new, something fresh, babe. 

It really does help.

You’ll feel like a whole new person. 

Trust me, it’ll be good for you. 

You dyed your hair a few times, until you found a shade that felt more you. You got yourself a whole new wardrobe, something a little less fucking prudish and a little more slutty, and despite the cliché of it all, their suggestions did help to leave that shy, agreeable girl in the dust. The breakup was the last push you needed to leave it all behind. 

And now here you are, a little over a year later, sitting beside your ex’s father, whom you once hated to admit to yourself — no, you never really admitted it to yourself, but you found him attractive. Fuck. Who were you kidding? You didn’t just find Joel Miller, the father of your ex-boyfriend, attractive; you found yourself wanting to open your legs for him more than you did for his son, whom you had been dating for eight months. 

His eyes fall to your chest, trailing down the low cut of your top, and fixating on the peaks of your nipples beneath the tight fabric, and your heart stutters. “Quite the change,” a hint of a glint swimming in his hazel eyes. 

You can’t say the same for him.

You take him in now; he looks almost exactly the same, apart from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Still, he’s somehow more handsome. 

His tousled salt-and-pepper hair still sits messily on his head, though his beard is lined with more silver than you remember. 

Fuck. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes trail down his body, thick shoulders and thick arms deliciously clad in his black leather jacket, and beneath that, his white t-shirt pulls taut across his broad chest.  

 And oh. 

Joel’s head turns, peering over his shoulder at the sound of glass breaking. Your eyes flick back up and catch a curl of black ink on the tanned skin beneath his collar. That’s new. 

When he turns back, he raises the glass to his lips with a scoff, clouding the inside of it, and the dim light from above the bar catches on the square face of a gold band on his marked pinkie finger. That’s also new. Your eyes don’t miss that his fourth finger still remains devoid of a wedding ring. 

“I have your son to thank for that." You drop your phone, pen, and notepad into your purse, giving him your full attention.

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. Flicks his tongue across his bottom lip before he bites it. Is it a show of anger? Disappointment? You’re not quite sure.

But there is one thing that you are sure of: Joel Miller liked having you around. You knew it. You were aware that his eyes lingered whenever he saw you. You caught it from the very first time. When you showed up at his house, in jeans that clung to you like skin, how you bent at the waist to fish your keys out of his sofa cushion, and in your periphery, caught the subtle tilt of his head to get a better look at how the denim hugged your ass just right, feeling his eyes boring into you, your skin sizzling with heat.

If you’re being honest, you didn’t care. You didn’t feel guilty or shameful for how Joel looked at you. You basked in how he made you feel; you certainly weren’t getting that kind of attention from his son. He had his eyes (and his dick) on someone else. 

You liked how that very last night you spent at Joel Miller’s house — a fortnight before you broke up with his son — you padded down the hallway to the bathroom in an old skirt that you had outgrown (wearing it only because it was the last of clean bottoms before laundry day), and you overheard Joel Miller in his bedroom, fucking his fist and coming with a gruff groan of your name on his lips.  

You just weren’t sure if he knew that you knew.  

His body twists, props a leg up on the footrest of your bar stool. “What happened between you two? He never talked about it,” he inquires. 

You scoff. “He gets that from you, you know, not talking about things. Think he knows it too.” 

Confusion floods his features. 

Your eyes drop to the inside of your glass. “Your divorce. Jason complained all the time about how neither of you talked about it.”

“There was nothin’ to talk about. She left,” he quips. 

“She cheated on you,” you retort. 

“How did–” 

“He knew, and he watched when you didn’t fight it. Think that’s why he did the same to me.” 

“That kid. Always fucking trouble,” he huffs, then takes a short sip. 

 “Hey, you raised him,” you joke. 

“I didn’t raise him to be a piece of shit,” he bites, shakes his head instantly, eyes meeting yours, and there’s something behind them that you can’t quite place yet.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just—" You sigh exasperatedly, “I think seeing how you didn’t fight for your marriage, for your wife, messed with him. And as much as I hate him for getting his dick wet in another girl, I think... well, now I know why he did it." Right shoulder tips in a slight shrug. 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“What?” you ask. 

 “Nothin'—I didn’t expect I’d ever hear you say that.”

 You look at him pointedly. 

 “Gettin’ his dick wet,” he repeats. “I’m not used to hearing you say things like that s’all,” he says with a breathless laugh, shaking his head a little. 

You sigh. “Told you, heartbreak is a hell of a thing.” 

“You didn’t deserve that darlin’, M’sorry,” he soothes. He leans towards you, a heavy hand dropping to your bare thigh, fingers wrapping tightly around it. It takes everything in you not to squeeze your thighs shut at his touch. 

You avert your eyes, scanning the crowd in the bar, your eyes eventually landing on your friends all crammed in the booth before looking back at Joel. “Everything happens for a reason, I guess.” 

His head dips, eyebrows go up in surprise, his expression a slight mixture of shock and guilt. “You really believe that?” 

You flash him a soft smile. You’re not sure that you do, but selfishly, it’s easier than the truth, and whatever it was, you’re not concerned about it anymore. “It’s fine, Mr. Miller, honestly," you clarify. 

His calloused thumb rubs small circles on your thigh; heat radiates there. “How many times, I gotta tell you, it’s Joel,” he insists.

Your eyes roll, “alright. Joel, it’s fine. I’m much happier now.”

“Oh yeah?" His hand releases your thigh; your body feels like it’ll wilt without the heat of his touch. His arms cross over as he leans forward on the bartop. The cuff of his left sleeve raises, revealing ink curling around his wrist. Did he complete his sleeve? You swallow thickly, your eyes lingering. 

"Got yourself a new boyfriend?’” He asks. 

You finally peel your eyes away, arching your brow. “What makes you say that?” 

His boot brushes against your bare ankle as he turns towards you; electricity sparks up your leg and up the base of your spine, awakening a long-dormant need. “Nothin’, just reckon that a pretty thing like yourself has a new stupid college fella.”

You chuckle. “I don’t date, it's not worth my time anymore.” You take a swig of your drink, swallow the tang down, and it mixes with the lick of heat, slowly spreading its way into your veins. You’re trying to tame the surge of energy zipping through your body, but it’s so damn hot beneath the lights lining the bar. And the chatter buzzing around the room, coupled with the weight of Joel’s gaze, isn’t fucking helping. It’s overwhelming, the nerves and arousal taking over, lacing with the alcohol in your system.

“That so?” His voice is a low rumble, dangerous. The corners of his lips twitch; your eyes dart down to them. 

You set your glass down on the dark wood with a clink, and your fingers begin tracing the rim of the glass. “And you?” Your body is warm and humming, something churning deep in your core.

His hazel eyes slowly rake down your body, a hint of hunger in them as they pause at the hem of your skirt, barely covering the place where you need him most; your skin is on fire under the heat of his gaze, and for a moment you have to resist the urge not to pounce on him right there in a bar full of people.

His voice cuts through your reverie as he answers. “Not in the cards for me, darlin’,” his eyes crease before he tips the glass to his lips.

“Guess we got one thing in common,” you sigh and mirror him. 

His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip, and your chest blooms. Black takes up the hazel hues in his eyes, full of lust, and you think back to all the times you’ve had his attention; only now it’s worse because you can act on it. And maybe it’s the liquid courage in your blood. Maybe it’s some stroke of desire for revenge. Maybe it’s just that — desire. Maybe it’s because you know him. Know by all those times you racked up in your brain of longing stares and fleeting tugs of every nerve of your body.

So you think, with the very obvious throbbing in your core, with desire turning molten and pooling between your thighs that you can no longer ignore, that now is your chance; you’ve got nothing holding either of you back this time.

“You want to get out of here?” Your eyes fall down his body and bite your lip as you take in his broad form again. 

He chuckles darkly. “Can’t leave my crew, sweetheart,” he juts his chin towards an area behind you. Your body twists, and laughter threatens to bubble in your chest when you spot them. Three men, all silver-haired and scruffy beards that cover surly faces, all clad in tethered leather jackets, sit in a corner towards the back of the bar. 

You turn back to Joel with a hint of smirk on your lips. “Aren’t you getting a little old to still be biking around? Shouldn't fossils be encased or padded up or something? You know as they age they don't hold up very well,” you tease. 

He bares his teeth with a crooked grin; the corners of his eyes crease. “Careful, kiddo,” voice a low warning, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it.

You knock back the rest of your drink swiftly, ignoring how it burns the back of your throat. “Well, that’s too bad,” you start. Driven by the alcohol coursing through your burning veins and the painful ache at the apex of your thighs, your left hand grabs his, rested beneath the bar, and guides it under your skirt and towards your dripping sex. He stiffens, inhaling sharply through his nose as he feels the way the wet fabric clings to the lips of your pussy. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear and drop your voice to make it more deep and velvety — more enticing. “She’s already wet.”

You drop his hand and hop off the barstool and onto wobbly legs, your right hand looping your crossbody over your shoulder, and before your leg even brushes past his, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist, dwarfing it in his grasp. 

Without another word, he tugs you behind him, past your table of friends, all too loud and too drunk celebrating the end of another work week to notice the two of you sauntering by. He drags you down the dimly lit hall, and you’re biting your bottom lip, containing the smile that threatens to spread across your face as he shoves you into the bathroom. 

Within seconds, he’s on you, pressing into you so your back slams into the tethered wooden door. Your hands find his hair, tangling your fingers in the strands streaked with gray.

And with his mouth flush with yours, the taste of whiskey and cheap cigars is warm on your tastebuds, and you cannot get enough of it. You've dreamt of what he'd taste like for so long, and it's everything you've ever wanted. His tongue is heavy and hot as he pushes it into your mouth, swirling it around and cutting across your gums, leaving no inch of your mouth uncharted. It’s all rushed and sloppy and hungry, and very quickly does it become clear to you that he’s wanted this — wanted you, just as much as you had from the very beginning. 

Somewhere in the heady haze, you manage to remove your left hand from his dark curls, drifting it south behind your back to slide the greasy lock shut behind you, sealing your fate. 

The sound of the lock clicking in place has Joel maneuvering you towards the sink, your heels scraping against the tile as the both of you drift backwards, tongues still intertwined. 

Your hands fumble with his belt, and at the same time, your mouth skates down his neck, tongue darting out and lapping at the inked skin there. You hum at the taste of warm, salty sweat. As you try to drag the leather out from his silver buckle, you move to drop to your knees. You don’t even get halfway before he’s reaching for your wrists, pulling you back up to stand. “‘S much as I’d like that kiddo, I've been waitin’ too long to get inside this cunt,” he says bluntly, and then he’s taking a step forward, trapping you against the cold ceramic. “If m’gonna come, s'gonna be inside o' her.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, and you can’t deny that the use of that word again makes you want to drop to your knees for him twofold. Instead, Joel drops to one of his, grunting as his denim-clad knee hits the cold tile, and it’s what he does next that manages to shatter all essence of confidence you had tonight.

Joel flicks up your skirt with one large hand while the other grips the back of one of your thighs, and one of your hands finds one of his shoulders, fingers already clinging onto him for dear life as you try to anchor yourself. You’re throbbing for him as his hand drifts north to cup your sex through your damp panties; he tears his gaze away to peer up at you. “How many dicks has this pussy taken since my son?” 

His words strike you hard, and your blood runs as cold as ice. Your breath kicks out of your lungs. That was the last thing you expected him to say. Despite the fact Joel’s eyes often lingered and his breath often wavered in your presence, he always managed to compose himself. You never imagined he'd act on those impulses.

“I–I don’t–” you blink a few times, your brain malfunctioning, trying to find the words. 

“How many,” he taunts, his fingers prod at your lace-covered slit, his thumb applying pressure to your clit through your underwear. 

“I– I don’t know. I can’t remember,” you whisper.

Joel sniggers. “I figured. She’s just a little pocket pussy for us, ain’t she?” A shiver runs up your spine, and he watches you, hazel eyes glimmering in the soft yellow glow of the bathroom, gauging your reaction for a tell, a tick, something, that’ll give him a reason to stop. When you don’t, his head dips down between your thighs, and his strong nose presses up against the damp stain on the front of your skimpy black thong, which was doing a rather poor job of covering your cunt. His eyes close slowly, and he inhales. Long and hard, so hard you can feel his nostrils contracting against you as he breathes in your scent. And it’s not your fault a measly whimper spills from your lips when he does so. 

“This all for me now?” He coaxes, his fingers strumming up and down your slit through the lace. Words fail you as you look down and find his eyes already on yours. You nod once for him. 

“Words, darlin’,” his voice dark, thick fingers shifting your panties aside, exposing you to the cold air and spreading your soft folds apart, toying with your wetness. 

Oh fuck, sneaks past your lips in a whisper, and one of your arms snaps out behind you, hand wrapping around the edge of the sink.  

He tilts his head up, and your eyes fixate on his middle finger that reads, clutch, as the tip pokes into your aching hole. "S’this what you wanted? You oughta ask for it, pretty girl.”

“I want you. Fuck– I want you to fuck me, Joel.” You choke out. 

“Attagirl,” he starts, knees cracking as he stands. “Bend over ‘n let me see her up close this time,” he says with a smirk. 

You obey, and turn to drop your purse beside the sink before placing your hands on the wet countertop. But your eyes don’t find your own reflection in the mirror. Instead, they fall on Joel’s movements behind you and gulp down the near-pathetic excitement and nerves sizzling over you. Joel’s too entranced by the sight before him to pick up how your breath hitches in your throat when his calloused hands push your skirt over the curve of your ass and up to your waist. His sly smirk kicks into a low chuckle as he catches sight of your tattoo on your left ass cheek that reads, daddy’s girl.

You go perfectly still, and a firm hand between your shoulders pushes you forward, your upper body now parallel to the dark countertop. Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears, but you can still hear the low whistle he sings from behind you. And then–

“Jesus,” he breathes as he pauses and marvels at you, his gaze shifting up and down your form, goosebumps erupting across your skin as the knuckle of his index finger traces down the small of your back, cold metal from the ring on his pinkie grazes the meat of your ass by happenstance. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” 

And it’s almost like he can’t believe he’s here — with you, thirty years his junior, and his son’s ex-girlfriend, in a bar bathroom, about to ruin not only you but every other woman for himself for the rest of his life.

The liquid courage must’ve kicked into overdrive because you don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you can stop yourself, you call out his name–

“Joel.”

His dark eyes flit upwards to meet yours in the mirror. 

“You gonna stand there and stare all night, or you gonna fill her up?” But the tone of your voice doesn’t make it sound at all like a question, and you don’t mean it to be. 

That seems to pull him back. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t think you’d be this filthy.”

His reaction manages to bring back your confidence, and your lips curl in turn. 

Joel doesn’t waste anymore time. You feel the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and hear the metallic clang of his belt and the buzz of his zipper as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. When he hooks a thick finger underneath your panties, tugging them to the side and over one cheek, you can’t help but clench, and Joel definitely doesn’t miss it. 

He tuts. “Needy little thing too,” he grips his length, thick and heavy in his hand, and lines up the blunt cockhead with your throbbing hole; it winks at him. “Tiny hole’s begging for me to fuck her, ain’t she? Look at her flirtin’ with me,” Joel gloats. 

And the sane part of you wants to cringe at that, but your cunt betrays you and clenches around terrible emptiness again. Joel doesn’t wait for you to respond; his eyes flicker back down to your hole, pushing the wide head of his cock inside, and that spark from earlier ignites. 

“Oh, Christ,” he exhales, his jaw falling loose and eyes going hooded as he enters your warm, wet cunt. You gasp as your own eyes fall shut at the stretch, your face twisting upwards at the sharp sting. You didn’t get to look at it before, but you can feel him. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and for a second you’re not quite sure he’ll be able to fit. But Joel being Joel means he’s a stubborn bastard. He makes it fit. He pushes himself in, in, in, and you whine, and he groans as your pussy wraps perfectly around every inch of his thick length, sinking in like a dream.

He bottoms out inside your cunt, his tip kissing your cervix, and you’re gripping the edge of the sink so tight that if it weren’t for Joel fucking you, you’d be worried if your knuckles would break the skin. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathes, ragged and hard. 

And it is. He feels so good. Stretching your cunt out and carving a place for himself after all this time. All the wanting and pining. Shared glances and stolen moments that you believed to be over the moment you broke up with that bastard of a son have finally led you here with him. 

“Daddy,” pours from your lips involuntarily. Your eyes snap wide open, and you freeze. Joel draws his hips back, cock pulling out from your gaping hole and catching onto it’s head, and before you can scramble your brain for a pathetic excuse of an apology, his lips curl into a snarl, and he slams his hips forward, cock ramming into you full throttle. The force of his thrust so hard, your body jolts forward, and your pelvis collides with the sink.

He doesn’t give you time to recover; Joel sets a fast, unforgiving pace, and with every strong, expert roll of his hips, the edges of your vision begin to blur. And it doesn’t matter how fast he bucks into you; the size of his cock never fails to fill you up to the hilt on every long, punishing stroke. He’s fucking loving it. And so are you. Letting him use you and yanking you back onto his cock by the thin material of your thong, hips snapping back into his like a rubber band. The air quickly fills with delicious wet sounds of your skin slapping against his, your moans and his, and the sharp clink, clink, clink, of metal rattling against you as the movement of your bodies colliding increases. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy since the first time I laid eyes on ya,” he pants, eyes never leaving where the two of you are connected.

Desperate whimpers and breathy moans spill from your lips, his left hand bruising on your hip. “Caught a glimpse of that pretty young pussy under your skirt. Couldn’t get it out of my damn head. I thought about you n’ fucked my fist every night to that image of you in your slutty little skirt. Too fuckin’ short to cover anything.” Your cunt drools with slick with every word that spills from him; you can feel it on the tops of your inner thighs. The wet suction of your cunt around his cock getting louder and louder and louder. It’s borderline pornographic. 

His voice cuts through the lewd sounds. “Some nights I heard those sweet sounds you made–fucked my fist then too. Were you fakin’ it, baby? Huh. Were you fakin’ it with him? My son ever fuck you this good?” He rambles, grip smarting your flesh. 

Your stomach jolts. Scratch that. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. If your ex-boyfriend’s father fucking you wasn’t going to send you spiraling, then him bringing up his own son while he fucks you dumb certainly will. 

Your mind is abuzz; your brain has gone completely blank. There’s no way you could form a proper word in response, even if you tried. There isn’t a single thought inside your head. It’s too much. Too many things are happening at once. For one, he’s never been this talkative; you were lucky if you got two sentences out of him a year ago. And now he’s asking you if his son fucks as good as he does. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. And he’s not expecting you to. All you can do is whimper and moan while he fucks you with abandon, the way you should have been fucked all those times by his son.

“You don’t gotta answer. I know he didn’t. That boy didn’t know what was good for him if it hit him til he was blue in the face.” And you moan in agreement, still not able to think of a response while his tip jabs at your most sensitive spot. 

“S’okay, you were made to take my cock,” he grits, his ringed finger digging into your skin by the unrelenting grip on your waist. “Made to take mine, not his. Tell me, my cock bigger than his?” 

“Daddy–” you gasp, your cunt flutters around him, and Joel laughs a little at you, a low mocking sound that fuels the fire roiling low in your belly. 

“Course it is,” he murmurs. “You were made for me. So fuckin’ pretty n’ perfect n’  – fuck – so goddamn tight. Tighter than a fleshlight, baby.” He hisses in between sharp thrusts.

“N-” you choke on your words, fresh tears pricking your eyes by the force of him fucking you so hard. 

He clicks his tongue. “You don’t like that, baby? You tellin’ me if I say it again, she won’t fuckin’ squeeze the hell outta me?”

Your cunt answers for you, giving him exactly what he wants and fluttering around him in response.

“S’okay, you can like it. You oughta. This sloppy cunt’s gonna be my new cocksleeve. Gonna blow my load in ya, pump you so full o’me.” 

You squeeze painfully tight around him again and bite your bottom lip to muffle the obscene, broken moan that escapes you. You can’t help but picture what Joel looks like thrusting himself into the toy. Was he using it that night? When you heard him coming with a groan of your name, was he pretending to paint your cunt instead of the inside of faux flesh? Or did he pull out and imagine covering your face in his cum? Your back arches as you push yourself up by the heels of your palms on the ceramic, your head topples back onto your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull, the walls of your cunt tensing at the thought. 

His fingers unhook themselves from your panties and his hand finds the back of your skull, and with a firm grip, he angles your head, so you are face to face with your own depraved reflection. “Look how fuckin’ sexy you look takin’ me,” he growls.

And you do; your vision refocuses on the wrecked girl in the mirror: hair wild yet pulled back by Joel’s tight fist, lipstick stained around your swollen lips, mascara smudged by wet tears at the corners of your eyes, temples glistening with beads of sweat as you’re split wide open, perfectly filled to the brim by your ex-boyfriend’s father’s cock. 

Joel’s fist tightens on your makeshift ponytail, pulling you back into him, and with your back now pressed flush to his chest, he brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, eyes watching each other in the mirror. “You’ve got a velvet cunt, kiddo, s’damn shame my son didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You squeak, your body jostling and rolling with pleasure on every shift forward, the edge of the countertop bruising your hip bones. You’re blissfully unaware of the spit drooling from your lips and dripping all over the sink faucet until Joel points it out.

“Look at you, wanted it so bad you’re fuckin’ droolin’ f’me, naughty girl,” he pants, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. “Wanted me to use you like this, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mewl in response, everything beneath your navel tenses while his cock grazes the opening of your cervix on each harsh thrust.

He tuts. “Aww, poor baby, you were all talk before. But you can’t talk back now, huh? You all cock dumb, s’that it? Daddy, fuckin’ ya stupid?” 

"So – good – Daddy,” you force a choked moan. Your cunt clamps down around him, and it burns, flames running wild, scratching away at your nerves as the fat head of his cock brushes against your g-spot again. As if he can feel it too, the snap of his hips grows more desperate. Faster. Harder. Deeper. 

“Keep doin’ that, doin’ so good for me, kiddo. Just a little more, give it to me, come on daddy’s cock, c’mon,” he rasps. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, his cock hitting you so deep each time his hips swing, and the weight of his balls slapping wetly against your clit has you hurtling full speed towards your release. 

“Daddy – oh f– fuck,” your voice all broken and hoarse. Your entire body goes painfully tight, thighs quivering, and something deep within you snaps. Your eyes screw shut as the energy thrums through your blood. Your mind is a dizzying blur, white light streaking behind your eyelids, and there’s a low ringing in your ears as your orgasm fully engulfs you. 

"Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, kiddo, there you go, let her soak me,” Joel praises as he fucks you through your high, cunt throbbing while your hips move lazily back and forth on him. 

As your orgasm settles, your body goes limp, and your head begins to dip, but Joel tightens his grip on you, shifting your body like a ragdoll until you’re on your tiptoes, the perfect angle for him as he fucks relentlessly into you. 

And with the blissed-out daze of the afterglow and the roaring music from the otherside of the bathroom door getting louder, you can just barely make out Joel’s low rambles of obscenities — almost like he’s mumbling to himself — and the quick, wet, smack, smack, smack of his hips against the plush of your ass as he pummels your cunt, desperate for release — as if his life depends on coming inside you. 

He grunts and through bleary eyes, you watch him through the mirror. He looks wrecked as he chases after his high. He must feel your eyes on him because then his eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and your cunt squeezes him unconsciously. That sends him overboard. His movements become sloppy, and you feel him twitch inside you. His jaw slackens, his eyes pinching shut while his head lulls back, and a breathless chant of, oh shit, fuck that’s it, fuck, escapes him as he comes undone.

His hands clamp, hips finally stuttering, a deep groan slipping past his lips, and then you feel the heat spreading inside you as thick spurts of his seed spill deep inside your cunt. His body falls forward over yours, his sweaty forehead falls into your shoulders, and you let him stay there as his cock continues to pulse, hips lazily rutting into you and pumping you full of his load. Your spent cunt spasms around his throbbing cock, and your wet and his, gathers at the base of his girth and trickles down his balls. 

His hips finally come to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hand drops from your hair and begins rummaging through your purse. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Your pen. You watch through watery lashes as he pops the cap with his thumb and brings the tip to the small of your back; your body flinches at the feeling of the cold tip. 

As the ball of the pen drags and tugs across at your skin, for a brief moment you try to surmise what he’s writing, but it takes him too long, and the intensity of your orgasm finally catches up with you. You drop your head on your hand and wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s drawing on your skin. 

You feel his body shift behind you again, but it’s not until you hear the familiar sound of a low click that has you snapping your head up to the mirror. 

Joel Miller has his phone in his hands. 

And he’s not just doing anything with it. He’s not scrolling through it. He’s not opening up the contacts app. He’s not typing on it.

You catch a bright white flash in the mirror. He’s taking pictures of you. But not just of you. He’s taking pictures of your wasted cunt still plugged full of his cock. 

And for some reason — you don’t move. You don’t stop him. You don’t turn around and snatch the phone from his grasp and call him a dirty old dog. You stay perfectly still, and you let him do what he wants. Letting him take a series of pictures.

But it’s the last few that have his lips curling into a smirk, and he begins mumbling under his breath, gawking at the mess he made of you. 

With his phone poised in his right hand, his left drops to your left ass cheek, his fingers splay across your flesh, pulling your cheek back, and the shutter sound goes off. "Fuck, she’s so pretty like this.” 

Heat blooms in your chest. No one’s ever made you feel like this. But there’s no room for shame when he makes you feel this warm and beautiful... and so fucking sexy. 

And then it hits you. 

No one’s ever made you feel like this. There’s a sudden pang in your heart, tears stinging in your eyes. You’ve always known it. But you never admitted it because it never mattered. How could it? When you’ve never had someone who made you feel worth their time. How could you know what you were missing out on if you’ve never had it to begin with? 

Your head tips back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull, and to keep them at bay, you redirect your attention on Joel; watch him as he presses his hips flush to your ass so he’s filled you to the hilt. With your body still trembling, you wince and close your eyes in overstimulation. Your body sags forward on the cold surface, melting into submission.

You hear a series of shutters coupled with Joel’s mutters of, Jesus, look at her, the prettiest little pussy, look at this messy little hole swallowin’ up my cock, while you feel his hand moving along the small of your back, no doubt getting different angles of the place where the two of you become one. 

It feels like hours have passed by when Joel seems to have gotten his fill. One of his hands finds your hip again; you shiver and gasp in unison as he slowly slips himself out with a wet squelch. He pumped you so full of his release that you already feel it beginning to trickle out. You didn’t think there’d be that much of it for a man his age.

When his cockhead fully slides out from your hole, you have to fight the urge to whine at the loss of it — of him. But it’s what he does next that stops you from reveling in that; his hand quickly reaches down between your bodies, and two thick fingers catch the cum dripping out of you and push it back inside. You whimper tiredly. 

You stay bent over the sink, and suddenly, for a very brief moment, you feel the heavy weight of his cock slap wetly against your left ass cheek, and for the last time, the camera shutters. 

He quickly pockets his phone, and then he’s pulling your panties over the ache between your thighs, and his hands tentatively pull the skirt back down over your ass, smoothing out the rumpled fabric. You can hear the low rustling behind you — the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle, tucking himself back into his pants.

And then Joel Miller surprises you again. He leans forward over you and places a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder before his hands are on you, gently tugging your body upright and turning you around to face him as he murmurs a low, Let me look at ya. 

His eyes scan over your face, grinning immensely, like he can’t help being proud of himself for ruining you. And you smile bashfully in tandem as you bring a weak hand up to your face. Joel shoos your hand away and rubs his thumb under your eyes, gently wiping away your tears and smeared mascara, then doing the same to the smudged lipstick at the corners of your mouth. 

He’s always been rather soft with you, but it’s a stark contrast in comparison to his earlier behavior; it almost gives you whiplash thinking about it. How he fucked you so full you could feel him in your chest, the stream of profanities he cursed under his breath, moaning the dirtiest things  — comparing himself to his son while inside you, taking filthy pictures as evidence of what the two of you have done together, then cleaning you up like it’s second nature to him. All of it was filthy. He’s filthy. But there was always a softness to him, and there’s no doubt about it in this moment.

You take the opportunity to mirror him and caress away the lipstick that stained his lips from your kiss, you smile and he sighs at the contact. His thumb swiftly pads over your bottom lip, his gaze lands on your lips, a sort of hesitance, perhaps deciding if he wants to kiss you again. Then, his thumb catches on your plush bottom lip. Joel’s lips twitch, his eyes go dark as he drags the flesh of your bottom lip down, eyeing something he knows he almost missed. He scoffs slightly and shakes his head in near-disbelief. You smirk knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

His entire face blossoms with cherry red as he does another once over on the black ink inside your mouth. 

“Angel, my ass,” he mutters under his breath before wetting his lips. Already hungry for more. 

He tilts your chin upwards and leans forward to kiss you. It’s softer, slower this time, but of course, he still nips gently at your bottom lip, and at the same time, he slips his free hand down between the two of you once more. It moves beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers shoving your panties to the side, the pulp of his middle finger pushing through your puffy folds and into your dripping hole, until the black ink that reads, brake, is entirely sheathed inside your worn cunt, making sure his come stays where it belongs. You whimper against his lips, bucking into his hand.

“Keep that in there, f’me,” he mutters, his hot breath fanning over your lips. “Want you thinkin’ o’me when it drips outta ya tonight.” 

You whine faintly when Joel removes his hand. He brings it up to his face, and his tongue darts out to glide across the tip of his digit, licking his finger clean of your wet and his, all while keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. 

There’s a long beat of silence between you, and then he drops his hand, pulling away. Your heart falls, already missing the warmth emanating from his touch.

“We oughta get back before people start looking for us,” he murmurs as he steps back. You smile softly and nod. You’re not sure you’ll see him again. And you don’t have the heart to ask him, nor do you have the strength to handle it if he rejects your offer. You have nothing else to give. 

You love how he made you feel, but your chest twinges — one that twists deep. And no matter how much you try to quell that deep-seated fear, it never truly leaves you. A little voice in the back of your mind that repeats on a loop like a broken record, telling you: He’ll break your heart. They all do. But he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. You resist the urge to turn and run. And instead, you turn to glance back in the mirror, sure to tame your disheveled appearance, giving Joel a chance to leave before you, slipping back into someone from your past.

He makes his way to the door, sliding the lock open; his hand curls around the handle but pauses before pulling it open. He turns to face you. “You okay?” he asks. 

It shocks you. It’s more than his son ever did. Certainly means more to you after he’d ask, Was it good, after coming in you before you even got started. Everything Joel did tonight is more than his son ever did; asking you questions all night and listening attentively while you answered them — whether it was with the hope of fucking you or not — doesn't matter. You fought tooth and nail for a sliver of his son’s attention, but with Joel, he just fucking gave it to you. 

You do your best to ignore that gnawing feeling of fear, clawing its way up your chest by the only way you know how; you press your lips to Joel’s, pushing your tongue into his awaiting mouth, and licking along the rim of his teeth. A strong hand curls around your jaw, fighting for dominance over the kiss, but you don’t let him for long, though. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off him, but not before Joel’s teeth softly graze your earlobe, nipping the flesh there.

You flash him a quick smile, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “Perfect.” 

He smiles softly at that, eyes dancing across your face. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves to the side, letting you step out first and following you out. 

You head straight to the booth where your group of four awaits you, but not before peering over your shoulder and seeing Joel stalk towards his crew. You smile to yourself and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear as you approach your friends. As you shimmy in beside one of them, they ask where you were, and their brows pinch when you mumble, I was feeling a little dizzy. Which isn’t a total lie, but no one presses you for more, and you’re glad they don’t. 

It’s not until your friends start collecting their belongings and announce they want to check out the new bar a few blocks down the street when you feel the weight of tonight’s actions sinking into you. You’re about ready to call it a night; your eyes are heavy, your brain is still fuzzy, and your body still has not recovered from Joel railing you. 

You mull over sitting in the booth until the car you plan to order shows up to take you home. But the thought of waiting around in Joel’s presence makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to find out if he’ll be like the rest of them. Something to scratch an itch, and then wiping you from memory. That urge to flee loops back, and your legs force you to stand.

Collectively, you amble through the bar, still bubbling with energy, and as you make your way to the exit, you can feel the heat of a stare on you. You don’t need to turn to know who it is; his broad form ghosts along the edges of your periphery.

You walk against that pull you feel towards him, ache festering, skin burning, and bones grating with every heavy step, your eyes locked on the door like a missile to a target, not letting your eyes wander over to his booth, trying to keep what’s left of your dignity. Resisting. Resisting. Resisting. 

Lucas steps out first, holding the door open for another group of younger twenty-somethings as they saunter into the bar. While you hang back, you quickly mumble over your shoulder to Nell that you’re thinking of heading home. Worry cuts across her face, and she extends an offer, At least let me drive you home, hun. 

Your answer is cut off by the chime of your phone in your purse. You still and fumble for it and see a message from Mr. Miller. You had forgotten you never deleted his number. 

Holding your phone close to your chest, cautiously away from your friend’s curious eyes, you click on the notification.

He’d sent you two of the pictures he happily took at the top of the hour with a message that reads, Look damn sexy on my cock, kiddo. 

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and pride swells in your chest as you glance at the first picture: Joel plugging your used cunt full of his length, his graying pubic hairs drenched and the base of his shaft gleaming with a white ring of creamy release. Your eyes flit upwards, and you finally get a chance to read the dark permanent lines he’d written on your skin.

Joel had crossed out the latter half of your tattoo on your ass cheek. It now reads, daddy’s fleshlight, in sloppy penmanship. With his grip porcelain white, the cross on his thumb makes an appearance as his digit digs into your hip at the corner of your tattoo. Your eyes drift further north, and above the globe of your ass, the small of your back reads, mine. 

Your thumb swipes across the screen to the second picture. With his cock poised in his hand, he had pressed the swollen mushroom head, only a hairsbreadth beneath the ink on the plush flesh of your ass — black ink shiny with a pearly film, he had smeared it in your mixed juices. Your cunt clenches at the images — at his absence, missing the warm, thick stretch of him. And suddenly, you feel his cum beginning to dribble out of you and pool into the gusset of your already ruined thong. 

When you don’t answer. The message bubble appears.

A beat, then two, and then—

There’s a place for you here.

You swallow down the twinge, the ache, press your thighs shut around emptiness, and feel another slight trickle escape your lower lips when your pussy releases more of his cum. You lock your phone and look back up at Nell in front of you. You feign nonchalance and wave her off, telling her you can’t go home just yet. Tell her that you received a few more requests from your boss and you, Don’t wanna take work home. 

She asks how you’ll get home, you lie, and swiftly mention that you just saw Mr. Miller across the bar and that he’ll drive you home. Another tiny white lie. Your place is a solid halfway point from the bar to his house. And when she asks if you’re sure you’ll be okay alone, her hand gently squeezing your arm, brows furrowed with worry, bless her heart, your gaze follows that pull like a magnet and lands on Joel. 

He’s already watching you. 

Your eyes lock with his, one hand resting to the side while the other tips the glass he’d been nursing towards you, winking as he takes a short sip of amber liquid. 

And there’s no pang in your chest. No urge to flee. Just the warmth of his gaze that in any second now will radiate through his touch, turning your bones to ash. 

You flash Nell a smile. Yeah…You’ll be fine.

[annieisverybored]

I’m not okay I promise 😳

[annieisverybored]

if you're still accepting requests, I'd like to ask for Javier Peña and "the only way i know how to describe what i feel around you is home. i feel at home.". thank you in advance, have a good day ✌️

❤️ i'm sorry for all mistakes

warnings : fluff, but also some nudity and sexual innuendos

prompts list here

There were days when he would show up at your door with eyes as dark as night and jaws clenched. Lips as thin as a line. Body tense so that when he leaned in towards you you were surprised you didn't hear the crack of your spine.

No questions asked. Hard kisses. Tongue deep in your throat. Hands hungrily roaming your body. No matter where or how, he had to be inside you.

You were his solace, a promise of salvation after this whole fucked up day. The worse things he saw, the more his brain had to work through, the more he needed simple physical relief.

Your body gave it to him, your presence was needed.

Afterwards, as your bodies slowly calmed down, he would tenderly kiss every bruise he could have caused, every sore spot. He would kiss and apologize. He would call himself an asshole who didn't deserve you, and you would still let him hide in your arms.

You didn't judge him, you didn't expect him to change. Javier Peña wanted this himself, for you, for both of you. You were his whole world, his hope that he still had something of a human being in him, that he hadn't lost himself in this fucked up world.

Even if those three simple words didn't come out of his mouth, you knew about them. It was in his eyes...

But there were other days too.

Days when a man tired of everything would show up at your door. The weight of the world, everything he had fought against, people who died or were hurt, it all poured out on him, and he could barely stand on his feet.

"Javier..." you said, and he almost collapsed into your arms.

After a moment he was sitting on the couch and you were on his lap. His face hidden in the crook of your neck, strong arms hugging you tightly, and you were stroking his shoulders and hair whispering soothing words.

Wanting to be as close as possible, and you still weren't close enough. If he could, he would absorb you with all of himself to forget, to not feel all this.

"Do you want to go to bed?" you asked quietly when you realized that this closeness wasn't enough for him, he needed more.

A nod and you said softly "Come with me." 

The bedroom was immersed in the dim light flowing from the living room. Your fingers carefully unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his wide shoulders. Then the jeans, which you helped him take off. Javier stood before you naked, beautiful as a sculpture. Dark eyes watched you carefully. You took off your clothes and pulled him under the sheet.

Javier was greedy. He pulled you close, wrapping you like ivy. He rested his head on your chest, his long legs tangled with yours. Skin-to-skin contact. His warmth seeped into your body. As your fingers slid into his hair, massaging his scalp, a soft growl escaped from within him.

"I don't know how you do it..." his voice was low "Just holding you in my arms and everything else seems distant, insignificant."

"Maybe I have magic hands?" you giggled, kissing the top of his head.

"Hands, lips, breasts, pussy... Every part of you is magical."

"Javier!" you patted his shoulder "I just want you to feel good. To know that you'll always find what you're looking for here..."

A lazy kiss rested on your breast "I don't deserve you, hermosa. I don't know why you're with a fucked up guy like me."

"I think I could find a few reasons."

Javier lifted himself up and moved closer to brush his lips against yours. It was soft, tender, full of feelings he couldn't yet express, although he felt that he had them under his skin.

"The only way I know how to describe what I feel around you is home. I feel at home." he murmured, his lips brushing yours gently, "You're my everything, hermosa."

You smiled gently, even though you felt tears gathering behind your eyelids. This man was your whole world. You couldn't wait for all of this to end, and then you would just have each other.

You held him close and soon his breathing became steady, calm. Sleep took him, but you still held him.

The only anchor for Javier, the only safe port.

[annieisverybored]

you mentioned that older!boyfriend joel is more of a traditionalist and wants to know you more before doing anything, and i'm genuinely curious about the first date. what's your lore on that?

p.s. you ate with older!boyfriend joel <3

the first date!

no content warnings, pure fluff. it is recommended to read the meet cute installment prior to this one!

older!boyfriend joel masterlist.

older!boyfriend joel whose been budgeting meticulously all week—you’ve finally set a night to go out, and he’s promised to take you to the newest restaurant in town. it’s way out of his usual range, but he wants to make a good impression. a little splurge every now and then won’t hurt anyone.

older!boyfriend joel who feels a little insecure when he puts on his nice black slacks for the first time in god knows how long. they’re a little snug around his tummy once he tucks in his green button up, but they’ll have to do.

older!boyfriend joel whose running product through his curls (the tub may as well be brand new despite sitting in his bathroom cabinet for a few months), spritzing cologne on his neck, trimming his scruff. they’re certainly not daily habits, but the nagging anxiety in the pit of his stomach has him going above and beyond.

older!boyfriend joel who insists on picking you up. you’re out of the way, and he would have had a straighter shot to the restaurant directly from his place, but he doesn’t tell you that.

older!boyfriend joel who stares at the bouquet of roses in the backseat of his truck after he pulls into your driveway, and worries they may be too much for a first date.

older!boyfriend joel whose heart is beating out of his chest when he sees you skipping down the front steps, and it’s too late, so he panics and snatches the bouquet up to meet you halfway. he has to swallow down hard to keep himself in check at the sight of the dress you’re wearing, the smile beaming across your face, the pretty way you’ve done your hair and makeup.

older!boyfriend joel who feels all the stress leave his body as soon as you’re gushing over how pretty the flowers are, telling him he didn’t have to do that, and leaning up on your tip toes to press a chaste kiss on his cheek. he gives you a proper embrace, and leads you to the truck with a hand at the small of your back and a giddy little grin on his face—you like his flowers.

older!boyfriend joel who’s too gentlemanly for his own good: opening each door for you, pulling out your chair at dinner, letting you order first. he’s attentive to you, learning about your life and asking appropriate questions. he’s enamored with the aura you give off, this sort of freedom and liveliness—he could benefit from some of that around.

older!boyfriend joel who’s so amused by the way your laugh gets a little louder and your smile a little brighter after your second drink. if he weren’t driving—and weren’t so damn nervous—he would’ve ordered another. but he doesn’t mind being around to let you let loose. in fact, he feels a sense of pride at your willingness to let your inhibitions down around him so soon.

older!boyfriend joel who notices the way you keep leaning your elbows closer and closer to him across the table, your pretty face propped up in your palms as he tells you about something much more boring in comparison to the stories you’ve shared with him. but you listen nonetheless, and happily so. and it’s nice to feel seen, heard.

older!boyfriend joel who snatches the checkbook right out of the waiter's hand before it even touches the table, slides his card into the slot, and hands it back before you even begin your protest. and when you tell him you don’t mind covering your half, he tells you neither do i.

older!boyfriend joel who suggests an after-dinner stroll and forgets what he was so worried about in the first place when you loop your arm around his and rest your head on his shoulder while you walk.

he tells you he knows another place nearby he wants to check out. there’s momentary confusion on your face when he leads you to a convenience store, but joel just smirks.

“thought we could grab a pint of ice cream,” he says. “make up for the one that melted in your car.”

you throw your head back with laughter, and it’s arguably the sweetest sound.

“you’re quite something, joel miller.” you tell him, and his chest squeezes tight.

and so, you sit together outside of the store on the curb, flimsy spoons battling each other in a pint of ben & jerry’s (cookie dough, he let you choose). and when you finish, he drives you home, windows cracked and the soft sound of the radio in the background. you’ve taken his hand on the center console, and he fights the urge not to squeeze yours every few minutes out of sheer excitement.

when you reach your apartment complex, he walks you to your door and blushes when you tell him you’ve had a really, really nice time—double really.

the anxiety returns when you start to reach for him, but he’s pleasantly put to ease when you simply wrap your arms around his neck and hold him tight. he returns the embrace, this time, looping his arms a little lower, letting his face press into your neck a little more snug.

he’s worried when you pull back, and peer up at him with those sweet eyes, that you’ll be disappointed by what follows. he gets a glint of something, a green light as if to say it’s okay if he wants to kiss you right now.

and he does. fuck, he does. but he also feels eons out of practice. he doesn’t want to come on too strong. he wants to do this right. and if it’s real, this glimmering in his chest, he’s certain you’ll understand. that you’ll feel the same way, too.

instead, he brings a hand up to cup your cheek, tilts you forward, and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. he hears you breathe out a soft chuckle, and the grin spread across your cheeks when he pulls back is enough to tell him you do, indeed, understand. you do feel it too.

“i’ll call you tomorrow?” you whisper, though it sounds more like you’re asking him permission.

he’s more than happy to reassure you.

“i’d like that.”

<3

[annieisverybored]

Curse and Comfort - A Jackson!Joel Miller One Shot

You get your period when spending the night in Joel Miller's bed. He takes care of you through it. AKA I wanted a comfort fic for that time of the month so I wrote one. Now you can have it, too.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Reader gets her period so there's talk of blood and period stuff, brief mention of past sex but this isn't smutty (sorry), fluff fluff fluff all the fluff, hurt/comfort, bit of an age gap (reader is in her mid to late 40s, Joel is newly in Jackson so 56-57), talk of pregnancy being possible in the future toward the end, Joel is just the best man because I'm convinced he would be, Joel settled in Jackson is the softest of Joels I will die on this hill, reader can borrow Joel's boxers and has hair of no specified length and can have a period but no description otherwise. Whole blog is hella smutty so Minors DNI 18+ only.

Length: 3.4k

A03 | Masterlist

The cramps and a sticky wetness between your legs woke you up. 

You were naked. You usually were when you shared a bed with Joel, the only exception when you went out on patrol together and might need to move quickly but couldn’t resist sleeping near each other, anyway. When you were home, safe and warm and comfortable in his bed or yours, clothes were far from your mind. 

That was usually a good thing. It meant you could feel the heat of his leg between yours when you hitched your knee over his thigh in your sleep. It meant you woke up with his skin everywhere around you. It meant that, sometimes, when you were both half asleep, you found him slipping inside of you with an unconscious, needy groan, his hips rocking into you just two or three times before stilling, like he couldn’t be close enough to you, even when he wasn’t awake. 

But as you woke up with the foreign yet strangely familiar feeling between your thighs and in your stomach, you realized that there was a downside to sleeping naked. 

You carefully, hesitantly, reached down to your slit and cautiously tucked two fingers inside yourself and confirmed what you already knew: it wasn’t come leaking out of you. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, looking behind you to find Joel nestled against your back, his sleepy breaths hot on your neck, one of his thick, heavy arms draped around your waist. 

You carefully disentangled yourself him and tiptoed to the bathroom with your thighs held as tightly together as you could manage. 

The light felt blinding when you turned it on and it took your eyes a moment to adjust enough that you could see the smears of red over your legs. 

“Shit,” you groaned quietly, sitting on the toilet, trying to figure out what to do, your cheeks getting hot as you realized that you’d probably bled all over the man who’d let you in his bed. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” 

If this had been 25 years ago when you were a college student and the world was still what it had once been, it wouldn’t be as big of a deal. You’d have tampons near by and plenty of clean clothes and sheets so if something got wrecked, throwing it away was hardly a tragedy. Hell, you’d even have a Snickers bar to help make you feel better about the whole bleeding on someone thing. 

But that was 25 years ago and this was now, more than two decades into the apocalypse. It had been years since you’d last had a period and, since you were well into your 40s, you’d assumed it was menopause. It hadn’t occurred to you that it might have been just another way your body tried to help you survive as the people you’d been with struggled to find food and were eventually nearly wiped out by raiders. That was how you’d come to be in Jackson to begin with. Joel’s brother, Tommy, found you a few miles away while on patrol as the threat of infected grew worse and you were alone. He convinced you to come back with him and you’d just stayed. 

You’d only been in Jackson about eight months, which both seemed like so much time and none at all. It was hard to remember what life had been like before this, it was hard to believe you’d been here any time at all. You and Joel and his would-be daughter, Ellie, had arrived just a few weeks apart. You’d wound up spending time with him out of convenience more than anything else. Everyone else in town already knew each other, you and Joel had naturally drifted together. It didn’t take long before you were fucking. 

You still weren’t entirely sure how it started or why it had kept going or how Joel actually felt about you beyond friendship. He wasn’t the most forthcoming man. He kept his hands to himself when others were around, he seemed to less seek you out more than just run into you as the cadence of your lives brought you together. It was like he just chose to move alongside you for a while before going his own way. When you were alone, it was different. The way he touched you, explored your body, moaned in your ear made you feel like it meant something. You hoped it meant something. You’d grown attached to him, more than you really wanted to admit to anyone, including yourself. Because what good was there in loving someone who didn’t love you back? It was the end of the world, you’d take whatever small pieces of kindness and pleasure and care you could get, you weren’t about to be greedy and ask for more. 

So you had Joel in his stoic, strong way of being, and you treasured that. But you weren’t together, not really. He didn’t have any reason to tolerate something like you fucking bleeding all over his bed with no warning. And the last time like this had happened, you’d been in your 20s and that guy had practically bitten your head off, pissed at you for not knowing you were about to start your period and wrecking his sheets. Why would you expect Joel to be any different? 

What were you supposed to do? It was the middle of the night, did you wake him up to check the sheets? Did you see if there was scrap cloth to put in your panties to soak up the blood? Did you use his shower and hope that you could get cleaned up without staining something else he owned? 

You weren’t sure when you’d last felt this mortified, tears stinging at your eyes. Why couldn’t this have happened when you were alone? Or at least in your own damn bed instead of his? 

You heard the creak of the floorboard only a second before the gentle knock at the door made you wince. 

“Baby?” Joel said, his voice thick with sleep. “Everythin’ alright?” 

“Fine,” you said, trying to keep your tone from sounding wet. It was easier said than done. 

“Don’t sound fine,” he said. “Can I come in?” 

“Um…” 

“Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said gently. “C’mon, baby. Lemme in.” 

You sighed and stretched to unlock the door before staring determinedly at your clasped hands as you sat, dripping blood into his toilet while it was still smeared and drying over your thighs. 

Joel had pulled on his flannel pajama pants before seeking you out and he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest as you felt his eyes on you. 

“You OK?” He asked after a moment. 

“Fine,” you sniffed, trying to get your shit together. You were a middle-aged woman, for fuck’s sake, you had no business crying over a goddamn period. You sat back and really looked at him for the first time since he’d come into the bathroom and watched as his face shifted when he saw your legs, blinking in shock for a moment. 

“Oh,” he said. “I thought you just weren’t feelin’ well…” 

“I’m really sorry,” you cut him off, your chest getting tight. “I can clean it up, I…” 

“S’OK,” he said quickly. “Just… uh… get yourself cleaned up.” 

He left before you had a chance to respond, closing the door behind him and you just sighed, leaning on your knees again, trying not to cry. 

***

Joel tried to not be too loud knocking on his brother’s door. He knew the baby would be asleep, the last thing he wanted to do was send the whole house into a tizzy. He wasn’t trying to be a problem, but it’s not like he had anywhere else to go. 

He knocked, hoping it was loud enough to rouse Tommy or Maria but let their child sleep. 

Just as he was going to knock again, the porch light flipped on and Tommy opened the door, squinting against the brightness of it as he glared at Joel. 

“It’s 3 a.m., Joel,” he said, his voice groggy. “You know what 3 a.m. means, right? It means people are fuckin’ sleeping…” 

“It’s an emergency,” Joel said. Tommy stood up straighter then, reaching behind him to grab his jacket but Joel shook his head. “Not that kind but… is Maria awake?” 

“She is now,” he muttered and then sighed. “Come in, I’ll get her. She’ll really love you after this…” 

Joel hovered in their living room, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets, thumbs drumming against his hips as his brother went to get his wife. 

It had been years since he’d had to worry about anything like this with a lover. Ellie, of course, had needed to keep up with a supply of tampons and they worked their way across the country and he’d gotten accustomed to looking for them any time they stopped somewhere to scavenge supplies but, since they’d come to Jackson and she’d been supplied with… some other solution Joel didn’t ask for details about, it had been far from his mind. 

As far as he knew, you didn’t have periods anymore. You hadn’t said as much but there were clues. You sure as hell weren’t worried about pregnancy. You’d told him as much after the third time the two of you had slept together and he lost control, not pulling out like he knew he should have, apologizing to you over and over as he cleaned you up. 

“It’s fine,” you’d laughed. “That’s not something I need to worry about.” 

He didn’t ask for details. He just relished the freedom and intense pleasure that came with coming in you all the goddamn time. He tried to remember, over the last six months, if there was a time where the two of you had gone more than just three days without sleeping together that he just hadn’t noticed but he couldn’t place one. 

“This had better be good,” Maria grumbled, shuffling into the room, her hair in a bonnet and her arms crossed over her robe. “Lucky you didn’t wake up my kid…” 

“Believe me, ain’t tryin’ to cause trouble,” Joel said. “And this is… it’s kinda awkward but… well… I… I got a… uh… lady friend…” 

“Jesus, everyone knows who you’re fucking, Joel,” she rolled her eyes.

He just blinked at her for a moment. 

“They… they do?” 

“It’s not like you spend time with anyone but her, Tommy and Ellie,” she said. “It’s obvious. Just get on with it so I can go back to bed.” 

“Right,” he said. “Well, she’s over and… uh… she started bleedin’…” 

“OK,” she looked at him incredulous and he just raised his eyebrows at her. It clicked into place then. “Oh! Oh. OK, and I take it she needs… supplies?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t know where else to go.” 

“No, you did the right thing,” she said. “Just… two minutes.” 

She left him standing there again, not gone long before she returned with a brown paper bag and a hot water bottle. 

“Give her this,” she said, handing him the bag. “It has what she’ll need, plus instructions. This,” she passed him the bottle, “you fill with hot water, it’ll help with the cramps.” 

Joel nodded, an odd sense of almost peace coming over him as he did. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Appreciate it. Sorry for waking you up…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiled a little, reaching out and giving his bicep a small squeeze. “Go take care of your girl.” 

Joel smiled a little back. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

He went back across the street, looking up to the sea of stars for a moment as he did. 

In so many ways, Joel was still adjusting to life in Jackson. He’d been here the better part of a year now but it was so different than the lives he’d led over the last two decades it was still a strange reality for him. No more scrounging to survive, no more constant threat of death and misery, no more constant feeling hopelessness and dread. Life was different here. It made him want something different. 

It made him want you. 

He knew it was hard for you, too. You were new to this life, too, more used to the harsh and cruel realities of the world. Falling into you had been like gravity, a force beyond what he could really control pulling him in. He wanted connection here, he wanted understanding and there you were, so like him in so many ways. 

But it wasn’t just that. It was your beauty, your kindness, your passion that drew him in. He’d resisted at first, the lingering fear of what caring for someone would mean heavy inside him, but the safety of Jackson made it safe to care about you, too. Soon, he just did everything he could to be around you, seeking you out at every opportunity, finding a sense of security and contentment unlike anything he’d really known since the world ended every time he fell asleep with you in his arms. 

He just wasn’t sure how to say that or how you felt. He didn’t want to pressure you, he sure as hell didn’t want to scare you off, so he just kept the warm feeling you gave him in his chest where it belonged. You let him be close to you, he wasn’t about to ask for more, especially when he didn’t deserve it. 

This, though, was something different. It was oddly comforting, having a way to take care of you. He understood himself best, it seemed, when he was caring for someone. If he could protect them, provide for them, hold them when they needed it, he was doing his job. He’d just never had a way to do that for you. While it had been a long time since he’d had to worry about a period in this way, this was familiar territory. He loved you, it felt good to have the chance to look after you. 

The shower was running when he got home and he quickly filled the kettle and put it on the stove before heading to his room. He turned the lights on and pulled back the sheets, finding a bloodstain on the side of the bed that had become yours in the months you’d been together. He quickly stripped the bed - balling up the sheets and tucking them out of sight to wash once you weren’t in the shower - and put fresh bedding on before throwing a clean pair of his boxers over his shoulder and going back downstairs to fill the hot water bottle and make a cup of tea for you just as he heard the water shut off in the bathroom. 

Joel took everything - the paper bag, the boxers, the hot water bottle, the tea - and knocked softly on the bathroom door. 

“Sorry,” you called to him. It still sounded like you’d been crying. He frowned at that. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute, I…” 

“Not worried about that,” he said, frown deepening. “It OK if I come in?” 

You sighed. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

You had a towel over your front when he came in and your eyes were red but you were, at least, not actively crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I haven’t… I had no idea that was going to happen, I’ll clean up whatever mess there is and…” 

“Why do you keep apologizin’?” He asked, setting the brown paper bag and the boxers on the edge of the sink, near the toilet. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry about, baby. Shit happens. I just want to make sure you got what you need and that you’re feeling alright.” 

You just looked at him for a moment, blinking in shock. 

“Really?” You asked, brows raised. 

“Course,” he said, nodding to the bag. “Ran out and grabbed… whatever that is. I’ll be honest, I ain’t sure, I didn’t look. But I got something to help with the cramps, made tea… just take care of what you need to in here and come back to bed, OK baby?”

You just nodded and he turned to go before thinking better of it. Instead, he leaned over and kissed your cheek, breathing in the smell of his soap on your skin before heading back to bed. 

It didn’t take you long before you came in, closing the door quietly behind you, wearing his boxers, your hair still wet. You seemed surprised when you saw that he was sitting up in bed, the lamp on his side of it on as he flipped idly through the book about space he was trying to work his way through so he could talk about it with Ellie. 

“You doing OK?” He asked, marking his place and setting the book aside. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. Your eyes weren’t red now but your arms were crossed over your chest protectively as you came over to the bed. He pulled the covers back and you froze for a moment. “You needed to change the sheets?” 

He shrugged but you didn’t climb in beside him. 

“I really am sorry,” you said, your hand on the bed. “If I knew that…” 

“Baby, I really need you to stop acting like you did somethin’ wrong here,” he said. “You think this is the first time I cleaned up some sheets or ran out and got tampons or whatever was in that bag in the middle of the night? I’ve loved women before, this ain’t new. Besides, you’re the one who has to deal with all the pain and shit. Think I can handle cleaning up some sheets now and then.” 

Your eyes met his then, an odd, almost misty expression on your face. 

“What?” He asked. 

“You love me?” You asked quietly. 

It was his turn to freeze then. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t sure how you felt, he didn’t want to pressure you or freak you out but… the way you were looking at him made it seem like that may not be a bad thing. 

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I do. Is… Is that OK?” 

“Yeah,” you laughed, smiling for the first time since this whole thing had started. “Yeah, it is because I love you, too.” 

He smiled, too, something warm and comforting starting in chest and spreading over his whole self when you said it. You loved him, too. 

“Well, should get in bed with me then, woman,” he said and you laughed before climbing in. 

You snuggled against his side before putting the hot water bottle over your lower stomach and drinking your tea, Joel’s arm around your shoulders, fingers trailing over your bared skin. When you were done, he turned out the light and the two of you settled in, you on your back, Joel on his side, one arm below you, his other hand resting on the hot water bottle, holding it in place over your skin. 

“I haven’t had a period in forever,” you said quietly. “I thought all that was done for me.” 

“Place like Jackson can change a lot,” he said. “Having enough to eat makes a hell of a difference.” 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Should probably… probably start being more careful now that… well, you know.” 

Joel was going to agree but something stopped him. 

He’d meant it when he’d said that a place like Jackson can change a lot. Before be came here, before Ellie, before you, he’d have agreed. He wouldn’t want to bring a child into this world, wouldn’t want to know what he could lose if he did. 

Now, things were different. There was still the twinge of fear at the thought of having a child, the same one he’d have if the world had never ended, especially given his age, but it wasn’t the same terror there would have been even just a year ago. 

“If that’s what you want,” he said instead. “But… I wouldn’t be against the other option.” 

“Really?” You said, turning your head to look at him in the dark. “You… you would want that?” 

“With you?” He smiled softly. “Yeah. I… I think I would.” 

You snuggled closer and he pressed his lips to your temple, his hand still holding the hot water bottle in place. 

Maybe your period wasn’t a bad thing after all. 

[annieisverybored]

Bedridden

If you had cough syrup, you’d use that to put his ass to sleep. But you don’t, so you decide to utilize a different technique, one that always successfully incapacitates a man. 🍆💦❤️‍🔥

Joel is sick and refuses to rest, so you knock him out the best way you know how. (5.4k)

Tags - smut, lotsa sexual tension, blow jobs, pussy pronouns, teasing, fingering, unprotected piv, riding the sick old man’s cock, creampie, non-graphic descriptions of being sick. JOEL DOES THE DAD SNEEZE. coughing, fevers. That’s all. Joel is stubborn and grumpy while you take care of his old as fuck ass. Arguing with the old man, forcing the old man to bathe, forcing the old man to eat and drink, forcing a thermometer in the old man’s mouth. Joel bitching you out the whole time. Joel is kind of exactly like Dennis in IASIP when the gang gets quarantined. Fic Help - My usuals! @beefrobeefcal, your unhinged comments on the doc were the best part. and @endlessthxxghts thank you for your help <3 A/N - Heyyyyyyy. I promised this fic yesterday and then didn’t deliver. Sorry. It just needed to marinate in the doc a little longer or something. It’s been a bullshit ass few days and I’m,,,,handling it. Anyway, I’ve been sick as balls so that’s how this fic came about. Everybody wash your hands 🧼

There’s a fine point late in the year, right after summer turns to fall. You can fall asleep with the window over your bed cracked open just an inch to let the crisp, cool air blow over your face as you cocoon yourself in blankets. In the mornings you wake to that same breeze and the birds chirping, though less and less as they fly south for the upcoming winter. 

Not this morning, though. This morning, you’re awoken by a chesty, hacking cough coming from outside your window. You sigh as you get out of bed and push the curtains away from the window to get a better look at what the hell is going on out there. 

And it’s just your neighbor, Joel. You should have guessed it’d be him, you heard his earth shattering, deafening sneeze the other day when you waved to him as you walked by his house. Joel waved back at you with the same hand he sneezed into. Ew. 

Everyone’s getting sick lately, it goes around quickly in Jackson. Always does - it starts with the kids and works its way through the community, and a good four to six weeks are filled with endless sneezing and coughing and mucus.

Joel’s coughing up his lungs as he rakes up the leaves in your yard, a job he’s seemingly assigned himself, because you sure as shit didn’t ask him to do this. He has a habit of taking on your chores and home maintenance out of his own frustration. 

You pull a robe over your pajamas and slide on a pair of slippers, then leave out of the front door to greet Joel. “Good morning, Joel.” 

Joel clears his throat. “S’actually noon, lazy ass. ‘Bout time ya woke up.”

“Wanna tell me what you’re doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like.” He sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Gross. “M’workin’.” 

“Yeah, I see that. But you sound sick.” 

Joel ignores the accusation, “Your yard looks like shit, by the way,” he says. “Wouldn’t kill ya to rake once in a while. ‘Stead of makin’ me do it.” 

“You choose to do this. I don’t make you do anything,” you argue, rolling your eyes. It’s funny, though. Joel’s turning into the caricature of the old man angrily shaking his fist at kids playing on his lawn. All crotchety and pissed off about nothing. You step closer to him and wrap your hand around the handle of the rake, pulling it towards yourself. “Besides, Mother Nature put those leaves there for a reason,” you add. 

“Sure, smartass. For you to ignore and for me to clean up. Now, give it,” Joel tugs the rake back. Whatever. You let him. Joel rakes more of your leaves into the pile he’s created, then doubles over in another coughing fit. You rub your palm on his back, patting him gently. He’s sweating through his flannel. “Oh, Christ. Fuck me.” 

“Joel, you look awful.”

You help him stand up, “You’re a terrible flirt, darlin’,” Joel replies dryly. But he knows you’re not wrong. He saw in the mirror how pale he looked this morning, the dark circles around his eyes. 

“Oh, shut up.” You press the back of your hand against Joel’s forehead, all sweaty and warm. “You’re burning up, Joel. You’re sick.” 

“I am not sick,” Joel protests through another cough. “I’m fine. How ‘bout you worry ‘bout yourself ‘stead of fussin’ over me.”

“You’re hacking up a lung in my yard. I’ll worry about you all I want, thank you.”

In response, Joel grumbles something you can’t quite make out. You roll your eyes and take the rake from him, dropping it on the grass. “My rake,” Joel murmurs, annoyed and defeated. With your work clearly cut out for you, you take his hand and lead him into your house. “Aw, hell. What’re you doin’ to me.” 

“Taking care of you,” you reply.

“Didn’t sign up for this bullshit,” Joel complains. “I don’t need takin’ care of.”

Oh, he’s a peach. Most men, when sick, are total babies - pathetically crying about their headaches and stomachaches to women who deal with the same symptoms on a monthly basis. It’s charming, truly. But not Joel, though. In his stubbornness, Joel refuses to ever admit when he’s sick, like he’s got something to prove. Can never let himself be taken care of, because that’s his job - to take care of others. Always has been. 

Once inside, you have Joel take off his boots, then usher him to the bathroom with a hand on his back, his flannel damp with sweat. “Sit.” You reach for Joel’s shoulders and push him down, forcing him onto the lidded toilet. You crouch down at the bathtub and plug the drain with the stopper, then turn the water on - not too hot, not too cold. “Yeah, this is good. This’ll make you feel so much better.” 

“Oh, c’mon. Turn off the damn water. I’m not takin’ a bath.” 

“You are, too.” 

“Am not.” 

“Joel,” you bite. Joel parrots your name back in the same threatening tone.

“We’re breaking that fever one way or another, Joel. So you bathe yourself, or I’ll do it.” 

Joel cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, will ya, now?”

You go quiet, no retort to his comment. Heat rises to your cheeks and you focus on the bathtub filling with water to avoid Joel’s taunting gaze. After a long enough silence passes, Joel changes the subject. “I don’t have any clean clothes, y’know.” 

“Then I’ll grab you some from your house,” you mumble.

“Mm,” Joel grunts. “Got an answer for everything, don’tcha?”

You glare. Joel glares too. You fold your arms across your chest and raise your eyebrows at him. You are not losing this battle. 

Joel sighs in defeat. “Alright, go on an’ get, then. I’ll take the fuckin’ bath if it’ll get me fifteen minutes away from you obsessin’ over me. There. Happy?” 

“Happy.”

You leave Joel in the bathroom to bathe himself, closing the door behind you. Still wearing nothing but pajamas and a robe, you change quickly into a hoodie and jeans, then leave through your front door for the second time.

Joel’s house is right next to yours, so it’s not a long walk. Mentally, you’re kicking yourself for your stupid threat to bathe Joel. The way he responded to it, ‘Oh, will ya?’ and how bashful that made you, the embarrassment written all over your face in big, black, permanent marker. Your crush on the older man is obvious, and Joel, never the gentleman, will jump at any opportunity to make you squirm. Like when he catches your eyes lingering on him for a little too long, he’ll tease you for it. “S’rude to stare, y’know,” he’ll taunt, always with that stupid fucking grin on his face. Smile lines framing his cheeks, crows feet handsomely peeking at the corners of his eyes. You really need to stop setting yourself up for these things. 

Once in Joel’s house, you head upstairs for his bedroom and rifle through his dresser drawers for some comfy clothes. You pick out a pair of plaid boxers, some gray sweatpants, and a navy waffle-knit henley. You bunch up his clothes and inhale, Joel’s natural smell still lingering in the clothes, even washed. 

In his kitchen, you notice some vegetables sitting out on his countertops. Carrots, potatoes, onions. You grab those too, then check the fridge for leftover chicken or turkey or something. He usually has some, and usually brings it to you after he’s had his fill. “This is for you, trouble. Cause y’don’t eat enough,” he’ll gruff. “Would you like me to heat it up for ya?” And whether you say yes or no, he always does. It seems to make him happy or fulfill him somehow, so you let him take care of you like that. If only he’d let you return the favor.

Bingo. There’s chicken in old Tupperware right on the top shelf, and yesterday’s date written in Joel’s terrible handwriting from an old, dried up Sharpie. You take that too, then go back home. 

You leave Joel’s food you stole on the kitchen table and stop at your linen closet for a fresh towel. You knock on the bathroom door, “Joel?”

“Yeah, darlin’.”

“I have your clothes. And a towel.”

“Good. I need those,” Joel says. “C’mon in, then.” 

You open the door, averting your eyes from Joel’s naked body in the bathtub. “Relax. M’not gonna let you see somethin’ you ain’t ‘sposed to.” He’s got his hands covering his manhood, the rest of himself on display - toned biceps, veined forearms. His belly is pillowy and hairy and his legs look so long, all bare like this. His toes peeking out of the soapy bathwater. You set the towel and his clothes down on the toilet, stealing an even longer look at him when you think he doesn’t notice. “I see ya snoopin’, trouble. Wanna take a picture?”

You roll your eyes and ignore the offer, turning your attention to Joel but keeping your eyes focused on his face. His hair is slicked back, and his grays pop out against the rest of his dark hair, little ringlet curls at his neck. The asshole is criminally handsome. 

“Are you feeling better?”

“I feel fine. Like I’ve felt all day,” Joel lies. His body betrays him instantly when another cough wracks through him. 

“Right. Well, you smell better, at least.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, “Nice one, sweetheart. Thanks. Now scram, so I can get dressed.” 

You leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind yourself again. You can hear the sound of the bathtub draining and Joel getting out of the tub as you stop at the linen closet again, this time grabbing some queen sized sheets and pillowcases. 

In your living room, you pull some cushions off of your sofa and pull out the built-in bed, then dress it with the sheets and an old floral quilt. You cover your own pillows in the pillowcases, then fluff them nicely and set them up for Joel, who’s leaving the bathroom now, combing his hair back.

“Stole your comb,” he says, tossing it for you to catch. He stops in the living room and looks at the pull-out bed that you made up, the corners of the sheets tucked in and everything. “The hell’s all this?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” You mock his words from earlier. “Your bed.”

“You’re bein’ ridiculous. I ain’t even sick.”

You ignore Joel and point to the bed. “Get in.”

Joel rolls his eyes but gets in the bed anyway, springs squeaking under his weight. “M’not gettin’ in this bed ‘cause I’m sick or ‘cause you’re makin’ me. Just feel like sittin’.” 

“Sure, Joel,” you sigh. “How much water have you had today?”

“Plenty.”

“How much is plenty?”

“It’s enough,” he snaps impatiently. You leave him just for a second to fill a glass with some water, then bring it to him. Joel pushes the glass away, “I said I’ve had enough.” 

“I’ll decide what’s enough, now here–” you put the glass into his hand, “Drink.” 

Joel drinks the entirety of the glass, glaring at you the entire time. Good god, if looks could fucking kill. The cool water soothes his scratchy, sore throat, but Joel won’t tell you that. “You’re a tyrant, sweetheart,” he tells you, voice raspy and low. What he doesn’t tell you, however, is that if the shoe were on the other foot and you were the sick one right now, he'd be just as overbearing over your health. Probably worse. 

You pout mockingly at Joel as you take his glass. “Stay here. Don’t get up.” 

You get up from the bed to go into the kitchen and begin preparing a soup for Joel to soothe his aching throat. You start by dicing onions, then chopping some carrots. You toss them in a large pot with some butter, letting the vegetables soften. You’ve even got some leftover bread you made yesterday, so you turn on your oven to heat it up. You can hear Joel getting restless, tossing and turning in the less than comfortable bed. Probably should have turned on a movie for him, left him a book or something to occupy his restless mind. “You okay?”

“M’fine. Mind your business.” 

You open Joel’s Tupperware and chop up his chicken into little bits. When you look up, Joel’s out of bed. You scoff. He’s forcing open your window, grunting as it squeaks. “Joel, what did I tell you? Get your ass back in that bed.”

“Relax, would ya? M’tryin’ to get some air in here.” Joel successfully forces the window open, and cool air blows into your tediously warmed home. “House is a fuckin’ oven.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably your fever talking, dumbass. Put my window down.” 

“I really outta fix this window for ya. Ain’t good to leave it like this. I’ll get my tools an’ I–”

You march across the kitchen and into the living room, knife in hand and using it to point to the bed. “Joel.”

“You scare me,” Joel mumbles, raising his arms in surrender. He closes the sticky window for you, then you march him back to the pullout. Before Joel lays down, he glances in the kitchen at what you’ve been cooking. He heard the sounds of you chopping, but with his nose all congested he can’t smell enough to hazard a guess as to what you’ve been making. Joel narrows his eyes at the stolen Tupperware on your table, the carrots and onion peels to the side, and recognizes it all as his. “Is that my…?” 

“Just lay down, Joel.” 

“Did you take that from my fridge?” 

“I did.”

You’re completely shameless about this, there’s not even a half-assed attempt at lying your way out, and Joel’s beside himself. “You stole from me, you little–” You urge Joel into bed, fluffing the pillows behind him as you ignore his tantrum. “You are unbelievable. I could throttle you, you know that?”

“Go ahead, Joel,” you challenge. A slight breeze could knock this sick old man down to his knees. You tuck Joel into the sheets, then adjust the quilt over him again. And this time before leaving him, you grab an old book of word searches in a basket under an end table. “Here.” You toss it to him along with a dull pencil. That should keep him busy.

Back in the kitchen, you’re still working on Joel’s soup. It’s bubbling away on the stove, and you’ve just finished making egg noodles to make the dish a little heartier. Something to stick to his ribs. It hits you then, that you don’t hear sniffling or coughing. Joel’s gone quiet, suspiciously so. 

And lo and be-fucking-hold, Joel’s up again. This time, with tools. Tools that you don’t have, tools that he must have snuck out and grabbed from his home at some point. “Joel!” 

“There,” Joel says, moving your window up and down seamlessly. “Window’s fixed.” 

“How many times do I have to say it?” 

“How about you try a ‘thank you’, huh?” Joel shoots back.

You shoo him back to bed. You slice a bit of warm bread, then ladle some soup into a bowl and bring it to him with a spoon. “Eat,” you tell him. 

Joel eats a spoonful, and it’s written all over his face how much he enjoys it, the warm broth relieving his sore throat. “So what’d you poison it with, huh?”

“Oh, you’re such a dick.” 

Joel smiles, only teasing. “M’sorry. S’just that you shouldn’t be doin’ all this for me, s’all.” Joel squeezes your knee comfortingly. “Thank you. I mean it, darlin’.” He’ll let you feed him, but no more than that. You’re too sweet for your own good. “S’good soup.”

“I’m glad you like it, you asshole.” You smile too, and push some of Joel’s hair out of his face. He finishes his bowl of soup, even has a second one. You take his bowl away and wash it at the sink.

“Should let me do that,” Joel says, following you into the kitchen. “Ain’t that how it works? One cooks, the other cleans.” Joel bumps you to the side and takes the soapy dish from your hands.

“Maybe another time,” you offer, attempting to take back the bowl. “Don’t want your germs on my dinnerware.” But Joel holds on tight, so you let him wash the dish. Since he wants to die on this hill. So you dry your hands, then feel his forehead once again. You frown, displeased that the bath didn’t work at curbing his fever at all. He’s still burning up. “I’ll be right back.” 

You go to your bathroom and open the cabinet vanity, where you have an old Walgreens thermometer, the paint all smudged off. You wash it with soap and water in the sink, then return to Joel. Amazingly, you find him in the bed doing his word search puzzle, and you didn’t even have to tell him to go lay down this time. 

The bed creaks under you as you sit down next to him. You put his book down, “Open,” you tell him, thermometer in hand.

“Oh, c’mon now,” Joel complains. “Get that thermometer outta my face.”  

You shake your head no, and tug on Joel's chin so that he opens his mouth. You place the thermometer under his tongue and he closes his lips around it, staring daggers at you the entire time thermometer reads his temperature. 

He’s so handsome. Big, sparkling brown eyes underneath brows knit together in irritation. Pouting lips. Age looks good on him, perfectly both softens and enhances his rougher edges.

The thermometer beeps. You read the temperature, 102.3°F. Why Joel’s even upright with a fever like this is a mystery, but that’s men for you. Fucking idiots. “That’s a hell of a fever you’re running, Joel.”

“You’re full’a shit. Gimme that.” Joel sniffles and snatches the thermometer from you to read the number for himself. He shrugs. “S’old. Probably faulty. Can’t trust it.” Joel covers his mouth with his elbow and coughs loudly. 

“You’re old and faulty too, Joel. Look at you.” You offer him a handkerchief to wipe his nose. “You’re falling apart.” 

Joel scowls at you before blowing his nose. You leave him once more, this time to bring him a cool, damp rag. You press it against his forehead, and Joel closes his eyes. “Does that feel nice?”

“No. Quit that.” 

But Joel’s body betrays him. He’s sighing in relief, and his tensed muscles loosen. His breathing, while still shallow, has slowed as much as it can, soft belly rising and falling with steady breaths.

“Are you falling asleep?” 

“No, I’m not. M’not tired,” Joel argues. He tries adjusting the now lukewarm rag, warmed by his body heat.

“You should sleep.”

“Nah.”

 You take the damp rag off of Joel’s forehead and flip it so that the cooler side soothes his hot, feverish skin. “You know, Joel, I think this is why god made women. To take care of stupid, sick men like you.”

“Hm. Could be so. But I think he sent you to me as a punishment of sorts.” 

“Is that so? A punishment?”

“S’right. An’ some day, you’ll fool some poor man into marryin’ you and he’ll have to put up with this same shit the rest of his life. I don’t envy that sorry bastard one bit.” 

“Oh, I know,” you coo, wiping away a droplet of water that rolls down his temple. “You tell me all about it, Joel. Tell me how terrible it is.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Joel continues his tirade, bitching and moaning about how you're doing too much, that none of this is necessary. ‘Quit fussin’ over me’ and so on.

You know that after this, Joel will try to leave you, go home and fiddle with things in his home that aren’t broken - or worse yet, he’ll tinker with the things in yours that he deems in need of fixing. Squeaky door, creaky floor panels. You listen to his slight wheezing, his sniffling, his voice all raspy and broken. He really does need to rest, the poor man. 

If you had cough syrup, you’d use that to put his ass to sleep. But you don’t, so you decide to utilize a different technique, one that always successfully incapacitates a man. 

You remove the damp rag from Joel’s head and set it on the coffee table behind you. Joel’s eyes are shut as he takes shallow breaths, and you trace lazy patterns on his stomach, inching your way down, down, until you’re rubbing his warm bulge, feeling him stiffen beneath your touch. “Goddamnit, what the hell are you doin’ t’me, now?” Joel groans. He takes your wrist and squeezes it gently in his grip.

“Nothing, Joel,” you answer innocently.

 “Bullshit, it’s - you’re - oh, fuck.” Joel bucks into your palm. You slide your hand beneath his sweatpants to touch his bare cock, amused at how Joel decided against wearing boxers today. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart. You gotta, you can’t–”

“Shhh,” you hush him. You drag your nails through his patch of coarse hair, playing with those long and wiry hairs. You palm his cock again, half hard and growing harder by the second. Before this goes further, you tug his sweatpants down his thighs. “Lift up for me, Joel.”

Joel lifts his hips and you tug his sweats down the rest of the way, then continue touching him. You spit into your hand and pump him from top to bottom, taking special care to gently massage his balls when you reach the base of his cock. “Ohh, darlin’. Oh lord.” 

Joel’s stiffened to full length now. You kiss the tip of his cock, all the way down his shaft before licking your way back up, one long, fat stripe. You swirl your tongue around the head and dip your head, teasing him with it as you bob your head up and down, taking more and more of him down your throat with each pass.

Joel moans, his sick voice breaking a little. He keeps a heavy hand on your bobbing hand and wonders what the hell he did to deserve this from you. He should have stopped fighting his sickness long ago if this is what was in the cards for him. 

Realization dawns on Joel. It all makes sense, why you’re sucking him off at this particular moment. You’re trying to put him to bed, you goddamn deviant. “You’re trouble,” he accuses. “I know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“Hmm?” You turn your head to Joel, his cock still in your mouth. You bounce it against your inner cheek, and Joel groans at the lewd image of his cockhead bulging in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Joel says. “And let me - oh, fuck-” You drop your head low, taking all of him into your mouth. So deep that your nose is buried in his pubic hair. “Let me tell ya, darlin’, what you’re doin - it ain’t gonna work on me.”

You pull off of his cock with a pop. “It won’t?”

Joel shakes his head. “Mm-mm. You’re wastin’ your time.” 

“Oh. Well, I should stop, then.” 

You begin to pull off of his cock, but Joel forces you back down. “Nah, you don’t have t - you gotta give it your best shot, right?”

You smile with Joel’s cock in your mouth. What a fucking guy. You pull off of him only momentarily, garnering a protesting groan spilling from his lips. You take off your shirt and unbutton your pants. “Lemme help you with that, c’mere, darlin’,” Joel says, pulling your pants and panties down your legs. He unclasps your bra next, then sheds his own clothing. 

You take him right back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you suck his length. This time, though, you play with your pussy. As you move up and down Joel’s shaft, you slip through your folds, dipping down to your wet hole to gather your arousal on your fingertips. You circle your clit a couple of times, then push your fingers in and out of your pussy. 

“You fuckin’ yourself on your fingers, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, mouth stuffed full of Joel’s cock.

Joel pulls your hand away and replaces your fingers with his own, much thicker and longer ones. “Let me,” he says. “S’my job. Shouldn’t have t’do that to yourself, ‘less you wanna. Or if I say so.” 

Joel spreads your thighs wider. He moves his pointer and middle fingers up and down, exploring your slick, velvety pussy. He sucks those two fingers and then his thumb and rubs tight circles around the sensitive nub, all swollen and wet with your arousal. You moan at the action, the vibration of your voice traveling right down his shaft and to his balls. He bucks himself into your mouth.

Joel inserts his middle and ring fingers into your pussy, pumping in and out slowly before curling them upward, stroking right where you need him to. “Got a nice fuckin’ pussy,” he purrs with his hoarse, gravelly voice. You pulse around his fingers, and Joel admires the way your tight hole hugs him as he moves in and out of you. “She’s makin’ such a mess, drippin’ all over me.” 

You twist your fist up and down Joel’s shaft as you suck him, working him closer and closer to the edge. Joel’s content with this, the prospect of coming down your throat and fucking you with his fingers. But you have a different idea, and when his balls are tightening and his shaft is twitching, his breathing quickening, you pull off of him. 

Joel groans in frustration, but his anger is quickly eased when you straddle his hips. You reach between your legs for his cock and stroke it, dragging the tip through your folds, up and down, up and down, dipping it in and out of yourself to tease him. “You’re fightin’ dirty.” 

 Joel’s exercised enough self control today and doesn’t let you tease him for long. He puts both of his large, weathered, and masculine hands on your waist and pulls you right down on his cock, the initial penetration causing a stretch so intense you see stars for a second. “Oh god, Joel,” you moan, clutching his shoulders. 

“I know, I know,” Joel whispers, rubbing your back. “You good, sweetheart? You need a minute?”

 “Just - just a second.”

 “Take your time. Know it’s a lot, you’ll get used to it.” 

Joel gives you a second, then inches you up and down on his cock to get you adjusted to the sensation of being so full of him. Soon enough, the ache dissipates and is replaced with pleasure, nothing but pure pleasure. You rest against his hot body, rocking your hips to grind against his pubic bone. 

You know that by the way he bucked his hips into your mouth, how he pulled you down on his cock, how even now he moves you, that he’ll tire himself out. Your plan was simply to make him come to knock him out, but this - this works too. Exhaust his body, get yourself off in the process. Killing two birds with one stone. 

Joel fucks you harder now, hands on your ass to move you up and down on his cock. He bends his legs at the knee for more leverage, bouncing you on his lap. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunts. He moves you so that your chest is right above his face, and one at a time, sucks your nipples into his mouth, teeth lightly grazing them. 

You hold onto Joel’s broad shoulders to steady yourself, looking down at him as he fucks himself into you. He’s so handsome, cheeks and chest all flushed red, a sheen of sweat glittering at his hairline, his graying curls damp. Joel’s eyebrows are knit together as he fucks you, tracing your curves with his gaze. He pulls you against his chest as he ruts against you, his scruff scratching your skin so deliciously. “Takin’ me so good. Look so pretty on my cock like this.” 

You move at his will. Joel’s underneath you, rocking himself  in and out of your dripping, tight pussy. His thrusts are getting sloppy, hips stuttering in a non-rhythm as he pushes himself inside you over and over. He must be getting close now. 

“Up, sweetheart. Lean back f’me.” 

You peel yourself off of Joel’s middle, all slick with his sweat. Joel spits into his hand and presses the calloused pads of his fingertips against your clit. You roll your hips against him, savoring that much-needed friction against your clit.

“Like that, darlin’. Jus’ like that. Fuck yourself on my cock,” Joel says, rubbing your sensitive bud with tight circles. “Gonna watch you come all over me.” 

“Yeah,” you moan, “Wanna come for you.” 

Joel loves you like this. Your face contorted in pleasure, mouth agape, body quivering and twitching on top of him. He steadily massages your wet, swollen clit and wears a crooked smile when he feels your cunt start to pulse around him. And you think you’re pulling one over on him, but look at you, all fucked out and delirious. You’ll probably crash after this, and Joel will go right back to fixing up your house. There’s a door hinge that’s been squeaking…

“Oh my - Joel, I’m - I’m gonna -” 

“Know you are, sweetheart. Let me have it,” he groans, voice all broken and hoarse. “Come all over my cock, darlin’. Let go f’me.” 

That hot, sticky pleasure in your gut begins to intensify rapidly. You go quiet just before it happens, then let out a long, whimpering moan when your orgasm takes over your body. You shudder and jerk as Joel fucks you through your release, and once you’ve ridden it out, Joel pulls you tight against his chest. 

While you come down from your high, Joel frantically fucks you, slamming his hips against yours as he chases his own climax, balls tightening and his belly filling with warmth. “Oh, goddamn. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Joel pants as he comes, painting your insides with his hot seed, the warmth of his release and the pulsing of his cock so satisfying. 

Coming down from his orgasm, a wave of exhaustion hits Joel. He finds himself unable to move, unable to open his heavy eyelids. He might’ve been wrong, because napping away the rest of the afternoon doesn’t sound quite so bad, now.

You pull your body off of Joel’s and he lets out a sighing grunt when his softening cock slides out of your body, the mess he created with you spilling all over his lap. You grab that washrag you held against his forehead and clean him up and then yourself, then get up to dispose of it. 

Joel grabs you by the arm, his grip weak. “Don’t you go anywhere, trouble,” he grumbles. 

“But I’ve gotta take care of this, Joel,” you protest. 

“Deal with it later. Just -” Joel yawns and pulls you down and holds you tight against his chest, as tight as he can, anyway. “Jus’ stay with me a minute.” 

Joel’s eyes are still shut, and his breathing becomes slow and rhythmic. It’s laughable how quickly sleep is taking over his sick, exhausted body, having used what little life he had in himself to fuck you stupid. Like that last burst of energy from a dying star. “I thought you weren’t tired,” you tease.

Joel sniffles. “M’not.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

“Just checkin’ my eyelids for holes.”

You push some curls out of Joel’s face and hold your palm against his cheek, still hot with his fever. He’s so peaceful looking like this, plump lips pouting as he breathes through his mouth. You bring your face close to his and close the gap by pressing a little kiss against his lips. 

“What’re you kissin’ me for, hm?” 

“I want to,” you reply, kissing him again.

“Gonna get yourself sick,” Joel murmurs groggily, eyes still closed. “Which means in a couple days, I get to do all this right back to you. S'payback, darlin’.”

You chuckle. And in just a few short seconds, Joel’s snoring lightly, dead to the world.

If you enjoyed, please please please reblog with thoughts or comment or hop in my inbox! Your kind words go farther than you know in keeping me motivated to write 💕

[annieisverybored]

jealous possessive javi?

💖

tags: f!reader, smut, javi cheats on you, unprotected p in v sex (this is fiction but be safe irl), fingering, angst, jealous and possessive javi, unbeta'd, if i missed any other tags pls let me know ok thx. ~ 5.1k w/c / gif cred

a/n: toxic!javi stans, this is for us 🙂‍↕️ kat keep your writings short challenge (FAILED) hope you like this my sweet anon 🖤

You’ve been broken up for ten weeks now. Two months and ten agonizing days. Every minute since has felt like a slow burn, as if each breath without him is a reminder of the emptiness he left behind. You thought you’d have been over him by now— Javier Peña wasn’t supposed to have this kind of hold on you, not after everything he did.

Not after you walked into his office that night, a surprise dinner in hand, only to find him fucking his secretary. The image still sears behind your eyes— the slick, desperate way they moved together while you stood frozen in the doorway, a witness to your own heartbreak.

The signs had always been there, even from the first date. The way his eyes lingered a little too long on the waitress or how he’d get that restless look in his eyes when you weren’t around. But damn, he had a way of making you feel like you were the only one.

Like every glance, every touch, was meant for you and you alone. He had a gift for making you feel special, all while hiding his cock’s insatiable appetite behind a charming smile.

Now, you feel raw, like maybe it was your fault. Maybe you weren’t enough to keep him satisfied. Maybe you didn’t do enough in bed, didn’t keep his interest, didn’t hold onto him like you should have. The betrayal made you feel small, made you question every moment, every kiss, every whispered promise. It should’ve made walking away easier, catching him like that. It should’ve been enough to erase him from your mind. But it wasn’t.

And it’s taken this long— two months and ten days— of wallowing, of replaying the betrayal, to finally push you out of your haze. Tonight, something shifts. Your friend set you up with someone from her work, and after much prodding, you said yes.

Tonight, you’ve decided to put yourself back out there. Maybe if you let someone else touch you, if you let someone else in, you’ll finally be able to push Javier out of your mind for good.

It’s been radio silence ever since. After you caught him in his office, the scene unfolded like something out of a bad movie. His face went from shock to panic in a split second, scrambling to pull up his pants, stumbling over excuses. “She meant nothing,” he stammered, running after you with that flustered, desperate look. “It was a mistake!” But you didn’t stop, didn’t even give him a second glance. You barely held back the tears as you hurled the containers of food at him, the dinner you’d lovingly prepared splattering down the hallway, leaving a messy trail as you stormed toward the stairwell. No way in hell were you waiting for the elevator. Six flights of stairs felt like nothing compared to the pit in your stomach, and the thought of giving him even one more second to sweet talk you back into his web made you sick.

You blocked him on everything the minute you got home. Packed a bag with the essentials and bolted to your cousin’s place, where you spent weeks crying yourself to sleep on her couch. Not a single call. Not a text. Not that he could, since you blocked him on every possible avenue. But even then, he didn’t try. Not a knock on the door, not a surprise visit. You realized in those sleepless nights that he’d never really bothered to get close to anyone in your life. Another red flag you had stupidly painted green, thinking he was the man of your dreams.

So when you finally pull yourself together, forcing yourself out of that dark pit of misery and agreeing to this blind date at the bar, you’re in higher spirits. You’re ready to move on— or at least try. But of course, life has a twisted sense of humor. Because the last person you expect to see sitting at the bar, laughing with another woman like nothing happened, is Javier fucking Peña.

You’d recognize that broad, infuriatingly beautiful frame anywhere. He stands out like a sore thumb, even in the dim lighting. Broad shoulders, lean muscles, and the biggest mistake of your life. The shittiest man you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. And yet, the sight of him still makes your chest tighten, reminding you just how much you let him get away with.

You almost suggest to your date that you should hit up a different bar, something far across town, anywhere but here. But no, you catch yourself. You’re done letting your ex dictate your life, done letting him take up space in your head. You’ve shed too many tears over that man, and tonight isn’t going to be another chapter in the same pathetic story.

At first, he doesn’t even notice you. Of course, his attention is fully on the woman he’s with— some gorgeous thing with legs for days and a face that belongs on a magazine cover. It stings, that familiar twinge of jealousy creeping in. You can’t help it, especially when you know he’s always going to have a pretty girl on his arm.

It’s not until your date excuses himself to use the restroom that Javier’s dark, smoldering eyes finally land on you. And what does he do when your gazes meet? He fucking smirks. That slow, deliberate smirk that used to make your knees weak. He throws in a wink for good measure, casually bringing his short glass up to his lips, taking his time with a sip as if he hasn’t just shattered your evening. His eyes linger on you, tracing every inch of your body, undressing you from across the room without so much as a word.

You shift in your seat, heart pounding in your chest as you quickly turn away, forcing your focus on some random sports game playing on the big screen nearby. But even with your eyes elsewhere, you can feel it— the weight of his stare crawling down your neck, tracing the line of your plunging neckline. Of course he’s looking. Tonight is the night you pulled out the dress— the one kept tucked away for special occasions, the revenge dress.

Every girl has one. The one that hugs in all the right places, the one you save for when you need to remind the world, and yourself, exactly what you’re made of.

And while your date had all but drooled when you stepped out in it, there’s no denying the heat in Javier’s gaze from across the bar. You don’t have to look at him to know what he’s thinking— he’s already imagining that dress crumpled on his bedroom floor.

Your date returns from the restroom, noticeably tipsier and much more handsy than when he left. His touch is bold, his fingers possessive, and you revel in it.

You lean into the attention, letting him pull you closer, putting on a little show for the audience you know is watching. Javier might think he’s the only one who knows how to have fun, but you’re going to make sure he sees just how wrong he is.

Your date’s hands wander over your body— grabbing at your ass, pulling you into him by your hips. He leans in, hot breath against your ear, whispering all the filthy things he’s planning to do to you in the back of his car.

He doesn’t even want to wait until you’re back at your place. He’s desperate, and though you hesitate for a second— things are moving a lot faster than you planned— you can feel Javier’s eyes burning into the back of your skull. His relentless glare pushes you forward, stirring something reckless inside of you.

So, you let it happen. You let this guy press his body into yours, his hands traveling, voice dripping with lust, promising you things he probably won’t even remember tomorrow. But in the heat of the moment, you don’t care. It’s not about him, really. It’s about you. About knowing that Javier’s watching every second of this, hating every second of this, and that’s enough to fuel you.

The next thing you know, you’re outside in the alley behind the bar, lips locked like horny teenagers. His mouth is on your neck, sucking on that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak, and despite yourself, you let out a soft moan.

His fingers slip beneath your panties, fumbling as they rub at your clit, off-rhythm and sloppy. But right now, that doesn’t even matter. What matters is that someone else is touching you. Someone else is making you feel something other than loneliness and anger.

Suddenly, he’s ripped off you, and the cool air rushes in where his body had been pressed against yours. Your eyes snap open, and there he is—Javier, seething with rage, his hand gripping your date by the collar. The force with which he slams him into the brick wall makes your heart lurch.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” you shout, the shock sobering you up fast as you yank down the hem of your dress, covering yourself as best as you can. Anger surges through you, hot and wild. Your hands tremble as you take in the scene— Javier’s knuckles white against your date’s shirt, his face a mask of pure fury.

Javier’s voice is low, dangerous, a growl vibrating from his chest. “Who the fuck do you think you are, touching what’s mine?”

The laugh that bursts out of you is involuntary, bitter, filled with disbelief. His?! Your mind spins. After everything he’s done, after the way he broke you, he still has the audacity to act like you belong to him? Like you’re some possession he can claim when it suits him?

“She didn’t tell me she was seeing anyone,” your date stammers, already backing down, and you want to scream. Men used to go to war. Now, they cower when a bigger man steps in.

You feel an irrational surge of anger, not just at Javier but at this pathetic display of submission.

“Because I’m not,” you spit, stomping over to where Javier has your date pinned against the wall. You shove at Javier’s arm, trying to break his grip, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. You forgot how strong he is, how solid. His presence alone feels suffocating, like a storm rolling in and swallowing all the air around you.

Javier’s eyes flick toward you for a split second before turning back to the man trembling in his grasp. “You come near her again, and I’ll shoot your fucking knees out. You hear me? She doesn’t need a limp dick motherfucker like you putting your filthy fucking hands on her.” His words are a snarl, dripping with venom, and you can see the terror in your date’s eyes, his resolve crumbling as fast as it appeared.

It’s brief, but, you think your date might actually muster the courage to stand his ground. However, Javier’s patience snaps, and before you can react, he drives his knee into the guy’s groin with brutal precision. The man lets out a strangled whimper, doubling over in pain, and Javier finally releases him.

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth, watching in disbelief.

“Understood?” Javier’s voice cuts through the alley like a blade.

Your date nods frantically, both hands clutching his crotch as he stumbles away, all but sprinting out of the alley like a scared animal. The sound of his hurried footsteps fades, leaving you and Javier alone in the dim light.

Your fury boils over, fists clenching at your sides. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, Peña,” you snap, marching up to him and shoving at his chest with every ounce of strength you can summon. But he doesn’t budge. He stands there, unshakable, like the damn tower of arrogance he’s always been.

“Ruining my date, acting like you have some claim over me. I’m not yours anymore!”

Javier’s dark eyes are locked on you, tracing your every movement, burning a path from your heaving chest to your flushed cheeks. He doesn’t say a word, but his gaze alone sends a shiver down your spine.

It’s not just anger in those eyes. It’s something else, something that has always made your pulse quicken. The intensity of it makes your breath hitch, even though you’re trying your hardest to stay mad, to stay strong.

You push him again, but it feels like pushing against stone. “You think you can just show up, intimidate some guy, and suddenly I’m yours again? That’s not how this works you asshole.”

He says nothing, his chest rising and falling as he watches you, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he leans in, his voice low and rough. “So I’m just supposed to hang back and watch you practically fuck that guy in front of everyone?”

His words send a jolt of heat through you, the way his voice drops to that familiar, dangerous rumble that used to make your knees weak. But you force yourself to stand firm, to remind yourself that you’re mad— furious, even.

You won’t let him have this kind of power over you again. You can’t.

“Go to hell, Javier,” you snap, shoving him one last time before stepping back, your heart hammering in your chest.

But even as you say it, you feel the pull, that magnetic force that’s always existed between the two of you. And as much as you want to hate him, you can’t deny that part of you still burns for him, still aches for the way he used to make you feel.

“Chiquita,” he drawls, sending shivers down your spine. “You can’t talk to me all angry like that, looking this fucking good, and expect me not to want to push you up against that wall and fuck you like you need.”

Your jaw drops, your brain scrambling for a response, but nothing comes out. His words hit you like a slap, bold and filthy, and despite yourself, heat shoots straight to your cunt. You curse under your breath, hating how your body betrays you.

“Y-You—” you stammer, but you can’t even string a sentence together. And that’s all it takes for him to smirk, that infuriating, knowing smirk that tells you he still has that effect on you.

“You’ve got that girl in there,” you snap, voice trembling even as you try to hold your ground. “Your secretary, and probably half the goddamn city, waiting to spread their legs for you. Not me. Not anymore.”

But even as you say it, your voice falters. The truth you’re trying to convince yourself of feels thin, weak in the face of his presence. He takes a step closer, and instinctively, you take a step back.

“Still hung up on that?” He shakes his head, almost amused. “C’mon, baby, I told you. She was a mistake. She came onto me.”

Another step forward. Another step back.

You can’t believe he’s really doing this— feeding you the same tired excuses. But then again, you can. This is exactly what men like Javier Peña do.

They lie, they cheat, and they make you feel like you’re the one being unreasonable.

“Bullshit someone else, Peña,” your voice shakes again, betraying you. “I’m done with you.”

But he keeps advancing, every step pushing you back until your spine hits the cold, rough brick of the alley wall. You curse under your breath, ready to slip past him, to get out of here before he does something you can’t walk away from. But he moves faster, caging you in with his hands planted on either side of your head.

“I’m not bullshitting,” he murmurs as he leans in close. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, and despite every ounce of willpower, your body reacts.

His dark brown eyes burn into you, their intensity pulling you under. “She meant nothing. Pussy wasn’t even half as good as yours. Couldn’t even compare.” His nose brushes the side of your face, and you know he’s inhaling the scent of your perfume— the one he always loved.

“Javier…” you try to protest, but your resolve crumbles with each passing second. His hand finds your waist, slowly trailing up the length of your body, fingertips grazing your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. Your breath hitches, and you hate yourself for it.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers, his voice softer now. His palm comes up to cup your breast, kneading it gently, and your eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the familiar touch that your body still craves, even if your mind is screaming at you to stop.

“You’re a liar,” you breathe, barely managing to get the words out as his fingers tease your hardened nipple through the fabric of your dress.

Before you can react, his other hand moves with lightning speed, wrapping firmly around your throat. He squeezes just enough to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. The heat in his eyes is undeniable.

“Don’t say that,” he growls. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make your pulse quicken under his palm. “Do you know how much it fucking hurt to see another man touching you the way I did? Huh?” He leans in, his lips hovering near your ear as his breath tickles your skin. “You can be so inconsiderate sometimes, cariño.”

Your heart races in your chest, caught between anger and arousal. You should push him away, should scream at him, but the way he’s looking at you— like you’re the only thing that matters in the world— makes it impossible to move.

You open your mouth to speak, but his grip around your throat tightens just enough to rob you of breath, silencing whatever retort you had.

“Letting him put his hands on you like that…” he scoffs, his dark eyes scanning your face as if daring you to deny it. “Touching up on my pretty pussy like he had the fucking right. Like he could handle what’s mine. Even if you had fucked him, we both know he wouldn’t have left you all sore and throbbing the way I do. Wouldn’t have made you wet enough to take his small cock. You’d have to fake it. And for what? To try and make me jealous?”

His words are cutting, sinful, and despite your anger, you feel the way your arousal smears against the fabric of your underwear.

The twisted satisfaction in his voice, the way his grip tightens then loosens just enough for you to breathe— he knows exactly how to break you down, how to remind you that no one has ever made you feel the way he does.

“It seems like it worked,” you manage to gasp out, your voice a rasp as you gulp in air. “You came out here all pissed at the thought that someone else could make me feel better than you ever did.”

That’s what does it. His control snaps.

In an instant, his lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss. It’s rough, possessive, and desperate. His tongue invades your mouth, demanding and unapologetic, as if he’s punishing you for even thinking someone else could replace him.

His hand, the one that had been so firmly on your throat, moves to grope your breast, squeezing you roughly. You moan against his mouth, your body reacting on instinct, traitorous in its desire for him.

“Esos ruidos tan bonitos. Solo para mí.” He murmurs when he pulls back just enough to speak, a string of spit still connecting your mouths. His voice is low, vibrating with dark satisfaction. “Si alguien está mintiendo aquí, eres tú, chiquita.”

His words swirl in your head as you gasp for breath, but before you can form a coherent thought, his hand is already sliding down your body. His fingers trail down your waist, lingering at the hem of your dress before slipping underneath. You let out a sharp gasp, biting down on your lip as his fingers find your soaked panties.

It all happens so fast after that. The hunger between you ignites like a flame catching gasoline. The intensity of the kiss deepens, all teeth and tongues. His possessive touch makes you writhe beneath him, your body yielding even as your mind fights to hold on to some shred of dignity.

“Look at you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice dripping with desire. “Moaning for me. You always do, don’t you?”

“Javier…” You try to protest, but your words are swallowed by another moan as his fingers slip inside your panties, brushing against your throbbing clit.

“Shh, baby. Let me remind you what you’ve been missing,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin as his fingers begin to stroke you. His movements are deliberate, knowing exactly how to play your body, how to coax those helpless little noises from your throat. “God, you’re so fucking wet. All for me. Always for me.”

You gasp his name, your hands gripping his shoulders as his fingers slide inside you, curling just right. The tension in your body melts, replaced with a rush of heat that pools between your thighs. Your mind blanks, lost in the feel of him— his hand working you over, his mouth pressing hot kisses to your neck.

“You mean everything to me,” he whispers into your ear, his voice ragged as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the slick sound filling the alley. “This tight little pussy? She was made for me. Feels like heaven around my fingers. Imagine how good she’ll feel wrapped around my cock, huh?”

Your body trembles, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pressure inside you builds with each thrust of his fingers. You know you shouldn’t be here, pinned against a wall, letting this man who shattered your heart pull you apart like this.

But God, his touch is addictive. His possessive words ignite every part of you.

“Say it,” he growls, his fingers curling deeper, hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Javier…” Your voice is barely a whisper, your resolve crumbling with each passing second as he drags you closer and closer to the edge.

“Say it baby,” he demands, his breath hot against your skin as his thumb presses against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. “Tell me I’m the only one who can fuck you like this.”

“No,” you gasp, using every ounce of willpower to bring your hand down, gripping his wrist, halting the delicious rhythm of his fingers inside you.

His fingers still, his breath heavy against your skin as you lock eyes with him, summoning every shred of confidence through the haze of lust clouding your mind. “You tell me that. Tell me I’m the only one who drives you this crazy.”

The tension crackles between you, thick and electric. Your chest heaves, heart racing as his dark eyes search yours.

He groans, leaning in, his lips brushing yours with a desperate hunger. “You are,” he breathes, but it’s not enough.

You can’t help but smirk, your pussy clenching around his fingers just to tease him, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “Say it like you mean it, Javier,” you demand, fueled by the fire burning between your thighs. “You broke my fucking heart, and if you think you’re going to fuck me tonight, you’re going to admit it. Tell me I did everything right. That you are the one who’s hurting. Tell me how much you miss this pussy. How you crave her on your tongue, how you miss fucking her in your bed.”

His eyes drown in lust at your command. His fingers twitch inside you, but he doesn’t move yet. Instead, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze head-on, staring straight into your soul, his breath ragged and uneven.

It’s a battle of wills, and for a second, you think you’ve won.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he purrs, and finally, his fingers begin to move again, slow and deliberate, a tantalizing rhythm that sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. “Sorry for hurting you so bad you felt the need to find another dick to hop on.” His thumb presses against your clit, making your hips buck involuntarily as you gasp at the sensation. “I fucked up. You deserve better.”

His words are laced with apology, but his actions? Pure, selfish desire. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot that makes your toes curl. Your head falls back against the brick wall, eyes fluttering closed as a ragged moan escapes your lips.

“But I’m too selfish to let you go,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and husky. “I need you, baby. Miss how sweet you taste, how tight you feel.”

Javier’s mouth is on your neck then, his tongue darting out to lick at the damp skin, tasting the salt of your sweat as his fingers continue their relentless assault. Each stroke brings you closer to the edge, and it’s intoxicating— how easily he can unravel you, how effortlessly he pulls you apart.

Your body feels weightless, high on him, and with each praise, each filthy promise that falls from his lips, you’re hurtling toward your release. His thumb circles your clit faster now, his fingers curling deeper, and you can’t hold it back any longer.

“Javier!” you cry out, your walls clenching around his fingers as the orgasm crashes through you, making your body tremble. Your moans fill the alleyway, breathless and raw, and as you come undone, his mouth crashes into yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss.

He swallows your moans as he undoes his belt with one hand, his fingers never leaving you until the last possible second. Before you even have time to catch your breath, he’s lifting you off the ground, and instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s thrusting inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one swift, brutal motion.

“Oh fuck!” you exclaim, your arms flying around his neck as he starts to pound into you, his thrusts deep and punishing. The sound of your bodies colliding, skin slapping against skin, echoes in the narrow alley. Every thrust pushes you further up the wall, and you clutch onto him for dear life as he fucks you hard, like a man possessed.

“Feels so good, baby,” he growls into your ear, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you relentlessly. “Only I can fuck you like this. Only I can make you scream.”

And you do scream, pleasure and frustration mixing together as you meet his punishing thrusts, your body moving on instinct, chasing the high that only Javier can give you.

“You feel that, pretty girl?” His voice is a low rasp in your ear, thick with need, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your core. “This—this is how I fuck what’s mine. No one else can make you feel like this. Admit it.”

His grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he drives into you, deeper, rougher. It’s brutal how good he feels, how perfectly his cock stretches and fills you, like your body was made for him.

You hate him, hate that he can still make you feel this fucking good, but your body betrays you, responding to his every touch, clenching around him as if to hold him there forever.

“I—” you stutter, breathless, eyes crossing as the sensations drown out your thoughts. His cock is relentless, pushing you toward the edge again, and you can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips. “I—God, I hate you…”

But it sounds hollow, even to your own ears. The truth is you can’t resist him, never could. He knows exactly how to break you apart, and you despise how much you crave him, how much you need this despite the pain he’s brought you.

Javier chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “No, you don’t. You love this. You love the way I make you feel.” His lips brush the shell of your ear, biting down on your lobe. “And I love the way you fall apart for me. Just me.”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans that threaten to spill out as he thrusts harder, faster. You can feel the pressure building inside you again, tightening with every stroke, every whispered promise of what he’ll do to you.

It’s almost too much, the way he claims you, body and soul. And the worst part? You’re letting him. You want him to.

“Say it,” he demands, his pace quickening, hips slamming into you so hard you’re sure you’ll feel it for days. His lips find yours again, his kiss angry and claiming. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, gasping, fighting against the overwhelming pleasure threatening to consume you. “Javier—”

“Say it,” he growls, his voice rough and insistent as he reaches between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. He circles it with precision, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through your body, pushing you closer to the brink.

“Fuck!” You cry out, the intensity of his touch stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body is on fire, trembling, and you know you’re about to shatter beneath him. “I—I’m yours…”

The words tumble from your lips in a desperate whisper, and the moment they do, it’s like something snaps inside him. His thrusts become brutal, animalistic, and your world narrows down to the feel of him— his cock, his hands, his lips, all of it overwhelming you, driving you toward that final, devastating release.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now come for me.”

And with that, you do. The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing through your body with a force that leaves you breathless. Your walls clench tight around him, your moans loud and unrestrained as you come undone in his arms, shaking and trembling.

Javier groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself inside you with a low, primal grunt. His body shudders against yours, his grip on you tightening as he rides out his release.

The world is still. All you can hear is the sound of your ragged breaths and the pounding of your heart as you both come down from the high. You’re pressed against him, his forehead resting against yours, the intensity of the moment hanging in the air between you.

But as the haze of pleasure fades, reality starts creeping back in.

You push him away, your palms flat against his chest, but he doesn’t move, if anything, he tightens his hold on you.

His brown eyes still linger on yours, filled with the same possessiveness that’s always been there.

“I told you,” he murmurs, voice low, as if this moment has proven everything he wanted to. “You’re mine.”

🏷️ : @almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @magneticecstasy . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @bitchesuntitled . @angiewatson .

started a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

[annieisverybored]

Thank you Anon for this request!

A Deeper Purpose

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader one-shot

Summary: Living in Jackson during the apocalypse doesn't do anything to curb your desire to have a child. The problem is, most of the men in town are unavailable... except for one.

Warnings: smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, breeding kink (given the request, obv), language, friends to lovers, mentions of anxiety, infertility, pregnancy, angst, pining, alcohol

WC: 3.4K

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you first asked him, he thought you were crazy.

He stared at you in complete disbelief, his gaze flickering down to the drink in your hand, trying to recall how many you had to propose something so insane. But it was only one.

"Are you fuckin' serious?"

"Mhmm," you said confidently. "I've thought about it for a long time. I want a baby and the men in this town are either taken or have the mental fortitude of a child," you joked nervously. "You're neither of those things. Besides... I trust you."

His eyes softened for a moment and he dropped his gaze to the table. You had known Joel for the better part of five years, and while at first he was brash and gruff, throughout countless patrols and fights against infected where you had to have each other's backs, you had grown rather close. Neither of you ever crossed the line past friendship, and you had never even thought about it until recently when your anxiety was keeping you up late at night, wondering if you would ever find a man and settle down to start a family.

It was a luxury in this life, to be sure. The population of Jackson wasn't very large, but in five years you had come to get a good read on most of its citizens. And you kept coming back to the same conclusion: the man for you was not there.

So after much thought and self-reflection, you worked up enough courage to get a drink with Joel after your route and ask him if he would be willing to give you a baby.

You followed up by telling him you would be solely responsible, that you would do all the work and he could be as involved in the child's life as much as he wanted to be, if at all, while he sat there dumbstruck.

Now he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck nervously as he weighed your proposal.

"Can I think 'bout it?" he finally asked.

"Oh, god, of course!" you exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise that he was considering it at all. "However much time you need."

But that was almost a month ago. Each day that passed you became more anxious, more impatient, and it was beginning to sour your mood.

On that particular day you were checking out the park rangers outpost hidden deep within the Wyoming forest. The building was up within the trees, providing the park rangers in the past a bird's eye view of the forest, and now it gives Jackson the same.

Joel was scribbling something in the log book while you strolled aimlessly around the cabin, opening and shutting drawers loudly, already knowing what was in them but just looking for something to do.

"Somethin' on your mind?" he mumbled over his shoulder, his focus still on the book.

"No," you said defensively, but when you angrily began to struggle with a window that refused to open, it became clear you were lying.

"Here, lemme help," he offered, dropping the pencil and walking to your side of the room.

"I'm fine, I don't need your help," you snapped, though you obviously did.

His hands gripped your shoulders and forcibly moved you out of the way before he took hold of the window and gave it a quick jerk, loosening the window in it's frame and finally allowing fresh air in.

He smirked at you and you rolled your eyes before breezing past him.

"This attitude 'bout the window or 'bout what you asked me?" he challenged, stopping you dead in your tracks. Slowly, you spun around, unsure what to say.

"The window," you finally answered, then shifted your weight and shrugged. "Okay, maybe a little of both."

"Mhmm," he said, advancing toward you. "Thought so."

"Well... have you thought about it or are you just trying to come up with a nice way to say no?"

He frowned and propped his hands on his hips. "Now why d'you think it's a no?"

"Because you haven't said a single word about it in a month," you told him like the answer was obvious.

"Well maybe the answer's yes but I don't know how to casually bring up into polite conversation that I'm ready to knock up my goddamn friend!" he argued.

You stared at him, jaw hanging open in disbelief.

"Wait, really?" you whispered.

He nodded and scrubbed his palms over his face. "Yeah, I mean... if you still wanna or... whatever," he grumbled.

The first time was bad, to put it mildly. Your kisses were all teeth, chins and noses bumped together awkwardly. You had hoped once you got down to it that it would have gotten better, but you were wrong. Your rhythms were all off, you hit your head on the end table, and Joel nearly fell off the couch at one point. Needless to say, you didn't come. It was a miracle he did by the end of it.

Afterwards, you both sat there, catching your breaths and wondering if you made a huge mistake.

No, it wasn't a mistake. It was always a means to an end. Ultimately, it didn't really matter if the sex was good or not, the end result would be the same.

Still...

"I'm not usually that bad," you finally said, breaking the thick silence. He groaned and tipped his head back to rest on the couch.

"Me either. I swear, I ain't lyin'. I never usually..." he trailed off, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. "We'll try again. Back home. In a bed. That's the problem. It's gotta be, right?"

"Yeah," you nodded, not fully believing him but at that point, what could it hurt?

The next time was the following day at your home. It was a little better than the first time, but not by much.

"It doesn't matter, Joel," you assured him, tugging your blanket over your chest.

"Matters to me," he said defensively. "I'm too in my head or somethin'. It's still weird, don't you think?"

"Yeah, it's weird," you agreed.

"It's too planned out. Maybe it's gotta be more natural. More... spontaneous."

"Yeah," you agreed.

A couple evenings later one of the other men on patrol was having a bonfire at his home and invited a handful of others, you and Joel included.

Ten or so people sat around a roaring fire, tossing back whiskey and playing cards or swapping war stories. The alcohol made you feel warm and relaxed, your limbs as loose as your tongue when you joked around with the others, joining in on the teasing when a seasoned patrolman admitted to shooting off a crossbow at a leaf that fell just a little too loudly in the woods.

Then you felt a hand on the small of your back and you turned, your eyes glassy and face warm from the booze and the laughs. Joel stood beside you looking just as at ease as you and he gave you a knowing look.

For once, you were on the same page. Neither of you said a word.

You made your excuses, said your goodbyes, and slipped into the night. It was quiet, the rest of the town asleep, so it was easy to hear Joel's voice carry over the wind a few minutes later when he announced his departure, your heart skipping an excited beat in your chest.

He didn't hurry to catch up with you and you were glad. It helped. The anticipation built up on the walk home, and for the first time you felt a warmth bloom between your legs. Your fingers shakily worked your front door when you heard his steps growing closer, the crunching of gravel growing louder and louder until your door swung open and the squeak of old wood under his boots as he walked up your stairs echoed in your ears.

You didn't bother to turn the lights on. His hands were on your waist instantly, kicking the door closed behind him as his mouth crashed against yours with a groan. All you could hear was your shared breath and the rustling of fabric, each of you working to strip the other of their clothes as quickly as possible.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the spontaneity of it. Whatever it was, it was better. Oh, so much better.

Somehow you had made it to your bed and you had never been more grateful to have a small ranch home in your life. When he first pushed inside, you moaned and arched your back off the mattress and his teeth gently grazed your collarbone, sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin. Instantly, you found a rhythm. Your hips rolled to meet his at the perfect time, his hands squeezed and pinched your breasts while his tongue invaded your mouth, only sliding down to cup your ass when he sensed it was becoming too much.

"More," you moaned into his mouth, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He alternated between snapping and grinding his hips, the mix of sensations quickly bringing you over the edge.

You could feel the excitement in his body when he finally made you come. Like he was reenergized and focused, like he had finally accomplished what he set out to do.

"Come for me, Joel," you whispered in his ear before nipping at his earlobe. You could tell he was close by the way his muscles tensed and the deep groans emanating from his chest.

"Yeah? Want me to come in this tight little pussy?" he growled, the dirty talk sending a jolt of surprise through you. Before, he had been so quiet. This was new.

"Yeah," you whispered back, "want you to fuck a baby in me. I want everyone to see what you did to me."

He groaned so loudly you wondered if it could be heard from outside. His teeth sunk down into your shoulder when he came, muffled words being spoken into your skin as he shot thick ropes of his seed deep into your womb, only slowing when his legs began to shake and he collapsed on top of you with a huff.

"Fuck," he gasped, still trying to catch his breath on top of you. "That was..." he trailed off with a chuckle and you felt him swallow tightly. "That was much better."

"Yeah," you whispered, your eyes sliding shut as your fingers gently raked through his hair. You didn't even realize you were doing it or how intimate it seemed considering your arrangement, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he leaned into it a bit as he waited for his heartrate to slow.

Once he collected himself, he propped himself up on his hands and slowly eased out of you with a hiss.

"Can you hand me-"

"Yeah," he said, already knowing you were asking for the small, firm pillow you used last time to prop your hips up, and gave it to you. With a groan, he got to his feet and went to your bathroom while you tucked your knees against your chest, hoping you were getting the angle right.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he handed you a wet washcloth to use when you were done, then began to dress.

He glanced at your face, then your hips propped up in the air.

"You need anythin' else?"

"No, I think this'll do," you joked, and he chuckled before he stood.

"Alright then. See you tomorrow?"

"Yep," you said with a smile, then watched him as he left your bedroom and listened while he slid his boots back on and quietly shut the door behind him, leaving you all alone.

"Fuck, it better work this time," you muttered as you bounced up and down on Joel's lap, your hands digging into his shoulders for support as you slid up and down on his cock. His hands held your waist, guiding you while you rode him on his couch, his eyes transfixed on where you were connected.

"Gotta relax. I told you, it ain't gonna work if you stress yourself out," he replied, eyes still glued to the way his cock emerged from your clutch even wetter than before.

"It's been six months, Joel," you whined, but he shushed you by slanting his mouth over yours. He didn't want to admit it, but he didn't mind when you came to him each month with a look of dejection when your efforts inevitably failed. He felt bad for you, don't get him wrong, but he had grown very fond of the one week every month you found yourself wrapped around his cock.

His thumb found your clit and he felt you tense and your mind went blank. Perfect.

"'S'right," he murmured, watching your face go slack, "just turn off that pretty little head of yours for a minute and lemme take care of you."

You nodded, eyes sliding shut as your hips began to work faster, rolling and grinding down on him until your nails dug into his skin and you cried out his name. Fuck, he loved hearing that. It didn't take much more for him to come, his hands gripping your sides so tight, he was afraid he might leave bruises as he thrusted up into you, giving you every last drop of his release.

"Goddamn," he whispered, head falling back onto the couch as he panted for air.

"Shit," you gasped, voice a little cracked. "Shoulda finished with me laying down. It's gonna leak out when -"

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you and, still plugging you with his cock, twisted around so you were laying flat on the couch and he was hovering above you.

"Better?"

"Much," you giggled, playing with a stray curl over his ear. You gazed warmly at one another, neither of you saying a word as your pulse slowed and his cock softened.

"Thank you for doing this for me, Joel," you whispered, your eyes drifting all over his face, taking in every little detail.

He nodded and swallowed then forced himself to look away. If he didn't, he was worried you would see too much.

He slid out of you and grabbed a pillow, handing it to you blindly before standing and strolling to his bathroom. After he cleaned up, he leaned over his sink, hands curled around the cracked vanity, and stared at his reflection in the mirror with a pit in his stomach.

How did he let this happen?

He should have known. The morning before you came over, he had a bad feeling. Like something had shifted in the air, something had changed without his permission and it left an empty feeling in his chest.

The overly excited knock on his door as he sipped his coffee almost made him want to pretend he wasn't home, that you weren't about to bounce into his kitchen holding two white sticks with a huge grin plastered across your face. But he didn't, and you did.

Either he really sold his reaction to your news well or you were too elated to notice his heart being ripped from his chest.

It was over. You were pregnant, and you no longer needed him. You would no longer come by every month and keep his bed warm. You would no longer share breakfast with him or talk to him about the books you were reading. He would go back to being utterly and completely alone.

It took a good month or two, but he adjusted back to his normal life. You still did patrol runs with him, which he protested, but when you finally began to show around five months, you agreed to stop and found a different job in town, instead.

That made his chest crack back open. Now he hardly ever saw you. It was bad enough he didn't get to be with you, taste you, fuck you anymore, but now he didn't even get to hear your voice. Occasionally he would see you in the dining hall or in the street and you would always talk to him, but it wasn't the same. Meanwhile, you walked around Jackson with his child growing in your belly, your shirts straining against the swell of your womb, the life he put inside you blooming before everyone's eyes. And all he wanted to do was claim you, right there in the center of town for everyone to see. For everyone to look in awe at what the two of you had created together.

One evening he was sitting alone in front of his fire, sipping whiskey and staring blankly into the flames. He had a decent life, considering the circumstances. So why couldn't he just be happy?

Then a rap came at his door. Urgent and loud. He placed his tumbler down and quickly went to open it, surprised to find you waiting on the other side.

"Hey," you said breathlessly, one hand over your round stomach. His eyes dropped down to take you in before he met your gaze again.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you replied with a look on your face that told him you didn't realize he would obviously panic about your wellbeing at this point in your pregnancy. "Sorry, I just - can I come in?"

"Yeah, 'course," he said, stepping aside to open the door wider. You toed off your boots and shrugged off your jacket, allowing him to take it from you and hang it up before you wandered into his living room. Your eyes fell on his abandoned glass and you smiled.

"I miss drinking," you said longingly. He grinned and, leaving the whiskey where it was so as not to tempt you, sat on the couch.

"What're you doin' here so late? Is the baby okay?"

"Yeah," you nodded, tearing your eyes away from the glass and sitting down near him on the sofa. "Baby's good. I just was thinking about you and I wanted to see you."

He perked up at that, he couldn't help himself. "Oh, yeah?"

You grinned and bit your lip shyly before looking away. "I miss you, I guess."

A smile spread wide across his face. "Aw, how sweet."

You swatted an arm out to smack him on the shoulder and he laughed, his heart finally feeling like it was mending a bit.

"Jerk," you muttered, and he laughed again.

"I missed you, too," he finally admitted, his cheeks rosy from the fire and the whiskey as he gazed at you, the reflection from the flames making your skin glow. Maybe it was that pregnancy glow that everyone used to talk about. Or maybe you always glowed and he just never allowed himself to notice until it was too late.

He watched your throat work, swallowing dryly while your fingers fidgeted in your lap and he realized you were nervous.

"What if I told you I missed you as more than just friends?" you whispered, your eyes pinned to the floor, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze.

His breath caught in his throat. Surely, he must have misheard you. But then you finally turned to look at him, tears welling in your eyes, and his heart lurched in his chest.

"What if I told you I'm in love with you?" he bravely whispered back.

Your eyebrows pinched together and your face crumpled before you reached forward, curling your arms around his neck and pulling him close, your lips pressing together earnestly before opening your mouth and letting his tongue lick behind your teeth.

He wasn't sure how you both made it upstairs and into his bed. He couldn't remember peeling your clothes off, one by one, revealing more and more of your changing body to him for the first time. But he did remember seeing your bare, swollen belly underneath him while his hand slowly slid across your skin in wonder. And then he felt it. A little flutter. A little jolt. And he looked up at you in surprise.

"She's kicking," you explained, and his eyes fell back to your stomach.

"She?"

You nodded, placing your hand over his lovingly. "I think it's a girl."

He smiled as tears began to cloud his vision, then bent forward to press a kiss against your stomach, letting his lips linger so hopefully his unborn daughter could feel him there and feel the love he had for her.

You had to pull him away by his shoulders, the both of you laughing softly, unable to believe how much things had changed in just a year.

Because not only were you a couple months away from finally being a mother, but you also realized you were very, very wrong all those months ago.

The man for you was, in fact, right there all along.

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[annieisverybored]

SIT BACK, BABY

written for @joelmillerisapunk's #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Frankie Morales x f!Reader BODY PART: Thighs | WORD COUNT: 4.1k CW: Smut (m!oral), pwp, drinking (not during smut), sorta sub!Frankie.

SUMMARY: You've got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Your alarm clock reads 2:02 A.M. when you stir from a sweat-stained dream. 

Someone is breaking into your apartment.

Or sounds like they're trying to break in, at least. The awkward stabbing and metal scrape of disobedient picks and keys. A sudden fear cleaves through you, skull to stomach, and just like that you’re wide awake. Then you hear a familiar voice mutter, “Fucking please—”

And you sigh. You’re not in any danger.

Yellow light leaks into your apartment from the hall where you find your mountain of a neighbor slumped on his knees at your feet, one hand raised at the level of your lock, a silver key pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

He tilts his chin up, letting you glimpse beneath the brim of his navy ball cap the glassiness of his warm eyes, the flush of his cheeks. His lips part, bewildered or lost. The man looks hopelessly drunk. 

“Haanng on,” Frankie grins, squinting up at you. “You’re in my apartment?”

He drops his hand and his apartment key slips from his grasp onto the floor, unnoticed by him. You’ve lived across the hall from him for two years, steadfast in your belief that fucking anyone who lives in your building—or frankly, within a three block radius—is a hideous mistake. Has that made your hopeless crush on him any less… crushing?

Absolutely fucking not.

Now, seeing Frankie on his knees is doing something terrible to your brain. Giving it all sorts of ideas. You blame his jeans, the brawn of his thighs—how badly you’d like to sink your teeth into them surprises you.

“My apartment, actually,” you correct, lifting one finger to point over his shoulder, across the hall. Frankie turns and, sure enough, recognizes his apartment number gleaming on the door.

“Shit,” he says. You make a point of staring him dead in the eye even when you’d usually look away, just so you don’t look at his legs. The spread of his knees on the carpeted floor. 

Doe-eyed, Frankie blinks up at you—helpless as a pup—as need stirs in your stomach. The urge to hold him. To take care of him for a while.

“I’m a lil’ drunk,” he admits in a whisper, like it’s a secret, like you wouldn’t have known.

Scoffing, you shake your head. “You don’t say.”

He buries his face in his palms and groans quietly, embarrassed. “Hermosa,” he muffles, making your mouth go dry. When his hands drop, his gaze lands at your feet, rising slowly to your legs—he turns, you think, the color of a berry. Something that bursts red against your fingertips in summer.

“You’re not wearing pants,” Frankie says plainly, his eyebrows high on his head.

Shit.

You cross your arms over your chest as if that’ll hide your legs, bare beneath the t-shirt you sleep in. You can’t remember what underwear you have on, if it’s a cute pair or a laundry day pair, and pray quietly that he can’t glimpse them from where he’s sitting, though he probably can. What’s worse, though, is that you can tell Frankie’s not trying to peek. He’s looking you in the eye—respectful, it seems, even on the verge of a blackout.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, trying not to blush. “Y’woke me up.”

Poor, drunk Frankie’s face just folds. Devastated to have bothered you—he huffs softly, lets his eyes stutter closed, dark lashes shivering on his cheeks. It really isn’t fair, how cute he is like this. Grown, drunk men are idiots. Nuisances, at best. And yet here he is—this broad mass of a man, solid in his calm, easy way—managing to be both out of his mind and entirely endearing at the same time. It’s almost annoying, how not annoyed you are to be disturbed from a fit of slumber. You’re sort of glad.

“M’sorry,” Frankie mumbles, staring at the floor. He lifts one finger and with your breath held you watch it move slowly toward your foot until his fingertip meets your bare ankle. Softly, so softly. You hardly feel it, this small touch, his fragile apology. 

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. It’s like he knows you’ve had some stupid crush on him for two years.

“Come on,” you say, as you crouch down to retrieve his forgotten key, then his arm, warm and solid in your grasp. “Think you better get into bed.”

He giggles as he lurches to his feet, thankfully able to stand after you steady him and release the weight of his arm. Cheeks warm, you walk his key across the hall, unlock the door, and step aside for him to go in with a sweep of your hand.

“How embarrassed should I be tomorrow?” Frankie asks, coming to stand at your side to stare down the tunnel of darkness formed by his entryway.

You shrug. “Willing to bet you won’t remember this in the morning,” you say, smirk nagging at your lips as you nudge his key back into his hand.

At the contact, he turns, face shadowed by his hat and curls licking playfully beneath the brim, and though you expect him to laugh or smile there’s not a drop of humor in his expression—he looks, you think, disappointed. Like maybe he doesn’t want to forget. Squinting, you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment, but Frankie doesn’t move. He blinks drowsily at you, bottom lip pouting again.

This is probably the most you’ve ever spoken in one go.

The closest you’ve ever stood.

“Pope’s never gonna le’me live this down,” he mumbles.

You huff a short chuckle under your breath and set one hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, to urge him inside—clearly the man’s never going to go in on his own. 

“That one of your broad shouldered friends?” you tease.

Frankie only budges a step closer to the doorway, frowning as he rolls his shoulders, standing up a little straighter as if to make a point. “Yes,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, honey,” you tease, then drop your hand from his back. “You’re very broad, too.”

“I feel bad I woke you up,” Frankie says softly.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, and you feel it again—that impulse to hold him, make it better. Rub his shoulders or something, just to help him relax.

“It is,” Frankie mumbles sorrily.

“Did you mean to wake me up?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Were you trying to break in, or did you get mixed up?”

“Got mixed up,” he admits quietly.

You catch his gaze and offer him a small smile. “Then I forgive you,” you say. “No harm done, seriously. You’re not the worst person to find at my door.”

This seems to settle him, at least a little, because with one final, frowning huff Frankie surrenders his guilt and nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, and time stands briefly still as he moves toward you—leaning in to graze his lips against your cheek, his stubble brushing your skin. 

You stand, statued by your surprise, unable even to breathe.

“G’night, nena.”

“Goodnight,” you choke out, grateful that in his state he doesn’t seem to register your shock or the tremble in your voice. If he weren’t drunk, you’re pretty sure that would’ve snapped you. You’d have told him right now and right here that you’ll take care of him, help him unwind a little—that you’ve wanted to touch him for two years and it hasn’t gotten any easier, orbiting him without the guts to swing yourself closer to his gravity.

But he is drunk. Three quarters out of his mind, if you had to guess, based on the clumsy muddle of his footsteps as he at last sways into his apartment, shutting the door behind him. Leaving you breathless in the hallway, alone.

In the morning, you wake to a band of sunlight searing through your curtains. You’ve slept through your alarm all the way till ten, and lift your phone to find a text waiting on your lock screen, sent two hours ago.

Think I owe you an apology, neighbor.

Groggy, you frown at the string of digits you don’t recognize until the night comes back to you, piece by piece. Your heart stutters as you sit up in bed, letting your bedsheets pool in your lap as you type out a reply.

How did you get my number?

Also, you got up at 8am?? Are you even alive?

You get a reply only minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth.

Told the building manager that I was getting your mail and wanted to return it. Little scary how few questions they asked.

You scoff, only to have your phone ding again immediately.

Sure hope I’m alive. I have a very thoughtful neighbor to thank for getting me home safe.

You spit into the sink, then rinse your mouth, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

Thoughtful, huh?

Pretty, too. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned that yet.

Still feel bad about last night. Let me make it up to you.

No more than six hours later, you’re pulled from whatever TV show’s been rotting your brain all afternoon by a steady knock on your front door. Your skin twinkles with nerves.

You’re fully clothed this time—showered too, thankfully—and when you open the door Frankie isn’t on his knees. He’s standing, curls squashed beneath his hat, t-shirt stretched across his chest, in black athletic shorts baring him below the knee, as he holds up two plastic bags that fill the hallway with a smell you know all too well: takeout from the Chinese place you love down the road. When your eyes round at the sight, Frankie grins, letting you glimpse the dimple that winks from his cheek. 

You see, too, his exhaustion. The navy shadows bruised beneath his glassy eyes. He may be alive, but it’s painfully obvious that he must, beneath that smile, be suffering a brutal hangover. And he’s bringing you food—too generous a gesture, you think, for such a small crime.

“Hoped you might like this place,” he says.

“You really didn’t have to—” you start to say, but Frankie shakes his head before squeezing past you in the doorway to come inside.

“Only fair,” he insists, and you shut the door while he toes out of his shoes, thoughtful enough not to drag dirt into your apartment as he breezes into your kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times before. Opening the bags, cracking each container, fishing through drawers until he finds your cutlery. Domestic and entirely alien: this man you’ve known for two years who’s never entered your space, making himself at home. Trying to serve you.

Dumbstruck, you watch him, unsure what to say and the longer you do, the more the ache of him seems to radiate. You swear you see him wince when a drawer slams too hard, when he looks up accidentally into the ceiling light. With one hand, you reach out and turn the dimmer switch to soften the lights over his head, and Frankie looks up from the styrofoam containers to catch your eye. 

The grin drops from his face. “Shit—is this too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Frankie wipes his hands on his thighs as he rounds the kitchen island to stand before you, dark lashes batting worriedly over his freckled cheeks as he lowers his head to meet your eye. “If you want, I can just leave you with the food. Don't wanna be here if you don't want me to be.”

A soft scoff leaves your lips, the first breath of disbelief disguised as laughter. “Frankie,” you breathe, and his chest puffs at the way you say his name. “You look like you feel like shit. Your head must be killing you. And you brought me food.”

His jaw ticks, and you wonder if he’s been looking for an excuse to talk to you, too.

“No more fussing over me,” you say, lifting your hands slowly to rest on his shoulders. 

Frankie flinches but doesn’t pull away, his warm eyes flickering between yours like he’s trying to unpuzzle you. 

“Let me help,” you say.

“Hermosa,” he murmurs, sounding winded. Desperate. He shakes his head.

With a soft grin you slip your hands down his arms—firm and hot beneath your palms—to guide him toward your couch, warmed by a box of sunlight cast through the windows. Frankie sits with a gentle sigh, biceps tensing beneath your grasp, not yet sure what to make of you. You give his arms a light squeeze, flash him a grin you hope might ease his nerves, and sink to the carpet between his knees.

Frankie’s eyes go black.

The air simmers, woozy as the space above molten tarmac in the dead of summer. It’s a kind of spell, you think. His sharpened breath. Your hands slipping easily over his bare knees. And it’s obvious: the riot of guilt surging behind his lust-blown eyes, his instinct to politely turn you down as you rub his joints softly with your thumbs.

“Don’t have to,” you tell him, careful to hold his eye so he’ll see you mean them. “But I’d like to, if you want. Could take care of you for a while.”

Frankie lets out a ragged breath, and his eyes slam shut before he drops his head on the back of your couch. “Shit—are you—shit.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, groans quietly, and from the floor you watch the way his whole body shudders as he struggles for air.

“That a yes or a no, let’s eat Chinese food?” you ask softly, hands frozen on his knees until he answers. “Either is good.”

“Shit—yes, that’s a yes,” Frankie pants, still hiding behind his hands with his head tipped back.

You lift one hand from his knee to reach for him, curling your fingertips around his forearm, pulling it away from his eyes. “Mírame,” you say, and it’s possible Frankie comes undone right then and there—chest deflating, arms slumping limp into his lap, head lolling to look down at you in disbelief.

Lips parted, his tongue slips across his bottom lip, sending a thrill through your body and a sudden stutter to your heart. But this isn’t about you; it’s about him, so you squeeze your thighs together as Frankie shifts his hips on the couch and nods shakily.

Oh, this is dangerous. How he already looks ready to fall apart beneath your hands. You might never get enough of it.

Testing the waters, you slide your hands slowly up his thighs just far enough to brush your fingertips to the hem of his shorts, the roped muscles in his legs tensing beneath your caress. “If you want me to stop, just say, okay?”

Frankie shakes his head, licks his lip again, and your eyes follow the glide of his tongue. “Not gonna want you to stop,” he breathes, as his cheek dimples with the flash of a sheepish grin.

You hum softly, shuffle closer to the couch, encouraging him to spread his legs wider with a press of your hands. “Just sit back, baby,” you murmur.

So he does. Frankie grunts as you patiently knead the mesa of his thighs—the hills of muscle bound tight beneath golden skin, so hot to the touch—and lower your lips to lay a kiss on his knee, glancing up through your lashes to gauge his reaction.

He rewards you with a needy groan that goes straight to your cunt.

You smile against his skin, let your hands wander, thumbs digging into his thighs as you work loose their knotted web. Humming, your hands slipping beneath the black curtain of his shorts to stray higher as you work, you slide the flat of your tongue up his inner thigh and Frankie’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck—nena, shit,” he pants, just before one hand bolts out to cover the crown of your head, stilling your movements. 

You take your mouth off him and look up, basking in the abyss of his dark eyes and the red of his neck. “Want me to stop?” you ask.

Immediately, Frankie’s head shakes nonono as he gathers your hair in his fist, holding it back from your face. “Que cosa mas linda. So fuckin’ pretty.”

It’s easy, but you knew it would be, watching his body twitch and melt beneath your ministrations, the caress of your attentive hands. The wet suckle of your lips and tongue rising towards his hips. Slowly, you unwind him. Let him dissolve into your couch, always with some sweet nothing on his lips that could ruin you if you let it—mierda, feels so—so fucking good, perfect hands, holy shit, tan suave.

The taste of his skin is a balm in itself, heady, a little sweat-kissed, addictive. With his shorts shoved high on his hips, you latch at the supple flesh of his inner thigh and suck, drawing a tortured whimper from Frankie as he shivers, his chest rising faster with every breath.

“Shit—por favor, please,” he begs, as the hand in your hair gently scratches your scalp. It’s so gentle you almost believe he doesn’t know he’s doing it—that touching you like this, so tenderly, so ruinously, is to Frankie instinct alone.

“So sweet to me,” you murmur against his thigh, licking the pink mark you’ve left on his skin. “So strong, so warm. Just wanna take care of you, Frankie. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Hermosa,” he groans, desperate now, his cock twitching beneath the black of his shorts.

The square of sunlight glows over you both, warming you just as much as his body. Beyond the cracked window you can hear the chirp of birds finding their way to each other, the squeal of distant traffic, the churn of wind through the alley. All of it—all that raucous city noise that used to keep you up all night—feels tranquil now. A serene soundtrack whispering below the rasps of Frankie’s pleasure.

“Wanted to for a long time,” you tell him, before latching again at the top of his other thigh, marking satin skin with a matching brand. “Wanted to touch you so bad.”

He’s gasping now, lungs desperate for air like he’s been running, and his other hand grabs hold of your shoulder to pull you closer. “Would’a—” he wheezes, and lets his head drop back against the couch again like it’s too much to look right at you. “Would’ve let you if I’d—fuck—if I’d known.”

You hum against his leg, reach both hands high enough to dig your thumbs in the crevice of his hips, and Frankie jolts, hissing a strangled fuck before settling again, more liquid than before.

Higher, your mouth climbs, desperate for more of him. Electric with the feeling of his need, the way his hands keep you near to him—thumb sweet on your shoulder, fingertips drawing little circles on your scalp. It’s possible you’ve never liked pleasuring someone so much, and you’ve liked it before. But Frankie responds to your every movement and breath, every change in pressure or place, strung taut as a bow that’s fighting not to snap.

With a final glance up at Frankie, his head hung back to unveil the gold of his throat, the stubble scattered along his jaw, you nuzzle your nose gently against his crotch and feel his cock throb, hitting your cheek.

“Baby,” he whines, hand tightening in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” you coo, and draw your own out of his shorts to hook into the waistband. “Gonna take you out now, is that okay?”

“Fuck—yes—fucking yes it’s okay,” he begs, and the light sting of his hand pulling your hair tighter paints a smile on your face. 

Slowly, you peel down his shorts and find no boxers beneath them, only the heavy length of him which bobs up against his t-shirt, thick and swollen and aching. “No underwear? Frankie,” you tease, and he chuckles hoarsely as you cast his shorts aside.

“Laundry day,” he wheezes, and you click your tongue before scooting forward until your chest presses against the cushions, framed by his legs.

He’s beautiful like this, destroyed but in the good way—dragged out of his head for a while by your dutiful hands, your thumbs digging into the meat of his thighs. His cock leaking and twitching every time the warmth of your breath fans over his soft skin.

With one hand, you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, and the whimper that leaves Frankie’s lips in reply might be the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wet your tongue along his length, tasting the earth of him before wrapping your lips around his tip, trading off between suckling and licking.

The hand in your hair locks up suddenly, not moving your head but clamping down hard. You moan softly and he twitches on your tongue. Grows harder, somehow, when a moment ago you’d have thought it impossible.

“Ay,” he croaks. “Fuck—your fucking mouth, baby.”

Perhaps this is what emboldens you, makes you sloppy—just as needy as him. Drool slicking to his length as you bob, drinking in his every moan and babble. Your fist pumping what you can’t take, jaw aching around his girth. Frankie might come apart at the molecules, you think. Evanesce cell by cell, held in the heat of your mouth as you swallow around his length, forcing the head of his cock to the back of your throat.

When you gag, eyes watering, heart a hummingbird in your chest, he makes a desperate whine and his hand tenses on your shoulder. 

You’d stay here the rest of the night, if he’d let you, but he doesn’t.

Frankie thighs twitch, breaths coming faster now, shorter. Close. 

“Necesito sentirte,” he says as he squeezes your shoulder again. “Please—shit, gonna come if you don’t stop—fuck, nena, please let me feel you. Wanna feel you so fucking bad. Wanted you—fuckfuck—wanted you the day you moved in.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you see his hat has tumbled off, leaving the crown of his head a mess of flattened down curls broken up by the occasional stray, and something about how he looks in this moment, fuckedout and gone and desperate, makes you want to stay right where you are. 

Still, you hollow your cheeks as you ease off him with a wet pop, one hand pumping his thick cock while the other rubs his muscled thigh. You shake your head, bottom lip bitten. “Next time,” you promise, with a smirk rich on your lips. Then you’re on him again, throat open and accepting as he teeters on the edge of falling apart. 

“Mmmph, shit—nena, so good, oh my god,” Frankie gasps, hands back in your hair to hold it out of your way. “Gonna make me—fuck, where do I—where do you—”

He doesn’t get the rest out; the moment you slip your hand beneath his balls and sink your lips to the base of his heavy length, taking him to the hilt, Frankie comes with a sudden cry. Warmth pumps down your aching throat as he pants, fingers tangled in your hair, and you swallow it all hungrily while you moan.

He whimpers when you lift off his spent cock to look up at him with a satisfied grin. If you thought he looked ruined before, you were wrong. This is what he looks like when you’ve wrecked him. 

“Come here,” he croaks, then with a grunt Frankie yanks you off the floor and onto his lap to envelope you in his arms. You settle on his thighs, try not to swoon at his strength, and when he kisses you it isn’t at all what you’re expecting—there’s no roar, no taking, not a drop of desperation left in him at all. No, Frankie kisses you wholly, gently, all lithe tongue and sweetness and gratitude, and the longer it goes on the more you both smile, struggling to kiss around laughter and teeth.

When he pulls back, his pupils are still blown but warm too, so warm. His face and beard gilded with late afternoon light. He strokes a thumb across your cheek, then bumps his nose against yours, and you sink against his chest to chase his mouth. Before you can, Frankie's arms lock around your waist; he throws you down onto the couch, pinning you beneath him with a smug little smile.

“This time I get to taste you, hermosa,” he promises, then seals it with a kiss.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @leslie-lyman @biggetywitch @evolnoomym

@pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours @jessthebaker

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@littlemisspascal @perotovar @goodwithcheese @joelalorian

[annieisverybored]

Narcos 3x10

[annieisverybored]

Hole in One | Frankie Morales x f! beverage cart girl reader

Masterlist | Ko-Fi | How You Can Help Palestine

Summary: Frankie isn't much of a golfer, but when his friends drag him to the golf course every week, he discovers a new reason to show up every week: the hot bar cart girl who steals his focus. What happens when a stormy afternoon leads to a steamy golf cart ride? aka you and Frankie Morales fuck in a golf cart. Rating: 18+ explicit Content: tom is alive in this one sorry guys, masturbation (m & f), fingering, the pussy eating king strikes again, (semi) public sex, sex in a golf cart (there's a first time for everything) unprotected p in v, creampie Word Count: ~4.5K Author's Note: This came out of watching bev cart girls on tiktok get hit on by creepy old men. And I thought...what if Frankie Morales was your creepy old man and it was fun? Thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for beta reading and hyping me up. Hope you guys enjoy!

The first time Frankie Morales lays eyes on you, it’s a sweltering Friday afternoon in Florida.

The sun is relentless, casting a dry heat over the lush golf course, making the grass appear more parched than manicured.

Santiago decided that the team needed a weekly escape—a ritual that didn’t involve combat boots or tactical planning. Thanks to Will’s father-in-law, they secured a discounted round every Friday afternoon with access to the club's dining and drinks for the rest of the evening.

Frankie had been hesitant at first, feeling out of place among the pastel polos and neatly trimmed greens. But here he stands on the first tee, club in hand, ready to give this whole golf thing a try.

“You sure you know how to use that thing, Fish?” Santiago teases, slapping Frankie on the back.

“Yeah, I’m just out here to make you guys look good,” Frankie retorts, trying to sound confident as he lines up his shot. The club is unfamiliar, but he swings with determination, watching as the ball sails—though not quite straight—down the fairway.

The guys laugh, and Frankie shakes his head, knowing this will be a story they won’t let him forget. It’s all in good fun, and as they move down the course, he starts to appreciate the serenity of the place.

That’s when he spots you.

You glide across the fairway in your golf cart, your bright smile cutting through the muted backdrop of the course.

When your eyes meet Frankie’s, there’s an undeniable spark. He watches you, distracted from the game by the sway of your hips.

You seem to feel his gaze because you glance back, flashing him a knowing smile that makes his pulse quicken. Your gaze is direct, confident, and Frankie finds himself captivated, as if those eyes hold a thousand stories he’s eager to hear.

When you pull up beside him, your smile widens, and Frankie’s heart does an unexpected flip.

“Need any drinks, gentlemen?” you ask, your voice warm as the sun. Frankie takes you in—the way your uniform hugs your figure and how your hair spills from under your cap. Your eyes are kind, with a warmth that makes him feel like he’s melting from the inside out.

“Just some water for me,” Tom replies, trying to sound casual, though even he seems a bit off-balance by your presence.

"Speak for yourself, Davis. I'll take a shot of rum, please," Benny says, winking at you. Frankie notices how you don’t react to Benny’s charm and feels an unexpected sense of triumph.

Will orders an Arnold Palmer. Frankie is lost in thought, admiring the way you move, until Santiago kicks him in the back of the leg, snapping him back to reality.

His mind races for something clever, but all he manages is a nod. “Cold beer sounds good,” he mutters, internally cringing at his lack of finesse.

“Sure thing, boys,” you reply, your smile softening as your gaze lingers on Frankie. He feels a flush rise to his cheeks and quickly looks away. He tries not to watch you walk away but finds it impossible not to.

His eyes follow you as you bend down to retrieve the drinks from your cart, the sight of your white tennis skirt stretching over your ass making his breath hitch. He forces himself to look away, praying no one noticed his stare.

"Eyes on the game, pendejo." Santiago nudges him. "Stop ogling the employees."

"I'm not ogling," Frankie replies defensively.

Santiago raises an eyebrow. "She might need a restraining order if you keep that up."

Frankie rolls his eyes, knowing he shouldn’t be staring, but unable to help himself. His mind is reeling from your proximity. You return with the drinks, distributing them to the group before handing Frankie his.

As you pass him the bottle, your fingers brush against his, sending a jolt of electricity through him. There’s a moment—a brief, suspended moment—where the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you.

Then you’re off again, the cart whirring away, but not before you turn back and flash him a sweet smile.

That night, he finds himself thinking about you—the curve of your ass, the way you smiled at him—until the need to relieve the tension overwhelms him.

————————————

The second time he sees you is a week later. As he approaches the ninth hole, you appear like a mirage, that familiar smile making his pulse quicken. You offer him a rum and Coke, leaning in just enough that he gets an eyeful of your perky breasts down your blouse.

Frankie does his best to maintain eye contact, but his cheeks burn as he takes the drink, your scent—a heady mix of citrus and sunshine—lingering long after you’ve moved on.

“See something you like, Fish?” Santiago teases, nudging him with an elbow. “Shut up,” Frankie mutters, though he can’t wipe the grin from his face.

The third week, Frankie barely makes it to the fifth hole before you glide over, your presence a welcome distraction from his crooked swings.

This time, you hand him a mojito, the icy drink a relief against the day’s heat. As you shift in the cart, the slit in the side of your skirt offers him a tantalizing peek of your panties.

His throat goes dry, and he takes a sip to mask his flustered reaction, ending in a sputtered cough.

“You’re going to make me start charging you extra for these drinks, Morales,” you tease, eyes dancing with amusement.

“They’re worth every penny,” he replies, finding his voice and earning a soft laugh from you that carries on the breeze long after you’ve driven away.

By the fourth week, the banter has become as much a part of his golfing experience as the game itself.

When you pull up beside him with a lemonade, your hair catching the sunlight in a way that makes his heart stutter, he braces himself for whatever cheeky comment you’ll toss his way.

“Still practicing that swing, huh? If you’re not careful, I’ll have to join you as a coach,” you say, the invitation clear in your tone.

Frankie chuckles, feeling bold. “Maybe I could use some lessons. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

Your grin widens, and you lean in as if sharing a secret. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

He nearly drops his club, his dick twitching in his pants.

He’s a goner.

The fifth week arrives with the promise of rain. The sky is overcast, the air thick with anticipation as if the weather knows something is about to change.

Frankie is on edge, his thoughts consumed by how he’ll finally ask you to meet him outside this weekly routine.

When the first few raindrops fall, he feels the tension in the group, sensing they’re all eager to escape before the storm hits.

You appear then, as if summoned by his thoughts, driving up with your cart just in time. He watches you, admiring the way the wind whips through your hair, your expression unbothered as the raindrops begin to fall.

Your eyes meet his, and there’s a look in them that makes his stomach swoop. As you pass out the drinks, he notices a few drops of rain dotting the shoulders of your blouse, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, longing to lick them away.

Santi, Benny, Will, and Tom exchange glances, each raising an eyebrow at the other, the tension rising.

Frankie barely notices, his attention locked on you as the group heads for their carts.

"I think we're gonna head back to the club for some food and drinks," Santiago says, directing the statement at Frankie. "You still planning on staying out here a little longer to work on your swing?"

Santiago gives him a knowing look, conjuring up a lie to get him alone with you for a few moments.

Frankie's mouth goes dry, and he forces a nod, tearing his gaze away from you long enough to address his friend. "I think I'll stick around a little longer."

Santiago chuckles. "All right, buddy. See you later." As they drive away,

Frankie turns back to you, his heart racing. The air is charged, and for a moment, neither of you speaks, simply watching each other as the raindrops grow steadier.

You break the silence first, a soft laugh escaping you as the skies open up, a downpour suddenly cascading over the golf course.

Frankie smiles, shaking his head as he watches you. Your face is bright, the rain dripping down your skin, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"You're soaked," you remark, eyeing his clothes.

"I’ve spent nights in freezing sleet on winter ops. This is nothing," Frankie says, trying to sound tough, but there's a shiver in his voice.

"Well, if you don't mind getting wet, maybe I can still help with that swing," you offer, holding up the umbrella. "I can sit under the golf cart and watch."

Frankie's eyes widen, his body going hot all over, a rush of blood heading straight for his cock and he feels like a god damn teenager.

"You're sure?" You step closer, your voice dropping lower, more seductive.

"I'm positive." Frankie's brain short circuits, a thousand scenarios flashing through his mind, but before he can respond, you're slipping under the cover of the cart, extending your legs out in front of you, your skirt riding up slightly as you cross your legs.

He can't resist taking a moment to admire your smooth thighs, his fingers aching to touch. He swallows, his throat thick, and his mouth goes dry.

"Well?" you tease. "Right," he clears his throat, picking up his club and stepping toward the tee.

Frankie lines up his shot, trying to steady his hands despite his pounding heartbeat. The rain has intensified, each drop drumming against the cart's roof, but all he can think about is your presence, the promise in your gaze.

He takes a deep breath and swings, channeling all his concentration into hitting the ball straight. It flies through the air, not very far, but he doesn’t care. His mind has already wandered back to you. You clap softly, the sound barely audible over the rain.

“Not bad, Morales. But I think you need to loosen up a bit more.” Frankie chuckles, lowering the club and turning to face you.

“Loosen up, huh? I’m not sure that’s possible with you watching me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, feigning innocence, but your smile tells him you know exactly what effect you have on him.

“Like you’re enjoying the view,” he replies, stepping closer, his voice dropping to match the intimacy of the moment. Your laughter is a soft, melodic sound that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Maybe I am.”

Frankie shakes his head, his grin wide and unrestrained. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Good trouble, I hope,” you reply, shifting slightly in the cart, your skirt sliding up a fraction more, revealing the curve of your thigh.

His gaze drops to your legs, and he’s helpless to stop the heat that flares in his chest.

“The best kind,” he admits, his voice thick with longing.

Your eyes meet his, and the hunger in them matches his own. The moment stretches out between you, suspended and charged. You bite your lip, your cheeks flushing.

He steps forward, his hands finding their way to your thighs, his thumbs brushing against the soft skin.

His hands are steady, but his pulse races as his gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes, seeking permission.

You lean forward, your hands sliding up his arms, drawing him in.

Your touch is electric, and his breath catches, his body humming with anticipation. He kisses you, his lips soft against yours. You taste sweet and perfect, and his heart thuds in his chest, a moan escaping him as his tongue traces the seam of your lips.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and you melt into the kiss, a sigh of contentment escaping you. His hands move to cup your face, the rain falling harder as the intensity of the kiss grows.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and a flash of lightning lights up the sky, startling both of you.

You pull apart, laughing. "Why don't we go somewhere a little drier?" you suggest, your smile mischievous.

Frankie laughs, nodding. "That's probably a good idea."

You reposition in the cart, scooting over for Frankie to join you. He slides in beside you, the close quarters bringing his body flush against yours. You turn the key in the ignition, the cart purring to life, and you set off, the two of you pressed together as the rain pelts down.

------------------------------------

You've been hoping Frankie would finally take the hint. You’ve had a crush on him for the past month since he and his veteran buddies started coming to the course.

There’s something about him that draws you in—his shy smiles, the way his eyes follow you, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Making out in the golf cart is definitely the furthest the flirtation has gone so far, and you sneak glances at him as you drive. His Standard Oil cap is drenched and drooping, but his expression is warm and relaxed. He seems like a completely different person from the tense, nervous man you’ve seen out on the course all month. With his large hand on your thigh, he looks content.

You reach your destination, a small garage where you store your cart and supplies. The door closes behind you, leaving the two of you in near-darkness, save for the dim glow of a small lamp in the cart. You turn to face him, your hand settling on his cheek.

His beard is wet, water dripping from the brim of his hat. "Hey," he murmurs, a smile playing on his lips.

"Hey," you reply, grinning. His lips find yours, the kiss gentle but insistent. You melt into him, your body responding to his touch. His hand moves to the small of your back, drawing you closer, his tongue dipping into your mouth.

Your hands slide up his arms, tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. He shudders under your touch, his breathing growing heavier. You straddle him, pressing your body flush against his. His hands grip your waist, a soft groan escaping him.

You smirk, grinding your hips against his, relishing the friction of his hardening cock against your clothed center.

"Fuck," he groans, his head tilting back against the seat.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to make a move?" you murmur, pressing a kiss to his neck.

"Shit, baby, I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this, I—"

You press a finger to his lips. "It's okay. I get it. It's part of why I like you so much."

He stares at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and awe. You cup his cheek, brushing a stray droplet of water from his skin.

"But I'm not a patient woman," you say, smirking. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Oh yeah?" You grind down on his cock again, feeling him twitch against you. He gasps, his hips bucking up, seeking friction.

You lean forward, your lips brushing against his ear. "What if I wanted you to fuck me right here Frankie?"

He lets out a shuddering breath, his hands trailing up your thighs and under your skirt. "God, baby, I wanna do so much more than fuck you," he growls, his fingers stroking your pussy over your panties.

He finally gets to feel the lace, and he's fucking thrilled. You gasp, rocking your hips against his hand, eager for more. You bite back a moan, your head tilting back as his deft fingers push your panties aside and tease at your entrance.

"Fuck, baby, you're soaked," he breathes, his fingers circling your clit. "You gonna let me fuck this wet pussy, baby?" His other hand tugs at your blouse, his thumb brushing against your nipple. He pinches lightly, a moan escaping you as he slides a finger inside you.

"Oh God, yes," you gasp, rocking your hips against his hand, chasing the pleasure he's building. He curls his finger, and you shudder, his thumb finding your clit and drawing slow, torturous circles. Your breath comes faster, and you grip his shoulders, needing something to ground you.

"Look at me, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble. You meet his gaze, his brown eyes dark with lust, but there's a warmth and tenderness in his expression that makes your heart race.

He stops for a moment, exiting from you.

You whimper, a protest on your lips. He kneels down, positioning himself between your thighs. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, his beard scraping against the sensitive skin.

"What are you doing?" you ask, your voice a breathy whisper.

"I told you I wanted to do more than just fuck you," he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.

He spreads you open, his breath hot against your core. He licks a slow, torturous stripe up your cunt, his tongue dipping inside you before circling your clit.

Your back arches, a gasp escaping you. "Oh, God."

He moans, his beard scratching against your skin. His eyes never leave yours, his tongue moving faster and more confidently, your pussy clenching around him.

Your orgasm builds quickly, the sight of his face buried between your legs, his tongue fucking into you, he adds his fingers and the sensations are overwhelming.

"Oh God, Frankie, I'm gonna—fuck," you cry out, your release washing over you. You grip his hair, riding his face, his beard soaked with your slick.

You feel him smile against you, his tongue still moving, working you through your high. You're panting, your chest heaving as you come down, your eyes heavy-lidded.

Did he seriously just make you cum in your golf cart?

He presses a soft kiss to your clit, making you twitch, and sits back up on the seat. His hand wraps around your jaw, and he pulls you in for a rough kiss, your tongue tasting yourself on his lips. You moan, grinding your hips against his, desperate for him.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. "Please," you beg, tugging at his shirt. His hands move to the buttons of his shirt, his movements hurried and impatient. You help him, your fingers brushing against his skin.

You peel his wet shirt away, and his hands go to the zipper of his khakis, undoing them and pushing the material down his thighs, his hard cock springing free.

Your hand wraps around him, stroking slowly. He moans, his hips bucking up. You can feel him throb in your hand, his thick length pulsing.

"Baby," he gasps, his eyes shut. You smirk, your hand moving faster, teasing him. He grabs your wrist, stilling your movement. “Stop, I won’t last,” he groans, his eyes snapping open, dark with desire.

You bite back a grin, a surge of pride rushing through you at his reaction.

“Sorry,” you murmur, your hand trailing down his chest. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“No, you’re not.” You laugh, leaning in to kiss him again. “Not even a little bit.”

He pulls you onto his lap, his cock brushing against your inner thigh, sending a shiver down your spine. He lifts you, positioning you above his length, and the blunt tip teases at your entrance.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his gaze flicking from your face to where his cock is resting against your core. You finally peel your shirt off, baring your pebbled nipples to him, and his eyes darken. He thrusts his hips up, sinking into you. You moan, throwing your head back as he fills you, his cock stretching you.

He grips your hips, guiding you as you roll your hips, the two of you finding a rhythm. His eyes lock with yours, and the air between you crackles with electricity. You can feel him everywhere, his hands and lips and cock consuming you. You bounce on his cock, and the cart rocks back and forth, the two of you moaning and grunting as the pace increases.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, his hands sliding under your ass. “God, I love this tight little pussy, baby. Fuck, it’s so fucking good.”

You lean forward, kissing him hungrily. “Fuck, Frankie. Harder,” you beg. His hand lands a firm spank against your ass, and you cry out, pleasure jolting through you. He squeezes your ass, his cock thrusting deeper and faster, his grunts filling the small space.

You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He hisses, his eyes flying open. He slams into you, his gaze locking with yours. You usually hate eye contact during sex, but with him, it’s intimate and raw. You barely know him, but so much of this feels intimate and raw. Like he was made to fit inside you.

Your walls clench around him, and he swears, his cock twitching inside you. You moan, rolling your hips faster. “That’s right, baby, just like that,” he groans, his hand tangling in your hair. Your lips meet, the kiss frantic and messy while the once shy Frankie whispers filthy things to you, spurring you on. “Love seeing you ride me, but I wish I could also bend you over and fuck you so hard you’d scream. Get you back to my place, fuck you on every surface, fill you with my cum until you can’t take it anymore,” he says, his voice low and rough.

“Fuck,” you moan, the mental image his words conjure pushing you closer to the edge.

“I’ve been dreaming about this pussy since I first saw you,” he murmurs, his hands moving to grip your waist. “Fucking my fist thinking about this tight little cunt.” Your nails rake down his back, and he groans, his hips snapping faster.

“Then I should probably tell you I’ve done so much thinking about you. Used my fingers, my toys, rode my pillow thinking about you too,” you confess. “Nothing compares to when you fuck me, though. Your cock is much better than I could’ve imagined, I just want you to ruin me, fill me, make me yours,” you ramble, the pressure building.

Frankie swears, his hips starting to stutter. “Goddamn, baby, I’m not gonna last,” he grunts.

You nod, your pussy clenching around him. You lean forward, sucking a mark into his neck, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you. He thrusts up, his grip on you tightening. You moan, the pressure in your core about to snap.

“Fuck, Frankie, please,” you beg, grinding your hips, chasing the release you know he can give you. He presses a soft, reverent kiss to your collarbone, and you shudder.

His hand cups your breast, his fingers tweaking your nipple. You whimper, the sensations overwhelming you.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs, his voice soft and husky. His deep brown eyes look up at you, and it’s all too much. The pleasure crashes over you, and you cry out, burying your face in his neck. He thrusts his hips up, his cock hitting that spot again and again.

Your orgasm rips through you, your vision blurring. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and he groans, his pace faltering.

He holds you close, his cock throbbing as his release fills you. You sag against him, spent and boneless.

His large arms wrap around you, engulfing you, holding you close. You press a soft kiss to his neck, his beard tickling your cheek.

“Wow,” you breathe. He chuckles, nodding. “Yeah.” You shift, and he hisses, his cock still buried inside you.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Can’t let go yet.”

You snuggle against him, enjoying the feeling of his arms around you, his heartbeat slowing as the two of you bask in the afterglow. You listen to the soft patter of the rain and the sound of his steady breathing, content to stay in his embrace.

You’re not sure how much time passes, but eventually, you feel him soften and slip out of you, the evidence of what just transpired seeping from your core. You wince, sitting up, and he looks at you, his gaze soft.

“You okay?” he asks, his brow furrowing.

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. Just...a little sore.” He smirks, a hint of smug satisfaction on his face.

“Sorry.” You chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m not complaining.”

“Neither am I,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “It’s probably obvious, but I really like you.”

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. “Good, because I really like you too.” He grins, leaning in to capture your lips with his. You sigh, melting into him, your fingers tracing light patterns on his chest.

“So can I see you again sometime? Outside of a golf course, I mean,” he asks, pulling back slightly.

You study his face, his dark brown eyes and tousled hair. The slight flush on his cheeks. His strong nose. His lips, swollen and red from your kisses.

You want to see him again. And again and again and again.

---------------------

Frankie walks into the clubhouse where the guys are gathered at the bar, talking and laughing. As soon as they see him, they break into grins and whistles.

"Holy shit, he lives!" Benny calls out, raising his beer in greeting.

"Where have you been?" Pope asks, scooting over to make room for him. "You must have one hell of a swing after practicing in all that rain."

"And you're suspiciously dry, too," Will deadpans, shaking his head.

"Glad I didn't bring you a towel," Santi teases, smirking.

"Did you at least get in a few holes?" Benny asks with a grin, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Frankie rolls his eyes, settling onto a stool. “Very funny, assholes.”

Tom notices something fall out of Frankie’s back pocket and picks it up, handing it back to him. “You dropped something, Morales.”

“Thanks,” Frankie says, tucking the item back into his pocket. Tom catches a glimpse of the item and his eyes widen with amusement.

He looks at the rest of the guys, and they all notice the black lacy material the same time.

"A thong," Santi remarks, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Is that a hickey?" Will asks, his tone incredulous as he points to Frankie's neck.

Frankie's expression is somewhere between a smug smile and a sheepish grin. “Shut up.”

The guys start cheering and laughing, exchanging high fives and good-natured ribbing.

"I fucking told you! Pay up!" Tom yells, pointing to Santi. Santiago lets out a dramatic groan, reluctantly handing a couple of bills to Tom.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters, trying not to smile.

While the guys are distracted by their bets and banter, Frankie discreetly pulls out his phone, opening up his text messages.

He smiles as he sees one from you.

“Hope you enjoyed your surprise. You can give them back to me during our next round ;)”

[annieisverybored]

take a guess (your father should know)

warning(s): explicit 18+, smut, daddy kink, plot with porn, marijuana, alcohol mention, wet & messy, dbf!joel, age difference, daddy issues, etc.

combining two requests cause why not! and doing a lil bit more plot than usual cause also why not. enjoy enjoy the filth! this one’s riddled with daddy issues sooo

-

joel, your father’s infamous ex-best friend has flipped your expectations of him right on your head enough times to where you couldn’t keep count or track. you’d expected at the tender age of forty-three he’d be married raising teenagers — but no. instead he had blended in more with the artsy, eccentric loner-type.

had spared you questionably long gazes under that thick beard, undoubtedly hiding some natural crow’s feet. he wore his age and his experience on his shoulders and exuded a particular, unique nonchalance that left a long lasting impression on you. especially when your father first befriended him.

college started right around the corner around the time you started seeing him swing by to drink and play guitar with your dad pretty frequently. granting you a nod of his head while he kept a toothpick to chew on between his lips.

while you lived in your childhood bedroom, still skating through all your general ed classes your first year he had already stopped coming around. you didn’t have the heart to ask your dad whatever had happened, but his name alone became taboo around the house, leaving his brooding looks and exceptionally broad shoulders nothing but a mere memory to you.

all’s you heard around town now was that after him and your father had a falling out, joel seemingly resumed his familiarly isolated lifestyle. only hanging around town alone or with his brother tommy, and you imagine little else being interesting beyond that. he didn’t ever even go on a date to your knowledge.

that being said, it still left you a blubbery-stomach’d mess to see him again in the flesh for the first time in over two years at your local coffee shop on a lucky tuesday.

looking about as rugged and worn in as expected, tired bags and a matching stern disposition still present in him when he orders his coffee — black with two sugars. flannel, cross between grunge and lumberjack while those same arms you remember all those years ago still bulge through every shirt.

the trepidation of going up to him suffocates you. it’s challenging not to feel as if you’re some fan bothering him for an autograph when you go up towards where he sat alone to say your long awaited hello.

the gruff resting frown-face turned into a warm smile at an instant once he looked up and identified who it is that’s just approached him.

the words he used and the way he used them still to this day force this feeling of unadulterated electricity down your spine and straight through your core. only alleviated by rubbing your thighs together could you reminisce about the first time he looked up; smiled, grabbed tight on your shoulders to bring you in for a welcoming hug and said—

“hey there, pretty lady. s’been too long since I’ve seen this face,” he smiles. cheeky while those arms start to squeeze you.

joel gave you his number and told you to ’reach out to him sometime’.

taking forty-eight hours just to gain the courage, you swallowed any vile insecurities stopping you from going after what you want. what you’ve craved ever since.

the first hangout felt casual in nature. joel had cracked open two beers for both of you while you binged horror comedies in his living room. you bonded over his intense and impressive record collection, the vast amount of genres he collected and listened to was yet another reason you’d fallen deep into your attraction to him.

right as summer was barely beginning to set in, you’d say you were at a point where you’ve had plenty of innocent nights with joel at his flat.

but it wasn’t until the hot nights started creeping in that things started to turn around and change.

he started smoking weed with you after he learned that you’d picked up the habit long before college to have a toke and release some stress. you can remember the state of his red cheeks when you told him how some strains make you really horny.

you thought you had no sure shot in hell of one little comment to have you ending up with your panties in his mouth, that gigantic fucking cock you’ve fantasized about now pulsing right between your thighs so gorgeously, and making his mark right inside your wet little walls.

of course he could read the bewilderment and excitement swirled together expression glued onto your face when he’s inching his boxers down his muscular thighs and whipping out his fat cock. to start masturbating. in front of you.

your dad’s old best friend, whom he’d had this mysterious falling out with — the details never spared to you by either of the men. but considering how nasty and deep and hard he’s pounding into you, it had to have been something substantial.

that first time, he had taken you and fucked you right on the couch of his living room, had you whimpering sheepishly down into the pillows while his cock was slowly shoving its way fully inside. balls deep.

“didn’t think you’d end up like this tonight, huh slutty girl? didn’t think your pussy would be begging to take all this?”

you came and trembled after the dirty words left his lips. he kept his cock nudged in the most exquisite spot. milking your pussy all around him for both your simultaneous pleasures.

it was clear why you couldn’t stop coming back after that. joel had a cock that treated you damn good in bed. he’d always whisper filth and moan obscenities every single time he slithered his way back into your panties. always watched you with those lingering, eager eyes that scan your entire body.

he started to call himself daddy the third time you came over. it was enough to make you squeal, hearing his deep, low gruff refer to himself as your play parental figure as his fingers rub your clit in addicting circles. lying to your friends, you say you don’t get turned on by calling a man, especially an older man your daddy. it felt corny, and performative, and overtly pornagraphic.

but when he ducks his face between your legs, and lays his first kiss onto your beating pulsing clit with his arms keeping you pinned to his tongue — you can’t help but writhe and moan joel’s newfound nickname.

tonight wasn’t any different. he’d taken you twice already today, once early in the morning and another time an hour ago after he rubbed your back and made you breakfast.

now he’s spreading your exposed sopping lips to gape you open with two of his fingers, humming approvingly at the drips spilling down your pussy and staining your sticky inner thighs.

“yeah sugar, let’s open that beautiful pussy back up. mhm. daddy’s never finished with you—needs you too much.”

his bare cock slaps against an ass cheek, almost demanding its way back in. so veiny and swollen like he didn’t unload inside you an hour ago, the length of it bobbing back and forth with the chilling movements of his hips.

“feel all that? it’s gotta all go back inside you baby. taking you again. s’many times as your daddy wants.”

you gulp and say nothing, do nothing. just staying pliant and wide open for him when he’s in daddy mode.

“let’s feel up what’s dripping outta you babygirl. oh, fuck. still so messy and pretty down here. I’ll clean you up after this round.”

blushing at the promise of taking care of you in any way, you feel your heartbeat in your pussy riling you up again. slapping his cock against you another few times as he strokes it, awestruck by the sight before him and the way your pussy clenched and glistened responding to him. his dick grows while the globe of the tip glazes your hole creating a loud long squish.

the gushing stimulation overwhelms him and thrills him. feeling it directly inside you how hard your pussy came before he wanted to fuck you some more.

“feels so good around daddy’s dick. she’s so nice n’ creamy for me.” he whispers through a long stretch of heavy breathing.

after his taut heavy balls were resting on your clit, you felt his entire length sliding snug inside you up to your belly button. he slides all the way out before intentionally ramming right back in. your legs have already started to shake on him. giving out as his hip motions help his cock locate every one of your spots while your old cum starts to really smear his dick.

harmonic wet slapping at rapid pacing had joel bulging with delight. thrusting every inch he was blessed with, having your mess combining with both your inner thighs getting coated with spend from the contact. joel almost can’t stand the sight of it without fucking cumming, busting his load to mix your cream with his. see and touch your swollen, exhaustingly pretty pussy. once he zeros in on every thrust, watching him enter and leave your body again and again shoves him off the ledge of control.

“daddy’s n-not—not gonna last, sweet fuck you’re squeezing my cock. mmm, that’s my babygirl, she knows exactly how to make daddy feel good.”

you’re a riled up mess beneath him, pushing back onto his cock to meet him in the middle as he slams it in at an outrageous pace. you could tell that he wasn’t lying, that your pussy truly did a number on him. he found his weakness every single time he either spread your thighs and went down on you or slid his member in all the way home.

“shit, here it comes—fuck! oh….. tell—tell daddy you love him. please.”

you don’t (and can’t) halt any of your wailing underneath him, still squeezing on his cock and hopping up and down. following directions felt so natural, so easy with him.

you clench as you ride him while he’s now stunned still.

“I love you, daddy. I need to have your cum in my pussy. please. I need as many as you’ll give me, mmmdaddy—please!”

joel knows it’s over for him now.

he can’t hold it back after he stammers, “y’gonna let daddy cum m’all over this innocent little pussy? ruin that perfect daughter image, huh good girl?”

joel’s cock twitches and jolts while his cum load fills you up to the very brim, the milky mess of it already trailing down after he’d emptied it.

you cum at the same time he’s twitching inside you, yelling his name and his nickname while you convulse all around the length of him.

“s’right. yeah, release it all over me baby. wanna make you feel good like that. that’s it, keep taking what you need. I’ll take it out whenever you’re ready,” he pants, giving you the lightest of spanks while you bask in the high of your afterglow.

slowly becoming aware of the utter mess in and around your legs along with his, you attempt to catch your breath and hold onto the pillow before giving him the green light to pull out. joel is delicate, always gentle with you as he exits your body, leaving behind his juices swishing with yours. a picture perfect image he can’t help but drink in the sight, before literally going down and sticking his face in to drink and lick your thighs and your opening clean. the hot tongue swirls so gently, wiggling everywhere to clean and worship you while you pull his hair and scream daddy.

when you cum pathetically hard on him again, he pulls the plug for real by grabbing a washcloth to wipe his dick and your legs before plopping himself down to snake a joint to light up.

your arm wraps itself securely around his toned torso. feeling his heart beating wildly out of his chest from the thrill of having you again makes you bury an unstoppable smile creeping up.

joel rubs your back, in his own world, taking easy tokes off the nearly baseball bat sized spliff. the smoke slowly floats out of the cracked window. his fingers that surely still had remnants of you all over them ash the joint in a cup on his side table before turning towards you in a fresh haze, raising a brow in offering a hit.

it burns your throat but he has a cold glass of water readily available. some odd number puffs later you both feel the unwinding, even if his dick alone had a similar effect on you.

“f’you wanna cum again, you lemme know. I’ll take care of you,” joel whispers, tracing absentminded shapes on your skin, dreamily drinking you in. “know how to fuck every last thought out f’this pretty little head.”

a worn out smile is all you have in you to answer, and he surprises you with a brief kiss on your head before ashing the remaining spliff in the cup and resumes his way of aftercare on you.

it’s risky to ask what you incline on asking him, but after the cloudy fog comes it eases your brain of the real world consequences. you rub his chest while you’re asking it, softly —

“what ever happened between you and him?”

after it leaves your mouth you have no way of guessing how joel will react. if his walls will come up, or if he’ll let them all down for once and reveal it to you.

it hangs in the air for an awkward several seconds, as if he’s unsure how to react either. but when he does, he kisses your forehead longer this time and squeezes your shoulder protectively.

joel’s voice is hoarse but gentle when he shrugs and murmurs, “think by now you can take a guess.”

your eyes don’t ever leave to stop observing him, his bed head you tugged on, his lips you’ve kissed and finished on. it’s undeniable how beautiful this man is, and how baffled you are at what he’s insinuating.

“we both know you aren’t a damn kid. you’re an adult, one that can make decisions,” he states, looking up at the ceiling before shaking his head and going back in for another smoke. he inhales another cloud all to blow it out and whisper like it’s still a secret,

“if I wanted to make a.. a move, it wasn’t gonna be in that vicinity of his. n’I could see how you deserve to be treated better, treated with—with care,” he stutters. offers you some more that you accept, hastily taking more puffs and filling your lungs with smoke.

“I mean, baby am I wrong? about him? about you deserving better?”

joel’s tone is littered in desperation. a worry that you feel immediately invested to soothe for him. scratching his scalp and rubbing his arms to show him what you’re trying to tell him.

you mirror his shrug from earlier, looking at him in his glassy eyes before kissing his knuckle and answering, “I think we can both guess.”

it’s evident in those furrowed angry brows, and shiny striking stare that it pains joel to hear that but also only makes him want to readily be there for you; fuck all the stress and all the worry out of you every day that you want it.

“it isn’t right. wanting you like this… but I’m helpless to it, to you…”

his little speech trails off into nothing while his lips start to drift to your neck and take turns nibbling and kissing.

joel nearly cries outright at the feeling of your touch stroking him again, feeling the blood rushing straight down to his cock, growing substantially quicker in size for you.

“yeah, babygirl. that’s your cock. do anything you want to this cock. daddy’ll allow it,” he breathes. you gaze up at him while he hurriedly lights the same leftover joint right back up again, hitting it while your tongue explores the underside of the veins of his dick.

“fucking perfect,” joel can’t help but marvel. blowing smoke down to shotgun it at you, breathing in his hit as you tease his member.

“m’helpless to you too. I need this,” you confess, sinking your lips down on the head and giving him a good long suck. joel’s hips stutter as his tip leaks pre-cum, directly landing right on your tongue. “I can’t live without your cum, daddy. I can’t.”

“oh, shhh…. shhh, daddy knows, daddy knows baby, you’re ‘bout to make me fucking cum doing that….”

just then your mouth travels further down and suckles down onto each of those mouthwatering balls, lightly tugging for more sloppy friction.

joel howls and mewls, spanking your ass while you continue your suckling and drink up his thick load one more time for the night before tomorrow, when you’ll both wake up and do it all over again.

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