keanureevesisbae - Tumblr blog

keanureevesisbae · 4 days ago

Text

Let's Get Physical! feat. Marcus Pike & f!Reader

a Marcus Pike one shot | Rated: 18+ | word count: 3,883 warnings: swearing, rougher p in the v unprotected sex, fingering, talk about weight gain, belly appreciation, self esteem issues surrounding weight, reader is assumed to be shorter and lighter than Marcus, reader has long enough hair for Marcus to grip,

A/N: Okay y'all... here's the mam himself! Thank you to @rebel-held for their dedication and holding vigil for his arrival, and for @yahtiwakitakos for their love of Marcus! Thanks to @strang3lov3, @noxturnalpascal & @neverwheremoonchild for their eyes & thoughtful insight.

As soon as you’d gotten the desk next to Marcus, he knew you’d be friends. He’d transferred out of being on the field and to the home office in your state after a personal matter had him decide to transfer. Since that point, you’d worked closely together, learning almost everything you could about one another.

You’d taken to him almost immediately, but his kind and aloof manner kept you from pushing further to see if there was something more. You’d eventually fallen into a content and friendly rapport that turned into a work-based friendship.

Marcus learned about your love of reading, allowing you to collect obscure information, and you’d learned that he did not cook, opting for take out at every meal.

You’d even earned nicknames from one another. You called him Pickles after a long-forgotten joke about his last name, and he called you Dex, short for Poindexter, given you aptitude for Trivial Pursuit.

You worked side by side for four years, and in that time, you’d noted that Marcus had gained weight, but it wasn’t that noticeable – it was gradual. His clothing had always fit. He'd never had an ill-fitting suit or a too-tight dress shirt or jacket. Yes, you'd notice his weight fluctuate and increase, but he camouflaged it well with his clothing. Sure, he’d developed a bit of a softer jawline under the scruff on his face - it enhanced his pout with those big brown eyes; and yeah, his middle looked less trim, as did his thighs…

You’d told yourself that you really didn’t notice or care – Marcus was your friend.

You repeated those lies every time he’d look up at you and ask if you were ready for lunch or pat your shoulder as he said you’d done a good job. You did notice his waistline increasing and you thought it was sexy and hot, but your own internal battle with self image and weight had tarnished your ability to admit you liked heavier men and watched to help them get heavier.

You so badly wished he was more than a friend. He was kind and sweet, and never swore, even going so far as to tell you to ‘behave’ or ‘watch your mouth’ when you left an f-bomb slip. The way his big brown eyes watched you, you wished they were imagining you naked and crying out for him, and as you’d lose yourself in this fiction, he’d bring you back to earth, asking if you’d read the latest case file.

You’d told yourself that you really didn’t notice or care because Marcus was your friend.

*****

“Morning, Dex!”, he called as he meandered to his desk. He had two coffees in his hands from your favourite coffee shop… the one that was out of the way for him to get to on his way to the office… the one he only stopped at when he either needed a favour or had bad news.

You narrowed your eyes at him and motioned to the coffee with a pointed finger. “Stop. What’s that for?”

“Just wanted to get my best girl a coffee. S’that a crime?”, he smiled, trying to force as much innocence from his eyes as possible.

You didn’t move from your position and raised your brow. He sighed and put the coffees on the desk and slumped his shoulders, letting his work satchel drop to the floor.

“I need your help.”

“I knew it.”

“But you can’t laugh.”

His last statement made you freeze. Looking up at him, his face looked slightly pained as his winced, waiting for the sign to continue.

“Out with it, Pickles.”

“They want agents to be in the field. I saw the sign last night as I was leaving, so I looked into it. Don’t get me wrong – love the office but I miss field work.”

He paused, eyes searching your face for approval. You could see the worry on him, the fear of rejection to his idea. You nodded, arms gently moving from their crossed position, and you reached for the cup closest to you on his desk and took a sip. It was good coffee and you hummed in approval.

Marcus let out a breath he more than likely didn’t realize he was holding and continued. “There’s a catch thought – I have to pass a physical.”

You just about spat our coffee out and swallowed it funny, causing you to start coughing. You waved him off, sputtering an ‘I’m okay.’ as you motioned for him to keep talking.

“Yeah… uh – so the physical.”, he said slowly, watching you carefully with a bit of worry. “I have to pass the one I did when I was a rookie… the one we all had to pass. You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded again, trying to get the image of Marcus huffing and puffing on a treadmill, sweaty and just a plain mess… the same way you’d imagined he’d be on top of you… rutting and jack hammering you into your mattress…

“Yeah! Just peachy, Pickles!”, you croaked, the rasped out a laugh. “You want to go in the field and leave me behind? Be Mister Bigshot and meet some other prettier coworker to bring coffee?”

You were trying to tease him, but your words and the sharpness of your tongue sounded like they aimed to wound, and it wasn’t lost on Marcus.

“Well, why not come with me? We could be partners.”

Your heart fluttered at the thought of travelling with Marcus to different art crime scenes. You’d never been able to shake the stories he told about the weird things he’d investigated in the field. Yeah, there were the big things, but you were more intrigued by the obscure things he’d investigated, like the unnamed famous actor who’s inadvertently bought stolen vintage clown pornography, or the weird old grumpy suburban guy who cluelessly had a priceless - albeit mundane - horse painting hanging in his bedroom, or the time some government worker was caught at the airport with illegally imported erotic art from South America that reeked of cigarettes.

The idea had merit and you nodded, cautiously optimistic.

*****

"Look, I know what I said, but maybe...", Marcus called out from behind the bathroom door. "...maybe I am a little more out of shape than I thought." You stopped your advancement down the hallway and chuckled with a smile.

"What are you talking about?"

"It... it-uh... it fits... different."

You paused and as the cogs in your head turned, trying to decipher what he meant. It hit you and you felt heat bloom in your core and on your face as your smile exploded into a wide-eyed grin.

If what you were thinking was true, the gym clothing that was standard issue for all new FBI trainees - and would be the required outfit for his upcoming physical fitness test - would give you an eye full of how pudgy he'd really gotten. While sitting in your thoughts, your silence made Marcus nervous.

Deciding to just rip the band-aid off, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

Your jaw dropped.

You’d seen the pictures of him during training. The clean-shaven sharp jaw and trim toned body clad in a too big t-shirt and knee length shorts.

That was not who stood before you. His shorts, while tighter, still looked like they fit. But that poor t-shirt was pulled tight across his broad chest and shoulders, and the hem was unable to traverse his ample middle, exposing about an inch above his belly button down to the curve of his underbelly and giving you a full view of his love handles.

His face was flushed, and his eyes pleaded with you. You cleared your throat and smiled, trying to hide the fact that your core was clenching on nothing.

“It fits!”, you managed to squeak out and Marcus look at you stupefied and held his hands open to his sides.

“Really?”, he asked in exasperation, raising his eyebrows. “You think this – “, he motioned to his middle. “- qualifies as fitting?”

“I mean, you got it on? That means it sort of fits?” You winced as you spoke, trying to keep a pleasant smile.

“Fuck!”

You jumped as he let out one the loudest ‘fuck’s you’d ever heard, and your eyes grew wide that it was him who yelled it. He threw his hands up in the air and stood with his hands on his hips, knee popped. His jaw tensed as he looked away, stuck in thought, and you took the opportunity to gaze over his body, noting the way his stomach moved with each frustrated breath and the way his shoulders pulled the absolute life out of the shirt’s seams.

You were lost in thought ogling him and didn’t notice that he’d turned his attention back to you. When you finally looked up at him, both feeling your faces heat up slightly and an awkward silence sat heavy between you.

You decided to break the silence first, clearing your throat again. “Pickles, you… you look great.”

Marcus stated to laugh, and you couldn’t help but join him.

“I know I look like a busted overstuffed sausage – “

“Oh, stop it!”, you hushed him, stepping towards him. “Okay, sure, it doesn’t fit quite the same, but nobody stays the same size their whole life.”

He rolled his eyes with a smirk and nodded. “Fine.”

*****

So far, all the equipment in his apartment complex’s gym were now Marcus’ sworn enemies. The last three hours had been filled with Marcus angrily sweating and using every curse and swearword under the sun. He was so focused on being angry that he forwent any self consciousness about his clothes not fitting.

After another failed attempt at trying to navigate the elliptical, he yelled “PISSING SHITTING FUCKING COCK SUCKING MOTHER FUCKER!!” and stormed out of the gym. You quickly grabbed the things he left in his departure and followed him.

*****

“Fuck it! I’m not fucking doing this!”, he boomed, furiously ripping open his refrigerator and grabbing the carton of chocolate milk and chugged it.

You quietly tried to get him to water to hydrate, and contemplated asking why his swearing sounded so natural when you’d never heard him use anything harsher than ‘fiddlesticks’ prior to this. “Marcus… maybe some water would – “

He finished the chocolate milk then tossed the carton haphazardly into the sink, and his eyes aggressively looked you up and down. You closed your mouth and stood, light a deer in headlights, nervously fidgeting your hands as you felt heat bloom in your core and on your face.

“Don’t look at me like that! I know what you’re thinking!”, he barked at you, making you jump. “God dammit! You think I’m too fat and out of fucking shape to pass that physical! And you know what?”, he yelled, grabbing one of the giant pretzels he’d picked up yesterday from the kiosk in the mall. “You’re fucking right!”

He angrily bit into the pretzel and chewed, then huffed and ripped open the fridge again and grabbed a king-size can a beer. You watched, bewildered and bewitched, as he maneuvered between chomps and gulps of the pretzel and beer.

You’d never seen him this enraged and you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Sure, you’d seen him get snide or lippy when he was frustrated, but you had no idea he could turn his temper up to eleven and he had such a vast array of foul words in his vocabulary – and find it so hot. You were staring at him, seeing that once he’d finished the pretzel, his hand went to his underbelly, pitching and kneading it slightly as he downed the rest of the beer. Your eyes were then pulled to his crotch in the almost too-small shorts and the noticeable bulge that had developed there.

Your lips parted and your brows tented. Marcus kept his eyes on your face, seeing the reaction you were having to his meltdown. It egged him on, knowing that you were getting something out of this. He’d longed for the chance to get to hold you beyond the occasional side hug or shoulder bump, wanting to touch you and make you feel as beautiful as he saw you. But he’d assumed you were completely fine being friends, given the way his weight had creeped up. He didn’t want to lose you by making a move and wrecking the chance to get the pieces of you that you allowed him to have access to. He’d stayed respectful, and courteous, and friendly, all while desperately wishing he was yours. But all that went out the window the moment he felt rage course through his veins and saw you look at him like that. He wanted you to be his.

He threw the empty beer can aside, hearing its tinny landing by the sink, and stalked towards you. Taken slightly aback at how aggressive his body language was, you stepped back and were stopped by the counter behind you. Marcus crowded you, standing over you, his belly moving against you with every ragged, angry breath.

“Marc – “

His name was cut off in your mouth as his collided with yours. He roughly grabbed your waist with one huge hand while the other held your face. He dominated the kiss, his tongue pushing for entrance again your lips, and you let him in, tasting the hoppy beer and salty yeast of the pretzel. As the passion built between you, the kiss deepened, becoming more fervent and urgent. His hands roamed, pulling you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair. There was no rhythm to this kiss; it was him exploring and dominating and you submitting to him and your desperate needs.

You finally parted, panting and breathless. He looked beautiful; his eyes were dark with blown pupils and his lips were reddened. The hand that had held your waist moved down to the crux of your thighs and pressed against your Athleisure legging-clad core. Your mouth opened and a soft, breathy whine barely sounded out. The fury in his eyes had ebbed and morphed into an aggressive and possessive need, but he watched you, looking for any sign to stop. You gave nothing but green lights.

He leaned his face closer to yours, his nose nudging your cheek. You let out a small whimper and nodded, tilting your head, and he grazed his teeth along your cheek to your jaw, then bit down softly. With his mouth on you, he growled through his teeth, “Mine.”

He pulled back and turned your around, pushing your palms onto the counter, and he stood flush with his front to your back. As he grinded against you and bit and kissed your neck, he pushed your leggings down over your ass with one hand, the other pushed between your legs in the front.

“Oh fuck… you’re soaked, baby…”, he growled, biting the back of your neck. His middle finger ran along your seam, pulling a mewling whine from your mouth.

“You want me? Tell me you want me.”

When you didn’t answer beyond a frantic nod, he said your name in a low snarl and his grip on you tightened. “I asked you a question.”

“Mar-Marcus! Please!”, you cried out, feeling his finger circle then tap your throbbing nub repeatedly. You felt him smile against your neck, his other hand palming and squeezing your tit, and he started fucking into your wet heat with his pointer and index fingers.

“You’re so gorgeous… so funny… so smart… and you’re letting this fat guy finger you in his kitchen…”

His thumb caught your clit in the haste of his hand’s movement, and you let out a surprised yelp and your body jolted. The hand gripping your breast came up your sternum and secured itself around your throat gently, forcing you upright and flush against him.

“Juicy little snatch… just gripping my fingers, baby… you - you gonna cum for me, Dex baby?”

You whined and nodded. His hand moved up and he pushed two fingers into your mouth, exerting the power he had over you. He did it because he could, because you let him. You were both learning more about the other: he wanted to dominate, you wanted to be dominated.

You came as he pressed your tongue down, almost eliciting a gag from you. It felt filthy and raw and everything you’d hoped but never thought Marcus could be.

“There is it… Good girl… You’re mine… I’m gonna fuck that into you.”, he grunted and pulled both sets of fingers from your wet holes, shoving you down flush with the counter.

You’d barely finished cumming, let alone gotten through the aftershocks making your cunt flutter as he shoved his shorts down and lined up his cock with you and pushed in.

“Jesus fuck…”, you groaned. “You’re s’fucking big!”

“You like me big… say it. Say you like me being a fat desk jockey…”

“Yes… god yes…”

“Like seeing me eat, too, huh?... like watching me get fat?”

“Yes! Please… Marcus, please!”

You felt the beginnings of another orgasm as he pounded into you from behind and filled your mind with the images of him stuffing himself stupid on take out at work while you sat on his lap and helped feed him. It was a guilt-filled fantasy that you’d never allowed yourself to fully process and accept until this moment.

Marcus pulled out of you suddenly. Fearing you did something wrong, you made a frantic and breathless ‘huh?’ sound. He picked you up, tossing you over his shoulder.

“Wanna watch your pretty face while you cum, Dex.”

You couldn’t help but smile; Marcus was ever the romantic.

He tossed you on the bed and crawled up to you, pushing your legs apart. He took a moment to look at your pussy, smirking with a smug head shake, then locked eyes with you. He leaned forward, one hand landing beside your head and his other hand grabbed your hips, pulling you closer to him, guiding his cock back into your desperate, wet cunt.

“Look at you… just gorgeous… “, he marveled with smug satisfaction as he pounded into you, watching your eyes close, brows furrow, and lips part to let out a soft pant.

His thumb came down on your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles. “Come on, Dex… gimme one so I can watch… lemme see…”

“Marcus… I’m close…”

“I know, pretty girl… give it to me… come on… gimme one I can see…”

“Yes… right there! Right there!”

His thumb hit just the right angle and you fell apart as he pistoned you on his cock. Your hand reached up, gripping the arm above your head, and you arched your back in pure bliss.

“There it is… there you go… fuck, good girl… look at you… so god dammed pretty…”

The noises you made sounded alien coming from your mouth. You’d never heard this cacophony of whines, cries, mewls and moans come from your body before, and Marcus was revelling in it. He removed his thumb form your oversensitive nub, and he brought him body down onto your as he continued to thrust into you. His weight felt amazing; it was everything and ore than what you could have hoped, and you needed more of it on you. You hooked one leg on his hip, then brought the other one up, trying to lock your ankles. Marcus was too big, his love handled waist too wide and his thrusts now to frantic to get a good latch.

You raised your head and captured his mouth in a messy kiss, and he interlocked his fingers into yours. He panted into your mouth as you made eye contact; gone was the ferocious and angry man who’d fucked you in his kitchen and back was Marcus: sweet, funny, soft Marcus.

“Come on, Pickles.”, you whispered against his lips with a wry grin.

The surrendering groan that tumbled out of him matched perfectly with his out of rhythm thrusts.

“You gonna let me cum in you? Please?”, he panted, hips stuttering.

Nodding, you desperately whined, “Yeah… yes, please… please… c-cum in me!”

Marcus dropped his forehead onto yours. With a few more snaps of his hips with corresponding grunts, he let out a string of groans and panting breaths, then stilled in you.

You were both breathing hard, and his fingers flexed and relaxed repeatedly in yours as he came down from his high. Your mouth found his again briefly, then he pulled back and looked you in the eyes. His brows furrowed and his eyes softened further, as if the weight of what had just happened suddenly dawned on him and he was worried this was it for the two of you.

“Hey… hey hey hey…”, you soothed, hand coming up to cup his cheek, a soft smile on your face. “It’s okay… I’m okay.”

He nodded, still unsure, the blurted out, “I like you so much, Dex. I wanted this for so long…and I wanted it to be special, and – “

“It was special!”, you beamed with a smile, loving how adorably flustered he looked in contrast to before. “You hulked out and railed me in your kitchen!”

He stopped and looked at you, dumbfounded. Slowly, a smile peaked out on one side of his mouth. “You liked that.”, he huffed out in a laugh. “Dex, you kinky girl!”

You laughed and playfully slapped his arm. “Knock it off, Pickles!”

He pulled his softening cock from you and kissed you, both of you giggling.

Marcus pulled away and teased, “You liked getting railed by a fat guy… in the kitchen…”

“Yeah, I did!”, you challenged with a smile. “And I hope that fat guy does it again!”

His breath hitched and he swallowed, looking away for a moment. “So, you’re okay with…?”

He couldn’t finish saying what he wanted to. Years of poor self esteem and heart-breaking moments with other women wouldn’t let him, nor did that part of him want to hear your answer in case it was rejection. Your hand guided his face back to you.

“I wouldn’t have let you if I wasn’t.

His smile softened. “How about a date first?”

You couldn’t help the heat and shy smile that bloomed on your face, and he watched as you melted into his words.

*****

Marcus walked into the office the next Monday, carrying another two coffees from your favourite place. You were preoccupied with one of your coworkers but shit him a smile before returning your attention to the file before you.

He placed the coffees down, hung his coat and bag, then noticed the collection of tupperwear containers with a sticky note on them.

Getting takeout is fine, but this is a sampling of what I can do for you. Xoxo Dex.

He opened a few of the containers and in them were homemade versions of his absolute favourite take out meals. He brought one to his nose and inhaled, just as your coworker left the room. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his middle, patting and squeezing his belly.

Marcus deciding he wasn’t ever going to need to pass a physical again.

No more tag list! follow @beefnotes for fic updates!

137 notes · View notes

keanureevesisbae · 4 days ago

Text

Grandpa Joel & the 1994 Ford Aerostar Minivan feat. Joel Miller

Summary: Joel is a grandpa. He has a mini van and coaches your niece's soccer team.

Pairing: Joel Miller f!reader | Rating: 18+ MDNI | Word Count: 2,839

Content Warnings: big girthy age gap! [Joel is a grandpa, reader is just out of university], smut, sex on minivan floor, oral [f!receiving], dirty talk, mention of the term 'brat', reader has hair that can be pulled, unprotected sex, Joel is an old man, the term used is soccer - not football (apologies), mention of holiday party

Author's Notes: hello beloved @ace-turned-confused - it is I, your Secret Santa! I hope I have met your age-gap Joel needs! (I don't normally venture down this avenue so I thank you for the opportunity to explore!) Thanks to @whocaresstillthelouvre for organizing!

Thanks to @strang3lov3, @noxturnalnymph & @bitchesuntitled for their eyes, minds, thots and love - i would have let my utter defiance take over and not done this without your encouragement. Thanks also to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!

You yawned, watching your niece out on the soccer field, swarming around the ball with the other five and six year old girls as they bumbled and squealed, trying to get the ball down the field.

This was the third weekend in a row that you had volunteered and as much as you loved spending time with Dayna, your niece, it was boring as hell. Your motive for sitting at the side lines on a cheap folding chair, cutting orange slices on the lid of a tupperware container on your lap was not her.

It was the coach: Joel Miller. The late fifty-something, silver haired, face like a cat’s asshole, grumpy bachelor who’s granddaughter was on the team was what kept you volunteering to take your brother’s daughter to her weekend games at the local sports field. To the parents and the referees, he was cold, callous, snarky, rude, blunt… but to the little girls in the blue jerseys who crowded around him and looked up, all calling him ‘Mr. Joel”, he was melted butter. His eyes turned from charcoal to deep chocolate and his scowl turned into a look of adoration at the little girls.

The whiplash he’d give you when he flipped like a lightswitch from barking at the ref for a call he disagreed with or a parent he thought was overstepping to a gentle, sweet grandfather if one of the girls fell and hurt herself or one of them giggled at him made your panties wet. You felt like a pervert, but any shame you had disappeared when your cunt throbbed and you bit your lips, watching him move along the sidelines in his navy and turquoise windbreaker, faded jeans and new balance runners from 1999.

Now that you had finished your undergraduate degree, Coach Joel had become your new hyperfixation. You suddenly looked forward to Saturdays more than you should have given the reason, although your niece was none the wiser and delighted to have you around more. But you were there for Joel, to watch him bark and scowl then smile and dote.

“That was not offside!”, Joel shouted, getting almost nose to nose with the ref. His face was red and his fists were clenched at his sides, and his glare was burning into the young ref’s eyes, daring him to try and make that call again.

The ref tried to stand his ground, but Joel wasn’t having it. Snorting at him like an angry horse, the ref finally backed down, nodding and stepping back; he blew his whistle and the game resumed.

You sighed, eyes dreamily taking in all that was that grumpy old man. He turned and his gaze briefly caught yours and he gave a scathing scowl in return. You shifted in your seat, making the seam of your jeans press on your clit a little firmer and you knew you were flooding your panties. God, you wanted him.

Your brother had asked you to take Dayna to her practice during the week; he and Dayna’s mom were going to his corporate holiday party. You’d agreed before he’d even finished asking, and you were sure your brother was on to you. But it didn’t matter.

Even though you only had to drop Dayna off. That was all that was required of you because she was going to a sleepover afterwards at one of her teammates’ houses. But you were going to snag this opportunity to put yourself in front of Joel, and you were not letting go of your chance.

“Coach Miller, can I help you with your balls?”

Joel shot up from the crouching position he was in while he loaded the soccer balls into the bag in the school gym and whipped around to look at you with a wide-eyed scowl.

You gave him your ever-so-innocent smile, hands clasped in front of you while you twisted your foot into the waxed wooden floor. Coquettishness wasn’t your strong suit but you were feeling bold and stupid today.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked you up and down before grunting a “No.”

But him not turning from you right away along with noting how his eyes would dart down to your chest quickly before coming back up to stare daggers at you told you he was at least maybe possibly intrigued. Maybe.

“I’m happy to help y-”

“Dayna’s aunt?”, he interrupted gruffly and you nodded, still smiling.

“Yeah… I seen you on the side of the field. Not normally here at practice.”

You inwardly shuddered at his poor grammar but managed to keep that sweet smile on your face.

“Always got that stupid fuckin’ dazed look on your face.”

That stung. Your smile faulted a bit and you nodded again, deciding to take the L and walk away while you still had some pride left. “Okay, so I’ll leave you to it then.” You turned, feeling your cheeks burn. You were ready to admit defeat.

No sooner were you at the door to the gym, ready to pull the door open and walk back out into the world with unsatified lust in your loins, that Joel called out, “Hey!”

You whipped around and he nodded towards the equipment room.

“You can-uh…” His eyes trailed up and down your body and he licked his lips. “You can help me in here, honey.”

Your brows knitted as you followed him into the equipment room, surprised when he shoved you up against the wall, his eyes dark. Joel got his face close to yours and you could smell stale coffee and cigarettes on his breath.

“You’re trouble, ‘know that?”, he grunted through his teeth.

If he didn’t have his hand between your legs, cupping your mound and pressing his middle finger in to you, looking blindly and through denim for your aching bundle of nerves, you would have felt threatened.

“Joel-”

His smile was more sneer as he let out a rasped chuckle. “Oh, it’s Joel now, is it? Not tryin’a be cute no more with Coach Miller?”

He was driving you nuts and your hands moved to his flannel shirt and started popping the buttons open to reveal his undershirt. His heavy-lidded eyes darted down to your hand and then back up to your face, and his jaw cocked with his grin.

“Needy little thing…”, he huffed out in another chuckle before pulling his hand away and working both to get you out of your jeans. “Don’worry, baby… I’ll make that ache go’way.”

His drawling speech and poor grammar now made your pussy pulse. His deep, rasped voice with its dulcet tones and soft consonants were driving you to a horny madness.

“Oh fuck… yes please…”

He nudged his nose against your cheek as he tilted his head and ghosted his mouth over yours and said softly. “Now don’go breakin’ my heart here, baby… you this needy for an old fuck like me, or you just a desperate li’l bitch’n heat?”

“Jesus christ…”, you breathed out at his vulgarity and you could feel his mouth smile against yours as he kissed you.

The kiss was so gentle compared to the rough calluses on his fingers as he moved them through your folds, pulling your slick from your hole. You whimpered into his mouth when your clit was grazed by his finger and your knees felt like they were going to give out on you.

Joel pulled his head back and looked at you with a grin. “Ain’t been with a lady this sensitive in a dog’s age… Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me.”

You offered a dazed and needy smile in return, but the door to the gym opened, making you both freeze. Footsteps started walking towards the equipment room and Joel quickly whipped his fingers from your open jeans and wiped them on the inside of his flannel shirt. You did your jeans up and righted your shirt, and he turned and picked up the bag of balls.

The school janitor popped his head in the room and seemed surprised to see you both in there.

“Jus’ doing inventory.”, Joel grunted at him as you turned to pretend to count the badminton rackets hung up on the wall.

The janitor looked at you with a questioning look and then back to Joel. “I gotta lock up, so…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Gimme a minute, Ted!”

You tried to stop the smile from breaking out on your face as Joel and ‘Ted’ went back and forth, trading barbs and snide remarks behind you, knowing fully well how horny Joel was in that moment and how mad he was at the janitor cockblocking him.

It finally ended with Joel grabbing your arm and dragging you out of the gym and then the school to the parking lot, all the while muttering and bitching about “that fuckin’ no good, bastard Ted”.

He ripped open the sliding door to his 1990-something Aerostar van and threw the balls into the back; you noticed there were no back seats in the van, Joel apparently removing them. Then he grabbed your arm again and pushed you onto the floor. He crawled into the van and closed the door behind him.

“Jeans. Off. NOW.”

The flames in his eyes and the way he ripped his shirt off like a low budget rental of the Hulk left you no room to argue with him and you did as you were told, while he also got down to his boxer briefs. As soon as you were in your underwear, he gave you a scowly pout and nodded towards the rest of your clothing, silently telling you Those, too.

You started with your bra and he watched you with his dark eyes, licking his lip with a little blep, and once you pulled off your panties he groaned.

“Lord… sweet merciful crap, baby… look at her…”

Joel looked pained in his admiration as his big hands pushed your thighs apart further. “So pretty’n juicy…. Just fuckin’ look at’er”

He huffed a few times as he adjusted his erection only just covered by the flimsy polyester blend. He got his face down between your legs and took a long, deep inhale. “Better than fuckin’ cocaine…”

You keened as his mouth collided with your pussy, then let out a surprised sound that morphed into a whine as Joel prodded and pushed two fingers into your wet heat. His fingers… god. Thick and rough and long, it was even better than you could have hoped. He hummed against your pussy, tonguing your hole, your cries and pants egging him on.

His teeth grazed your clit as he moved up and sucked it into his mouth, making your hips buck and jutting your pubic bone into his nose. He immediately sat up, and glared down at you.

“I forget how sensitive you girls can be…”, he grunted, grabbing your hips and pulling them closer to him. “Ain’t been roughed up enough to handle a li’l teeth.”

You sat up on your elbows and gave him the same glare he shot you. “Oh fuck off, old man. I’ll return the fucking favour next time.”

He huffed a chuckle with a half grin and swatted at your thigh. “I’ll hold ya to it, baby.”

You reached forward and pulled the front of his boxer briefs down, noting the width of his cock’s base before releasing the whole thing. That impressive tent he sported wasn’t all balls. Uncut, long, thick with a salt and pepper thatch of hair crowning the base. His cock was as beautiful as it was intimidating and it made your mouth salivate.

“Yeah yeah yeah… get your peepin’ in now before I bury it in your tight little hole.”

Before you could protest, he hitched your leg on his hip and guided the tip in.

“Oh fuck…”, you gasped, pinching your eyes closed.

You groaned when he pulled out and grabbed your arm. “Flip over. My back ain’t what it used to be an-.”

“And your knees are?”, you quipped with a small grin as you got on your hands and knees. You giggled as he lightly flicked your buttcheek with his middle finger.

“Knock it off with the sass, little girl. Or I’ll set you straight in a way that’ll stop you sittin’ for a week.”

You bit your lip, still grinning, and wiggled your ass at him, taunting him wordlessly.

“Fuckin’ brat.”, he muttered, positioning himself and pushing the tip into you. At your surprised whine, he chuckled softly. “Brats don’t get it nice, baby.”

You took a deep breath and released it and Joel took the chance to push in further, seating himself as far as he could. You responded by gripping his arm, arching your back and whining.

“There we go… good girl… not so hard…”

You felt like he was in your lungs. You’d taken a lot of dicks but none had ever made you question your physical capabilities. You needed him to move, feeling like while he was in you, you couldn’t take a full breath.

“Joel… please… p-please move.” You barely recognized your own voice as it came out of you, breathy and needy.

“I like when you use your manners, baby…”, he cooed, pulling his hips back before slamming them forward again. You swear you felt the way his cock moved in you caused the blood to rush to your head, making you see stars. He started to speed up as your pussy lubricated itself further, making his movements in and out easier and louder.

His huge hand tangled in your hair and he pushed your face into the plastic carpeting on the van floor. The feeling of his fucking you rendered you unable to care that the patch your nose was shoved in something that was somewhat sticky and smelled of some kind of soda and stale cigarettes.

Joel’s mouth was running the entire time, spewing filth that punctuated each thrust into you. “Good… fuckin’... girl… takin’ it… like a… champion slut… tight li’l… pussy…”

You could only moan and pant in response, along with the lewd sounds your pussy made around his cock moving in and out of you.

“Bet you… were… coming ‘round… to get fucked… saw the way… you clenched… your thighs when… I walked by… dirty fuckin’ girl… wantin’ to bang… your niece’s… fuckin’ coach…”

He shifted ever so slightly and suddenly his cock was repeatedly hitting that perfect spot, making you cry out and try to arch your back against his hold.

The hand in your hair pulled you back, and moved to your throat, his hot breath fanning across your cheek. As he spoke, you could hear the grin in his words. “Oh, there it is… that’s… that’s the spot, huh?... fuck… that’s it… feel her… feel her quivering… oh baby… huggin’ me tight… come on… come on my cock… come on, baby… soak me.”

“Please… fuck fuck fuck - god, Joel! Oh fuck! Joel! Joel Joel Joel!”, you squealed, your hands grabbing anything you could, finally one landing in his hair and the other on the wrist of the hand he held on your throat. He squeezed his hand slightly, adding enough pressure to give you the final thrill you needed to let go and cum.

Your walls clamped up tight, making his ability to pull out hindered and he groaned and bit down on your shoulder as your pussy squeezed his cock while you came. He followed soon after, unloading into you with shallow, irregular thrusts.

You both were on your knees, interlinked, breathing hard. The windows of the van had fogged up and you were pretty sure you saw the shadow of something vaguely Ted shaped, but said nothing to Joel about it.

You winced and let out a small noise as he pulled out, and he kissed your neck, hushing you. Joel then reached into the back pocket of the passenger seat and pulled out some old Subway restaurant napkins and reached around you and between your legs, cleaning you up, as his other hand gently caressed your stomach. Once he was finished, he shoved the napkins back into the pocket and you both got dressed.

Your legs were still shaky as you got out of the van, Joel following after you. This was the part that you always hated; no matter how good the dicking was, there was always this awkward parting of ways. But Joel still had some surprises up his sleeve.

“So… s’been a while since I done this. But - uh… like to take you out some time.”

You stared at him, not expecting that at all. “I…”, you finally found your voice and nodded with a small smile. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that.”

He smiled back, grabbing your hand and kissing the back of it. “There’s a diner I like that cooks a mean all day breakfast, an’if we go there before 4 pm, there’s an early bird discount.”

You nodded again and let out a breathy laugh. “Sure thing, old man.”

No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!

399 notes · View notes

keanureevesisbae · 6 days ago

Text

Into Temptation

summary: old!Joel obsessively watches sweet reader from across the tipsy bison each night, until one day he walks her home. read on AO3 warnings: girthy age gap (reader is 20, Joel’s age isn’t mentioned but I imagined late 50s), daddy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, mention of pregnancy (Joel wants to knock her up so bad), naive/sweet reader, Joel calls reader “kiddo”, Joel is a bit of a pervert but so are you for reading this

note: this is written in head-canon format but sort of reads like a cohesive story. It allowed me to churn this out much more quickly than writing it my usual way!

He watches you from his spot at the bar, across the tipsy bison, how you laugh with your friends, how your cheeks gain colour with every drink, how you politely refuse any man who makes advances

He knows you’re barely in your twenties, all fresh-faced and so sweet looking, the world can’t possibly have gotten to you yet — that’s what intrigues him, how untainted by cruelty you seem

Tommy catches him staring and scolds him for it — she’s off limits, Joel, there’s a million men better suited for a girl like her

Yes, a million men who you refuse, night after night, offering them your sweet apologetic smiles, and returning to playing cards with your friends. He can’t help but wonder if you’ve got a man already, if that’s why you refuse everyone

One night you make your way over to the bar, stumbling in your cowboy boots, your cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol, your movements a little fuzzy, a vague smile on your face that he recognises from his own youth — the kind of smile only brought out by carefree evenings in bars, cigarettes, and flirting without a goal

You ask the barkeeper for another drink, and accept his wink with a sweet smile when he puts the glass down in front of you. It bothers Joel, this new development. You’re supposed to refuse everyone here

That guy cheats on his wife, he tells you, and your big Bambi eyes land on him, surprised. You two haven’t spoken before. Thought you oughta know.

You cock your head curiously, and lift your glass to your mouth. It’s sweating from the ice, pearly drops of water drooling over your fingernails. You know everyone’s business, Mr. Miller?

You know his name — Joel’s spine tingles. For a sweet girl, you sure manage to hold his gaze, most people would have looked away by now. He’s not known for his pleasant small talk

He wants to ask you to come home with him, but he can feel the eyes of your friends on the two of you, so he restrains himself. Your small hand comes to rest on top of his shoulder, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through him

I wasn’t flirting with him, Mr. Miller, just being polite. You’d know if I was, you say, and then you’re gone, off to your friends again, your dress swaying around your thighs and for a second he has to fight the impulse to drag you back over to him and sit you down on his lap

But he can’t do that, won’t do that, not when you’re so young and half of Jackson would want to see him hang

From then on, you talk to him every time you get a drink — and you start getting them for your friends, too. Any more town secrets to spill, Mr. Miller? How’s that whiskey for the eighteenth night in a row, Mr. Miller? Mr. Miller, I heard Tommy’ll be a Daddy soon — looking forward to being an uncle?

So what if he indulges you? He’s making conversation, people can hardly judge him for it — so long as they don’t know about what he does when he gets home from the bar each evening, imagining it’s your little hand instead of his own

You keep denying all of your admirers, which are more than Joel would like to admit, ever friendly about it. They leave with bruised egos, but glad you were polite about it — all but one. A tall kid, a little older than you but barely 25, and he keeps pestering you night after night. Joel watches the way your brows furrow, the corners of your mouth turning downward rather than up into that sweet smile he adores

The fifth night, the boy touches your shoulder, and your friend pushes his arm away, but he persists. Before Joel can stop himself, he’s on his feet. There a problem here?

Your eyes are round and relieved when they find Joel, and even subconsciously you move towards him. It’s fine, we’re just making conversation, the kid says, so Joel looks at you. You shake your head so slightly he almost doesn’t see it, but it’s all it takes

How ‘bout you ‘n I make some conversation outside? The boy is gone before Joel can put his fist to his jaw, which he’s been itching to do for days now, but after he gives you a slight nod, and you thank him, he leaves your table again to make sure the boy won’t be back as soon as he’s gone

Before he can step outside, he feels your little hand on his arm, and he turns around to look at you. Could you walk me home, Mr. Miller?

He can’t possibly refuse you, doesn’t want to, so he gets your jacket from the coat rack by the door — you don’t question how he knows it’s yours — and leads you outside with a heavy palm on your shoulder

You don’t speak much, but you walk closer to him than you have to, and a sick satisfaction pools inside his belly. You feel safe with him, you trust him to get you home safe, you want to be near him

Right before you reach your house, you look up at him, the apples of your cheeks violently flushed by the cold, snow dotting your hair. Stay a while?

He can’t, he really shouldn’t, not when you’re clearly desperate for him to do so, not when your eyes are all hopeful and innocent and unknowing of what you’re asking of him. Please, I get so lonely at night.

Now, he can’t have that. Sweet girl like you, anyone would be happy to keep you company, and yet Joel’s the one you’re asking. So he agrees, and you open the door into a warm corridor that smells of cinnamon and apples

You take off your boots, revealing your bare legs, only covered by a pair of white stockings to keep you warm, and one of your cotton dresses that can’t possibly keep you warm in this weather. He wants to wrap you up in a blanket and rip it all off at the same time

He stays to ease your mind after he incident at the bar, and after a while you dose off to sleep on the couch, your head drooping and snapping upwards again every few seconds. And he knows you need your sleep, you’re still only twenty after all, so he picks you up to carry you upstairs, but you stir in his arms

Come on, let’s get you to bed, kiddo, he mutters, and in your sleep-drunken state, you rest your head against the crook of his neck, your soft mouth pressing a wet kiss there, and he’s done for, beyond help

When he puts you down on your bed, your eyes open, and he wants so badly to kiss you, to claim you. Sleep with me, you mumble, and God help him, he gets into bed with you, still wearing his jeans

You cuddle up to him, stealing his warmth, his scent, dizzying him with yours. He doesn’t get a wink of sleep, not with the sweet sounds you make while you dream and the way your body molds so perfectly against him

In the morning you smile up at him like you can’t quite believe he’s still there, and then you kiss him, and he knows there’s no turning back from any of it now, not when he’s got you rested and pliant and warm in a bed, not when your legs are wrapped around his thigh so sweetly

So he does what he’s been wanting to do, climbs on top of you, his body weight pressing you into the mattress and pulling the sweetest sounds from your pretty throat — your hands grasp at his shoulders, his back, his arms, when he kisses and licks and bites whatever part of you he can reach

You’re so responsive, like this is the first time someone’s touched you like this, and the thought makes him dizzy. You’re whining for him and he hasn’t even gotten you out of your little dress yet. By the time two of his fingers find your clit, you’re positively trembling under him, and he watches in fascination as you shake and come for him so easily, like you’ve been waiting to do just that, like it’s been building all night. Good girl, my sweet, good girl.

That makes you twitch for him, a broken sound coming out of your mouth that he knows is supposed to be a word. Speak up, kiddo, can’t hear ya.

You do, your hips still moving after your orgasm has faded. D-daddy. His blood starts to boil, and it’s all it takes for him to roughly open his belt buckle, ignore the way his joints pop at the movement, hike up your dress, pull down the cotton panties you’ve soaked, and press the tip of his aching cock against your dripping entrance

When he finally presses himself inside of your tight body, you mewl for him with wide glassy eyes, and it takes all his strength to not just slam into you. He knows you need to adjust to his girth, especially if he’s right and this is the first time someone has fucked you

When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, your breathing comes in little pants, and you throb and clench around him. It makes him want to come inside of you, fuck you until it takes, until that little pussy has what it’s so desperately trying to drain from him

He starts fucking you deeply, as deeply as he can, and you cry for him with every thrust, sweet chants of DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy. You don’t just want it, you need it, eyelids fluttering and your soft red mouth slightly agape. Your hands tangle into his greying hair, tugging and trying desperately to hold onto something

When you come for him again, he rubs at your little clit until you’re done, but even then, you keep letting him fuck you, his cock moving in and out of you easily, your whole body shaking with overstimulation. Want it inside please, Daddy, you moan, your muscles limp. He grips your hips, and empties his balls deep inside of you, keeps thrusting until he’s sure his spent can’t possibly be deeper inside of you

You smile up at him when he calls you his good, sweet girl, a blissed out and happy look on your face

So he stays, fucks you again and again that day, barely lets you leave your bed, until Tommy knocks on the door and tells him he missed patrol and the whole of Jackson is talking about you and him. But Joel doesn’t care, not when the second the door is closed you kiss him

People stare when the two of you walk through the streets of Jackson, your hand in Joel’s, smooth fingers against weathered, calloused ones. You don’t mind, kiss him in the tipsy bison in front of everyone, ignore even Tommy and your friends when they tell you to take some space

He knows it’s bound to get worse once your belly starts to swell, which is inevitably going to happen with how often he pumps you full of his load, his back aching and yours arching off the bed. He pays it no mind, though, not when you beg him for it so sweetly every night, please Daddy, want it inside.

1K notes · View notes