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joelmillerisapunk · 10 months ago

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Free Use, Full Plate

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 1,741

Summary: Joel's frustrated after a long day at work and takes it out on your pussy. Basically just pwp

Warnings: 18+, unprotected p in v, assplay, fingering, f!oral receiving, consentual freeuse, breeding & house wife kink, food waste, reader has hair, breasts, and wears yoga pants. Joel calls reader sexy momma.

Notes: Just a life I wanna live, tysm to everyone who voted in this poll this was the winning vote. Ty @saradika-graphics for the divider.

Joel walks through the front door, tired and frustrated after a long day of work. The smell of dinner cooking fills the air, and he sees you bent over, grabbing a pot, your shirt riding up, revealing the small of your back.

You've had an agreement for a while now - free use, where Joel can take what he needs without any hesitation or resistance from you. It's a release for him, a way to let go of the frustrations of the day without taking them out on anything or anyone else.

As he approaches you, he can feel the tension in his body begin to ease. He reaches out and runs his hand over your shoulder, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers. You don't stop what you're doing, but he can hear your breathing quicken as he continues to touch you.

He pulls your shirt up and over your head, exposing your bare back. He leans down and presses his lips to your skin, feeling you shiver beneath his touch. He unclasps your bra, letting it fall to the floor.

As he cups your breasts in his hands, he can feel himself getting harder. He moves closer, pressing himself against you as he continues to touch you. You're still cooking, but he can hear the soft moans escaping your lips as he kneads your flesh.

He reaches down and undoes his pants, freeing his cock. He slides it between your legs, feeling the heat of your body through your stretchy yoga pants. No matter what was agreed upon Joel never pressured you to dress or look a certain way and it made you feel much more confident in yourself and your relationship. He rocks his hips back and forth, letting himself enjoy the sensation of touching you, even if it's just through your clothing.

“Mmm, Joel, you're home," you say, looking over your shoulder at him with a smile. "How was your day, my love?"

He doesn't answer right away, instead focusing on the feeling of your body against his. He can feel the heat of your pussy through your pants, and he presses himself against you harder, grinding his hips in slow circles.

“Don't wanna think about it. Just tell me what you're makin' baby," he finally says, his voice weak with desire. He slides his hands down your sides, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants. He pulls them down, exposing your bare ass. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him, getting on his knees and pushing his face right in there, taking the globes of your ass and making them jiggle onto his cheeks.

You giggle at the feeling, but you can't help feeling aroused as his large nose hits some of your folds as he shoves his face in as deep as he can, almost like he wants to suffocate the bad day away. "Just pasta," you reply, focusing on stirring the sauce so it doesn't burn.

He finally stands up and replies, "Smells delicious baby, just like you." he says, leaning down to press his nose into the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale of your sent. “Mmm fuckin’ heaven.” He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back against him as he continues to grind his hips.

You let out a soft moan as he nips at your shoulder. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding to his touch, but you try your best not to let dinner burn. He reaches down and slides a finger inside you, feeling how wet you are. He groans at the sensation.

"Joel," you say, your voice trembling with pleasure. "I'm almost ready to serve dinner."

"That's alright, love," he says, his voice strained with desire. "I can wait."

You turn around in his embrace to kiss him, but he stops you, his eyes darkening. He pats the countertop beside the stove. "C'mon, get up here darlin'."

"But the food." You point at the pan.

"You know, I could eat this whole dinner and still not be satiated in the right way. Now get on the damn counter, you sexy momma. Gonna fill you up real good.”

With those words, you scramble to the other side of the stove, sitting on the countertop. He starts rubbing his hands across your naked thighs, slowly working his way up until his hands reach the center of your chest.

“Come closer, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Wanna taste you.” He leans close then lowers his head and bites the tip of your nipple. Your nipples start to erect instantly, and your core feels tight. “Fuckin’ perfect.” He gets lower so his face is right between your legs.

Your stomach clenches as he kisses your inner thigh. “Joel…”

His eyes look up into yours. He pulls his mouth away just enough from your skin so he can talk, "Worry 'bout the sauce, I'm busy havin' my appetizer." His tongue swipes your clit, licking it gently before he begins sucking on the skin. You let out a soft sigh when his warm tongue touches your clit once more. You try to tend to the dinner currently cooking but it's near impossible to do so with him rubbing and sucking at you. “Keep stirring," he adds with a playful smirk. He slips two fingers between your legs, sliding them into your folds and circling one slowly before he plunges two more in. He starts moving faster. Your orgasm starts building in your belly.

"Mmmm, Joel..." you whine, grabbing onto the edge of the counter, digging your nails into the wooden surface. "I'm gonna come…" You start thrusting against his hand.

Joel stands up, not letting you finish and takes a step back, his eyes roaming over your naked body. "You're so fucking beautiful, baby, I'm the luckiest man," he says, his voice loaded with desire. He reaches out and runs his hand over your breast, tweaking your nipple between his fingers.

You gasp at the sensation, your body already on edge from his earlier ministrations. "Joel, I need to finish dinner," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I know, darlin," he says, his hand sliding down your stomach and between your legs. He starts rubbing your clit in slow circles, making you moan with pleasure. "I won't let you burn it."

He helps you off the counter and turns you around so you're facing the stove, your naked ass pressed against his hips. He reaches around you and grabs a pan of garlic bread, placing it in the oven. "Now, let's get back to work," he says, his voice low and seductive.

He slides his cock between your legs, the head of his shaft pressing against your wet folds. He starts rocking his hips back and forth until he slides inside you, fucking you slowly and deeply. "Keep stirring, baby," he says, his lips pressed against your ear.

You cry out as he hits that sweet spot inside you, your body trembling with pleasure. "Joel, I'm gonna come," you gasp, your fingers tightening around the spoon.

"Not yet," he commands, his hand reaching around to rub your clit.

He starts fucking you harder, his hips slapping against your ass. You can feel yourself getting close, your orgasm building deep in your belly. "Joel, please," you beg, your voice trembling.

He reaches up and grabs your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss your neck. "Uh-uh, you wait till I say so," he growls, his teeth scraping against your skin.

Joel continues to thrust into you, his pace steady and relentless. You can feel your orgasm right on the brink, your body feels like it might explode "Joel, please," you whimper, your fingers tightening around the spoon you were supposed to be stiring the sauce with. "Joel, I can't, m'gonna come please," you gasp, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“Yes you can, baby just a little more,” he says, pulling your hair and kissing the side of your head, holding onto you tightly. “Wanna fill you up, make you round and beautiful.” He slams into you, his balls hitting your ass. You feel juices dripping from his length, mixing in with your own fluids as they drip down your leg and onto the floor. He pushes his hips in harder and harder, causing you to cry out as you feel the intensity of his hard, thick flesh hitting your walls.

You can feel your heart racing as well, your mind clouded with lust and pleasure. "Oh fuck, oh god, Joel,” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut and gripping the edge of the countertop for dear life as you feel your climax building. “Oh Joel! I'm coming'!" You cry out as your body convulses against him. You hear him release a long, loud, gutteral moan, releasing into you.

As you come down from your high, he presses his forehead against your shoulder, breathing hard as he lets go of your hips. He finally pulls out, his cock glistening, soaked with your juices. He turns you around pulling you in close. "I think dinner's ready," he says, smirking.

You laugh and wrap your arms around his waist, "I think you're right," you say, your hands running over his chest. You open the oven door to be met with disappointment. The garlic bread is burnt to a crisp, and so is the sauce.

Joel walks up behind you, "you orderin' or am I?"

You both can't help but chuckle at the situation and decide to order pizza, knowing it's a quick and easy solution. Joel wraps his arms around you as he gives you his phone to search for a local pizza place online, placing the order together.

Once the order is placed, you turn around in his arms, looking up at him playfully pouting, "I guess we'll have to settle for pizza tonight."

Joel leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, whispering, "I'd eat pizza every night if it meant I could come home to you like this."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller #pedro pascal #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #dom!joel miller

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deadghosy · 6 months ago

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MODERN HIGH! THEODORE X READER HEADCANNONS && IMAGINES

High! Theo who literally has red eyes as he just eyes you across the room getting himself a drink of water.

High! Theo who just smiles with those gorgeous dead eyes that seem to hypnotize you every time

High! Theo who hallucinates 50/50 of the time of his high trip.

“Bella…why do you have two heads??”

“…omg you really are that high.”

Headcannon on High! Theo who is a snuggle bug.

High! Theo who just stays put when you ask him too. This man is just sitting on the couch like a dad ready to watch a sport.

High! Theo who switches to his native language to ramble. Sometimes he can’t control it.

“Ti amo così tanto. Voglio sposarti quando ci laureeremo all’università amore mio.” (I love you so much. I wanna marry you when we graduate college my love.)

“Mhm…” you hummed not understanding him, but you knew he loves you.

High! Theo who just pepper kisses your face a lot

Imagine High! Theo who sings a random song as you are trying to keep his munchies down

High! Theo who ate a pizza you order, but he wants more.

Headcannon on High! Theo who would just watch you and follow you around. Literally turning his head around to watch you literally go in the hallway

High! Theo who is literally baked to the point he can’t even stand correctly for 5 minutes.

High! Theo who would count his own fingers for fun out of no where.

High! Theo who says he could do a hand stand for 10 minutes only for him to land on his back with a big thump!

High! Theo who cooks randomly. Feeling the need to cook for you.

“Theo? What in gods name are you doing?” You ask seeing a high Theodore stirring up some pasta.

“I’m makin pasta for the love of my life..”

High! Theo who trips over the littlest of things and sometimes curses the thing out

High! Theo who tells you to dance with him randomly. He doesn’t take no for an answer this time. He wants to dance with you.

High! Theo who literally complains about wanting to fall asleep but feels hungry at the same time.

High! Theo who would drool in his nap as you told him to sleep off his high. And he listened

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0phantom0 · 18 days ago

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heyy! could you do a female reader x paige where they are dating and reader is feeling insecure so when they are doing ykw.. she asks to turn the lights off but paige comforts her ?? thank you!!

absolutely! Thank you for the suggestion!

Low Lights - P.B

pairing: Paige Bueckersx fem reader

warnings: kinda smutty and suggestive

I was at home cooking some dinner for tonight, I was exhausted but extremely giddy, awaiting Paige's arrival. Paige was staying the weekend at my place, something we had only decided last minute.

The pasta was boiling as I was stirring the sauce, the sharp smell going through my nose and sitting on my tounge, almost tasting it. I was humming a song I listened to earlier, a subtle buzz coming from the fan above. suddenly a soft knock could be heard at the front door, I tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the pot and then layed it down on the countertop.

Joyfully skipping down the hall and opening the door, I was met with a cool breeze but best of all, my beautiful girlfriend smiling blissfully at me. I looked down to see the beautiful orchids she had bought me, in a faded pink pot with a white, frilly bow wrapped around. I gasped in pure joy, my smile shining all over my face as I cautiously took a hold of the precious gift in one hand, and wrapping my arm around Paige with the other. " Hi babyyy" she squealed into my hair, streatching out the 'y' in 'baby' " Hi P!" I said, kicking the door open further with my foot. I grabbed her hand and pulled her inside my mellow house

" Smells good in here, watcha' makin'?" she said, pulling me backwards into her chest and nuzzling her nose in my neck "pasta" I quietly murmer, resting my head back towards her rocking slightly as I let Paige hold me in hers rong arms.

an hour later, we're sitting on the sofa, cuddled up together in a mess of limbs and love. My head is on her chest, arms fisted on her shirt, holding her close to me. P's arm is playing with my hair, while her other arm is stroking my arm softly. we're watching a film that KK recommended for us, Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind was the title, a beautiful movie, a bit strange at first but you have to understand it to relise the meaning behind it.

I was tring to pay attention to the dialouge, but that was difficult when I felt paiges dazzling eyes were practically burning holes in the back of my head. The movie now being discarded as background noise, the words now just mumbles we cant quite string together. I looked up towards her, to see her smiling at me, eyes scanning my face in love and adoration. Her hand travels from up my arm to the side of my face, stroking it gently. She leaned in for a kiss, our lips meeting like they were always meant to be together, day in and day out. Even though me and Paige have kissed almost a million times, they always feel as special and as wholesome as the first.

But the second kiss was slightly different, it felt more passionate, more needy, Paige's hand was slowly grasping my hip and my waist, pulling me on top of her. The kisses became more sloppy. She was kneeding my hips, as I was softly pulling at her hair and grinding against her. She started kissing down my neck, I was letting out small whimpers at the contact, then she bit my neck, slightly shocked because it stung a little, but it hurt.. good?. I moaned softly and the lewd noises riled Paige up as she began to move her hands up my stomache and towards my bra, unclasping it carefully. I was so lost in the moment that I didnt relise Paige's hands drifting down under my sweats and reaching for the band of my panties. My breath hitched but not in a pleasured way, suddenly feeling self conscious about myself.

"Is this okay baby?" Paige gasped into my ear seductivly. I was silent, I didnt know what to say, all the thoughts ran out of my head as soon as the words registerd.

Paige, noticing my disjection in my movement, immediatly removing her hand from my underwear, and moved her head so her eyes met mine. " Whats wrong baby? Is everything 'kay?" she said, worry laced in her tone and wearing a nervous expression. I tried to speak but my words got caught in my throat, the only thing to come out of my mouth was strangled sobs as I coverd my face with my hands. "Sweetheart please dont cry, i'm so sorry, did I do something wrong?"

i shook my head slowly as my hands lowerd " I want to I do, c-can we ple-ease turn off the l-lights?" I mumbled incoherently. " Why do you want to do that doll Is everything okay? Talk to me." she wavers. I sniffle, taking a deep breath before speaking " I just dont l-like how I look dow-n there." Paigfe moves her big hands up my waist and cups my face, caressing it softly " You know, your so beautiful and I don't think that anything like that would put me off loving you, I understand you dont think that you look good down there, but I promise you, to me you are more beautiful than anything, inside and out." She explains " We can try again another day, but i promise your the most beautiful thing I have ever layed eyes on my love. I think we should get some rest for now baby." She wipes the tears away from my face, kissing me sweetly. I nod moving my head to lie on her collerbone. paige moves her hand around to the small of my back and holds me gently, untill sleep takes over our lovesick souls.

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A/N: Thank you for this suggestion! It was very fun to write, i wasnt sure If you wanted smut in it but this is how i thought it shoukld have been planned out!

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #paige x reader #paige bueckers fluff #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers uconn #uconn #paige blockers

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tteokdoroki · 11 months ago

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⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — KATSUKU BAKUGOU. homemade love.

about. katsuki takes the pain of his middle-born daughter to heart, and does anything he can to fix it.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, characters aged up, bakugou is a girl dad of three, reader is referred to as ‘ma’, their daughter is quirkless like deku lol, he makes her pasta, pro hero!bakugou, fem!reader, … a draft from a long time ago!! enjoy please <3

katsuki who cooks and makes his middle daughter her favourite pasta recipe whenever she’s down.

she comes home from middle school with scraped palms and knees, teary eyed and with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“they don’t like me ‘cause ‘m quirkless.” she says as soon as she’s through the door — the authentic bakugou twang thick in her shaky voice. her face is pressed into your torso when you make eye contact with katsuki, who’s emerged from the kitchen down the hall and to your left.

you see it all flash before his eyes — his childhood, his high school career and the day he died. the way he treated the number one, uncle izuku, for so many years. it’s all reflected in the familiar red of his middle child’s eyes and it kills him.

“c’mere squirt,” katsuki calls to her, drying off his hands with the red riot tea towel slung lazily over his shoulder. he’d been washing dishes before she got home. “we’re makin’ dinner together.”

“but i—“

“i wasn’t askin’, i was tellin’.” the older blonde nudges his head towards the kitchen, reaching a hand out for his daughter which she tenderly takes. when she sniffles, bakugou tucks her into his side as if to protect her from the horrors of the world. you let them go without interrupting, knowing the importance of this moment for the two.

it’s not easy, being a bakugou when you’ve got dynamight’s reputation to live up to. he’s fearsome and fiery, confident and calculated. your husband and the father of your three beautiful daughters is one of the main reasons why japan is safe today. the burden and weight of his reputation that your children carry is unimaginable — only made worse by the fact that your middle is quirkless.

and yet, dynamight’s love for her doesn’t falter. since the moment he first held his baby girl she’s been his entire world, his moon along with his sun and now his stars. he’s adored her before she even became a twinkle in his eye — no amount of power or special ability would change that for him.

she’s katsuki’s girl, not just dynamight’s daughter. he’d tear the world apart to find anyone who ever hurt her.

“hold the knife properly. you cut your finger off ‘n yer ma will have my head.” his gruff voice, holding no malice, makes your sweet girl snort with laughter — a change from her earlier wobbly bottom lip and teary eyes. “we’re tryna mince garlic for the sauce, not yer little hands, squirt.”

she sticks her tongue out at him, bright blonde curls bouncing when she narrowly misses a playful swat from her father. “i’m trying,” your middle child wails with faux upset — her nose scrunches all too similarly to how yours and it sends an arrow of love straight through katsuki’s chest. for a moment, the kitchen falls to silence and the elder of the two turns his attention to the pasta dough in his large floured hands — focusing on shaping them into little bow ties just how his daughter likes, on occasion adding them to a boiling pot of water.

“i’m trying,” she says again, but quieter. “but daddy, everythin’s so hard.”

and like pot simmering away on the stove, her emotions start to boil over — tiny hiccups forming a sad symphony with the sounds of a working kitchen.

bakugou instantly springs into dad mode, dropping everything that he had been doing to take your daughter’s hand in his. despite how messy it may be. “hey now gorgeous, don’t cry…tell me what’s wrong, yeah?”

“i-i don’t want to disappoint you by not havin’ a quirk n not bein’ a hero…” she manages to get out through her blubbering — digging the heal of her palm into wet eyes. “i jus’ wanna make you proud!”

katsuki’s face softens, everything except for love for his daughter melting away. “‘nd i am proud. fiercely fuckin’ so…ah, shit, don’t tell yer ma i cursed, kay?” he stumbles over his words, he’s never been the best at comforting people but when bakugou’s child needs him, he’ll be damned if he leaves her in any pain. “from the moment y’first came into this shitty — i mean — crappy world, i’ve been proud of you. you’ve always pushed yourself beyond anythin’ i could achieve, you’re kind to people when they don’t deserve it, you smile whenever things get tough…”

taking a moment from his passionate rant, katsuki slows his breathing and composed himself — squeezing his little girl close. “yer the best thing that’s ever happened t’me ‘n yer ma. my proudest moment… i love ya so much. you’d never disappoint me.”

“really, daddy?” your baby sniffles, rubbing at her snotty nose.

bakugou nods with a gentle smile, cupping her face between his two floury hands before kissing her forehead z “really.” he affirms. “now get yer choppin’ skills together, this pasta sauce ain’t gonna make itself.”

the two blonde’s return to cooking, a comfortable silence settling in your family kitchen, also full of love. that night, your family of five sit together munching on homemade pasta bow ties in a sauce that your middle daughter had worked so hard to make. she grins brightly between her sisters, staring at her father with her shining red eyes thankfully.

in that moment, she knows that she is loved no matter what the status of her quirk is.

you link your fingers with bakugou’s under the table. “you did good, dad.” you whisper to him, stabbing through your pasta with your fork. “

“so did you, ma.” he whispers back gruffly, thumb running over your wedding band as he eats his pasta too.

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frvnkcastles · 5 months ago

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Your work with Frank is incredible! Could I please request one where you’ve been feeling lightheaded/dizzy all day but brushing it off until you’re making dinner and you can’t ignore it anymore and faint and Frank finds you there after coming in from taking out the garbage so you wake up on the couch, washcloth on your forehead and Frank worrying over you and won’t let you walk or lift a finger for awhile and if you get worse then he absolutely insists on taking you to urgent care or the er

THE ANTIDOTE TO EVERYTHING ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You’ve been dizzy all day but you try to deal with it until you finally faint, leaving Frank worried about you.

Warnings: Fainting, implied existing condition, fluff, feminine nicknames

Word count: 1.3k

Author’s note: Thank you so so much for your sweet words, anon <3 Sorry for making you wait, I hope you like this!!

Realistically, you should have known the dizziness you had been dealing with all day wouldn’t end well, but you refused to give in. You told yourself it was no big deal, it was nothing new and surely you’d be able to tolerate it — and because it wasn’t that serious in your mind, you didn’t tell Frank, either. He was a worrier when it came to you and you didn’t want to stress him out over nothing, so you found it best to keep it to yourself.

Still, no matter how insistent you were that it would pass, the sway in your head was persistent as hell. As soon as you got up from the couch to go to the bathroom, you stumbled and staggered, and when you were washing your hands afterwards, your vision blurred. You had all the telltale signs of an incoming fainting spell, but you chose to ignore it, hoping it would will it into leaving you alone.

Besides, you had promised Frank to cook his favorite pasta dish and you couldn’t walk back on your word like that. So, despite your unsure footing, you planted yourself by the stove and began working on dinner, silently reassuring yourself that you could do it and everything would be okay.

”Did ya hear me, sweetheart?” Frank’s voice cut through your thoughts, and only then realizing he had joined you in the kitchen, you turned to face him. He was looking at you curiously, a hint of concern in his deep gaze, and his hand came to rest on your back. ”Asked if you needed any help with dinner”, he repeated himself when you just stared back at him, his eyes darting between the pot you were mindlessly stirring and your troubled expression.

”No, no, I’m all good. I got this”, you assured with a weak smile, and reluctantly, Frank nodded. ”You could take the trash out if you really want to be of help”, you added, and with a chuckle, he snuck past you and gathered the garbage bag from its hiding place.

”Makin’ me do all the chores you don’t wanna, huh?” he teased, but before you could defend yourself, he was reaching in to kiss your cheek. ”I got it, sweetheart. Be right back”, he declared before stomping out of the apartment with the trash in tow, earning a smile from you.

The happy look on your face was wiped away quickly, though. A wave of disorientation washed over you and your head started spinning, forcing you squeeze your eyes shut. You tried to regain your balance but nausea took over and you felt the undeniable urge to lay down. With panic rising in your chest, you moved to turn off the stove, figuring it would be wise to continue cooking later.

Before you could move to the bedroom or even the couch, you lost the fight between you and the nasty dizziness that had been bothering you all day, and you collapsed.

The last thing Frank expected to see when he came back inside was you unconscious on the floor. The sight made his heart sink and he quickly tossed his keys onto the counter before rushing to your side, kneeling down and pulling you into his arms. Fear surged in his heart, even though this wasn’t the first time you had passed out on him — nevertheless, it unsettled him just like the first time.

”Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart. Shit”, he rambled, swallowing hard as he picked you up from the floor effortlessly. He carried you to the couch and set you down as gently as he could, his usually steady hands trembling just a smidge as he wiped your hair away from your face and assessed the situation. You didn’t seem hurt, which was a relief to him, but he wasn’t going to breathe properly until you’d regain consciousness.

He got a washcloth and draped it over your forehead, and with a gentle caress on your cheek, he remained crouched by your side and tried to help you come to. His typically stoic expression faltered as he watched you lay there, and there was an uncomfortable weight on his chest. He was worried, but at the same time, he was charging a rant about your well-being, knowing for a fact that you had probably been feeling lightheaded all day.

Eventually, you blinked your eyes open, grimacing at the weird sensation in your body and the bright lights of the living room. It took a moment for your vision to focus, but when it did, you found Frank staring at you with alert eyes, his jaw clenching and his hands hovering over you.

”There you are, darlin’”, he cleared his throat, eyeing you up and down. ”How you feelin’? Found you passed out, baby”, he explained, and slowly remembering what had happened, you gave him a nod to acknowledge.

”I—I’m okay, I think. Lying down helps”, you reminded, and licking his lips, Frank wiped his thumb across your cheek tenderly.

”Yeah, I figured. Ain’t the first time we’ve been here, sweetheart”, he noted, and with a sheepish chuckle, you supposed he was right. Deciding to just shake it off, you tried to sit up from the couch, but Frank reacted immediately. With no real pressure, his hand pushed against your chest to stop you, and you gave him a puzzled look.

”I feel better, Frankie. I need to get back to dinner”, you said like it was the most obvious thing, and in an instant, Frank snorted, amused that you’d think he was letting you do anything.

”Nah, baby, you ain’t goin’ anywhere. Gonna just take it easy for the rest of the day, hear me? I’mma take care of dinner, aight? Don’t worry ’bout a thing”, he announced firmly, unwilling to argue about it. His decision was final, as it often was when your health was in question.

You smiled softly, touched by his worrying. ”But—”, you began, but he cut you off promptly.

”Not hearin’ you out on this, sweetheart. Y’know layin’ down is the best for you right now. Yeah?” he stated, and unable to insist otherwise, you nodded to confirm. Sighing deeply, he took your hand in his own and gave it a soft squeeze. ”Why didn’t ya say somethin’? I know this didn’t just come outta nowhere. Shoulda never been up and cookin’ dinner in this state”, he continued, his tone just slightly scolding but you knew it came from a place of love.

You gave him a shy shrug. ”I thought I could tough it out. Didn’t want to worry you, either”, you explained, a little embarrassed that you had overestimated your ability to handle it so terribly.

Chuckling, Frank lifted your hand up to his mouth so he could kiss your knuckles. ”Darlin’, worryin’ ’bout you is my job. You don’t gotta feel bad ’bout it. Just lemme take care of you when you need it, yeah? It don’t make you any less tough if you need to lay down every now and then”, he pointed out, the tiniest of smiles on his lips.

”I guess that’s fair”, you admitted, ”I’ll tell you next time.”

Satisfied, Frank leaned in to kiss you, sweet and brief but enough to remind you that despite his stern tone, he loved you very much. ”Attagirl. Now, I’mma continue with dinner but if you need anythin’ at all, you shout, yeah? And if it doesn’t pass, I’m takin’ you to the ER”, he informed you after pulling away, making you smile. He took your fainting very seriously, as he did with every other aspect of your health, even when you tried to play it off as nothing serious.

”I love you”, you spoke sincerely, so grateful to have him looking out for you, and with adoration obvious in his eyes, he replied.

”Love you too, sweetheart.”

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher x reader

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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For a request:

Maybe a rescue fic with ghost, price, or soap? One where they rescue their non military fem s/o? I know you’ve written some already and they are so good but I EAT THEM UP EVERY TIME and love that trope so much!!!!!!

Hurt/comfort is my drug I swear

I know that’s pretty vague so maybe I’ll think of more eventually but that’s what I’ve got for now.

I love your writing!

- 🧚🏻‍♀️🧚🏻‍♀️

None Lacking Sins

Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: It started with the incident at the grocery store and then built to the hidden gun in the nightstand and a quick, frantic, call to your boyfriend.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Implied stalking, violence & blood, angst, protective Soap, suggestive language and conversations, implications of wanting a kid, vulgar language, fluffy banter, hurt/comfort, canon typical actions, edited in the middle of the night

A/N: I've been in a Soap mood lately, tbh. I think I'm going to flip-flop uploads for my Gaz series and Requests too...anyways. Enjoy, anon! You can never go wrong with a rescue fic!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You called him for the first time when you were at the store, picking out dinner and asking what he wanted for a welcome home meal.

“Well,” his sly voice made you roll your eyes, but a smile still blossomed over your lips. “If you want me to be rash, Bonnie, I’d say that I wouldn't mind a good bite out of your–”

“Johnny, you finish that sentence, you’re not going to get anything besides butter on toast. Give me a recipe before it gets dark out.” Veiled glee was obvious from your tone, and the heat on your face could all but be heard over the line. Two months apart had made you both eager to be in each other's presence.

Picking up a box of pasta, you flip it over and check the price, sticking to your budget and tilting the phone parallel to your chin. A deep chuckle meets your ears, and your chest feels light as it pierces your lungs.

Your boyfriend was off in Australia this deployment—he’d been complaining about the heat nonstop on those few and far between video calls the two of you shared. While it was a step-up to know where exactly Johnny was this go around, the prospect of his job still made you incredibly nervous. There was never a time you could remember when he came home without a new cut or scar; bruises were all but guaranteed.

Sucking down a soothing breath, you place the pasta into your cart and fix the phone’s position. The Scot was coming home in a day or so, you wanted to make him feel at home again. Destress.

You’ll see him before you know it. There’s no need to worry.

“Bit snappy, then, eh? Oh, alright.” The man huffs good-heartedly, and you hear the springs of those thin barracks-bed mattresses as his large frame shifts. Johnny lets off a soft sigh before continuing. You listen intently, leaning onto the handlebar ahead of you. “What about a nice plate ‘O that one you always make—hell—the…the one with the Pollock and cabbage.”

You blink through a laugh, shaking your head and pushing yourself off to go find the needed ingredients. The dish wasn’t easy to make, in fact, it took a helluva lot of time, but you didn’t mind in the slightest when it came to cooking for Johnny. He deserved it.

“Hey, now,” He teases, smirking to himself, “What’s so funny over there, Dearie? You makin’ fun of me?”

“I would never dream of it, oh great and wondrous, Mr. MacTavish!” You huff, fake serious, as you place a box of cookies into the cart and pass a few strangers who raise an eyebrow at your conversation. A man passes by with a blue cap on, and you swerve the cart to move around him while tossing back a frown. You soon continue on like nothing happened, pulling back the sense of security from the man over the line. “Do you want mashed potatoes with that as well? Wine?”

Johnny groans, “Hey, you’re the one that asked me!”

Divulging into giggles, you make your way around the store and stock up, holding a light conversation about how he and the rest of the boys were doing.

“Ghost told me to let you know he appreciated the book you lent him, said he’d get it back to ya as soon as he’s able.” The Scot comments, and a hum makes its way from you as you head to the self-checkout.

“Well, that’s good. I said he would like it – the bastard’s so tight-lipped about what he enjoys it was hard to nail-down a genre.” A chortle sounds off when you gather the chilled pollock and scan it; the phone was held against your shoulder to your ear. “High Fantasy for the win, I guess.”

“I should get the man to read ‘The Way of Kings’ next time—form a little book club, y’know? Get all the boys in on it like some old ladies.” It was adorable how cute Johnny sounded, like a kid on Christmas. “Stemin’ Jesus, could you picture that, Bonnie?”

“I’d pay to see you pitch that, Dear.” A cheeky tone leaks through. “Price would laugh straight into your face.”

“Please, the old man doesn’t know how to laugh….He’d just puff cigar smoke in my face and tell me to fuck off.”

“As I said—I’d pay to see it.” Your boyfriend grumbles under his breath as you place the paper bags into your cart, the contents heavy, and grab your receipt with quick fingers. “Gaz would definitely be in for it, though.”

“I don’t doubt that. Anything beats playing cards for weeks straight, aye?” Your hand can finally grip the phone once more, and you sigh contently as the strained position of your neck finally rights itself.

You’re about to answer but slow your pace with a scrunched look of confusion as you exit.

Passing through the front doors, you suddenly get a strange sensation in the back of your mind to turn around. The hairs along your arms stand up as a breeze passes the steadily chilling dark sky, but the way the shiver ran down your spine wasn’t due to cold. Lips thinning, you spare a glance over your shoulder and look along the brightly lit grocery store as its windows leave cascading rays of light over the sun-bleached concrete. The black asphalt of the parking lot is hard under your feet.

There are a handful of other patrons at the checkouts—mothers with children and others buying quick meals for dinner—but none are out of the ordinary.

You huff and roll your shoulders.

Maybe the day’s just getting to me.

“Bonnie,” Johnny’s slightly concerned voice brings you blinking back, turning your head back to the sparsely lit parking lot and realizing you had stopped walking completely. Your hand was sweaty like you’d just run somewhere. Fixing your hold on the device, your boyfriend continues, “...Everything alright? You’ve gone all quiet over there.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh dismissively, trudging forward to your car, “I just got the weirdest feeling right outside the grocery store.”

The cart makes a loud rumbling sound as it goes over loose rocks and the bumpy texture of the asphalt, the metal rattling loudly so you have to strain your ears to hear Johnny’s next words.

“What kind of feeling?” His drowned-out voice was so serious that it shocked you—you’d only ever heard him use a tone like this when he had briefly talked about nightmares that had woken him up in your shared bed.

The Scot’s words were monotone, slow, and even if the sound of the cart’s wheels was raging all around you and making your skull rattle, you’d still swear you would identify that tone over a hurricane. It made your gut churn.

“Really, it’s probably nothing,” you play off with a tense shrug he can’t see, coming to a stop at your car and reaching into your pocket for your keys. “I just got a chill.”

Your eyes look around before you open the trunk, biting into your lip at the long shadows that the tall street lamps give off. Licking over your teeth, you bink dismissively and shake your head, unlocking the vehicle and huffing as you begin loading in your purchases.

“Anyways,” you try to ignore the hard build of your spine or the way your eyes travel back to the brightly lit store. There wasn’t anyone out here but you and the dead forms of cars, trees off in the distance, and far-off lights of other buildings. You swallow and clear your throat. “I was thinking about getting us a dog.”

“You’re not gettin’ out of this that—wait, did you say dog?” Across the world in a shitty bed, Johnny’s once concerned eyes widen, jaw going slack. “No way in Christ’s Hell, Dearie.”

“Oh, come on!” You groan, placing the second to last bag into the car and tuning your back to the street, throwing out your hand. “It doesn’t have to be a big dog—just one I can go on walks with and keep me company. I know you have a bad past with them, Love, but I just want someone to help not make the house so empty when you’re gone.”

Your voice slides off near the end of the sentence, and you try not to sound so sullen. Johnny frowns as he stares into the far wall of the barracks over the heads of sleeping men, itching at the back of his neck. It was no secret that the Scot wasn’t particularly fond of canines—his encounters with them were almost never pleasant unless he knew the handler.

But…

“I’ll think it over, eh, Bonnie?” He relents, sighing, and he thinks he hears snickers from a dark form in the distant corner. The Sergeant glares over at it and continues with a pang of internal guilt about how lonely you must feel most of the time. “Promise…but you’re more likely to get a cat dressed in a suit than a mangy mutt anytime soon.”

You laugh at the attempt of a lighthearted joke, closing the trunk with a roll of your eyes. A breeze goes by and your arms erupt into shivers, clothes not enough to keep out the chill.

“I’ll take it.”

“Hm, you know,” Johnny smirks, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes and grunting out huskily, “there’s another way to make sure the house won’t be all quiet when I’m gone.”

“Keep it in your pants, MacTavish. You’re not even here yet.” Smiling through the heat of your cheeks, the skin of your cheeks glows; your body rolls with heat. “Save it for tomorrow.”

“What, am I gettin’ you all worked up over there?” He hums, and you grab your cart, pushing it into one of the specific areas where someone would grab it in the morning. “‘Cause I have no problem with waitin’, Dearie, all the more perfect when I get to be with ya.’”

“You wish, handsome.” Walking back to the slight rumbling of your car, you speak through tilted lips and completely miss the form walking up beside you. “I think that—”

“Excuse me?”

Yelping, you nearly drop your phone to the floor as it slips out of your startled grip; heart jerking at the sudden intrusion into an intimate conversation. Swiftly turning around you spot the same man as before—the one with the blue cap that had passed by quite rudely in the store. His strong face looks sheepish.

Johnny quickly calls your name through the line, and you let off a reassurance before tilting the device down.

“Holy hell, man, give a girl a warning next time, yeah?” Chuckling weakly to push back tension and the twisting of your intestines, you notice the stranger’s tall frame is covered in a heavy jacket. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” He’s not outwardly alarming to look at, the man, with his loose body gestures and controlled tone. “Sorry, but I was just wondering if you could lend me a hand. I found a kitten under a van back there,” he points, and you look over to the far corner of the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a large van surrounded by two black cars. Your eyes narrow on the scene, already getting a prickly feeling. “Do you have any food that might bring it out? Or maybe you’d be willing to reach under and grab the little bastard?”

The stranger laughs and continues with a jerking of his shoulders. You watch every movement with an upticking pulse, fingers tight over the phone as Johnny listens with growing worry.

The Sergeant's dark eyebrows pull tight, and he stands like he could run out the door to you; jaw tight and muscles wound.

“Put me on speaker.” You decline silently. Better not to get a hotheaded and protective Scot involved when he was thousands of miles away.

“Sorry,” Clearing your throat, you take a step back, attempting a friendly smile. “I have to get home to my husband.” It wasn’t the first time you’d had to use the spouse card to get away from creeps, and it won't be the last. Worked better than just the boyfriend title, honestly. And there was something about this man’s eyes that didn’t sit right with you. “Work night and all, you understand?”

“He left yet?” Johnny asks, gruff as his accent gets stronger. “Else I’m callin’ the store and sending security out to you.”

“It shouldn’t take a long time,” the man begs and you take another slow step back to the car door, pupils going tiny. Breaths shallow. “You’ll be back to your…husband, in a few minutes. I’d hate to leave the poor guy all alone.”

“Sorry.” You say again, firmer. “No.”

Not wasting any time, you open the car and jump inside, wrenching it closed once more and pressing the lock. Breathing heavily, you stick the keys into the ignition, missing a couple of times, and look into the side mirrors to spy on the tall shadow that hovers like a plague.

“Sweetheart? Hey?” Johnny calls out your name as you force the car to start driving away, face tight and limbs shaking. “Hey, are you alright?”

The man has half the sense to wake up Price, but with the stirring bodies around him, there’s half a chance the Captain already knows something’s off. Johnny hadn’t bothered to check his noise level when the uncomfortableness seeped from you over to him. What kind of a man approaches a woman near dark and asks a question like that? The action didn’t sit right with the Scot.

Johnny’s body hums with energy—volatile rage keeps his heart in a tight fist with a deep seething hatred of not being with you to help force back the freaks in person. He wasn’t above getting into someone's face if the situation called for it; after a couple of outings to less-than-nice pubs, all it took was a few nervous glances from you nowadays for him to create a barrier out of his own flesh.

“I’m okay,” you whisper to him, biting at your lips and peeling back flesh. “It’s all good. I-I’m on the road already.”

A great weight falls from the man in the form of a sigh. He slowly sits back down on the mattress, lips thinning and slightly shaking his head. His free hand comes up to rub over his cheek.

“Good. That’s good…” He snaps out of his concerned stupor quickly, but the fast beating of his heart does anything but slow. “You’re okay.”

It wasn’t worded as a question, maybe more of a reassurance, but it helped you immensely. Your tension lessened at the comforting sound of Scottish drawl and deep, silver, voice. But you wanted him to wrap his arms around you; gaze into those cerulean orbs.

Tomorrow.

“Keep on the line until I get home?” You ask feebly, not able to resist looking in the mirrors as you turn out of the parking lot.

The blue-capped stranger was still standing there, and one of the black cars in the far corner had turned its headlights on. A deep dread overtakes your ribs like you’d just gotten out of something very, very, bad. A sense of a lingering morality stays in between your ribs.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t be doin’ anything else, Bonnie.” Johnny utters, glaring at the floor. “I’ll be ‘ere the whole time.”

It wasn’t fair that he was unable to be there with you—never before had the constraints from his job hit him full strength in the chest like this. If he can’t protect the ones he loves back on the home field, then what was the point of the Task Force in the first place?

By the time you get home after taking the fastest route, you quickly gather everything from the back and shuffle inside, pulse still racing. You lock the door behind you and take a deep breath, closing your eyes.

Johnny’s soft breath over the call was like a lullaby, right in your ear as if he was beside you in bed. Oh, you missed his soft snores more than anything. Your gaze goes glossy, but the tears are held back stubbornly.

As if sensing your turmoil, your boyfriend speaks lowly.

“Y’know, I bet the rest of the boys would really love it if we kept ‘em over for a drink and a bite when we all get back. I can whip up something quick on the grill and you can take a breather, eh?” He speaks so softly it almost makes the tears worse, heart palpitating.

You wetly laugh and place a hand to your mouth, standing in the dark foyer with groceries on the floor and a primal fear slowly leaving you. The familiar scents of charcoal and birch wood from the Scots hair product are stuck into the very walls of this shared dwelling, along with the scuffs on the floor from play-wrestling during movies; a light that needed to be replaced due to Johnny accidentally running straight into it at two am. He had thought an intruder had broken in, but it was just a bird that had snuck in through an open window.

The signs of a well-lived and loved home.

“But you wanted pollock,” you grumble with a hidden smile and burning ears, pushing the tip of your shoe into the front rug.

Johnny beams and goes to lie back down, putting a hand behind his head against the pillow.

“Well, now I’m makin’ burgers. Guess you’re just going to have to sit back and watch my fabulous arse from the porch, yeah, Dearie? Don’t burn a hole into them, now, they’re the only pair I’ve got, and I know how much you like ‘em.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll even wear that apron you got me—what was it you said it did,” the cheeky Scot smirks, all teeth and crinkled eyelids, and hears your complaints get louder as your mind flies away from what had happened almost immediately. “Made me look like I should be in a porno? Hell, if you were in it with me, I’d not complain ‘bout it. Steamin’ Jesus, I’d let you do horrible things to me, Dearie.”

From somewhere in the barracks a low groan echoes out and Johnny snaps his hand down to stifle his loud laughter as you bark at him.

“MacTavish!”

Great bouts of laughter leave everyone glaring from atop pillows and from over fingers stuffed into ears; some even get up and gather blankets, leaving the barracks room entirely.

In your foyer, your body blazes with heat like you’d been set on fire, a hand placed over your eyes and a treacherous grin on your mouth.

“Keep your voice down, you absolute arsepiece!”

“Aye—! That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya!”

“Johnny!”

—

The second time you called him was out of pure curiosity, only a few hours before your lover was scheduled to come home and cook for you and his Task Force. Around six o'clock.

“When was our postbox all scratched up?” Your thumb runs over the black numbers of the sequence, blinking with wrinkled skin as you take a glance at the neighbors’ and frown. No one else's was like that. “I thought you said you compromised with the local kids and would give them money for sweets so they would stop messing with our stuff?”

“Little fiends were sucking me dry!” Johnny huffs, “No way the devils would pass up more sugar and do something like that. What’s it look like, then? A few stray rocks manage to dent it?”

Your lips release a sigh and you pick up your mail with an annoyed grunt, closing and locking the cubby as you reply. “No way, it looks like someone took a knife to it.” Clicking your tongue, you shake your head. “God, things have just been going wrong lately.”

Shuffling his feet over the tarmac and hearing the plane engines die down behind him, Johnny takes a glance back. Price was standing at the top of the C17 arms crossed and head tilted—the Scot could imagine the raised eyebrow almost immediately.

He grimaces and holds up a finger, walking a few more steps away as Gaz leaves the hull with his bags slung over his shoulders.

“I can’t talk any longer, Bonnie, Price’ll wring me for not helpin’ unload the gear. He’s damn near skinnin’ me already.”

You chuckle, “Tell him I said ‘hello’ and not to damage the face.”

“Oh, you’re a horror, you are, Dearie.”

Quick declarations of love and see you soons were exchanged before the connection was cut, and your feet carried you back into the house. Your phone and the mail went to sit on the tiny hallways table, shoes tossed onto the plastic mat sitting on the floor with a small thump.

Sighing, you rub over your eyes, thinking over if it was worth calling the post office or just trying to fix the scratches yourself.

“I think we have some paint in the garage…” You trail off.

Ultimately, you just pushed that to the back burner. Johnny was coming home. Your lips peeled into a large smile, and you’re rushing off to get into a nice outfit for the rest of Task Force who was coming a bit later than your boyfriend. Thoughts of finally being able to be picked up by your boyfriend's strong arms were all-consuming, being held into a broad chest and digging your nails to the dip of his spine.

Just being able to be around the mohawked-man was a blessing that you’d never take for granted.

You settled on a nice top and casual pants—you’d met the others before, so there was no need to go overboard. Smoothing your clothes down, you enter the living room and go to open the curtains, letting the light of the interior spread to the small lawn and the street. Humming under your breath, the vehicle outside doesn’t catch your attention immediately; the black metal is just another parked entity sitting still.

When you do pause, your curtains half-opened, the delayed shock makes you lose precious time as you stare slack-jawed at one of the twin cars from yesterday at the parking lot. Your fingers clench into the fabric in a sudden moment of frozen shock. As if a mythical creature had just run past your field of view, the parting of your lips is instinctual before the widening of your eyes.

A still second passes before you’re sprinting to the front door—locking it and snatching your phone. Heart pounding, you make a dash to the bedroom, dialing Johnny with fear-tight pupils.

He had told you if there was ever an emergency to call him right away, he’d get there faster than any police officer; for the record, you believed that wholeheartedly. Johnny was more loyal than a dog in a pack, once someone raised the alarm the Sergeant was locked in.

Rushing into the bedroom, you trip over the tossed covers but right yourself as the dialing tone sounds out, heavy breathing making your lungs hurt. You open the nightstand table and dig under a collection of books, hand meeting the smooth metal of an M9 pistol.

Putting the phone on speaker, you throw it onto the mattress.

Legally, you shouldn’t even have this—while Johnny had been teaching you to shoot, you didn’t have a license for it yet. But he’d insisted on leaving you behind with something to defend yourself with.

The confused voice of your lover sounds over the open space. “Jesus, Bonnie, you miss me that much? It cannae ‘ave been more than ten minutes—”

“The car from yesterday is outside the house.” You throw the books to the floor and hear them make a clatter just as you pull out a box of ammunition. Taking out the gun’s magazine, you load bullets with a violently shaking hand. Some hit the ground with a metallic ping, but you pay little attention, just blinking back anxious tears and a harsh focus on the sounds of the front door handle being jimmied.

“I…what?” Johnny’s voice gets heavier, demanding with a snarl trapped in the back of his throat.

Standing stationary in the doorway Base—about a twenty-minute drive from home, the man’s heart suddenly jumps in his breast. Did he hear you right? Behind him, Ghost slows to a stop at the now blocked opening, watching with narrowed eyes; a large rifle slung over his shoulder and a carry bag in his arm. Johnny’s shoulders wind tight, feet parted as he suddenly turns on his heels and takes off back the way he came in, the phone still at his ear where the Lieutenant knew you were on the call.

“What the fuck?!” Ghost’s skeletal head follows after and pointedly notices the Scots lack of care for how his bags hit the ground but keeps the pistol holstered at his thigh and the combat knife strapped to his upper shoulder.

“Johnny?” He calls out, but only the wind answers him. “The hell are you off to?!” The gargantuan man sends a glance over to Price who was watching just as intently, lids narrowed. Gaz cleared his throat.

“....Shouldn’t we follow him? Sounds pretty serious.”

Price sighs, taking a moment to watch Soap sprint to the main building and shove past other soldiers and staff. He grunts.

“Move light.”

The phone call was filled with heavy breathing and hurried orders.

Your boyfriend was running you down the basics of firing at a moving target as the sound of pounding at the front door became more hurried.

“It’s not like a stationary target—when someone’s runnin’ at ya, they're gonna be moving quick and you’re not going to be able to fire if you don’t mean it!”

“Okay, okay,” you mutter with a shaky inhalation, loading the M9’s magazine and clicking off the safety. “What the hell do they want with me?” The whispered question is more for you than it is for anyone else, but the answer from the sprinting Scot startles you.

At that exact moment, the pounding of a fist stops completely.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna fire at the first bastard that comes down that hallway. We’ll ask the questions later.” You hear a car door opening and a yell from Johnny’s side, soon the clammer of grunting breaths an exclamation of ‘hurry the fuck up!’

“I—”

“If you need to, leave through the window and go to the neighbors. Take cover in the foliage and slip away to the back alley.” Johnny never spoke like this to you—clipped and deathly serious. But now that you think about it, as you stay frozen and barricaded in the bedroom, if he spoke any differently you’d probably break down. “Do you copy?”

This was Sergeant MacTavish, and damn him if anything came between that man and the people he cared about.

He barks your name, “Do you copy?!”

“Yeah,” the gun shakes in your grip, but nonetheless you hold it at your hip and turn your eyes to the window. It would be easier to leave, you think. You’re not trained for this! “I–I think I’m going to—”

The front door’s window is broken with a shattering of glass. You rush to the phone and turn off the speaker, afraid that the sound would immediately tell these people where you were. Loud shouts flow into the foyer and spread like venom under the crack of the thin barrier separating you and the intruders.

“Spread out and find her!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Sir? You ask, eyes snapping this way and that as Johnny is dead silent on the other side. You think you hear the slam of a foot to the pedal, but you can’t be sure. Fuck, there was so much going on, you didn’t know what to do.

“Screw this, I’m going out the fucking window.” You gasp out, lungs tight and skin sweaty, you turn on the safety on the gun and stuff it into your belt.

One-handed, you unlatch the lock and strain your ears, hearing feet getting closer. Grunting, you shove the heavy frame up and try to stop the ringing in your ears. Whoever these people in your house were—they were professionals. They had patience; studied your intellect with the trick in the parking lot and followed you home so they could mark your postbox number as a reminder of your address. What the hell was happening?

Just as you’re about to make the small drop into the flower bed, a creak echoes from behind the bedroom door. You freeze in place, one foot dangling into the backyard.

Breathing slowly, your eyes lock to the deep shadow that spreads like two distorted poles as the large feet face the very place you’d holed up. As delicately as you’re able with an award-setting tremor in your gut, you place the phone down onto the window sill; Johnny’s loud and worried voice dims as all attention moves to self-preservation. You’re just about to reach for your gun when the door busts off its hinges.

Starling, and before your hands can find purchase, you’re tumbling backward—out of the house entirely with a stifled shout of alarm. Slamming to the ground and crushing flowers in the process, you have no time to think about the pain going up your spine or at the base of your skull before you’re scrambling for the M9.

Just as someone peeks out from the window, face covered and holding an assault rifle, you’re firing three shots in rapid succession as you don’t even remember flicking off the safety.

Two shots miss entirely, but on the last and final press of the trigger, as your arms catch the recoil, it connects.

A comment is cut short as blood explodes in a great wave of velocity, coating the house upwards almost to the shingled roof. The body slumps, weight bringing it down to hang limp over the frame.

Wide-eyed, you still hold the shaking gun in the air, muzzle smoking, breathing fast through your mouth. Had you just…

Your stomach bunched, acid traveling up your throat to pool under your tongue. Perhaps you would have thrown up at that moment, the setting reality that you’d just shot someone in the head like an anvil in your pounding skull. But the barking voices from inside the house snap you back.

Gasping down the breaths you realized you hadn’t been taking, your wobbly feet dart to shove you up like a newborn deer as sprinting bodies close in on the porch’s sliding door. God, you could only imagine what Johnny was thinking.

Bolting out of your backyard fence, you remember your lover’s orders and run as fast as you’re able to the neighbor's open yard, using the darkening sky to help cover you. Cursing under your breath and thinking over all of the ways this should have already gone wrong, you wipe at the tears cascading down your cheeks.

Don’t think about it—just get away.

It wasn’t long before you were down the alleyway, feet weak and lungs burning. There was a stickiness to the back of your scalp, blood, undoubtedly, from an injury caused by the fall.

It’s a damn miracle I didn’t break anything.

What would you have done then? Just let those people take or kill you? You shiver at the idea and force yourself to go faster. Darting around a corner, your feet skid to a quick halt.

The barrel of a gun was pointed directly at your face.

“Had a feeling you’d be slippery.” It was the voice of the man from the parking lot—the man with the blue cap. Your face jerks to an imitation of confined horror and unease at the same eyes boring into you. He was dressed in gear like the rest of the men now exiting your house to hunt you down. The stranger shifts his feet and you flinch. “Drop the gun, Sweetheart.”

“Who the fuck are you?” You find your voice, hissing out. The pistol clatters to the floor as it slips from your grip and you hate how you flinch at the sound.

“Your boyfriend and his buddies are hard to track down.” Blue Cap huffs, and the tall stature of the man makes you incredibly nervous. Backing up a step instinctually, he follows and smirks. “But I figured the best way to meet him was to find his little bird first—he’d come right to me. Cliche, I know, but you can’t fault me. Works every time.”

What did this guy want with your Johnny? Gritting your teeth, your fingers shake at your sides, hips tense and ready to run.

“He’ll kill you.” You level, not keen to show this man how disgusting you felt being near him.

He shuffles up next to you, grabbing the meat of your arm. Trying to jerk away, the barrel of his weapon is shoved into your ribs; gasping, your body goes rigid.

If your heart goes any faster, it’ll break.

“Not if I threaten to kill you first.” Forcing you forward, you glare and feel the urge to spit in the man’s face. “C’mon, hun.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, freak.”

“Ooo…fangs. Can’t be surprised, you did shoot one of my men, after all. Not a bad trigger finger, but you do need decent work on your accuracy if you wanna make anything out of it.” Your eyebrows pull in as you’re corralled back out of the alleyway, barrel bruising your skin and blood dripping down your neck. The man’s grip hurts as a strangled whimper falls from your bitten lips.

Feet scraping over concrete, you’re brought out into the street as neighbors peak out of windows with drawn curtains; phones to their faces. Did these intruders not care about the police? If anything, that made you sweat more.

“Ride’s waiting.”

“I’m not getting into that.” Grunting, your eyes are stuck on the black void of the car parked in the street. A menagerie of other armed men stands all over. “Hell no—you can just shoot me now if that’s the case.”

“Don’t tempt me, I can still go after the Sergeant’s dear old mom,” your lungs chill as the man chuckles to himself, looking down at you through dark lashes. “He has a cousin, too, am I right?”

Rageful tears spark behind your lids as you blink.

No way it was going to go like this. Where’s Johnny?

The gun was taken from your ribs as you’re shoved forward.

“Get in. Now. We’re already behind schedule.” You stare into the interior and clench your fists, lips quivering but jaw clenched. Your Lover’s voice comes to you, sure of himself and laced with stubbornness.

If you’re ever in trouble, you wait for me, Dearie. I’ll be there ‘fore you know it, ready to defend your honor like the knight in shinin’ armor I am, eh? Why are you laughing…?

Turning back around with every ounce of courage you can muster, you splay your feet and cross your arms.

“No.” The gun is raised to your head, and you want to flinch back in terror but restrain yourself.

“Get in.”

“No.” How your voice wasn’t breaking was a question in and of itself, but Johnny had always said you were stubborn like him. Best time to prove him right was with a barrel to your face, apparently.

The stranger’s eyes light with anger, hands clenching over the body of the weapon as the rest of his men stare on in shock. A growl meets air.

“I’m not asking for a third time, Sweetheart—” One loud boom later and you’re ducking down with your hands over your head, ears ringing and body unsteady; a great weight hits the ground right next to you.

The sound of gunfire rattles the world all around the once quiet street, and you think that you and your Lover will have to move after this. No way the neighbors could let all this slide. Looking up, your eyes jump from the corpse spasming near you to the running men, chaos breeding in the lines between shouts and dropping bodies.

A hand latches into your waist, and you’re being lifted into strong arms moments later. Squealing, your head snaps to the size and meets cerulean blue inlaid in a strong brow line.

“I’ve got ya.” Your body loses all tension at the accent that you would know anywhere, even in death, a strong grip picking you up and keeping you close to his broad chest.

Johnny carries you away in the midst of battle as the rest of the 141 get involved, making quick work of the remaining men. Breathing in his scent, you force your face under his chin, feeling the stubble scrape as your fingers dig into flesh.

He’s here. He’s—he’s right here.

“Don’t worry, Dearie, I’m right here. It’s nearly over, now.” You try to bring him closer as he takes cover behind a wall, pressing his shoulders against the grating stone as he shields you closer to him. Sliding down to the ground.

His eyes snap back and forth, heart rapid. God, he was nearly too late. Johnny presses his nose into your hair as he breathes deeply, watching bodies fall and feeling you shake. Feeling you shiver; now finally able to let everything sink in.

“Shh,” the Scot mutters, pressing you closer as you whisper his name in a hoarse breath. “You’re alright. I’m ‘ere, Bonnie, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hands filter over your skin, checking for injuries and feeling over growing bumps from under-the-skin abrasions.

His teeth clench together in hate, hotheadedness taking over for a moment as part of him wants to rush out and pick a few of these bastards off himself. But it’s just not that simple.

Looking out into the street with serious eyes, the radio attached to his vest sounds off as the last of the firefight ends almost as quickly as it began.

“Clear.” It was Price. “How is she?”

Johnny sighs, looking down at you in his hold as he whispers comforting words in quick succession.

“Shaken, but alright…” The reply is muttered as you sniffle, your fingers going to wipe away tears. “She’s—she’s alright.”

Johnny beats you to it as he tries to calm down, large digits tilting your head to the side and studying intently as he swipes them away with a firm thumb and a careful frown.

“Johnny—” Your eyes stay locked on him as the Scot gets rid of any trace of fear or sadness, calluses burning your skin just as they always did. His gaze flickers to you; lips pulling tight. None of you choose to move, too content with being this close to one another and safe, even if the situation was serious. “I…”

You trail, not even knowing what to say as the wetness of your eyes blurs your vision, body hot, and the back of your skull aching. Your hands go to cup his cheeks. It’s all the words he needs.

Eyes soft, the Sergeant attempts a weak and worried smile. “I’m so proud of you, Dearie, y’know that? So damn proud.” Your lips quirk, a strained laugh echoing out. A finger pokes the side of your nose. “Hey, I’m serious now. Stop your foolin'.”

Johnny’s fingers run deep circles into your temples as you trace the lines of his cheeks.

“Shut up.” You huff, straining against a wide smile. It was easy to push all of this behind you when you were looking at him. He made everything better.

“Hm,” He moves forward and presses his lips to your forehead, quickly going to lay kisses all over your face until giggles spill out from the alleyway to the waiting three.

Gaz smiles to himself, Price grunts lightly, and Ghost gazes off.

“I’ll just have to prove to my Bonnie Little Lady that she’s a prime piece of work, then, eh? Smarter; more quick than a fuckin’ recon team,” he leans close and you have to try and shove him away playfully when he starts to squish you against him. Your laughter grows as his scratchy chin nuzzles your neck. “And don’t mind me sayin’ now, but a proper fine pair of tits and arse to go along with the brains of ya, Dearie.”

“MacTavish!” you squeal, “I should call your mother up and explain how you speak to me—that’s vulgar! I know for a fact she didn’t teach you that.”

“Teach me? Oh, now, then, no one could teach me a thing when you’re around. Cannae think a bit; better off talkin’ to a pile of stone.” You punch his solid chest and laugh so hard your face hurts, breath fanning against his neck as his roaming praise continues as if his mind was a bag of water punctured by a knife. “I’m always thinkin’ ‘bout you, my Little Bonnie.”

The last sentence is quietly muttered into your temple, a kiss pressed tight. He pulls back slightly and feels at the dried blood on your locks, fingers separating to find the scalp. Johnny’s chest rattles in a sigh, hand shaking slightly when he sees it.

He’d also seen the body on the window sill, though he knows not to mention it.

Christ, you’d had to kill someone.

The prospect of taking a life was easy to the Scot—some days he felt like he had been born and bred to do just that. It became simple. Elementary. Like his mother could memorize a recipe, he could memorize the position of arteries; what shot to take at that instant, and which to wait on based only on past missions that resonated like past lives.

But for you…

Oh, it was never supposed to happen to you.

“Are you alright?” Johnny breaths, humor gone and left with guilt.

He feels your lips on his raging pulse and lets his eyes close, content to feel you move against him as your head remains in his neck. Shifting his body into a more comfortable position, he cages you in protectively. Never again would he allow this to happen.

“I shot someone.” The man’s lips quivered, heart hurting at the blatant shock in your voice. It hadn’t hit you yet, and, hell, Johnny still remembered his first kill like it was yesterday. It wouldn’t be good when all this calmed down. He’d thrown up for two days straight, himself.

“Aye.” He breathes.

“His blood’s all over the house.”

“It is.”

“Is…is that,” you’re shivering, so he massages your spine soothingly until you find the words. “Is that a good thing?”

He should say no, tell you that the situation that you’d been put in was never supposed to happen and it was just an unfortunate reality. Death wasn’t a good thing, per se. But the man had broken into your shared home—busted down the bedroom door with the intent of using you as a bargaining chip to get to him. So, to the Scot, the answer is clear.

No one messed with his family and lived.

“Yes.” Taking down the air of a dusty alleyway as sirens wail a street over, you weren't surprised that your boyfriend had managed to get to your home far faster than the police could. He said he always would, didn’t he?

The bills for the speeding tickets and the running of red lights were going to be atrocious.

“Okay.” Your answer is muttered as you peel back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Johnny’s lips. You believed him. Always would. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” His bright teeth show off a smile as your mirror. He kisses you heavily on the lips. Whispers against your lips, a promise. A vow. “As long as you put up with me, I’ll always keep you safe.”

“Soap,” Price yells, snapping the two of you out of it. “Get on with it!”

The Scot raises a shocked brow and smirks down at you as you tilt your head and listen in happy confusion.

“Y’know, those shots weren't half bad back there. ‘Specially after takin’ a tumble into the flowers.” Your expression freezes in denial as you’re lifted bridal style into the air. Speaking over the calls of police and firemen as they come to the scene, your voice monotones as your legs swing.

“...I missed two out of the three, you dork. That’s failing.” Johnny gapes in mock surprise and you refrain from snorting at the boyish glint in his eyes.

“Jesus, is it really? Hell, you’ll be comin’ for my job in no time, won’t ya? That’s one better than me!”

You kiss him and feel the grunt through your lips.

TAGS ||

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macfrog · 1 year ago

Text

checkmate cowboy like me chapter nine

hi sorry it’s late please don’t hate me 🥲 would just like to note- reader's pasta is gluten free, alright? i have had too many gluten-induced traumas to write about it anymore. she is a gluten free queen. thanks parts 1-8 on my masterlist here, n my ao3 here. love u all the most!!!

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel steals you away during a family meal to give you a telling off...in the form of a quickie

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) pining reader, bratty reader, brat tamer joel, spanking, oral (m receiving), face fucking, dom!joel, orgasm denial, theft of underwear, loose mention of someone cheating, alcohol, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing, marty robbins

word count: 8.1k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Know you can take it, baby, you’ve done it before. That’s my girl.” You whimper in response, mouth full of his cock. “Keep makin’ those pretty noises, whole hotel’s gonna be wonderin’ what’s goin’ on up here.” He allows you a second to pull off of him, gasping for air when your mouth’s free again. “Want ‘em to hear,” you choke out, lips slipping back down his cock.

The water dances to-and-fro, kissing the lip of the pool and splashing onto the concrete at your feet. It’s windier than normal today, trees whispering overhead, breeze taking your hair and lightly tossing it around.

You’re sat out back on a lounger, waiting for Joel to come pick you up. Joel and Sarah, that is. Picking you and your dad up. Be nice if it were just Joel, wouldn’t it? You and him, alone together again. Out on a date, or even just following him around, side by side in his truck as he goes about his day. His hand on your thigh, pretending to roll his eyes at your music choice.

As if that would ever happen. As if that could ever happen.

He and your dad have organized some dinner to celebrate yours and Sarah’s return home; some hotel resort with a restaurant looking out over the river. Your dad couldn’t remember the name of it. Said it was all Joel doing the booking.

You can still fucking hear him. Your dad. His voice lulls through the open kitchen window, the wind carrying it to your ears almost comically. You wish you could bat it away. He’s had the same Marty Robbins song stuck in his head all morning. You’d finally reached breaking point when he’d graduated from just humming it to full-volume singing, even doing his own impression of the guitar.

And now it seems that sneaking out to the backyard hadn’t rid you of the damn song either, no matter how loud the trees may be rustling.

Joel said he’d be here by now – he’s late. You slink off to the back gate to slip out front and wait for him there. And maybe also to escape your dad’s voice. No offense to the guy.

A couple minutes to six, his truck pulls up by the curb you’re perched on. Sarah climbs over the front seat to the back, and you join her.

She scoffs when you slam the door shut. “You’re eager.”

You shake your head in response, warning her with a roll of your eyes not to ask. She gives you an understanding nod and your eyes turn to Joel.

“You’re late.”

He looks back at you in the rearview mirror. “Not my fault. Traffic. We left twenty minutes ago, didn’t we?”

Sarah’s lip curls. She shrugs a little. You know he’s telling the truth.

When you turn back, Joel’s eyes are still on you, expression a little softer. A greeting. Making up for the fact he can’t wrap his arms around you, pinch your nose affectionately, kiss you to say hello. You smile back at him.

“That watch a’ yours runnin’ slow, Miller?”

Your dad’s voice is like a fucking foghorn. Sarah covers her mouth to stop a laugh from escaping her lips. He sweeps down the driveway toward the truck and you lean back in your seat. Quiet moment ruined.

Joel lightly chuckles and then gives you one last hazardous glance in the mirror before pulling off, ignoring your dad’s teasing. Probably for your benefit.

The relief of a quiet journey doesn’t last long, though. Barely five minutes in, your dad picks up the humming again.

“Dude,” you groan, “will you quit that? For the love of God.”

“It’s stuck in my damn head,” he chuckles, arms crossing defensively.

You roll your eyes again. “So your plan is to plague us all with it, too?”

“Pretty much.”

“What’s he singin’?” Sarah asks, leaning forward.

“Marty Robbins. Old song.” The lack of tone in Joel’s voice and the quick shake of his head as he says it tells you he ain’t the biggest Marty Robbins fan either. A voice inside you thanks God, like it even matters what music he’s into.

“Never heard of ‘im.”

“Lucky you,” you breathe, and your dad holds up a finger over his shoulder.

“Heard that,” he says.

“’s why I said it.”

Joel’s shoulders jerk with a laugh. “You’re in a real mood today, aren’t you?”

Your head falls against the window, bumping along with the road as Joel drives.

“Hold up a second,” your dad rounds on him, “you ain’t showin’ your kid real music, are you? She doesn’t even know Marty Robbins.”

“I ain’t puttin’ her through the pain of knowin’ him.”

A smile forms across your lips. Just another thing you two agree on. Another little string connecting you both, separating you from the rest.

You almost snort at yourself. Counting strings.

Sarah interrupts your train of thought when she requests the radio be put on. Joel turns the dial up and she sits back, victorious. You stifle a laugh. But even Taylor Swift doesn’t fully drown out your dad’s voice – she sure doesn’t stop the way he bobs his head as he sings to himself. It’s helpful, all the same.

You and Joel have been quite literally counting down the hours until you’re alone together. Alone for a whole weekend. Each morning, you’ll text him to announce it’s one less day. And he’ll reply some witty comment, some crude joke, or else a thumbs up emoji which usually meant he was working, or had company and couldn’t text. Company meaning eagle-eyed Sarah.

It’s been almost a whole week since the last time you had uninterrupted, unsupervised time with him. When you could link your arms around him, feel his head lean down on top of yours, say things without threat of anyone else hearing.

Seeing him there in the front seat, inches away from you, and not being able to touch him or even talk much to him, feels like a form of torture. Makes you curse your dad ‘n his tone-deaf singing all the more.

You’re supposed to be meeting Sam and Anna and a couple others from work at Frank’s, Saturday night, 8PM sharp. Rodeo night. Your dad’s leaving for Fort Worth in the late afternoon, he said. You’d kinda sulked when he told you, realizing that left a tiny window of time you could see Joel that day.

And then he told you he’d text Joel to ask if he’d be around to pick you up from Frank’s if you needed him, and you chirped up.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be really good. Can you ask him to?”

“He said just to text you if you need ‘im, hon.”

“Cool, I will. I mean, I will if I need him. Thanks, Dad.”

If you need him. If. Just on the off-chance, right?

The thought draws a smile across your face. You reckon his presence will be very, very needed this weekend.

Soon enough, the truck pulls in to some ornamented, fountain-guarded resort, bursting with greenery and flowers, paved in pristine sandstone. A red canopy over the entrance, golden letters spelling out Hillcrest.

“Damn…” Sarah leans over into your space to get a glimpse of the building from your window. “This is so fancy.”

“You treatin’ us or somethin’, son?” your dad asks Joel.

He doesn’t reply. But his eyes flit up to meet yours, then back to the road ahead. In a one-second look, you understand.

Sarah’s still staring outside, mouth wide open, blinking eyes taking everything in. “Dad, what the f…”

“Language,” Joel clips.

You smirk. It’s funny, hearing the man who’s whispered far worse things – filthy things – to you in earshot of company, chastise his nineteen-year-old for cursing.

The four of you roll by the water feature – three robed women made of stone pouring water from vases into a pool at their feet – and park up. As you hop out, a woman in a silk dress struts by, floppy sunhat bouncing with each step she takes.

Joel meets you at the back of the truck, letting Sarah and your dad stroll off ahead. They’re busy pointing at different features of the lavish hotel – the purple-uniformed bellboys running in and out of the lobby, the glimmering revolving door, the guests eating on balconies overhead.

“You outta that mood yet?” he asks, and you snap out of your daze.

“Not in a mood,” you reply bluntly, eyes still ahead.

“Huh.” He nods, unconvinced. “Marty Robbins gettin’ to ya that much, is he?”

“Marty Robbins ain’t the problem.”

“No? What is it, then?”

His hand finds the small of your back. It straightens you up like a shot of fire through your spine.

“Not a what. A who.”

You lead him inside.

A man in a pressed white shirt greets you all at the entrance to the restaurant.

“Reservation for Miller,” Joel says, and the man nods curtly and darts off into the sea of tables.

Sarah skips off with your dad on her arm, the two of them fucking ecstatic to be somewhere so fancy and fun. You and Joel amble through, past wine coolers, dodging fleeing waiters, slipping between white-cloth tables and silver spoon diners. His hand never leaves the skin between your shoulder blades, red hot on your goosebumped skin.

You’re seated at a table by the window, overlooking the river. Joel sits opposite you, your dad by his side. Sarah nudges your elbow and holds her phone up, snapping a selfie of you both with the glimmering water in the background. She tags the location and adds text below: fine dining. Her thumbs search for emojis, picking two champagne glasses, some sparkles, and a pink heart. Then she swaps the heart for a smiley face, and tilts the phone to you, wordlessly asking for your approval.

“Cute,” you tell her, and she beams, hittingpost.

The server returns, hands out menus, leaves a jug of ice water and some fancy bottle of wine you’ve never heard of by the table, and then nods his head once again before he rushes off. Your dad salutes him as he goes. You cringe.

“Boy’s gonna take a damn heart attack,” Joel mutters, watching your dad lift the wine from its bucket.

Sarah’s watching, too. She looks from the bottle of wine over to Joel, eyebrows raised. He flatly tells her, “No.”

“Come on,” she protests, “it’s not like anybody here knows what age I am.”

“We know.”

“Dad, I–”

“Water, or nothin’.”

Her eyes dagger into his. “You ain’t exactly a stickler for the rules yourself,” she breathes, sliding the jug across the table, and you scoff.

You’ve seen her do worse on her Instagram stories, and the way she glares at you warns you not to open your mouth. If Joel’s this pressed about some wine with a meal, it’s a damn good thing he doesn’t have a social media account.

“Let’s toast,” your dad announces as he pours wine into three of the glasses, “to…to you girls bein’ back home…” He raises his wine and Sarah lifts her little water, lemon slice floating on top. “…and to a fun summer ahead. Hm?”

You and Joel both hesitate a little before lifting your drinks, clinking them softly against each other with a glint in your eyes.

A fun summer. Sure. You’re certainly having fun. Yeah.

You watch Joel as you take a sip, frowning at the bitter taste. His mouth twists just like yours, neck winces as he swallows. Then he promptly slides his glass along the table back to your dad, clearing his throat and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“No?” you ask, amused.

“Not my thing.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe they have Bud at the bar.”

“You’re hilarious, you know that?”

You flash a proud grin at him. The denim of his jeans brushes against your ankles. Your dad takes Sarah up in conversation. No one would see if you just…

Under the long white tablecloth, you nudge open his calves and slot your feet between them. Joel’s boots close at the back of your legs, holding you to him. Holding you against him.

It feels…nice. It’s almost normal. Like something a real couple would do. Not a pair of hopeful idiots wrapped up too tight in some clandestine affair. You almost feel like you could reach for his hand, and you’re willing to bet that if it weren’t for your company, he’d let you take it. Let you part his fingers with yours. Let you run a light touch over his knuckles.

When you finally look up at Joel, he’s looking right back. Watching you. Reading your mind.

You avert your gaze, reaching to pour a glass of water.

A few quiet minutes pass while the table studies the menu. You’re still looking around, taking in your surroundings. The more you look, the more you notice. Velvet drapes framing tall Palladian windows. A man nervously checking his blazer pocket while his girlfriend’s at the bathroom. Joel’s legs give yours a wiggle and you’re drawn away from the pocket square and slicked-back hair.

He smiles affectionately. Asks in his eyes if you’re okay. Your shoulders meet your jaw with the inhale you take, and then you nod. Imperceptible. Some dumb smile across your lips that mirrors his. Like you really are on your own or something. It’s stupid.

“Reckon I’ll have the steak,” your dad says.

Joel hums in agreement, nodding.

Sarah orders a Caesar salad and you decide on the fettuccine Alfredo. The nodding waiter snaps his little black book shut and collects your menus, before disappearing again. Conversation flows across the table naturally: your dad’s big client, Joel’s working week, Sarah’s sophomore year. Of course, the Rangers are mentioned once or twice.

Your wrist is shaking your glass, watching as the water swirls around inside. The thought turns over much the same in your head. A question for Joel. When your food arrives and the chatter lulls, you brave up enough to ask it.

“You think I’m…brighter…here?”

He smiles, a little confused. “Brighter?”

“Aw, kiddo.” Your dad shakes his head, knife tearing into his steak. “I knew you’d take that to heart.”

Joel’s still looking at you. Concerned.

Sarah elbows you. “What’s that mean?”

Your dad sighs. “Bill told ‘er on Sunday she used to be miserable whenever she came home. Said that this time ‘round she looks…”

“…brighter.” You lift your hands to form air quotes around the word, pasta wrapped around the fork between your fingers.

Joel’s expression relaxes, his smile grows. “’cause of anything in particular, or…?”

You instantly regret bringing it up. He’s a dick. Has to ruin every sweet moment with a smug smirk and testosterone-induced impulses, doesn’t he?

You mock smile back and shake your head.

“Y’know what I think it is?” your dad says, and Joel finally turns to him. He nods at you and Sarah. “The pair of ‘em. Back home like old times. How long has it been since the four of us were out doin’ stuff together?”

You and Sarah exchange a sideways glance.

“I’m serious!” he says, waving his hands. Cutlery almost flying out of his grip. “It’s nice. Joel, back me up.”

Joel’s sat back in his chair, midway through cutting his steak, watching this show unfold. He clears his throat and offers, “Yeah. Real nice.”

Your dad looks defeated. He retires from the conversation, focusing on the meal in front of him.

“What are you guys gonna do all weekend without us?” Sarah asks, shoving a forkful of salad in her mouth.

“I, uh…keep forgetting y’all are goin’ away,” you lie, staring down at your pasta.

Joel clears his throat again. “This guy at work was showin’ me these videos of folks playin’ chess – did you know there are these…leagues, for chess? Professional leagues ‘n competitions. They win money, good money, for playin’ chess.”

Sarah, like everybody at the table, is quiet for a few seconds. “Is…is this your way of sayin’ y’all are gonna…play chess?”

You’re staring at Joel, amused and yet a tad embarrassed. The dude you’re sleeping with just went on a ramble about chess.

You twirl your fork in your hand before taking another bite. “I’ve never played chess. Maybe you’ll have to play it alone.”

Joel narrows his eyes. “Don’t think you can,” he says, gritting his teeth, “it’s a two-player game.”

“Nah,” Sarah chimes in. “A guy in my Physiology class plays against himself to practice. He’s pretty good, I think.”

Your head nods toward her, eyebrows raised at Joel. He’s grimacing back.

“He always goes on about speed, says it’s all about playin’ fast so your opponent ain’t got time to think. Quick hands, he says.”

Your brows arch, lips petted. Poor Joel. “Aw. Looks like you’ll be playin’ with yourself.”

His brows angle and you notice a twisted smile on his lips. Pissed – sort of aroused, but pissed. You lift your legs from between his. He holds onto your ankles with his own for a second, forcing you to stare at him, before he frees you. You tuck your legs under your chair.

Just then, Sarah’s phone vibrates on the wooden table.

“Oh, shoot, two seconds. Hello?” She screws her face up. “Are you kidding me? No way. No, I don’t– You– Kels, can I call you back in, like, an hour or something? I’ll call you back, I’m just at dinner with my dad and my…No, I’ll literally be, like– Alright. Lemme call you back. Okay.”

She hangs up and swivels in her seat to you.

“You know Kels? Kelly Ramirez?”

You draw a blank. Push your bottom lip out. “Should I know a Kelly Ramirez?”

“She played soccer with me in high school? Remember, that game you came to,” Sarah leans in, knocking your arm with the back of her hand as if giving your memory a swift kick, “she played in goal to fill in for Stephanie, and broke her ankle tryna save Amber Murphy’s shot? Passed out from the pain?”

Nothing. You shake your head.

She huffs. “Coach Lee had to drive her to the emergency room and it’s all she went on about for weeks.”

“Oh!” The penny drops. “That was her? Didn’t she carve his initials into the girls’ room stalls?”

Your dad and Joel exchange a bewildered and, quite frankly, weary glance. Sarah shuts her eyes and nods, ashamed.

“That’s her.”

“Wow. I wonder if he knew how bad her crush was…” you muse, choking back a laugh when Sarah gives you a dead-eyed stare.

“He would have,” Joel says flatly, and you both shoot him a look. “Girls ain’t good at hidin’ that sorta stuff.”

“Oh, like you’ve ever had anyone have a crush on you.” Sarah bats her hand at him and then her fingers lock around your wrist. “Anyway…”

You can see Joel’s grin from your peripheral. He gives your sneaker a tap with his boot under the table, and you feel your cheeks start to heat. You move your leg.

“…she’s just caught her boyfriend cheatin’.”

“Who has?”

Sarah huffs. “Kelly Ramirez! For cryin’ out loud, are– are you even listenin’ to me?”

“I was caught up in the Coach Lee stuff. Right. No, I’m with you now. Is she okay?”

“She suspected it for weeks. He kept cancelling plans last minute, kept coming up with dumb excuses. We were all tryna tell her, just ask ‘im. Ask him or find out for yourself. So, she did. Checked his phone and found all these messages between him ‘n some girl from college.”

“How’d she hack into his phone?” your dad asks.

Joel, head now resting against his fingers, draws him a look: Really?

“She didn’t,” Sarah tells him. “She knows his passcode. Used it to get in, I guess.”

Your dad nods, taking note, eyes narrowing. He looks over to Joel, then you. These kids and their technology, you imagine him thinking. But he’s staring a fraction too long. You shift in your seat. Give him a comical shrug – Don’t ask me – and he eventually looks away.

The rest of dinner passes smoothly – Sarah picking up her phone, rattling a message into it with her thumbs, and then dropping it back down onto the table. Your dad, battling his steak, asking Joel what he thinks of the Rangers’ chances against the Astros tonight, and Joel…well, Joel not taking his attention off of you for one second.

He’s answering your dad, saying all the right things at the right times, but anytime his eyes lift off of his plate, they land on you. Your arm, draped on the tablecloth. Your hand, moving pasta around your dish with your fork. Your eyes, flitting between the view outside to that inside.

You can see him the entire time. Watching you. You’re not fucking blind. If Sarah didn’t have Kelly Ramirez spamming her phone with cheating boyfriend updates, she’d probably be commenting on it. Did she grow a second head, or somethin’? she’d quip.

But you never look back. Not once. Just let him observe you, let him wait for a glance or a kick of the foot that never comes.

You’re leant back in your chair, arms crossed over your chest, when the waiter clears your table. Watching some couple wander off down the riverside path. She’s wearing a white sundress that dances around her calves with each slow step she takes. He’s in a plain black tee, tan arm around her back. Looking around at the view, taking it all in.

Then she turns on her heel to him. He lifts a hand to move her long, dark braids from her face, drops it to cup her jaw. Pulls her in to him, presses his lips to hers. Her hands are linked at his spine. Like they’re the only two people in the world.

There’s a feeling in the depths of your chest. A throb. Uncomfortable. Maybe even painful. You shift in your seat to move it, but it doesn’t budge. Your gaze falls, travelling along the window frame, onto the white cloth and to Joel’s elbow. Up his arm, across his shoulder.

You reach his jaw and look away. He’s watching everything.

“Alright,” your dad’s hands slap down on his thighs, “we good to go?”

“You go on,” Joel tells him. “I’ll get the bill.”

“Absolutely not, bud,” your dad protests. You and Sarah both lean back in your chairs at the same time. May as well get comfortable, we could be here a while.

“I got it,” Joel says, almost annoyed, getting up to stand. Your dad follows suit. Joel holds a hand out. “I’m sure you’ll repay me somehow. Hey, I got that job in a couple weeks I said I might need you for. Help me out and we’re even.”

Your dad’s hands are on his hips. “I ain’t happy about this, Joel.”

“Stick,” Joel mutters. “I’m sure I’ve done worse that you’ve forgiven me for.”

His eyes finally find yours and your cheeks flush. He covers it by gesturing to you to stand up with a snap of his head.

Why was that hot? Is it…weird…? That that was hot? All he did was nod his head.

You stand – Sarah copies you, sliding her chair under the table. Joel pushes yours in for you. His hand’s on your back again, fingers drawing circles. The four of you are walking toward the exit. Your dad’s still murmuring about owing money.

“Hey,” Sarah calls, pointing, “this place has an outdoor bar. Let’s go check it out.”

Your head’s beginning to dizzy. Why is your head dizzying?

Stick.

The way he pointed, flicked his head toward the door. Knowing you’d just fucking obey him. And you did.

Yep. That was hot. Hot enough that it restarts something in you; something deep down begins to wind. An idea sweeps across your mind.

Sunlight bursts through the French doors up ahead, golden rays flooding in through the glass panes. Joel stoops his head as he wanders through, dodging ivy draped around the doorway. On the other side, drowned in daylight, a paved courtyard.

There are tables and chairs dotted around. Benches in front of flowerbeds. More random statues – a cherub, a rearing horse. Wooden planters with vines growing toward the sky. Another slightly smaller fountain in the middle.

This…is fucking insane. Last night for dinner you ate leftover Chinese food ‘cause your dad was working late. Tonight, you’re strolling through a five-star hotel garden after the best fettucine of your life.

Ahead of you and Joel, your dad nudges Sarah and comically offers her his arm, elbow outstretched. She nods graciously and links her arm in his, and they saunter off, chins up, dumb grins across their faces.

Joel scoffs. Your lips tug a little, chest still tight. Body still tense. And he senses it.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Nothin’. Just…taking in the view.”

“’s nice, ain’t it?”

“Mhm,” you admit. “Word on the street is it was all your idea.”

“Wanted somewhere nice for you. For both of you. Didn’t know it would be this nice, but…it’s what you deserve.”

Your eyelashes flutter, blinking rapidly to conceal the look in your eye. The look that says…something dangerous. You betray the thoughts circling around your head and press your lips together in a tight smile. “Thanks,” is all you can muster the strength to say.

Joel looks forward; your dad and Sarah are strides ahead, still gawking at the garden, chatting, snapping photos.

“It improve your mood any?”

“I already told you, I ain’t in a mood.”

“That why you couldn’t look at me at dinner?”

It stops you in your tracks. You glare at him. Almost about to punch him out of frustration, right before you catch yourself and your expression softens.

“Did you want me to look at you?” you coo, leaning in a little. Your hands rest on his forearms.

Joel tenses. Opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. But you want him to fucking say it. So, you push further.

“What we were doin’ under the table wasn’t enough? Poor baby. Guess you just wanted more of my attention, huh?”

His expression doesn’t change. Lips barely move when he utters, “Thin ice, kid.”

You shrug. “I’m not the one begging you to look at me.”

He swallows. His eyes are staring you down, huge, glowing warm in the evening sunlight. There’s so much energy thrumming around your body that you feel almost faint, like your knees could give. Just swoon, fall into his arms.

“I’m bored,” you back up, turning back to the hotel, “going to the bathroom.”

You’re gone before he can react. Taking off for the doors, stumbling out of the sun and into the cool restaurant, catching your breath when you’re safely in the shade.

You approach the bar – a deep, shiny mahogany, wine glasses hanging from above, glistening footrail at the bottom. Intricately carved, varnished and smooth. Bottles of spirits and ales and wines decorate the back wall, lined up on shelves against a glimmering mirror.

Two girls in black polo shirts stand, elbows leaning against the back shelf.

“I served a duck the other night,” one of them says to the other. She has short brown hair, freckles painted across her nose. A tattoo down her right arm. She twirls a pen between her fingers as she speaks.

“A duck?” The second girl screws her face up.

“Yep. When I gave him the check, he told me to put it on his bill.”

The second girl snorts. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey, excuse me?” you call over, and the girl with the tattoo steps forward, still laughing. “Where are the restrooms?”

“Upstairs,” she nods to the doors by your side, “they’re on the right.”

You nod in thanks and she twirls the pen again, resuming position.

The bathroom is freezing cold when you burst into it, almost panting, and stumble across to the sink. Your palms plant firmly on the marble countertop, head falling limp between your shoulders. When you look up to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a laugh passes your lips.

You look…flustered. Bothered. You’re not sure if Joel noticed it. You were too busy trying to conceal it to gauge whether he’d caught on.

What the fuck is he doing to you? More importantly, how is he doing it to you? Can you seriously not go a couple days without him? Need, want, desire. Everything he causes, only he can fix.

But then, he never can fucking fix it. There’s always something or someone in the way. And you swear Joel gets off on it – watching you need him, miss him, pine for him, and knowing he won’t be able to relieve it.

Staring at yourself, you start to feel that energy charging up again. Heat pooling between your legs, blood drumming through your veins. What the fuck is he doing to me? Nothing, he’s not doin’ nothing.

Nothing I can’t do right back to him.

You push yourself off of the sink and shoot one last glance in the mirror, giving your reflection an affirming nod before striding over to the door. It swings shut behind you as you pace down the hall, feeling a lot more steel and a lot less sweet.

As you round the corner to head downstairs, a familiar shadow stalks up the last two steps and bursts into the hallway. Without a word, his arm hooks around yours and he drags you back the way you came.

“Joel– What the fuck are you doin’–?”

He passes by the restrooms and onto a plush red carpet. In a blur, he flings open the first door in sight and throws you inside, ignoring your gasps.

He slams the door shut, whipping you around to shove you against it. From over his shoulder, you notice your surroundings. A bed over by the window, pristine white sheets tucked perfectly under the mattress. Nightstands spotless, desk against the wall topped with a tray holding a bottle of wine and a tiny card that reads Welcome to the Hillcrest.

You’re in one of the hotel’s rooms. One of the hotel’s empty rooms.

Of course it’s empty. It’s like he fucking planned it.

“Alright. A hotel room. Did you book it, at least?”

“Naw,” his eyes scan you up and down, “I didn’t fuckin’ book it.”

“So…what are we doing in here?”

Joel’s pressing against you, forcing you up against the wooden door. Caging you against it with the weight of his body. Clearly, in the time you spent giving yourself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror, Joel was doing the exact same downstairs. The fucker.

“Said you were bored. ‘n that’s a real shame, given I just took you to dinner. Ain’t no pleasin’ you, is there?”

Your head rolls back against the door with a laugh. “That really got to you? So, what, now you’re gonna fuck me? Wine, dine, ‘n…yeah?”

Joel’s lips are tight, eyes staring you down. He’s seething. He’s turned on, and he’s seething. Exactly where you want him.

“You get sluttier every fuckin’ day, you know that?”

You nod, teeth taking your bottom lip. “You like it, though, huh?”

Joel doesn’t reply. You lean in closer to him.

“You like me bein’ a little slut,” you whisper, running a hand softly over his hard jeans, “just for you, don’t you?”

His voice lowers in response. “Not when I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

You pull back, cocking an eyebrow. Angle your head. “You’re the one who pulled me in here. It’s an empty hotel room, man. Do whatever the fuck you want.”

He glowers at you. His face rigid, one hand still locked around yours, almost assisting you in palming himself; the other above your head, flat against the door.

His head dips. Jaw lines with yours, breath against your ear.

“Whatever the fuck I want?”

“Mhm.” You nod, maybe a little too eagerly. Not that either of you care. Then you pause. “Oh! Wait.”

Joel lifts his head, narrowing his eyes. Looks like you just cut in front of some spiel he had planned.

Your cheeks swell. “Do you have a bottle?”

“A bottle?”

“Beer bottle. You need me to go grab one? What if they don’t have beer? It’s kind of a fancy place. Would wine work? Or is it only beer that gets you goin’–”

“Alright. Enough. Fuckin’ – brat.”

You cock your head, tongue in your cheek, pushing around the shape of your mouth. Keep going.

You spurt out a laugh. “I’m a brat?”

“Yep. Never do as you’re fuckin’ told.”

You lean in close, lips brushing off of his, so close you can taste him. Feel how tense his jaw is. Your voice is low, barely above a whisper.

“Then…make me.”

Joel’s still staring you down, watching you like a predator watches its prey. His eyes are so dark you can’t read the thoughts behind them, but the way his grip tightens on your wrist, so rough it feels like he’s fucking bruising you, the way he yanks you off of the door, tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“I ain’t got time for this,” he hisses, pulling you over to the bed.

You stagger behind him, still snickering. Joel sinks down into the mattress, thighs apart, pulling you to stand between them. You look him up and down once, smirking, his hands still roughly gripping yours. Then –

In one fluid movement, you’re over his knee. Thighs digging into your stomach, face hovering over the soft carpet. Your hands grip his calf to hold onto something – anything – as he pulls the hem of your dress up so roughly, you’re sure he’s ripped it.

“You want to act like a brat?” he asks, and you smile, feeling his hand run from the back of your knee up your thigh, coming to rest on your ass. “Get treated like one.”

The first time his huge palm slaps against your skin, your mind blanks. The sharp sting, Joel’s grunt as his hand comes down on you. The way your body jerks, and the whine you let slip as it does. The throb when he lifts his hand, the cold air hissing against your heated skin.

He’s fucking – he’s…He has you in an empty hotel room, door unlocked, entire lobby of people downstairs. Over his knee, skirt hiked to your waist, spanking you. Hard.

And then you realize. You fucking like this.

“Joel…” you moan, catching your breath when it comes back.

Another sharp sting.

“Yeah, baby? You want me to stop? You gonna stop bein’ a little brat?”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, filthy grin on your lips.

“F-fuck no.”

He slaps you again. You whimper, wrapping your arms around his leg.

“Didn’t fuckin’ think so. Can feel how wet you are for me.”

He curls a finger around the hem of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them drop off of your legs and to the floor while his fingers return between your legs, running up and down your slit. You whine.

“Such a pretty little mouth, huh? You were runnin’ it just a second ago. Where’d all your big talk go?”

You open your mouth to reply, barely even make a sound, and his palm smacks against your ass again. He’s not done.

“Always got somethin’ to say, don’t you?” he grunts, hand coming down on you again. “You remember that day I ran you home?”

You whimper in response – yeah, I remember.

“You ‘n me alone, you being a little fucking tease. Wanted to fuck you so badly, baby. Those tight little shorts you were in…fuck…”

“Why…didn’t…you…?” you whine, muffled into the denim of his jeans. “Would’ve…fuck…let you.”

“Yeah? You wanted me to, darlin’?”

“Wanted…you,” slap, “in the kitchen.”

You gasp when Joel’s grip becomes tighter around your waist, holding you still as his hand sears against your ass. Rougher. Harder. It turns you on more.

“Wanted you in my mouth.”

You swear his breath catches. Swear you can feel his hand hovering over you, almost ready to spank you again, but he pauses.

“That right, baby? In your mouth?”

You nod, unsure if he can even see you. And then you feel him bend, feel his fist in your hair, lifting your head until his lips are curled around the shell of your ear.

“You wanna show me what you woulda done?” he whispers, breath hot.

Your body’s still shaking, throbbing; you’re a sobbing mess, but still, you utter: “Yeah.”

Joel pulls you all the way off his lap then, widening his legs for you to sit between them.

“Gotta be quick, babygirl,” he tells you, pushing you by the shoulders down onto the carpet.

Your knees part to lower yourself closer to his crotch, fingers shakily fumbling with his zipper. Joel helps you, shifting his jeans until his cock springs free. He’s as hard as if you’d been playing with him this entire time, so hard you almost begin to drool at the sight of him.

He sighs shakily, hand leaning behind on the mattress to steady himself. “You’re gonna sit there like a good girl and make me cum, alright?”

You nod, eyes blown black with lust.

He grips the back of your head with one hand and guides his cock to your mouth with the other. You take his thick length in both hands, allowing a trail of spit to fall from your lips and cover his swollen tip, running down his shaft only to be collected and dragged back up by your fingers.

“Good girl,” Joel whispers, watching you. “Doin’ what I tell you, huh?”

A few strokes and his cock’s soaked. When his head lines up with your bottom lip and you open up wide, he pushes into your mouth, filling you up without stopping to let you catch your breath. You gag when he hits the back of your throat, and Joel groans.

“Know you can take it, baby, you’ve done it before. That’s my girl.”

You whimper in response, mouth full of his cock.

“Keep makin’ those pretty noises, whole hotel’s gonna be wonderin’ what’s goin’ on up here.”

He allows you a second to pull off of him, gasping for air when your mouth’s free again.

“Want ‘em to hear,” you choke out, lips slipping back down his cock.

“Yeah?” he bucks his hips up into your mouth. “You want ‘em to know? Why don’t I just take you downstairs right now, fuck you in front of everybody, huh? You like that?”

You whine, gasp something that sounds like a yes around his warm skin.

“Thought you would, fuckin’ dirty girl. Want everyone to see just how good you take me, hm? How fuckin’ wet you get for me?”

Your fingers reach for his balls, kneading them softly in your hands. Joel’s head tips back and he lets out a guttural groan.

“Look at you,” he purrs, “soakin’ wet all over the floor, lettin’ me fuck that pretty little mouth. Needed it bad, didn’t you?”

You follow the words he’s saying with your eyes, never taking your doe-eyed gaze off of him. He’s all you can see; the surrounding world blurred by lust and sex and by Joel.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day,” he mutters.

You pull yourself off of him, disobeying his tight grip at the back of your head.

“Yeah?” you breathe, giving in to him. “Been thinkin’ about you, too.”

Joel almost looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting that to come out of your mouth. He’s never expecting any of what you say to come out of your mouth, is he?

Hell, you don’t expect half of what comes out of your fucking mouth these days.

You sink back down on him, eyes screwing shut with the feeling of him filling you up to the very bottom of your throat.

“So slutty, baby. You like that? Yeah?”

He’s speaking so soft but being so fucking rough, pushing you down onto his dick and then hauling you back off with a fistful of hair. His hips snap against your mouth and your hands leave his body to balance yourself on his thighs, stabilizing yourself with fingers through his loose belt loops.

You’re gagging on him, choking every time his salty head brushes against your throat, but Joel doesn’t stop. Each whimper, each muffled cry from you only pushes him closer, sends his head back in a wave of euphoria at the sight of you taking his cock in your mouth so good, the sounds of you choking on the size of him.

Your chin is soaked, dripping with spit and precum. Your cheeks dappled with tears. He doesn’t let up. You don’t fucking want him to. Your knees are slipping further apart, your cunt wetter than ever, dripping all over the plush carpet of the classiest hotel you’ve ever been in.

It’s fucking filthy, and you love every second of it.

Your lids grow heavy and you stare up at him, doused in rays from the window behind, blissed out on his body, him blissed out on yours, and you know he’s about to cum. His brows arch, his jaw falls slack. He’s focusing only on the feeling of your swollen lips around him, your throat contracting with each thrust of his hips.

He jerks, grunts out a, “Throat?”

“Uhuh,” you choke back, hands clamping around his thighs when he leans back.

One more jolt and he releases rope after rope of warm cum down you, painting the back of your throat and filling up your mouth. That all-too-familiar taste of Joel trickles all over your tongue.

He’s whispering, “Fuck, fuck, darlin’, fuck…” over and over, chanting your name, breathing curses and praises between.

When he stills and you feel him relax, your hands fall limp on your lap. You don’t move, not until Joel’s eyes flutter open and he slides his soft cock out of your mouth.

Your head rolls onto his thigh, eyes wide and soft as you gaze up at him. Equal parts enamored and painfully aroused.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he tells you. “Brats don’t get to fucking cum.”

There are words coming to your mind that you wouldn’t dare call him when he’s in this mood. Words you wouldn’t call him any other time, either, if it weren’t for the agonizing ache between your legs. This – fucking – guy.

You want to sob. Want to wrap yourself around his legs as he stands and beg him to throw you down on the bed, part your legs, use whatever the fuck he wants just to let you cum. Just to give you some release.

It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. Dumb for this man.

He sits forward and tucks his limp cock back into his boxers, redoes his jeans. Then he leans down, scoops up your soaked panties and scrunches them in his fist. He slips them into his jeans pocket and, with a heaving sigh, pushes himself up from the bed.

You’re still squatted, knees apart, on the carpet. Arousal probably streaming out of you. Joel only lowers his hand and you take it, letting him pull you up to height. You still don’t believe he’s gonna let you walk out of here undealt with.

Until he wanders off toward the door, and there’s nothing left for you to do but follow.

Each step hurts, your thighs grazing against each other. Your naked cunt throbbing with every tiny movement.

Joel pauses at the door, turns the handle slowly, quietly, opening it just enough to poke his head and shoulders out, before beckoning you forward with a wave of his hand.

He blindly takes your wrist and leads you out of the room in a daze, letting the door close over as you both head back the way you came toward the staircase.

Under spotless chandeliers, past romantic paintings. Along the same plush carpet he’d shoved you along less than twenty minutes ago. Down the stairs, emerging at the bar, pair of you scanning the restaurant for your dad and Sarah. No sign of them.

“C’mon,” he nudges you, “still gotta get that bill.”

You stand by Joel’s side at the bar, catching a glimpse of the pair of you in the mirror opposite. Elbows touching, palms inches apart on the polished surface. Your heart swells to the point of almost hurting at the sight. The cover is back up, you’re back on planet earth; you’re nothing but a pair of acquaintances, friends at best.

Just a guy and his best bud’s daughter.

Joel’s tapping his credit card against the wood.

“What’s up?” you ask him.

“Hm?” he replies, eyes finding you, head still facing forward. Almost bracing for your dad’s appearance at any given moment.

“You’re being weird.”

“Ain’t being weird.”

“Still not gonna let me cum?”

He’s almost startled. You asked it quiet enough that nobody would’ve heard, if there were even anybody around you, but still. It feels like dangerous territory talking about it this out in the open.

“Nope,” he replies, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“You know I’m gonna do it myself the second I get home, right?”

He shrugs. “You gonna call me?”

“Facetime you, if you want.”

His body goes rock solid. You knock into it, smirking. Before he can muster up a reply, the girl with the tattoo shows back up, smiling at Joel. He tells her the table number and she slides him the bill.

“How much is it?” you ask him.

He turns to look at you. “You won’t be findin’ out.”

You mock offense. A small part of you isn’t kidding. “’n why’s that?”

Joel ignores you. You twist over his arm to get a look and he bats you away, holding you at bay with his elbow while he places his card over the total amount and slides it back across the bar.

You admit defeat, though it kills you a little inside.

Joel does his little head nod again and you follow him to the exit. You walk out of the restaurant together, your chin as high as your shame will allow it, Joel’s parallel to his chest. Your dad’s stood against the truck deep in conversation with Sarah. Or, rather, Sarah’s deep in conversation at your dad.

“…so, she thought he was just textin’ his boys, but here she goes onto his Instagram messages, and it’s all these hearts, all these messages sayin’…”

“Where did you two get to?”

Joel opens the door for you silently, and you breathe a slightly awkward Thanks before climbing in.

Once he’s back in the front seat alongside your dad, he replies. “Charged me twice. Problem with the card reader.”

“I hope they apologized,” your dad says with a concerned tone. “Hope they ain’t tryin’ anythin’.”

“Nah,” Joel bats it away – unconvincingly. Or is that just because you know he just…you know.

Sarah’s still yapping – Kelly’s heartbroken, doesn’t know how she’s gonna go on. She – Sarah – is furious with Kelly’s boyfriend – ex-boyfriend? – his name is…Mike? Mick? Something beginning with M…Your ears are screaming.

“Happened to me once at a gas station. Charged twice for one tank a’ gas. I went back the next day ‘n asked the girl, she said she didn’t remember me. I showed her the bank statement, said, Why the hell would I need two tanks of gas for one vehicle? She had to call her manager. It was…insanity, Joel. You be careful.”

Joel’s pretending to listen, murmuring Right and Uhuh when appropriate, but he aims every second glance at you from the rearview mirror. You tug your skirt as far down your thighs as it’ll go, feeling exposed and guilty and ashamed and yet so fucking good all in one.

You can still taste him on your tongue. Your throat feels raw, your jaw sore. He knows it, from the looks he’s giving you in the mirror. It’s satisfaction, mixed with longing, mixed with guilt. Your underwear is in his front pocket. Your thighs clamp shut, feeling yourself seeping all over his backseat. One big, chaotic mess.

The car falls into silence, Sarah’s thumbs typing rapidly, Joel’s elbow propped against the window, cheek leaning on his knuckles. You lean your own head against the window, the engine drumming into your skull, the cold of the glass relieving your scorching skin. Your dad starts quietly singing again, and you wish you had the energy to put on a convincing voice to tell him to shut up.

“Maybe tomorrow a bullet may find me, tonight, nothing’s worse than this pain in my heart.”

----------

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toxicanonymity · 2 months ago

Note

Hey Boo,

I've been seeing Joelkemons making the rounds being the best kind of dude to have around when you're crying.

Is Stepdad is having very strong feelings about all of this too? I imagine of Raider (LOML) and NW are being so soft with us, something in stepdad might respond to our hopelessly impotent rage.

I'd love to see how he reacts.

Boy howdy, tho, if I could slip into the brothel and have a big ol' Joel-pile, that shit would fix me all the way.

Thank you so much for everything you do and are.

I hope you're taking care of yourself too.

-- Cupquake <3

black tuesday

JOEL x f!READER | 1000 words

WARNINGS: 18+. Election Night. ANGST. Tears. Fears. This is intended to be a cathartic fic with some comfort but please don't read if it could be traumatic. Allusions to reproductive rights, etc. Reader is angry, esp. at men, takes it out on joel a little. Joel is supportive. Reader dacryphilia, brief smut. STEPDAD AU but you don't need to know it, and the stepcest doesn't come up.

NOTES: Sweet Cupquake, you're welcome and thank you for always being so supportive. Poor stepdad, he's normally the one needing comforting, isn't he? Yes, he has strong feelings about all this. This doesn't fit neatly in the AU timeline just roll with it. My brief post on the election is here. This will most likely be my only fic that overtly acknowledges the u.s. election. DO NOT INTERACT: TRUMP VOTERS, ANTI-CHOICE PEOPLE, MINORS.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment watching the news while Joel makes dinner and a huge mess in the kitchen. When the early votes are counted, we’ll see a lot more blue, they said. No, actually. Not really. You turn the volume way down so you can barely hear it.

“Pasta’s ready,” Joel announces in a weak, sing-song voice.

You remain on the floor. Your breathing is shallow, and it doesn’t feel real.

Joel comes into the living room but doesn’t sit down. He stands with his arms crossed. His neck veins are bulging, his biceps are tense, his jaw clenches as he watches the screen. He’s pissed, he’s so angry watching this happen. He’s embarrassed to be a Texan. He thinks about all the women he knows. Embarrassed to be a man.

He looks back and forth between the tv and you, and he sees your eyes are watery. He brings your glass of water from the kitchen, but you refuse it. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then, he picks up the remote control and turns off the tv.

“Why’d you do that?” you snap.

“It’s only makin’ ya sad,” Joel replies. “It’s still early, there’s time.”

“Sad?? You think I’m sad?” Heat rises to your face. Your chest tightens.

“Okay,” Joel acknowledges softly. “I can see you’re not just sad.”

He sits down and tries to put his arm around you but you scoot over to face him.

“All you men just go around blowing your loads everywhere and we’re the ones who have to deal with it, and you have the nerve to tell us how.”

“I’d never tell you how to--you know that.”

“--I am so fucking tired of men talking.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and sits quietly next to you for a minute. It’s hard knowing there’s nothing he can do or say, but he’s not going to leave you unless you tell him to.

He clears his throat and asks softly, “Would anything make ya feel better?”

“Only waking up from this nightmare.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges.

“I don’t wanna feel better,” you begin to cry. “I want it to not happen….Like, is this real life?”

None of it feels real. Months ago, people in stupid red hats were carrying around actual sperm cups. The highest-profile rapist in the country called himself the father of fertility, and crowds of people cheered. He said “mass deportation” and people cheered more. And then half the country voted for these sick, twisted buffoons.

“You want some space?” Joel asks.

“No,” you protest tearfully.

He hesitantly brushes the back of your neck with his thumb. This time, you let him put his arm around you.

You whisper, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Sweetheart, it ain’t over. We got time.”

You shake your head no, ‘cause you can feel it in your gut.

Joel sits in silence for a moment, and you can’t see it, but he’s tearing up because he can feel you burning and he’s powerless.

He holds you and strokes your back while you bury your face in his chest. He discreetly checks his new york times app and tries not to react out loud- it’s only getting worse.

After a few minutes of silence, he whispers your name, and you respond, “mm?”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

You look up to see his cheeks wet, his hair messy. Your heart swells with affection. Affection and… gratitude? God, the bar is in hell. But to be fair, you really love him. You’re grateful for the man he is, not the one he isn’t.

Desire begins to stir in your chest.

Joel presses a kiss onto your forehead, then lifts your chin, and you look at each other. He brushes away a tear from your cheek. With his own cheeks still wet, he swallows, and the emotional bob of his Adam’s apple sends a rush of arousal to your core. You put your hand on the back of his neck and pull him toward you for a kiss.

Affection and relief floods your body. It’s temporary, of course, but you let yourself have this. You let the nightmare fade into a spicy dream.

You straddle him and he pulls you close and moans into your mouth. You kiss him desperately and feel him harden under you. He hesitates and mutters, “sorry,” trying to read the room. He pushes your thighs back, trying to put some distance between you and his hard-on.

“Stop,” you reply, then latch onto his mouth again. He breaks away and says, “Just don’t want ya to feel like I–”

“Shut up,” you tell him, then scoot yourself closer, your crotch firmly planted on the warm, stiffening shape in his sweatpants. You grind your hips into him. He kisses you back with increased fervor, and moans into your mouth. Kissing passionately, your loins throb warmly together and your hips move in rhythm.

You reach between the two of you and slide your hand down his sweatpants. You palm his leaking manhood. Pressing it against his tummy, you gently move the skin on his shaft, and He groans.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and thrusts against your hand.

You stand up to urgently take off your pj pants.

His man-guilt is still eating at him. Squeezing his aching hard shaft, he lets out a moan, then weakly offers, “Are you sure you wanna…”

In response, you straddle him, hot and dripping against his bare arousal. You slide against him, throbbing and ready. Then, as you slide his tip to your entrance, you warn him, “Get it while it’s on the table.” You sink down on him and he shudders. Then he thrusts upward and moans as he bottoms out.

“My legs’ll be closed for business soon,” you explain.

He closes his eyes and breathes deep as your body accommodates his. “Fair enough,” he answers thoughtfully, then opens his eyes. “Wait. Even if my face is the customer?”

------

-----

NOTES: I actually wrote three Stepdad things, and chronologically, this is no. 2 of 3. The others aren't posted yet. The first one is a standalone pregnancy scare, nothing about the election (would've been before it). And the second one is a post-election talk about contraception.

My brief post on the election is here.

Thank you for reading. Please remember to take care of yourselves <33

#stepdad!joel #joel miller angst #joel miller smut #election angst #cw stepcest #cw trump #cw politics #cw anxiety #cw election #toxicanonymity ☠️

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noellevanious · 1 year ago

Text

*During the invention of macaroni and cheese*

Hmm. These pasta noodles taste great mixed together with Cheese sauce. But I can't think of a good name to give to it...

Macklemore: I'm Mackin some more if you want some....

Wait. Say that again Macklemore....

Macklemore: Mackin? It's like Makin but with my name.

Huh. I think I've got an idea on what to name it....

437 notes · View notes

waddingham · 9 months ago

Note

oH Ted as the 'someone coming every week to cook and stock her fridge with meals'!! your brain does so much good work and I am so thankful we get to reap the benefits <33

yeah!!!!!! and i couldn't think straight until I got rid of it!!! here take this it's killing me!!

She begs Phillip to keep her on. She begs him, tries to double his fee even, to keep him from total retirement, but he's steadfast in his decision.

The thought of hunting down another chef is horrific. But he gives her no choice.

She blows through them like tissues for three months, suffering over-complicated meals, over-powering flavors, chefs clearly trying to impress as if she wants a Michelin star meal every night. She doesn't – if that was what she wanted she knows exactly where to get it.

When she's at home she just wants good food, that's easy to reheat and easy to eat. Which is how she ends up finally succumbing to Leslie's repeated insistence that she give his man a chance.

“He comes over once a month,” he tells her, more than once. “Puts together some things we can freeze and just pop in the oven. Simple enough for the boys to do it, so Julie and I can have at least a couple evenings where they can feed themselves.”

He brightens when she gives and asks for his info, and when she gives him a call, she's struck dumb hearing his American accent.

She's running out of options, so she takes a chance on him.

She taps her fingers on the counter, waiting for the doorbell, checking her watch when she finally hears it. He's perfectly on time, but she feels like she's already searching for a reason to be disappointed with him.

He has a pleasant smile for her, though, and a friendly demeanor and a firm handshake and a handsome face – none of which she can immediately find fault in as they introduce themselves.

“I'm sure you're busy,” he says as she leads him to the kitchen. “So I appreciate you taking the time to let me peek at the kitchen and ask you a couple questions.”

“Of course,” she says, used to the procedure by now. Most of them have some kind of sheet they have her fill out, usually via email, but she doesn't mind taking a moment to meet the person who's going to be cooking her food.

“Oh, this is nice,” he compliments, looking around the kitchen, as he sets down the backpack hooked on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, gesturing for him to claim a stool. “Though you can probably infer from your presence that it gets little use.”

“That's okay, I'll go easy on it,” he chuckles, pulling a binder from his bag and opening it up on the counter. “First, though, I wanna make sure I know what I'm cooking.”

He doesn't have a questionnaire or the like, it seems. The lined paper in front of him is blank before he scrawls her name at the top.

“How many people am I cooking for, first of all?” he says without looking up.

She licks her lips, her gaze shifting.

“Just me.” She keeps her tone matter-of-fact. She hopes.

The way he glances up makes her doubt whether she managed it.

“Makin’ it easy on me already,” he says with a soft smile, adding a 1 to the corner of his sheet. “You have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

“No,” she says, then adds, “Though, I do have the tendency to drop meat for a while every so often.”

“A part-time vegetarian?”

She cracks half a smile. “Sure.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “What kinda meals are you after? Breakfast, lunch, dinner?”

“Dinner, mostly, though I won't say no to the occasional breakfast. Mostly out of curiosity.”

She doesn't think any of the chefs she's hired have offered to make breakfasts.

“I make a mean frittata,” he grins. “What do you like, then? What are some of your favorites, so I can get a feel for what you want?”

“When I eat at home, I want quick and easy,” she says. “The less steps for me, the better. I don't want extravagant, elaborate meals. Shepherd's pie, any kind of pasta, soups, salads. Fish, chicken, red meat on occasion, not every week preferably. Anything veg heavy will probably be a hit with me.”

He nods, taking rapid notes in what must be a very familiar format to him. He fires off a few more questions for her, elaborating a bit further on what she likes before switching gears.

“Anything you absolutely don't want?”

“Not especially,” she says. “I don't like to limit a new chef too soon. I'd rather you make me your best and I'll let you know.”

“Uh oh,” he smiles.

He does that a lot.

“Am I on trial?”

She opens her hands up, giving him a small smile and he chuckles.

“I've had six chefs in ten weeks,” she tells him. “So yes, maybe a little bit.”

“Why didn't they fit the bill?” he asks curiously. “So I can avoid a similar fate.”

“I don't think they quite believed me when I told them how simple I wanted things,” she says. “Too many sauces and sides and heat this up separately and put this on this. If I want a five course meal, I know where to get one. When I get home from work, I want to throw something in the oven or dump it on a plate and microwave it, not anything glamorous.”

He looks pleased to hear it – he seems to actually relax slightly, as if he'd been uncertain he could deliver on what she wanted.

“Well, I can guarantee you that going too fancy will not be a problem with me,” he says, writing a few more things down. “I'm used to basic.”

“Good.”

“I've got Tuesday afternoons free, if we're doing every week.”

She nods.

“Between noon and four, if that works for you.”

“I'll be at work, so you'll have free reign,” she says, opening a drawer on the island and pulling a house key from it. “Make yourself at home.”

“Alrighty,” he says, taking it from her. She watches him pull a roll of masking tape and a ring of maybe half a dozen keys from his bag. He rips off a piece of tape and labels it with an RW before adding it to the keyring.

“If you ever have any requests, that number you have is my cell. Shoot me a text before Tuesday if you want it that week, or you can leave me a note.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you think of anything else you want me to know,” he says, starting to pack everything away again. “If you hate olives or can't stand Bleu cheese.”

“I love olives,” she says emphatically. “And there's no kind of cheese I will refuse.”

“Cheese is the best, right?” he remarks. “They're all good. Yellow, white, hard, soft. Even stinky, moldy…still good.”

She snorts a bit, but fully agrees.

“I'm pretty much always stocked with fresh mozzarella to nibble on so feel free to help yourself.”

“Oh, don't tell me that,” he says, shaking his head. “I'll clean you out every week.”

She chuckles as he throws his backpack over his shoulder.

She sees him out, intrigued now to see what he cooks up for her.

When she gets home on Tuesday, there's a delicate cacophony of smells hanging in the air and she remembers for the first time today – after a long, trying weekend – that Ted was meant to come.

And apparently did.

The kitchen is spotless (thank God – chef number two had a tendency to slack on the cleaning up bit) and she eagerly makes her way to the fridge.

Each covered pan has a strip or two of tape on top – 35 minutes @ 175° the small square one requests. Thank God. One singular step.

If it tastes like shit, she's going to cry.

It reveals itself to be a lasagna and she flips the oven on, lets it get hot while she peeks at the rest of what he's made, then pops it in the oven while she goes upstairs and gets comfortable.

She notices the extra pan by the kettle when she comes back down, this one without a lid, left on a trivet.

Three neat rows of shortbread lie within it, a note flat on the counter in front of it.

A little extra treat – maybe a bribe so I don't end up being Disappointing Chef Number 7 – and a thanks for giving me a shot. I'm told these are a winner with a cup of tea.

He's signed it with a mustached smiley face that makes her chuckle.

They smell divine. She can't resist prying one up and taking a bite.

“Oh, fuck me,” she mutters to herself, looking at the biscuit with a bit of wonder as it melts on her tongue, perfectly sweet and salty.

Oh, wow. She glances at the oven, then the pan in front of her.

She might have struck gold.

Everything is delicious. He's clearly not a professional five star chef, but every bite has her in disbelief.

It's just so good. She was skeptical, but he even nails a shepherd's pie for her, dumping cheese on top without her even requesting it. Nothing is unpleasant or poorly made, nothing has her thinking to text him and tell him she didn't love it. His portions are more than enough for her and she frequently takes what's left to the office with her. She has never taken lunch with her to work. Ever.

His cooking tastes like dining at a friend's house, like family made it, like he loves cooking for people and puts it in every bite.

And the biscuits. She finished the pan before the week was even out, unable to help herself.

She's a little bit devastated when there are none on the following Tuesday.

She leaves a note the next time she expects him.

Any chance for biscuits again?

She's ecstatic to find a fresh pan when she gets home.

She's nursing her last three by the weekend, determined to make them last long enough to request more.

I hope no notes is a good thing?

She's been meaning to text him, tell him how pleased she is with everything he's made, but it continued to slip her mind.

How am I doing?

No notes is a very good thing, she sends back. Everything has been absolutely delicious.

Oh good :)

I love to hear it

The biscuits have become a problem though

No biscuits next week then?

God no

I'm hooked on them

Don't do that to me

You got it boss

She almost laughs at herself when she gets home.

She's turning down dinner dates and good-looking men in favor of a date with the container labeled prosciutto stuffed chicken breast in her fridge that she's been thinking about all day.

He'd probably get a kick out of the fact that his food is so good it's ruining her dating prospects, but that's most definitely not something she'll be telling him.

She gets herself a little bit of this week's salad while she waits on the oven – romaine with candied walnuts, dried cranberries, gorgonzola, sliced green apple with a deliciously sharp vinaigrette. She peruses the fridge in her typical Wednesday fashion – on Tuesday evenings she's made a habit of grabbing the first thing she sees and letting him surprise her – looking for the small container of sauce that the lid of the chicken makes mention of.

She chuckles when she sees it. Some of his notes on things have gotten more elaborate, sometimes teasing, sometimes with a wine pairing suggestion, sometimes just with a little smiley face. The lid for the sauce only says creamy pesto, but there's masking tape wrapped in a spiral over its sides, covered with writing.

I know, I'm gonna get in trouble for making a separate sauce for something but all you gotta do is dump it on when it's done! It's worth the extra step I promise!

She snickers around her salad, setting it on the counter.

It's well, well worth the extra step.

When she gets home on Tuesday, she's unexpectedly greeted by a strong, delicious smell and noise from the kitchen. She leaves her heels and her coat before turning into the kitchen.

Ted's at the stove, looking almost mortified as he immediately starts apologizing.

“I'm sorry, Rebecca, I'm so behind today, but this is my last one and then I'll clean up and get out of here–” he rambles, but she's taking him in more than listening. Namely, she's taking in his tired bloodshot eyes and his disheveled hair and the way his hands shake as he gestures to the mess of the kitchen.

“I'm sorry–”

“No, Ted, it's alright,” she insists. “It's not a problem.”

“I'm almost done.”

“Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just need to finish this…”

She frowns and rounds the island, unconvinced and unsettled – he's almost frantic with energy.

“Come here.”

He frowns as she pulls him away from the stove.

“No, it'll burn–”

“In which case I'll survive with one less meal,” she says firmly, pushing him to the dining table. “Sit.”

He does – reluctantly – and she gets him a glass of water.

“Take a deep breath. Relax,” she insists before stepping to the stove. The pan there has a sauce in the making, a plate of meatballs next to it, as well as a pot of water getting hot.

“What needs done here?” she asks.

“I can–”

“Stop,” she commands, lifting a brow at him before he can rise. “Sit. Just tell me.”

“The, the cream needs to go in,” he says. “Give it a second, then the other two little bowls there, the Dijon and the Worcestershire and then the spices.”

“Okay,” she says, keeping her voice steady, hoping it'll relax him, show him she's far from upset that he's still here.

She follows his instructions, pouring the measuring cup of cream in and mixing it with the little whisk that's already there. She lets it get hot, then adds the rest, stirring it in.

“What am I making?” she asks with a small smile.

“Swedish meatballs,” he supplies, sounding distracted. “One of my favorites.”

“Swedish, hmm?”

“Well, I can't speak to them being authentic,” he says. “Recipe was my mom's. And she's definitely not Swedish.”

It smells delicious – whatever spices she just added were warm and aromatic and it makes her mouth water.

“What next?”

“Uh, turn the heat down and let it simmer,” he says. “Needs to thicken.”

She dutifully turns the stove down and then joins him, taking a seat next to him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he deflects, “I'm fine. Just…didn't sleep so good and then this morning was…I'm fine.”

She doesn't push, seeing how much effort he's putting into forcing a smile and changes course.

“Do you have anywhere else to be today?” she asks.

“No, no, you're my last client on Tuesdays.”

“Then stay,” she insists, gesturing to the stove. “Looks like enough for two.”

“I shouldn't,” he tries, shaking his head. “I should get out of your hair.”

“You're not in my hair,” she asserts. “I would enjoy the company and I'm most certainly not complaining about getting a meal fresh off the stove.”

He looks her over for a moment, presumably looking for any hint of falsehood before he nods a bit haltingly.

She smiles.

“Should, uh, should put the meatballs back in to finish ‘em,” he murmurs. “And get the noodles on.”

“Yes, chef,” she says, giving him a wink when he finally smiles.

“I'll do it,” he says, and she lets him this time for how much calmer he seems. She occupies herself by offering him a drink and pouring herself a glass of wine. He accepts a couple fingers of a scotch he's apparently had his eye on for the last few weeks and she watches with interest as he takes a sip.

“Oh, that's nice,” he mutters.

“The only one I buy anymore.”

“You have excellent taste, I have to say,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

She helps him get the rest of the dinner together and is glad to see him relax more and more, until he's smiling easy as they both sit at the island with bowls of noodles and meatballs.

“Well, it smells fantastic,” she says, eagerly stabbing a forkful of noodles and half a meatball.

It's delicious. Creamy and warm and truly everything about it screams comfort food.

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbles around it.

“Yeah? That one a winner?”

She nods emphatically, eyeing him as she chews.

“Nothing you make is bad,” she mumbles, watching him take his own bite.

“That's ‘cause I only make what I know I can make good for you,” he chuckles.

“Why's that?” she asks. He can take a chance on her – he's built up plenty of faith in him already. One bad meal isn't going to have her canning him.

“Oh, to impress of course,” he says with a crooked smile that she returns.

“You've already done so,” she says. “I haven't had a single thing I didn't like.”

“I'm very happy to hear it,” he says, sounding very genuine about it.

They eat slowly because conversation comes very easily. Whether it's the drink or the distraction of her company, he's light-years away from the frazzled ball of anxiety she was met with.

“Safe to assume you don't enjoy cooking much, huh?” he asks her as they both scrape their bowls.

“I don't think I would mind it if I had ever learned,” she muses. “But I've had a cook for most of my life and learning how now just to feed myself seems more trouble than it's worth.”

“You've had a cook most of your life?”

“My parents kept one when I was a kid, and then when I was married, my ex-husband insisted on a cook,” she says, half rolling her eyes. “Thank you, by the way, for not inundating me with pork pies and sausage rolls and roasts and dousing everything in gravy.”

“I enjoy a good gravy, but, oof, that's heavy eatin’ right there.”

“Too heavy,” she agrees. “Though my tastes were rarely taken into account.”

He hums as he wipes his mouth and she finds understanding in his eyes.

“How long were you married?” he inquires.

“Twelve years,” she says slowly.

“That's a lot of gravy,” he says more seriously than the words might call for. She hears his meaning plain enough.

“Yes. It was.”

“Well,” his tone brightens a bit, “now you got me to make whatever you please.”

“Too right,” she chuckles, sipping her wine. “And it's always spectacular. I don't know how you do it, what you're lacing everything with…”

“Oh, I just make sure I put a little love in everything, that's all,” he grins.

She takes in the sight of him, smiling and content, his creased eyes warm, and she likes this. She's enjoying this. She likes him.

It's so hard to know though, even as his eyes move over her face, the quiet stretching long, if she likes him or if she's simply missed enjoying a comfortable meal at home without having to do it alone.

Her eyes drop, aware of how intensely she’s looking at him. She's not sure when it happened but they're both turned completely towards each other on their stools, leaning on the counter, and his fingertips are right there at the edge of hers – the mere straightening of her fingers would bring them into contact.

“I appreciate you letting me stay and have some of your dinner,” he says softly.

“You made it,” she offers with a grin.

“You paid for it,” he returns.

“It's not a problem at all,” she says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “It's nice to have some company.”

“I'm gonna be honest with you, Rebecca, you don't seem like a woman who would have any problem finding company.”

Her brows lift alongside the corners of her mouth, a little internally delighted by his boldness.

“I think I'll take that as a compliment,” she grins.

“As it was meant,” he assures.

“In which case…I'll amend to say it's nice to have such comfortable and easy company.”

His cheeks round, his gaze dropping in something akin to bashfulness and she thinks it really might just be him that's growing on her.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, her smile slanting crookedly. “Even if I pretty much made you.”

“I didn't wanna impose. You were very kind to give me a second to…calm down.”

She's not sure if it's embarrassment, exactly, or shame that has him toying with his glass instead of looking at her.

“Felt like I was trying to catch up to myself all day,” he admits.

“I know the feeling,” she sympathizes.

He's quiet for a moment before he responds.

“My ex-wife was supposed to come out with our son in the next couple weeks here, but she called and they pushed it back until the summer.”

His frown is back and his gaze is faraway, but she doesn't speak.

“Been here for almost a year now and they still seem to be getting on just fine without me.” He sounds like he wishes he could say it with detachment, but it comes out rather devastated.

“They're in the States?” she asks gently, pulling him back to here and now as he shakes himself a bit.

“Yes.”

“Why don't you go see them?” she tries, though she's very aware she's got the bare minimum of facts.

“‘Cause I'm still stinging from her snapping that she just needs some goddamn space,” he says, giving her a twisted, wry little grin.

She frowns but he shrugs, lifting his drink to his lips.

“S’pose it's about time to just get over it,” he mumbles.

“That's not easy to get over,” she says kindly. “Especially from someone you love.”

“No, it's not,” he agrees. “Ain't much love to lose these days, though. You're probably right, should just take matters into my own hands, hop over the pond.”

“Don't go too long,” she says, only half teasing. “I shouldn't be left to feed myself for a prolonged period of time.”

He smiles again and the sight has warm satisfaction melting in her.

“Oh, if I go anywhere I'll set you up, don't you worry,” he assures her.

“Thank goodness.”

It's odd how difficult she finds it when she rises and steps away. A part of her wants her to stay put, keep the space between them minimal, but she writes it off as a result of just how long it's been since she had sex.

“Now, I don't see any biscuits,” she says. “But I suppose I'll give you a pass this week.”

He rises with a soft chuckle, following her with his own dish to the sink.

“No, no, I'll do it,” he says as he starts to clean up from dinner. “Unless you need your kitchen back.”

She starts gathering dishes – he must clean as he goes, because it's not nearly the mess she'd imagine would come from cooking four whole dinners.

“Oh, for what? You think I have a chef on the side coming over tonight?”

He turns, expression scandalized, a hand landing on his chest as if he's been shot.

“Tell me you'd never.”

She chuckles, joining him at the sink, hands full.

They clean up together and then she pours them both another drink before she claims a stool, content to watch as he puts together a batch of biscuits. She watches him move comfortably around the kitchen, chatting easily with her, and it's making an impression, one she's blatantly ignoring.

She half expects him to try to leave her once they're in the oven and has her excuses for him to stay at the ready, but he sits again, waiting the half hour they need to bake at the island with her. He asks her about her job, how she came to own the club, and conversation wanders to and fro.

“I'm intrigued to see what you've cooked up for me this week, chef,” she remarks at one point.

“You know I ain't really a professional chef, right?” he chuckles. “I dropped out of culinary school actually.”

“Really? Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I wasn't having fun. I love cooking, I love making food and feeding people, but I didn't wanna do it the way they train you to, you know, cooking in a restaurant or joining the race to be the next big something. I like doing it this way. Getting to know people and cooking what they like. Feels like I'm paying the bills by cooking for friends and that's…” He clicks his tongue with a nod. “That's just perfect for me.”

“Well,” she says, smiling at how clearly he loves what he does. “You're still a chef. Definitely to me at least.”

He rises when the oven chimes, giving her a smile.

“That's enough for me.”

The biscuits have filled the kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla – the same scent that's usually still barely lingering when she gets home.

He stays long enough to let them cool slightly and cut them and she watches as he arranges them on the trivet by the kettle, just as he always does. He packs his things up then and she sees him out, exchanging smiles and goodbyes.

She's still smiling when she finally goes upstairs to change for the evening and it takes her a while to identify the feeling.

She feels like she just got home from a really, really good date.

It wasn't a date, so she doesn't know why she's disappointed when she doesn't hear from him again over the week. She doesn't contact him either, trying to recategorize the evening in her mind.

She's very pleasantly surprised, in that case, when she comes home the following Tuesday and he's still there. She knows by the smell of something sweet and nutty filling the air before she even gets to the kitchen.

It's spotless this time. He's not all anxious energy this time either – he smiles when she peeks in, looking rather uncertain about his welcome, but it still makes something deep in her chest ache.

It's rather nice. To come home to a smile from someone.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.” She lets her smile ease his uncertainty and her tone ask her questions for her.

“I, uh, wanted to say thank you,” he explains. “For last week, when I was…when I wasn't feeling so great, for being so kind, letting me hang out for a while.”

She starts to wave it off again, but he continues.

“I made a little something special for ya. Something I can't really leave for you to reheat later,” he says, gesturing to the ovens. “If you want a little snack?”

She nods eagerly, kicking her heels off toward the stairs before she joins him.

He pulls a dish from the oven and sets it on the counter. He fiddles with something there, but she doesn't see what until her turns, sliding a round plate to the center of the island between them.

Whatever it is is perfectly golden brown, looks delicious and smells heavenly.

“Honey baked brie,” he informs her. “With some walnuts and some fig jam, tiny bit of rosemary.”

“Oh my god,” she almost moans. “And it's what, wrapped in pastry?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he smiles. “Thought it might be something you like.”

“I can tell you already you're correct,” she says, rounding the island to find them some forks. “I can't wait to taste it.”

“Let me know how you like it.” She frowns, but he's got a small smile when she looks up. “I'll let you…”

“You think I'm going to eat that entire thing myself?” she asks, lifting her brows as she pulls two forks from the drawer.

“Well, I know how much you like cheese,” he chuckles.

“I'll share,” she says, handing him a fork. “With you.”

She doesn't even have the patience to sit down – she slices her fork through the pastry and creamy brie begins to ooze out. She scoops it up with some pastry, catching a nut and a bit of fig and shoves it in her mouth.

“Careful, it's hot–”

“Fuck me,” she mutters without thought.

It's delicious. Creamy and sweet and savory, the pastry flaky and buttery. It's rich and indulgent but not sickeningly so and she’s in love.

She's bringing another bite to her mouth when she realizes he's just smiling at her, pleased as punch.

“Please eat some,” she begs around her bite. “Because I can not eat all of this and I will if you leave me alone with it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, cutting off a bite for himself.

He hums, pleased with his handiwork. “Mm. Not to toot my own horn, but that's good.”

“Mm!” she hums, getting an idea. She steps away to the wine cooler, squatting down to look for one of her less frequent whites. She comes back with a pair of glasses and an off-dry Riesling.

“This was a bit too bright and citrus-y for me, but it might be gorgeous with this.”

“Okay. You’re the sommelier here, not me,” he says as she pours, then slides a glass to him.

“Oh, please, your pairings are always spot on.”

It does go nicely, complimenting every bite.

“God, this is lovely,” she tells him.

“I'm glad you like it,” he mumbles around his own bite.

“Did you make the pastry?”

He shakes his head. “No. Normally I would, but I didn't decide on this until I was shopping today and that takes some time.”

“How long did this take?”

She listens with interest as he explains how he made it, amazed at how straightforward it sounds.

“Christ, it sounds like I could make it.”

“Uh oh,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I talking myself out of a job?”

“Oh, hardly. Even if I figured out how to make everything you cook for me, I'd still keep you around,” she admits. “You’re good company.”

“Well, that's nice to know,” he smiles, eyes soft.

“Also, knowing how to definitely doesn't mean I actually have any desire to cook any of it myself,” she chuckles. “So you still have plenty of use.”

She winks with her teasing as his warm laugh has him tucking his chin, his crows feet deepening.

“I see how it is.”

She can't help but take him in, delighted by how carefree he is today. God help her, she really does like him – she wants to know him better. He's so genuine, so unselfish and generous, and she wants to keep him smiling.

“Thank you,” she says when she finally really can't eat any more, maybe a quarter of the round of brie left on the plate. “That was very kind of you.”

“No, thank you,” he echoes. “It was nice last week, to sit and eat with someone and I needed it.”

She nods get agreement, leaning her hip against the counter.

“I won't, uh, make a habit of just hanging out here, though,” he says, presumably to reassure her.

Her brows tip, eyes on his as she lets out a disappointed, “No?”

His lips part, but he doesn't manage to form a response. It hardly matters – they're communicating plenty in their gazes, trading glances at each other's lips. The moment stretches, and stretches, her breath changing to suit the surplus beats of her heart at the intensity in his warm eyes.

He leans closer, tipping his head, and something jolts through the center of her when he kisses her. She returns the gentle pressure, daring to part her lips to close them against his. Her fingers curl into her hand at her hip with restraint, fighting the urge to sink into his hair or pull him closer.

It's too delicate, this lovely feeling, and draws a tenderness up through her she hasn't been able to find for months.

He eases back slowly and she catches the breath he stole. Her eyes open, finding his still closed and she watches his parted lips begin to tighten as he fights a smile. The sight inspires one of her own, pulling at her cheeks as he opens his eyes, the smile winning and straightening his mustache out.

“I, um…”

She rolls her lips into her mouth, not even trying for words. She has none.

He can't find any either.

She drives forward again, prepared this time with a little extra breath in her lungs, a little more confidence. He kisses her back with a little more something too and she can't restrain her hands anymore from rising to hold his face. She tries to imbue the motion of her lips with plenty of invitation, but it's not until she pulls back and he follows, wavering toward her, that he steadies himself with a hand on her hip. Her attention goes straight to the heat of it through her dress as it slides to a more respectable height on her waist.

“You are very welcome to linger here as much as you like actually,” she exhales.

“Oh, I feel welcome,” he says, voice low.

She grins, pulling him in again. “Do you?”

“I sure do.”

He barely gets the words out before they're kissing again. She opens to him, tastes the brie and honey and the dry sweetness of the wine and finds it appropriate that he should be so indulgent. His hands finally make their way around her, narrowing the space between them even more. She's not sure when her arms found their way around his neck but they tighten there in response.

He doesn't let her go far when they part again, dropping a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her cheek. Her eyes close with the sensation, the scratch of his mustache and his warm lips.

“I really like cooking for you,” he murmurs.

The way he says it makes it sound like a deep confession and she feels silly for how fluttery it makes her to hear. She smiles against his lips and discovers this isn't new information to her. It's in every bite.

“I know you do,” she says low in his ear. “I can taste it.”

“Can you?” He sounds surprised and pleased.

“Yes.” She guides him back to her lips. “I can.”

#i don't know how you accidentally write five thousand words of fanfiction but it happened to me...#a gift for you anon. just cause 💌#also sorry the formatting sucks here but i don't feel like titling and tagging and summarizing and posting on ao3 rn #anon #tl drabbles

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