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umnitsa · 5 days ago

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I cried a little bit? I cried a little bit. Am I lying bc I'm now a mess made of tears, snot and feelings? Yeah. Thanks, @covetyou <3

solstice

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: smut (PiV), competency kink, grumpy/sunshine, he falls first, yearning, angst, almost enemies to lovers, Tommy being a little shit, no use of y/n, Jackson!Joel word count: 4k summary: Three little words. Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days least of all.

A/N: happy holidays @trulybetty! thank you for being so lovely about this being a little late. I was only going to go for one or two of your prompts for the @pedrostories secret santa, but then my brain went why not all of them, and now here we are.

divider by @saradika-graphics

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Three little words.

"I got it."

Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days the least.

You said other things too, of course. He heard you speak to other people. Not always nicely, but he heard you. You said more to him on occasion too. Out my way or put it down were some particular favorites, but none said more so than those three, tiny, little words.

I got it.

Because you did. He had never met a woman who had got it more than you. Strong, capable, and everything he ever tried to be. He watched every day how you'd got it. Climbing up ladders with tiles stacked on your shoulder, hauling wheelbarrows full of gravel, chopping wood in bitter wind and cold. You had it, and he watched, wanting it too.

The only problem was, he wasn't too sure what it was.

To begin with, it was the respect you commanded that he yearned for. He had that, once. Not here. Fuck, never here. The people here would barely look at him for the first few weeks. But you? They listened to you. If you said move they listened, even if it was with a roll of their eyes. If you told someone to fuck off to medical, they went without a grumble. They trusted you. Even if you weren't particularly generous with your smiles.

You were the exact opposite of what Joel was finding he had to be.

In Boston, people feared him, and that kept him, and Tess, safe. It was for the best. The people here feared him too, at first. Maybe even still now, if he was to be honest with himself, but he'd worked hard to change that. He met the mumbled good mornings with as much of a smile as he could muster. He went for drinks with his brother, made small talk with the locals even when he didn't want to. He tried to get into Maria's good graces, but never quite succeeded.

And he worked. With you mostly. Jackson didn't have much use for hired muscle or someone who could smuggle shit discreetly - not outside of the daily patrol shifts they wouldn't let him on yet, anyway - but they did have use for contractors. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, anyone who was good at doing shit with their hands. Those were things that had value behind these walls and, luckily for him, that meant he had value too. For the first time in a long time, he meant something to people.

Just not to you.

As much as he smiled, and made small talk, and helped out fixing shit in this place that was now his home, he could never get through to you. He'd try to help you out, only to be knocked aside - sometimes literally. You barely looked at him. Spoke only when necessary. Once, you'd even told him to fuck off.

He did.

At first he took it all personally. He moped, and kept his sour mood hidden from his brother and Ellie. Then, he saw how you were with, well, just about everyone else, and that lessened the sting.

But, as time wore on, Joel saw other things too. Where at first you'd seemed rude and abrasive, he now saw the kindness and compassion you treated everyone with. If you told someone to go the fuck home, it wasn't because you wanted them gone it was because you wanted them rested. If you let people struggle, strike their thumbs with a badly aimed hit of a hammer, it was to help them learn. You never did let anyone make the same mistake twice. And, because of you, no one did.

It was with the waning of spring that his desire to be you changed into something different and entirely more confusing.

As the gardens and trees exploded in the frenzy of summer, you shed your layers. Literally, not figuratively. You still stayed firmly closed up as your jacket disappeared and made way for a shirt hung loosely about your shoulders. Then, even that found its way around your waist and Joel had to come face to face with the bare, strong expanse of your back while you worked in nothing but a tank top, the patch of sweat at the small of your back blooming while he watched.

It was for the best that he didn't think about what you looked like walking towards him during those relentlessly hot months, with nothing but a thin tank top pulled across your chest. It wasn't something he should think about in public, anyway. It was something he kept for late at night, when those three little words echoed around his head and you showed him just how much you really, truly got it.

By October, Tommy had caught on. Your jacket was fastened back around you, and you were as hostile as ever. You breezed past him one morning, hooking a ladder over one shoulder, toolbag gripped in your other hand.

"I got it."

By now, Joel knew you did.

By now, he wanted to come with you anyway.

So he did, grabbing his own set of salvaged tools and heading up to the latest reno with you, only to have you square up to him the second you saw him.

"I said, I got it."

Five words. It was a good day.

So good, that he couldn't keep his eyes off you in the Tipsy Bison that night. You weren't in here often - from what he could tell, you didn't do much outside of work - but the people who shared your company seemed to enjoy it. You sat soft and quiet in the corner, listening in to their conversation more often than you contributed. But, when you did, they laughed, and Joel caught himself smiling, and Tommy caught him too.

"Never thought you'd be more of a ray of fuckin' sunshine than anyone else, but there's a first for everythin', I guess," he'd said, tilting his glass to the table in the corner where you sat.

Joel took a swig of the last fresh cider of the season and shrugged.

"You got an eye for her."

He sputtered, choking on the tart, sweet liquid. "No I ain't."

"Well you got somethin'," said Tommy, clinking his glass against Joel's own. "If it ain't an eye it's your-"

A harsh kick, and a grunt loud enough to turn every head in the bar later, and Tommy dropped it entirely.

For about a week.

Tommy ribbed him at dinner, drinks, lunch and just about every time in between. Called Joel 'Sunshine' even as he scowled. Asked about his girl as if you were anything other than a person who hated him. Slung his arm around Joel's shoulder and told him all about the birds and the bees, as if he'd ever forgotten.

He couldn't forget. Not with you running around barking at him and keeping him in a seemingly permanent state of arousal. If it wasn't your voice and that angry way you talked at him, it was just about anything else. He couldn't escape it.

It was how you did everything he could do, and more. What he had in strength, you had in technique. Your hands - fuck, did he watch your hands - were rarely unblemished with dirt or scrapes, but they were adept at everything you put them to. He couldn't look away, even if he knew each minute he looked was a minute quicker he'd be when he touched himself to the thought of you later that night.

The taunts stopped with the first snowfall.

"If you're really that interested, should talk to her," Tommy said instead. "Bark's worse than her bite."

"You're still sayin' she bites, though."

"Sure she would if you asked nice enough, brother."

Joel didn't ask.

He didn't ask the morning he woke up early to see the town blanketed in thick snow either. He simply went out, picked up a snow shovel and began working until the sun came up. He didn't expect to find you at his door that evening, or for you to grab him and throw him outside, pushing him up against the side of his own house.

"What do you think you're playing at, Miller?" you growled up at him, pushing him firmly against the siding.

Joel stared, dumb-founded, your hands curled in the front of his shirt - touching him - and blinked down at you.

"I don't give a shit who you are or what you've done out there. I am not scared of you and I am not having you take my job."

You ignored him more after that. Days went by with barely a word to him - not even a scowl thrown his way if he made too much noise or offered to help someone out on a job.

As for him, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every day for weeks that night played through his head, memory of the feel of your hands on his chest and your face so close he could feel your breath, until Christmas was on the horizon and a pit of fear began stirring in his stomach. You were a balm to it, somehow. Something to focus on when the fear got too much and kept him inside, away from the crowds of happy people.

Every single I got it was more of a comfort than the last. It could have been the familiarity of it, or the way those words came softer and softer as the season wore on. Sometimes he'd head by the workshop to ask if you needed a hand, just to hear that soft rejection one more time.

Until late one cold afternoon, it didn't come. You were alone, blowing warm air onto gloved hands, and when he asked you simply nodded, and he followed.

You worked together in silence until the sun set, when you turned to him as you parted ways.

"S'hard this time of year, but joy and grief can exist at the same time, y'know."

He didn't go to the Bison that night. Or the next. He let the grief crack open his chest instead, and let it pour out over his bedroom floor for two whole days.

On the third, he let the joy back in. Ellie reeled off new jokes from a book she found in the Jackson library. He held his nephew and rocked the teething babe to sleep. He went back to the Bison - you weren't there - and celebrated the impending holiday.

Seven months, three days, and about as many hourssince he stepped foot back in Jackson. Damn near every day he's heard those three little words, and he'll be damned if he goes another without them.

With the day as short as it could ever be, the sun tracking low in the sky, he finds you.

"I got it," you say softly, when he asks you that very same question he always does.

"I know."

He doesn't know how your lips end up on his - because it is you who kisses him. He doesn't know how his fingers find themselves under your shirt either, the coldness of them making you gasp into his mouth until you're pulling apart, both wide eyed.

He does know you taste like fruit, even in the dead of winter. He always suspected it - knew your sweet tooth by the berries you couldn't resist and the sweet treats gifted to you. He knows your fingers are as cold as his when you hand him a shovel.

He does know, even though you got it, you let him help anyway.

You clear streets and roofs of snow together until the sun goes down. He follows at your heel in the dark, cold biting through your layers as you both stomp the snow off your boots, shovels thrown down, workshop locked up. You barely even look at each other until you're staring through the fog of your own heavy breaths on Joel's front porch. He doesn't know how to welcome you in - he never was too good with words - so he simply unlocks the door and pushes it open.

You step inside.

Layers are shed before the door even closes. Heavy coats dumped on the couch, boots toed off and left this way and that. The hat on your head stuffed in a pocket - he can't remember which.

You move upstairs - worked on this house, you say - and pull him into his own bedroom before his lips even touch yours again. But when they do, they do. Joel's frantic with it, feeling the softness of you so close to the hardness of him. His hands hold your waist, rooting you to him, but then you're moving them up and under your shirt to the flair of your ribcage. The curve of your breasts fit perfectly against the cradle of his thumb and forefinger, and he thinks of everything his hands have done, this is what they were made for.

It must be. When you whine at the feel of this thumb stroking across your pebbled nipple, he thinks for the first time in a long time that maybe his hands aren't so monstrous if they can pull such pretty noises from you.

In fact, the things they've done don't seem to matter at all when he gets to touch you, to pull sounds from you so sweet he'll be tasting you on his tongue all over again just from the memory of them. For all the harm these hands have done, they could never hurt you. You would never let them. You'd tear him apart first.

And he'd let you.

You swallow his groan when you palm his length over his jeans. He stiffens beneath your touch, warm and firm, and grinds into your hand. It's been so long since he's felt the touch of anyone other than himself. He could come just grinding himself against the firm press of your hand against him, if he thought about it too hard.

So he doesn't. He focuses instead on the soft plink plink plink as you run a nail up his ice cold zipper, the way you bite his lip, tangle your fingers in his hair.

He tries to take off his own belt, cold fingers fumbling against even colder metal, but you mumble I got it into his mouth, and his knees quiver.

You do. You always do.

His belt is pulled off and you're tugging him by the loops of his pants and pushing him against his own bed, the sheets still rumpled from the morning. You slip off your own and toss it to the side too, tangling it with his on his bedroom floor. Then, you're so very close to him again, his thigh between your legs as you nip and suckle on his bottom lip. He holds you close - one hand finding its way under your shirt again, cupping your breast fully this time, and the other pulling you firmly against his strong thigh.

You warm his thigh with the burning heat between your legs, grinding yourself against him, the seam of your jeans pulling tight against you. Moans you were pulling from him a moment ago are silenced by your own, your nails digging crescents into his arm as you burrow your face into his neck in an attempt to stifle them.

You're better than he ever dreamed. Softer. Warmer. Stronger. The sounds you make so much prettier than he ever thought. Those three little words so much sweeter within these walls than any other.

Even when you strip off layer after layer, it's better than he dreamed. Summer was barely a taste of you, he realises, when your shirt, your tank, your soft bra, all tumble to the floor and you climb onto the bed behind him.

You kick your jeans off, and he pulls his down too. He can't get his shirt off quick enough, the scars on his body forgotten as he strips bare for you as you watch, lust barely turning to curiousity as you take in the sight of his body.

"Come here," you tell him, and he obeys. You're softer with him when he lies beside you then. Grasping hands turn to gentle strokes, his own hands on your bare flesh mimicking your gentle movements across his skin.

When your hand trails down to his cock, squeezing once again when you feel him throb in your palm, he has to pinch his eyes closed and pretend he's anywhere but here.

"Been a long time," he says through gritted teeth. "Long, long time."

Me too, he thinks he hears you whisper before your lips latch to his again and his soft, worn boxers are slipped down his legs, kicked to the side, forgotten.

You don't look at him, and for that he's grateful. He's less grateful when you start to play with your own nipples and toy with the edge of your panties. He presses a kiss to your shoulder instead, hiding his face against you and breathing you in.

When he opens his eyes again, your panties are off, thighs spread, one hooked lazily over his own, the other stretched out on his sheets.

"Don't have to," you mumble, when he looks down at you, stunned look obvious on his face.

"I want to."

He touches you and you let him. His hands run all over your body, rough, calloused palms dragging across your soft belly, your hips, your thighs. He's dreamed of this, and still it's better than his wildest fantasies.

When your hand wraps around his bare cock, pumping his length once, twice, he thinks that's better than any fantasy too. You practically drag him by the cock, tugging gently to pull him towards you until he's kneeling between your thighs. You lazily stroke him, swiping precum across his tip and making him jerk in your grip. His own hands play with your thighs, massaging and squeezing them, drawing his fingers closer and closer to your apex.

Seven months, three days, and twenty-something hours since he stepped back into Jackson, he slips into you for the first time.

And, fuck, is it divine.

You're slick, and wet, his cock gliding across your skin before he pushes into you, and you both gasp.

He's slow. He trembles. His fingers make dents in your thighs as he grips them. You shuffle your hips, make yourself comfortable, and he holds steady while you adjust to the intrusion. Then, you pull him in, grabbing him by the neck to steal a kiss while he makes space for himself deep inside you, rocking each tentative inch into you until he's rooted inside.

You adjust - let the tenseness in your core release - and he barely holds on. And, just when he thinks he's got a hold of himself and begins fucking you in slow, languid movements, your hand moves and you say those three little words.

"I got it."

For the first ever time, he stops you. His hand pins yours to your hip, his movements stilling as you frown up at him, a threat on the tip of your tongue. So, he begs.

"Let me. Please."

And you do. He slowly swipes a spit slicked thumb against your clit, and watches as you melt into his sheets. By the look of you, the pure relief on your face, he thinks this could be the first time you've ever truly let go, and his ego soars.

It soars again when your legs tremble, rocking his thick cock in you as his thumb works slowly over your clit. You moan his name, and he groans too. He can't keep it back. It's the first time he's ever heard you say it, and he doesn't think it could sound better. Your eyes find his when you say his name again, testing him, only to pull another groan deep from his chest.

A small nod is all you give him as a sign you want more. His thumb moves quicker, popped into his mouth to taste you just for a moment before it swipes around your cunt where you grip him, and back up to your clit.

You come on him, face turned into his sheets, brow furrowed, mouth open as you moan and shake, trembling and pulsating on his cock as you come.

For you, he keeps going. Let's you ride out the waves, fluttering against him, as he barely holds back from the brink himself.

If this is all he gets - if you push him off and walk away now - it would be a good day, he thinks. But you don't. He doesn't even get chance to ask if you want him gone when you're pulling him down, kissing him, rocking your hips against him and murmuring against his throat for him to fuck you.

So, he does.

It feels sloppy, and awkward, his hips not quite knowing how to move any more as he snaps them against yours.

"Don't stop," you whisper to him with a scrape of your teeth against his shoulder. "Don't stop."

He's never been able to disobey you, he realizes. He's never had reason let alone want to. Even now, he does as he's told, keeps fucking forward into you, mattress squeaking and bed rocking as he finally, finally, finds his rhythm.

It's easy then. You spur him on, grip him tight, wrap your legs around his waist. He grunts, growls, can barely stop himself from panting, looking down at you and how you stare back at him and he thinks fuck, this is what it's like to be trusted by you.

With a sudden gasp, he pulls out, slipping from your wet heat to rut against your sopping cunt until he's spurting ropes of come against your mound and belly.

He apologizes, tries to admonish himself for being so quick. You tell him to shut up, hitting his shoulder. He does.

You both sigh in the afterglow. Even in the before, he never had times like this, he doesn't think. It was always frantic, too quick, too drunk, too fumbling. In the after, he could never quite relax enough to enjoy it fully. In the now, it's just about the best he's ever had.

You're still covered in him. Your fingers play idly in it on your belly, and he glows. He'd trace patterns with it over your skin, if only you'd let him. But then, you're up and gone, and he fears you're gone for good until you waltz back in and throw yourself next to him, mess cleaned from your skin as you stretch and yawn beside him.

"I aint tryin' to take your job, y'know," Joel tells you some time later, when the afterglow wanes and sleep pulls at him.

"Right."

He looks to you, the roll of your eyes and tug of a disbelieving smile on your lips visible in the glow of the bedside lamp.

"I promise. I'm just tryin' to... be some place."

You're still. And silent. He thinks he's fucked up for all of one second, until you're smiling sadly up at the ceiling.

"I get that," you say softly. "This is a nice place to be, all things considered."

And, though he thinks he knows what you mean, Yes, he thinks, this is a nice place to be.

This is a good day.

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umnitsa · 6 days ago

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I love this one dearly and I love when it crosses my timeline 😍😍😍😍

Visions of Sugar Plums

2.7k || NSFW || Joel Miller x f!reader || Christmas elf AU darkfic masterlist

Merry Christmas, @covetyou! This is your gift for the secret santa exchange by @pedrostories It started as a mall santa/coffee shop AU and then it... went in a surprising direction. Hope you like! Recommend pairing this fic with a mug of hot cocoa if that's something you enjoy.

Summary: You and Joel are Christmas elves at the North Pole. He's a security officer and you own a hot cocoa shop. A mistake while fixing his drink leads to consequences.

Warnings: NSFW 18+, noncon, Christmas elves, cop!Joel, restraints, blackmail, fingering, spanking, blow job, ball sucking, unsafe PIV sex, defiling of Christmas magic, no use of y/n

Frosty Farm Cocoa is one of the most talked about cocoa shops in the North Pole. You started it a few years ago in an old farmhouse. It’s a bit out of the way, so business was slow at first, but steadily word spread about the hand-crafted cocoa that’s as delightful to look at as it is to drink.

You hover over the Candy Cane Cocoa you’re working on and swirl the stirrer just right as you shake the canister of Christmas magic over it. Incorporating Christmas magic into drinks is an artform and no elf in the North Pole has mastered it as well as you have. The stirring isn’t the most important part, it just keeps the magic from sinking to the bottom so it’s blended evenly throughout and sparkles at the top.

The most important part is imagination. This cocoa was ordered with one of the most popular add-ons: a pat on the back from the big man himself. As you stir, you picture Santa. He towers over you, his belly shakes as he laughs. He’s so impressed by how hard you’ve been working. His warm, gloved hand comes down on your back, almost hard enough to knock you over. The image and sensations flow through your body, into the Christmas magic and into the drink.

You hand the cocoa to Buddy and he closes his eyes as he takes the first sip. A blissful look washes across his face and when he opens his eyes a huge grin stretches from ear to ear. “Thank you so much! I’m going to work extra hard today!” You chuckle as he hurries out the door. He says that everyday.

You could make that order in your sleep. You have memories of the two times Santa patted you on the back to draw on. A trickier add-on that’s popular with workers in the toy factory is children opening their presents on Christmas morning. The customers love when you change up what the toys are and what the kids look like.

Special requests have to be ordered ahead. Every year on his birthday, Grogu orders a cocoa with a Christmas magic add-on of catching frogs in a pond. That one took some research the first time you made it, you’ve never even seen a living frog.

Next in line is Joel, a Sleigh Patrol security officer. People say he’s one of Santa’s favorite elves in security. He’s one of your favorite elves, too. He helped you get a good price on some sheepskins when you first started and your decor was sparse. You complemented them with pictures of sheep farms on the walls.

He’s not much of a talker, but you’ve managed to forge a good rapport with him. You even coaxed him into spicing up his regular order of a plain dark cocoa and now his regular is dark cocoa with a dash of cayenne and a cinnamon stick. He never orders Christmas magic, though.

“The usual?” Judy asks at the register.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he hands over some gold coins.

He seems to already be working today, furiously typing on his phone while you start on his drink. He turns away from the counter towards one of the armchairs and you enjoy the view of his broad back in his green leather jacket and his cute butt in his tight jeans. You have to hold yourself back from audibly sighing.

His hands are so big that his phone looks like a toy. You wonder how they’d look on your body. Your mind drifts and when you reach for the cinnamon stick, you knock over half of the topping shelf. As you stand up all of the containers, you feel your cheeks warm as if everyone can see what you were thinking which is obviously ridiculous.

You smile as you hand Joel his cocoa, hoping he didn’t see you being a klutz. Maybe he didn’t, he’s on the phone with someone now so he just tips the cup to you in thanks before heading out the door.

When you pick up the Christmas magic canister for the next drink, it’s much lighter than you expected. You don’t have time to linger on it though, the morning rush has started in earnest now.

It’s dark when you’re closing up. You’ve already sent Judy home and you’re wiping down the tables when you hear the bell on the door ring.

When you turn around, you’re surprised to see Joel. “Oh, hey! You’ve never come by late before. Unfortunately, I’ve already put everything away for the night, but if you’re desperate for some midnight fuel, I have packets of cocoa mix you can fix at home.”

Joel doesn’t respond. His brow is furrowed and there’s something wild about his eyes. He stalks towards you slowly and your smile slips off your face. When he’s almost uncomfortably close to you, he stops. He just looks at you for a moment. His gaze wanders over your face and even dips down to the cleavage of your dress.

Finally, he moves one side of his jacket. “I’m afraid I’m here on official business.” You look down and see the Sleigh Patrol badge at his hip, but your eyes are drawn to a substantial bulge in his pants. He doesn’t seem at all concerned about you seeing it.

You look back to his face nervously. “Oh… do you need my help with an investigation?” you ask, with a voice that sounds higher than usual.

“Actually, I think I’ve already cracked the case,” he says with a foreboding smirk that makes you bite your lip. “This establishment has been misappropriatin’ Christmas magic.”

You gasp and try to back up but the backs of your thighs hit the table. “This must be a misunderstanding.”

“The funniest thing happened this mornin’. I was takin’ a report from a snowman whose top hat had gone missin’ and I took a sip of my cocoa. Now, this is the same order I’ve been gettin’ for months,” he says as he points his finger for emphasis and shifts his weight to pop his knee out. “But suddenly, I am assaulted with a vision of the sexy tease from my cocoa shop and my hands on a fuckin’ exquisite pair of tits.”

The blood drains from your face and you’re unable to move. Joel casually cups both of your breasts in his hands and begins to slowly rub your nipples through your dress and thin bra.

“Like this,” he says, as if he’s just trying to illustrate a story, but he doesn’t move them as he continues talking. “Now, you can imagine this was quite a shock in the middle of my work day. Some might say it’s a disrespect to every citizen of the North Pole if someone dosed an officer she’s got a crush on with Christmas magic while he’s tryin’ to protect and serve. You agree?”

He pinches both of your hard nipples and you squeal, backing into the table again. “I– no, I would never– It must have spilled! I would never misuse Christmas magic on anyone!”

“Hmm,” he pulls his hands away finally. “Must’ve spilled? Did a container of Christmas magic just jump off the shelf all on its own?”

“Well, no. I knocked some things over when I was making your drink and–”

“Turn around,” he cuts you off, pulling out his red and white handcuffs. You tremble, but do as he says. After securing the cuffs, he turns you back around and his hands return to your breasts that are now thrust out.

“Joel, you have to believe me it was an accident. Wh–what are you doing?” Your eyes begin to water as he brazenly kneads your breasts.

“One word from me is all it takes for an elf to end up on the naughty list. You know that?” You sniffle and nod your head. You’ve never been on the naughty list in your life. “But maybe we can address your irresponsibility right here tonight and Santa never has to hear about it. How’s that sound, sugar?”

“Yes! Please, whatever you have to do–just don’t tell him.”

Without another word, he yanks the front of your dress and your bra down. Crouching, he takes one nipple into his mouth and suckles like he’s starving, lightly scraping his teeth along the nub. His hand teases and tweaks the other nipple and then he switches. You try to be subtle as you rub your thighs together but you’re sure he notices.

Once they’re both thoroughly stimulated he stands back up.

“Now, sugar, if I’m gonna keep this secret for you, I need to make sure you’re never gonna be this careless again. I know just how to make the lesson stick.”

He takes you to the nearby leather couch where he sits and manhandles you across his lap like a child.

Your cheeks are flaming now and you can feel his erection digging into your belly. You’ve never been this humiliated in your life. “Please, Joel, I’ll never do it again. You don’t have to do this.”

He ignores you as he runs his hand up the back of your leg until he reaches where your striped stockings end under your dress. He flips up the skirt and groans. Your cheeky lace underwear leaves plenty exposed.

“No more complaints. You’re gonna prove you deserve on the nice list and take your punishment like a good girl,” he says as he strokes your ass lightly, making goosebumps erupt.

The first hit isn’t too hard, but it takes you by surprise and you yelp, lurching forward. You can’t even brace yourself while you’re still in handcuffs. Your exposed nipples drag against the leather. His heavy hand is warm as it lingers on your ass.

The next one comes down harder and you whimper, wiggling your hips as you seek friction. He chuckles at your helplessness. He rains down hits, spreading them out. After a few, you feel his fingers dip down to stroke the gusset of your panties.

“Oh no, you’re soaked through, sugar,” he says with false concern. “Better get you out of these wet clothes before you catch a cold.” You hear a ripping sound and then your panties are gone, leaving you exposed to the chilly air.

His fingers stroke your folds and you moan. His touch is teasing and you feel your pussy clench around nothing. He pulls his hand away and spanks you again. You feel more arousal gush out of you. Your ass is warm and you’re starting to feel like you’re burning from the inside despite the cold air.

After two more hits, he stops and strokes your hair gently as you whimper and try to catch your breath. “When I was on my way to break up an altercation at a reindeer game, I took another sip of my cocoa. Do you know what I saw?” You shake your head.

Suddenly, two of his thick fingers shove into you. You moan and push your ass back. You're so full and clench down appreciatively. He fucks you with his fingers, slowly at first and then picking up speed. His fingers crook to stroke your front wall and you feel the coil tightening, you’re almost there. His other hand comes down hard on your ass and you fall apart on his fingers, shuddering with the strangled cry. He fucks you through your climax and then removes his fingers.

"You made quite the mess of my pants, sugar," he says while your breaths are still heaving. “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me.”

He gets up and drags you to your knees in front of him, still dazed from your orgasm. He quickly unfastens his pants.

Joel’s huge cock is in your face, filling your nose with musk, and you don’t wait for instructions. You lick a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, relishing the feeling of his bulging vein under your tongue. He groans as you lap at the head with little kitten licks.

Then you begin to fit the massive thing into your mouth. “Breathe through your nose, sugar, you can do it,” he says with a hand applying light pressure to the back of your head.

He begins to snake into your throat. Tears are running down your cheeks when you can’t go any further. There’s less than an inch of cock left. You look up at his face pleadingly. He lets up the pressure on your head and you close your eyes, beginning to bob.

“Look at me!” Joel snaps. You stare into his dark, consuming eyes as you move up and down on his shaft. He pants like a dog. Suddenly he places his hand on your head to stop your movement.

“I was talking to Bernard about the polar bear problem when I took another sip of cocoa,” he says as he slowly withdraws his cock from your mouth. “I saw you on your knees in front of me.” He wipes his cock on each of your cheeks, smearing your spit on your skin. “Tell me: what was in your mouth?”

Your eyes go wide. You’ve never actually done that before. You can’t speak. He tsks at you, languidly stroking his cock. “I know you know.” He grabs the back of your neck. “WHAT WAS IT?” he shouts.

You try to flinch back, but he holds you tight. “Balls,” you whisper. “It was your balls.”

“That’s right, sugar,” he says, guiding your face closer to the base of his cock. Your eyes are locked on the heavy balls hanging there. They look so full. “Why don’t you get a taste of the sugar plums just like you were dreamin’ of?”

Tentatively, you place a wet kiss on the one closest to you. Then you flatten your tongue and lick a broad stripe across the bottom of his ballsack. He moans like you’ve never heard before and tightens his grip on his cock.

Emboldened, you open wider and mouth at one of his balls before sucking it into your mouth and massaging it with your tongue and lapping up the musky salt of his sweat. You repeat the process with the other until you’ve slobbered all over his balls and Joel sounds like he’s struggling to breathe.

“Get up,” he says breathily.

He pulls you to your feet and bends you over the nearest table. Arousal is running down your legs, your tits are out, your face is tear-stained, and your body feels like jelly. You must be the picture of debauchery.

You feel him coat his cock in your juices and then he slides inside your cunt. The stretch burns a bit, but he has no hesitation. He pistons in and out at a confident pace and pulls on the chain between the handcuffs, making your muscles stretch and your head pull up.

He changes his angle and every thrust shakes the table. He’s touching a part of you that nothing has ever touched before. You can hear his messy balls slapping against your skin. Despite your exhaustion, you feel your body climbing.

Joel braces one hand on your back between your shoulder blades and speeds up. His breath is ragged and you can tell he’s not going to last much longer. He pumps once, twice more and then you feel him erupt inside you with a guttural moan.

Your cunt spasms, milking him for all he’s worth. Joel collapses, resting his heavy weight on your back.

Before you lose the ability to breathe, he stands up and pulls himself out of you. You hear splatter hit the floor. You’re too worn out to move. Joel grabs napkins from a dispenser and cleans himself off and then you.

He unlocks the handcuffs and you pull your sore wrists close to rub them, still bent over the table. Behind you, you hear Joel walk to the door.

“I expect tomorrow’s Christmas magic to be on the house,” he says before leaving.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it and it has filled you with holiday spirit! I was wearing this and listening to "Mistletoe" by Ginuwine while I wrote it.

#maycore

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