Love When Big Bad Joel Has A Softer Side

Love when big bad Joel has a softer side 😍

A Flower in February

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

Contents: Boston QZ!Joel. mugging. hand-to-hand violence. whump. wound cleaning.

A/N: This is a my Secret Valentine gift for @hoeruiner.

I hope you like this, Sarah! I tried to keep it in line with the info you gave.

Thank you @covetyou for reading over this. <3

You only notice the date because you glance at the calendar to check when your next shift is on your way out of work. The calendar is old and yellowed, from before when holidays were still celebrated as special occasions and not memories. The red of the “14” is faded too, but the color still draws your eye and sparks recognition in your brain. 

February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Huh. It’s depressing that your plans haven’t changed after 20 years and an apocalypse: going home after work with a good chance of spending the night alone. 

The ration cards stuffed in your jacket pocket cheer you up a little. Payday hasn’t changed either, and the ability to trade for questionably fresh groceries at the market tomorrow is something to look forward to. You head out into the dark streets of the QZ towards your apartment.

It’s fucking cold this time of year. The temperature barely rises even with a full day of sun, and it’s windy tonight too. There are piles of snow caught in the nooks and crannies of buildings and alleyways, radiating even more cold air. At least it isn’t tinged the same dirty gray-brown shade from before, with car exhaust and dirt kicked up by tires discoloring everything it touches. You’ll still find some of that on the main road, but not here in the backways that twist around the city. 

A gust of wind blows through and goes right through the heaviest jacket you own, chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth and hunker down, trying to cover as much exposed skin as you can. That’s the only way you see it: the flash of vibrant color so out of place in a city that only has faded colors available. 

There, sticking through a chain link fence bordering what must have been a parking lot at some point but has grown over into a meadow, is a purple bloom of a flower. You take a few steps closer to get a better look. You’d crouch down, but with this cold seeping into your joints you might not be able to get back up, so you bend over awkwardly and try not to lock your knees. 

It’s dark, but there’s just enough light from a streetlamp in the distance that you can make out the shape of the petals. They’re too sharp and close together to be a pansy, and facing up instead of down like a snowdrop, not to say anything of it being purple and not white. So… most likely a crocus, you think. Being able to identify the small bloom brings a happy feeling, with the bittersweet memory of when you had time to indulge in a frivolous activity like flower gardening. You could pick it and bring the spot of color into your apartment. It’s a happy thought that dies and quickly as the flower would.

“Idiot.”

It’s the only warning you get with the wind howling in your ears masking the shuffled steps behind you. They’re right: you’re an idiot for standing in an alley looking at a flower alone at night.

You aren’t the only one happy about payday.

At least they’re quick about it. You don’t know how many there are, but one grabs you from behind and another delivers a fast, brutal punch to your middle. While you heave and gasp they rifle through your pockets and take your ration cards. They give you a few more hits for good measure, and it’s not the blows to your face that does it; it’s the momentum with which they send your head smacking back into the brick wall that makes your vision swim and dim. 

At first all you can make out is ratty shoes and pants with more holes than them, but then you force your eyes up up up when all they want to do is close and you catch glimpses of their faces in the same weak light that had bounced off the crocus and caught your attention. The QZ is a contained area with a small population, and they aren’t even wearing anything to cover their faces, just worn beanies tugged down low. You don’t know their names, but you recognize the faces of the group of thugs who like to crowd people at the market and intimidate them into giving up whatever they have to leave them alone. You still can’t hear them when they run away, the ringing in your ears is loud until you finally give in to it and pass out. 

You don’t know how long it takes for your body to shake itself back to consciousness. Taking stock of your body as you get up is easy: everything hurts, but nothing hurts more than everything else. You don’t give the flower another look as you start to drag yourself home.

The wind is quiet now and you hear the heavy footsteps coming this time. Fear zips through you, freezing you in place; had they come back to take even more from you? But then your name is called out in a voice that makes your body start moving again. That voice means safety and warmth and you’re stumbling towards it on shaking legs until you crash into Joel Miller’s solid body. 

He grunts as he absorbs your impact and his hands come up on your shoulders to keep you standing.

“What’re you still doing out here?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but your teeth are chattering too much to get anything out. Great clouds of hot breath steam out of him as he jerks his head back towards your building.

“C’mon.”

Joel’s dark form is easy for your aching eyes to focus on. It’s a mindless act: following where he leads. Your feet could follow his lead in your sleep, so being cold, beaten up, and maybe concussed is no problem. 

The lights are on in your apartment when you get in. You’re pretty sure everything had been off when you left, and wonder how long Joel had been here, waiting for you. You sit down at the kitchen table and close your eyes, safe in this room with him.

The sounds of Joel moving around the kitchen are nice. You play a little game, trying to ignore the throbbing, painful points on your body by guessing what he’s doing based on the sounds he’s making. 

Water from the faucet filling the dented kettle and the clank of setting it on the burner. The click of the stove knobs as he turns it on. The creak of his weight on the floorboards as he waits for the water to boil. His hum at the creaking cabinet door when he reaches in for the bottle of alcohol he keeps there. The slosh of the bottle as he takes notice of how much has been emptied since he last poured himself a drink. If he asks, you can account for every swig you’ve taken on the nights when you want to dull your senses, on the nights when he’s not with you. 

The noises are domestic and soothing, but the kettle’s whistle is like another blow to your temple and you can’t smother the noise of discomfort you make. 

Joel’s footsteps pause, but then the noises of him pouring you a mug of the hot water continues and those footsteps continue until you can feel him in front of you.

You let yourself have the few extra seconds it takes for him to set the mug on the table before you force your eyes open and look at him. 

He’s already frowning, suspicious about the entire situation, but he gets his confirmation when you have to tip your head back to make eye contact and your face is illuminated in the harsh overhead light.

His big hand is on your jaw before you can blink, but his grip gentles when you wince and he gently turns your face this way and that to see the extent of the damage. His eyes trail down your neck and across the stretched out neckline of your shirt, all the bare skin he can see, and his jaw rocks hard enough to capsize a boat on a turbulent ocean.

“What happened?” 

There’s no getting out of this. The demand in his voice and the anger sparking in his eyes makes you feel warm for the first time that night. It stokes dark emotions, the ones you don’t like to dwell on too much, and the first thread of satisfaction unfurls in your belly. You know giving him names will mean bad things for those men, but you can’t find it in you to care. Maybe they knocked it out of you with their fists. 

So you tell him, giving him the identifying features you remember. He’s quiet as he lets you talk uninterrupted, but the emotions that cross his face are enough to give you an idea of his thoughts. He snatches a clean washcloth from somewhere and wets it with the alcohol, the fumes curling into your nose when he presses it to your cheekbone.

His brows furrow when you mention the flower, and you’re thankful that you can use the firm press of the washcloth on scraped skin to camouflage the wince at the reminder of how unsuited you are for a world like this. 

When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

You don't even have the urge to protest, to tell him he doesn't have to. You want him to take care of it, to take care of you. You want someone to care. And while it’s not bouquets of flowers and candies that melt in your mouth, the warmth from the mug is seeping into your hands and his touch wipes away the violence that clings to your skin. He’ll take that violence and return it tenfold, you know it. 

His movements are filled with purpose and he only pauses with his hand on the door to give you a stern look.

“Lock up behind me.”

The next day is just like the one before it. Unable to do anything else without a fresh supply of ration cards, you go to work and try to ignore the pain that has settled in your body. You don’t even mind it that much, it’s nice to feel something else. 

You’re not stupid though, so when your shift is over you make sure to leave from the front entrance when a few others are heading out as well. It’s a small group, but they scatter and go their separate ways, their steps quickening after they notice the figure leaning on the corner of the building. From that spot he’d be able to see both exits, and when he sees you he pushes off to stand tall, waiting. Your feet move on their own before you completely register the surprise of his presence, falling into place beside him and matching his uneven stride. 

A nudge at your hand snaps you out of your whirling thoughts and makes you look down. His hands are always ruddy from the cold, but now dark purple joins the red and there’s a couple of places where the skin broke over the hard bone of his knuckles. The stack of ration cards trembles just once in his grip, maybe from the wind or a movement of his muscles, but you take it from him and stare down at it. There, tucked into the string securing the cards together, is the crocus blossom. A droplet of moisture that had clung to the snapped stem transfers to your fingertip when you touch it. He must’ve done it while he was waiting.

“Thank you, Joel.” 

Joel is watching you when you look up from the cards. His dark eyes are calm, his jaw moving as he takes in your expression. He chews on the sentiment he sees there as if working it over will make it more palatable, something easier to swallow, and you hope he doesn’t spit it out.

This is so sweet! 😍 Man, takes me back to using Google for the exact same thing 🤣😂

Friendship Defined (Joel Miller x f! reader)

Summary: You and Joel have been friends with benefits for months. The blurred lines have you questioning what exactly makes a friend just a friend?

Warnings: 18+. MDNI. Mentions of sex (oral, p in v), mention of periods, fwb! Joel, non outbreak AU, implied age gap, fluff

Word Count:~800

Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely @swiftiscruff ( @swiftispunk & @joelscruff ) for coming up with this idea.

This one shot is dedicated to all of you.

I’ve been in this fandom for a few years now and as much as I’ve wanted to I still have trouble putting myself out there to make friends in the fandom. I usually just put out my stories and go about my day.

Well I want that to change!

This was such a beautiful idea and such a great reminder of how wonderful fandom can be. To be able to connect with so many talented people is such a gift and I want to try to get to know you guys more. This is my official post to put myself out there - so if anyone wants to come into my asks or DMs or message me on Discord please do!! I wanna be your friend lol!!

To celebrate this momentous weekend of friendship and fandom, I’ve created a Joel one shot all about friendship. With benefits lol. Enjoy!!

Joel would always introduce you as his friend. 

Friend being a blanket term but it did seem to fit into your large, intricate clusterfuck of whatever you were. 

Sure, in the literal sense you were friends. Ever since you met Joel through his little brother Tommy, a group of you would go out every Friday to the same bar for a beer and darts. 

Then when Tommy met Maria and everyone else in your group started to couple up, you had more time to spend together. 

It started off with friendly dart competitions that lasted a bit too long. Shots that would start to last until closing time. A shared Uber to one house because “it’ll save money”. 

Cut to Joel eating you out on your kitchen counter. And getting fucked in the shower that next morning. And then suddenly several times a week you’re trying to plan strategic ways on how to exit at different times so it didn’t seem suspicious. It didn’t matter, though. Tommy knew and would take the moment Joel left to fuck with him about it.

So if everyone else knew, why didn’t either of you know what this was? You didn’t want to bring it up because the idea of him getting freaked out and ending things made your chest tight.

You were so in your head about this arrangement that one night after leaving Joel’s house after watching and the Fast and the Furious and then having the ride of your life on his dick afterwards, you came home and immediately opened your laptop to do some soul and site searching. 

Is this still technically a friendship at least according to Merriam-Webster terms? 

friendship

noun. friend· ship ˈfren(d)-ˌship 

1: the state of being friends

….Google search number two: 

friend

noun. ˈfrend 

plural friends

1: one attached to another by affection or esteem

There are several other definitions for the word friend. 

2: One who is not hostile. 

Joel was never hostile with you. He was adorably patient when you took too long to decide what you wanted when you went out to dinner. He never hesitated to say sure when you wanted to try what was on his plate. 

The hardest he’s ever pressed onto you was when your ex boyfriend showed up at the bar one night. Once he made a beeline to talk to you, Joel’s massive hand snaked around your waist to pull you into him so he could know any talk with you tonight was off limits. You were off limits. 

The idea of Joel being so possessive made you so wet that you blew him in the alley that night. 

3:  one that favors or promotes something (such as a charity)

It takes you back to one of the first times you had slept with him. You were sprawled across his bed as he peeled your leggings from your body. You spread open for him as he pushed your thong aside to fit his thick finger into your hole. 

He curved his finger into you and came closer, feeling his breath on your clit.

Instinctively you blurted out, “You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”

Joel looked up at you with a serious expression.

“None of my other exes really liked to do this.”

Without hesitation, Joel settled between your thighs again.

“Well then I guess I'm going to be your new favorite.” And with that, he slid his finger back inside you, this time with more intent. You let out a moan as he teased your clit with his finger, reminding you of why he was indeed your favorite.

4: a favored companion

You think about the late nights picking up french fries at McDonalds when you convince Joel out of the house past his bedtime on Saturday nights. You remember the nights you had your period and he still wanted you to come over so he could cook you dinner; your cramps dulling as he soothed you on the couch. 

You think of how nice it is to just be with him. Laying naked and vulnerable, hearing things he hasn’t even told Tommy. 

You go back to Google. 

“What is the definition of a romantic relationship?” you type, the clacking of your keys sounding louder than ever. 

Before you can press enter, your phone rings loudly and startles you. It’s Joel. You pick up. 

“Hey. Just checkin’ in.” He says. “You left kinda quick so I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

“Yeah.” You feel your heart swell inside your chest. You can’t stop grinning. “I’m perfectly fine.” 

“Oh…” You can see the crease form in his forehead when saying that. “You didn’t have to go or nothin’, I just didn’t know if you were sick.” 

“You’re my best friend.” You tell him, unaffected at how random that must seem for Joel to hear. “You know that, right?” 

But instead of being suspicious, Joel's voice softens. You’ve only heard this voice in passing, with Sarah on the other end.

“Yeah, I know. You’re my best friend too.”

You didn't realize how much that simple affirmation meant to you until you heard it.

There was a pause on the other end, a moment of shared unspoken understanding, a thick air of tension and want, and then you both spoke at once.

"Would you like to come back over?"

"Hey, I was just about to ask if I could come back over," you blurted out, suddenly feeling a little bold. “Maybe spend the night?”

The two of you laughed together; you closed your eyes and envisioned the crinkle in his eyes. His soft brown eyes are on you as he shakes his head in disbelief. What the hell are you still doing at home?

“I wouldn’t want anything more.”

That’s what friends are for, right?

Thanks for including my story on this list Jett! ❤️

A list of all my favourite MARCUS PIKE Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.

Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤

PART 4

⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.

It's You, Que Creías? & The One Next Door - @fhatbhabie PlusSize!Reader

Wonderful Tonight - @mountainsandmayhem Pregnant!Reader

Juicy Hot Dogs - @frenchiereading

Sage - @dancingtotuyo

Caught In The Rain - @burntheedges

Baby Fever Series - @bluestar22x

Missing My Baby - @nerdieforpedro

27 Seconds - @hellfire-state-of-mind

Paper Rings - @bitchesuntitled

This was amazing!!! I love these two so much! 😍

think later

6.1k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog | Ko-Fi

summary: Frankie asks you out on your first official date.  It doesn't go as planned. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food & drink consumption, reader and frankie go on a date and reader's outfit is undescribed, but reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.), explicit smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, swearing, pet names (princess), semi-public oral (m! receiving), idiots unknowingly in love going on their first date needs its own warning, tangled feelings/messy emotions, sitcom vibes, and one naughty photobooth session ;) A/N: what have our favorite couple been up to, you may ask? these two spend their time cooking breakfast in big t-shirts and no underwear, spilling coffee, perusing record stores for Frankie's collection, and sitting on the bench in front of Frankie's window, enjoying a shared cigarette (usually a blunt)

“Please, what?” With a degrading tone, he fully detaches his mouth from your pussy.  You groan loudly and sit up on your elbows, staring at him as if he offended you. Frankie smirks at the response, his eyes lust-driven as he damn near growls for you. The sight of his mustache and lips lacquered in your silk arousal is enough to make butterflies erupt from your stomach.  “I like it when you’re bossy, princess. Tell me what you want, or you get nothin’.”

There’s a new rule in your life. 

No, not as impactful as the rules of gravity or verbally transformative like the rules of grammar, but one that shuts your fucking brain up once in a while. 

Live now, think later. 

So what if your brain tries telling you that using Frankie like a seven-day free trial was a bad idea? It was like renting an apartment! There wasn’t a need to buy right now. Yes, a home would bring some stability, but the market (you) is terrible right now. You had your reservations. 

The honeymoon phase would only last for so long. You were keen to remember that. But Frankie was trying, god, he was really trying. He didn’t mind putting in the extra work of picking your pieces up because he knew how beautiful the glued-up version could be. But he also wasn’t expecting perfection; he just enjoyed being by your side. 

Being with Frankie was easy. Your weekend sleepovers were like hanging out with a best friend. You’d have dinner, chat through a movie, and fall asleep together after letting Frankie learn and devote himself to every inch of your body. 

That’s where you are now, melted in his dark green sheets, moaning quietly as your head rolls back into the plush of his pillows. 

The room is cast in a silver-blue film; it’s late. You’ve been at it for hours, pleasuring each other until the overstimulation is too much to handle. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, both you and Frankie are incredibly stubborn. 

Your skin heats as your heart hammers in your chest. A breath hitches and hangs in the air as the ache at your core strengthens. Everything is glitter and gold. 

He knows how to build the crescendo of your orgasm, pacing the pleasure that only Frankie can provide. His broad shoulders lay bracketed between your warm, sticky thighs. His arms pin open your legs, large biceps bulging while his thick fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. 

“Fuck,” you finally whimper, your back arching while your fingers shakily weave into his dark curls. It’s physically inconceivable to feel this good so many times. This doesn’t happen to you. The match was too compatible, the trust growing and making the chemistry even stronger. 

“Please—” you gasp, tugging harshly at his sweat-matted strands, enough to make him groan against your center. His tongue falters with the sensation only for a second, and then he’s back at it. Licking and gliding his tongue with enough precision, it makes your stomach clench. Savoring your taste with languid swirls to your clit and dipping down to lap at the pool of arousal you’ve created before he’s back to pleasuring your twitching bud. 

“Please, what?” Frankie mutters against your sweet folds, slurping at the extra juices that begin to gush. He’s getting so hungry that his wide shoulders push your legs forward, your hip flexors adding a pleasure-inducing stretch while you cry out his name. He wants you so badly he could just dive in. “Please, what?” With a degrading tone, he fully detaches his mouth from your pussy. 

You groan loudly and sit up on your elbows, staring at him as if he offended you. Frankie smirks at the response, his eyes lust-driven as he damn near growls for you. The sight of his mustache and lips lacquered in your silk arousal is enough to make butterflies erupt from your stomach. 

“I like it when you’re bossy, princess. Tell me what you want, or you get nothin’.” 

You huff loudly and reach forward, hand clasping at the back of his neck as you tug him up the bed. “I need you, Frankie, fuck me, please,” You mutter against his mouth, a mesh of teeth and tongue as he lazily strokes his cock up and down your folds. 

You beg him until he plunges inside you, fast and impatient. There’s a unison of your reactions. 

The all too familiar pain and pleasure stretch that is always accompanied by a cry of his name, nails scraping along his arms and shoulders while his nose burrows against your neck, all while he grinds his hips against yours. He groans your name and lazily rocks into you, shifting you further up the bed as he attempts to stabilize his breathy moans. 

Frankie sponges lazy kisses along your neck, tasting your sweat-slick skin as he drives his hips forward. He knows how to rob the air from your lungs, knows just the rhythm that your body syncs to. He listens, and he learns. 

You’re already so close. He dedicated so much time to devouring your cunt, and now he was filling you up perfectly. His base stretches your walls, squeezing desperately around him as you both moan together. 

“I like that,” you whisper, your teeth nibbling at his earlobe. You like forcing him to listen to your moans up close and personal. A sweet thank you for making you feel so good all night. “I bet it feels good to finally fuck me... after so long of waiting,” you gasp as Frankie grinds his hips against yours, a low growl leaving his throat as he forces you to take all of him. 

It’s blinding what goading him on can do - for both of you. He spares the tender touches and sensual kisses, instead trading them for frenzied thrusts at an unrelenting tempo. Frankie is vigorous and hungry, panting hot breaths that fan across your face, all while your walls squeeze tight around his already impatient cock. 

“Fuck— quit it,” Frankie barks, his bed squeaking with each thrust he gives you. 

He doesn’t want to lose, he wants you to come first, to concede. Or all this overstimulation would have been for nothing. And to be honest- you’re barely holding on yourself. You grip the sheets, not being able to help but whimper as your abdomen tightens. You’re so painfully close, but so is Frankie. 

“Oh my god— please,” you nip at his shoulder, a favorite spot for you lately, with teeth marks from just last night still present on his sweet skin. “You wanna finish inside me so fucking bad, don’t you?” You puff out between weak whines. 

He’s silent, but he tries to shake his head, his pants tangling in your ear as your thighs slap together and clap around his bedroom. It’s enough to make you scream. 

“No— Fuck you, no, not until I feel that sweet pussy grip me for dear life,” he smirks against the shell of your ear. Your eyes clench to a close, and there’s no holding on anymore. It’s a heated rivalry until the very end, both of you slowly giving out one tell at a time. 

Frankie’s hips jolt and jerk, losing his pace. Your thighs twitch, the muscles below in overdrive. His tempo is unrelenting, and his fingers snaking down between your clit causes your skin to prickle. He works tiny ministrations, calculated ones over your sensitive nub, and you’re already tingling from your toes to your nipples.  All he can do is suck a hickey above your breast, his teeth grazing your skin and hard, feeling him bring blood to the surface as your dripping cunt clenches around him. 

In a game of poker, you fold. 

You finally let out the moans you had been holding in. Frankie had built you up to your peak, and you finish hard around his thick cock. 

Frankie’s hips jerk as he finishes deep inside of you, all while your walls milk his cock as you clench and unclench around him. He swallows your moans with a messy kiss. You taste metallic on his tongue. That motherfucker drew blood. You whine and pull him in closer as you shudder into him, your body trembling in overstimulation. 

Frankie’s large build grows heavy over you, clenching the sheets before finally, his fists unclench the fabric, and he falls down beside you. You stare at the ceiling, seeing stars, ignoring the sweat beading on your skin. 

Frankie cranes his neck and lazily kisses you. Long and slow, his tongue lines your lower lip, and you savor the gentle pace of the kiss. You feel like you’re floating again. 

He lies on his side, facing you. You delicately weave your fingers up his chest and through the coarse dark hair around his pecs, playfully tugging until he groans in annoyance. After a few moments, he clears his throat and hooks your leg over his waist, tangling himself with you.

“So, do you wanna go on a date with me?” 

You raise a precocious eyebrow. Unsure if he’s joking or not, you respond cautiously. “Like a date date?”

“Yeah, y’know. Fancy restaurant, candlelight, a few drinks. Then at the end of the night, I try to take your clothes off?”

“Oh, yeah, that would categorize as a date.” 

A silence settles as he awaits your answer. 

Live now, think later.

“Yeah. Okay.” 

You don’t really wear dresses. But a first date constitutes a dress, right? 

Ditching the stereotypes, you wear something cute but comfortable. Your fingers feel over the fabric, and you hum appreciatively at yourself in the mirror. You’re always cute, you always look good, and besides, Frankie knows what you look like. But are you supposed to impress him tonight and blow him out of the water? 

You work together; surely, he’s seen you at your lowest. Mopping up spilled milkshakes or unclogging the unsanitary bathroom stalls. But has he seen you dolled up like this? 

You hear his truck pull up outside, and you spare him greeting you at the door as you push open the swinging screen and smile awkwardly. 

But when you see him and see how nice he looks with his hair finely combed through and no hat or bandana in sight, you’re worried about being underdressed. 

Frankie wears a casual suit, which matches your half-classy outfit. You’re a bit starstruck by how handsome he appears with his facial hair trimmed and adorning a shirt without stains. 

Frankie… yeah, he looks good. You admit it, he looks fucking hot. 

“Don’t you look pretty,” He goads as he helps you climb into the truck. 

“Shut up.”

He’s really gone all out. Said he booked a reservation at a fancy restaurant his buddy cooks at. Outside of town, a drive. Frankie senses that you don’t feel particularly comfortable sharing this much vulnerability, that you’re on edge. He lays out his hand palm-side up over the center console, and you slip into it. 

You pace outside the exterior of the restaurant, which is filled with dark mood lighting with tables that host small yellow lamps in the center and have wine glasses already placed. Frankie’s been talking with the hostess for about ten minutes, and whatever is happening isn’t going well. 

Finally, with a burst through the front doors, Frankie’s too-tight blazer squeezes around his broad arms and wide-set shoulders, huffing curses to himself. 

“What’s wrong with you, cowboy?”

He starts patting his jeans, feeling over his stuffed pockets for the familiar rectangle carton of his cigarettes. You realize he’s just as stressed out as you are, which makes you slightly calmer. You feel a greater need to ensure he feels relaxed. He cares a lot, too much, about making tonight perfect. 

“Ray didn’t get our reservation. I told him—” he huffs as he fucks around with his lighter. You hear the cylinders grind as his fat thumb repeatedly flicks down on the trigger. “I told him seven o’clock, two people- he’s so fuckin’—,” he rolls his eyes and sighs, looking up to the sky with his hands firmly planted on his hips. 

You stand before him and cup one hand around the end of his cigarette, taking the lighter and patiently rolling the trigger until it catches. He inhales and softens his gaze. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Shut up, Frankie.”

“No, m’serious. I wanted to do somethin’— y’know, nice. I saved up my last two paychecks, asked Carla to give both of us Friday night off. I begged Ray to get us a reservation and do whatever he had to do as a favor to me. I even put on this stupid-ugly brown blazer-thing. And—And I don’t mind doing any of that, I really don’t. I thought it would be all worth it to see you do that big, grinning smile you try to hide when you get really, really happy. You know, like rollercoaster happy, top of the Ferris wheel happy.” 

You frown softly, reaching your hand up to gently run a hand up the coast of his jawline, feeling all the scruff that he tried to cleanly shave for tonight. He pulls the cigarette away and rests his arm at his side. 

“But now look at us. You’re nervous—hell, I’m nervous. Our reservation is fucked, and I’m starving.” Frankie weakly laughs, and you join in, too, just naturally. 

“Frankie, look,” you start as you take his large hand in yours and lace your fingers, gently guiding him back to his truck. 

“I’m not really a fancy restaurant with steak and wine type of person, anyway. I appreciate the effort, really, but I would have had just as much fun sitting on a gas station curb. Shit, it’s nicer than the diner in there,” you say as you haphazardly point to the dimmed restaurant, “but I think I’d enjoy sharing a milkshake with you at Tommy’s instead.” You tease as you open the driver-side door and slip in, Frankie’s brows furrowing in confusion. 

“Get in, I’m driving.” 

He cocks an eyebrow and slowly starts to smile, feeling like his night just may be saved after all. 

“You’re drivin’ my truck? Shit. If you were holding a bottle of my favorite beer, you’d be on a poster in my room somewhere.” 

“Where are you taking me?” Frankie snorts, closing his eyes like you had asked him to as he holds your hand tightly and trails behind you, each step he takes is one of caution. 

“You’ll see, keep your eyes closed!” “They’re closed!” He grins, blindly following you as '70s music blares and beats from inside the building. 

“What size shoe are you?” You ask as his eyebrows knit together in curiosity. 

“D’you take me bowling?” When you don’t answer, he complies with the size he needs, and you request a size of your own. 

“Okay, open.” You say as Frankie’s eyes peak and adjust to the light. 

The roller rink’s disco ball is the first thing to grab his attention. The LED strips and spotlights attached to the ceiling make the whole room glitter with rainbow flecks. His lips part as he moves closer to the large oval rink with shiny wooden floors, watching as others skate by moving swiftly. 

“Oh shit,” he mutters, turning fully around to see what else the disco theme night had to offer. A photo booth, concessions, and retro carpet that looks like it was ten years late on a replacement. It was awesome. 

Frankie is eager to lace up his skates, and you’re sat right beside him as you watch him knot the strings. 

“I haven’t done this in years,” Frankie mutters, and you agree. As long as you both didn’t lose any teeth or fall flat on your back, it could be a really good night. 

You’re cautious upon first stepping foot on the roller rink, feeling your back seize at the lack of balance. 

“Oh god,” you stiffen as you feel like you might slip, your back tightening as you breathe through the panic. 

“You’re good, I’m here,” Frankie reassures you by squeezing your hand. He playfully slaps the top of your helmet, making you scowl at him. 

“Yeah, and you’ll take me down with you is my fear. You’re so… stocky.” 

“Ha-ha. Now come on, it’s like riding a bike.”

Once you got over the fear of embarrassing yourself and let go of the first date jitters, you were reminded that Frankie was as much your friend as he was your… b-word. We’re not at the level of saying it yet, okay? We’re working on it. 

The point is that you both were having a lot of fun. 

As the clock struck nine o’clock, the overhead bright lights were turned off, and the rink was lit up purely by the gleaming silver of the disco ball and roaming rainbow lights. You couldn’t help but squeal as Frankie amped up the pace, and the two of you were gliding around the rink. You let go of his hand once you felt too sweaty. 

Independent of Frankie as your safeguard, you test out the waters of moving through the rink on your own. You watch with a laugh as Frankie swiftly skates backward, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds but staying in your vicinity. 

“I’m fine,” you remind him sternly. 

“I know you are.” 

You bite back a smile as half of his mouth tilts into a goofy, cocky smirk. It makes your stomach erupt in butterflies. He slows his speed, and you’re nearly hip to hip. His arm laces around you as his hand lands on your waist. 

God, he’s smooth. 

He lowers his head and places a sweet kiss on your lips. It can’t last long; you’re literally in the midst of skating, but it feels like you’re in slow motion. 

The wind in everyone’s hair flutters, the disco ball spins at a glacial pace, and the only thing moving a million miles an hour is your heart beating in your chest. 

Frankie releases you. In a bit of a daze, you barely register that some little girl is attempting to join the fray. 

“Shit— Frankie!” You call out as he quickly turns and slams on the toe of his roller skates. He’s able to evade the little girl, but he pretty much lands face-first. You quickly cover your laughter with your hand as you skate up to him, cautiously moving down onto your knees and sputtering up another laugh. 

“Are you okay?” He groans in response, but he’s smiling. He has all his teeth and finds it funny. 

“She came outta no where, she stopped my groove!” He teases, slowly sitting up onto his elbows, before your hand settles on his shoulder. 

“Okay, Mr. Funk. I’m sweating my ass off to keep up with you. Let’s grab something to eat.” 

That gets him up fairly quickly. He nurses his injurious casually, but you’re sure you’ll both wake up to see Frankie covered in bruises once the sun is up. 

“Did you groove too hard? Does anything hurt?” You ask once you stand in line at the Roller Diner. Tommy’s knockoff, you think in your head. 

“My ass fucking hurts.”

“You didn’t even land on your ass,” you sneer. 

“Medical mystery, I suppose,” Frankie says as he pulls out his wallet and pays for your burgers and fries without letting you offer to cover half the bill. You sigh sweetly once he takes his ticket. Once he walks away to find a place to sit, you pay for two milkshakes. 

You both file into a spunky purple booth. Just thankful the table isn’t sticky and there are no screaming kids in your vicinity. 

“It should be kid-free by now since it’s ten. If you wanted me to track your fastest lap.” You smirk as you dip a fry into some ketchup. 

“I think I’m retired for tonight. Can’t perform later if I get too injured.” Frankie smirks with a teasing grin as he takes a bite of his burger, just happy to have something in his stomach.

“Hmm,” you fake ponder, “I’m not really a fuck on the first date type of girl.”  

Frankie cocks his head at you, playfully raising an eyebrow before he wipes his grubby hands on some napkins and holds them up in defense. 

“You’re right. Not very first-date etiquette to assume I’m gonna score tonight. But a man can hope, princess.” Frankie says as he blows the paper wrapper of his straw in your direction before sticking it into his chocolate shake. 

After a greasy dinner, you return your skates to the attendant behind the counter and slip back into your own shoes. Sweat clings to you in uncomfortable places, but Frankie doesn’t seem to mind as he wraps his heavy arm around the tops of your shoulders and pulls you into his side. 

“Did you have a good time?” 

Your feet stop just before you reach the doors, eyeing the photo booth and fondly smiling. 

“What’s a good first date without a little memorabilia? Come on!”

It’s cramped, and hot, and vaguely downright uncomfortable. Frankie’s long so his back is arching, and his knees are jammed into the metal panels. You’re just trying to sit so you can look straight, but your asses can barely both fit on the skinny bench. 

“C’mere,” Frankie is already moving you as he instructs you to sit on his lap. You roll your eyes but eventually concede. 

“Are you comfortable with me on your lap?” You ask softly. He leans out from behind you and jabs a few quarters into the machine. 

“Of course,” he says with ease which relaxes you. “Okay, four pictures… a timer…you ready?” 

You can’t help but grin as you nod, his arm securely around your middle with his hand cupping your hip. 

The timer starts at five, and the chaos ensues. 

5. 

“Oh shit—”

“What do we do?!”

4. 

“Uh-”

3. 

“Throw up the Tommy’s Diner crew sign!” Frankie barks. 

2. 

You both quickly spring into action. You use your pointer fingers to make a T, while Franke makes the D. You pout your lips, and Frankie sticks out his tongue with wide eyes. 

1. 

The booth flashes a white light, and your first photo is frozen on the screen. Frankie sputters up a laugh and points to the goofballs you both look like. 

Frankie adjusts you on his lap and you can’t fight the tingle that shoots up your spine. You lean back into Frankie as the timer starts counting down once more, laying your head against his as you both sweetly smile. 

“Fuck, what do you wanna do for the third one? Do we only get four?” You quickly ask as Frankie stutters up fragments of words. 

“Uh-uh-w-what did the toaster say to the slice of bread?”

You stare at him dumbfounded before quickly shaking your head. “I-I don’t know!”

“I want you inside of me!” Frankie loudly moaned, making you lean forward and latch your arms around his neck to cover his mouth, looking to the camera in shock as the shutter went off. 

“Okay, last one,” he says as you release him. He then sits his back against the side of the photo booth, shifting his jaw as he looks over you. Oh, screw it, you only have three seconds left, and it’s the first thing you think of. You swing a leg over his lap and straddle Frankie. 

3. 

You cup his stubbly cheeks and angle his chin upwards, his brown eyes turning to honey as he pushes your hair away from your face. 

2. 

You rush in and capture his lips. You can feel him smile as he keeps you in place long after the camera has captured the moment. His tongue traces your lower lip before gliding into your mouth, his hands slipping into the back pocket of your jeans as he holds you against him. Everything slows when you’re with Frankie, and there’s nowhere to run when time freezes like this. 

After lightly pulling away, you run your thumb under his bottom lip and trace the pretty pink that has started to flush along his cheeks. You grin faster than you can stop yourself, leaning away from him to grab the pictures that slipped out of the capture box. 

“They’re cute,” you compliment as you show off the pictures to Frankie, and he quietly laughs as he looks them over. 

“Cute,” he agrees, “I wish they would give you two copies.” He plucks the strip from between your fingers and opens his wallet, tucking the pictures inside and smirking lightly. “Thank you,” he pops. “Mine now.”

Watching him take the keepsake makes your heart hammer in your chest, your pulse visibly jumping in your throat. 

He wants to keep it, your first sort of evidence of romance between the two of you. It makes heat rise up your neck and a pool to form between your thighs. 

You can feel yourself falling. Instead of being scared, you decide to think later. 

Sinking to your knees in the cramped space, you rest warm between his thighs. He looks at you wide-eyed and bewildered because this is crazy. He clutches the curtain to the booth tightly and harshly whispers, “What are you doin’, baby?” 

“Shut up,” you huff before flicking his belt open easily with your fingers, the metal clinking as you reach for the zipper with big, eager eyes. He lets out a defeated sigh, gulps away the lump in his throat, and winds his fingers through your hair. He forms a good grip on the back of your head and nudges you closer to his thigh. 

“You wanna suck on this cock right now, princess? While everyone’s just outside? Need it that bad, huh?”

You nod eagerly and slowly pull down his zipper as he forces out a nervous sigh. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

Taking in the sight, you’re at a loss of breath. Frankie’s usual overconfidence is a stark contrast to the beauty before you, a visual of weak eyes and fluttering breaths that rumble shakily off his chest. 

Tugging his jeans while he lifts his hips, you are able to reach into his boxers and pull out his half-hard cock. He leaks musky precum from his slit, and you salivate at the sight. 

Pristine teeth bite into the plush of your lower lip as you lean in and press kisses down his shaft. Frankie’s head knocks against the back of the booth, swallowing a groan. “Don’t tease me,” he mutters, a break in his voice. 

Once you put your mouth on him, his body shudders. The first taste is always your favorite, tangled with musk and just a little bit of sweat. 

You purposely roll your eyes into the back of your head as you take him deeper. He likes it, especially when he can see his cock nudge out against the side of your cheek. 

“Fuck, baby,” he puffs out, gripping the sheer curtain to the booth tighter, “You feel so good,” he praises sweetly. 

The heat in the booth increases knowing anyone could walk by, sipping their beers and drunkenly eating a slice of pizza while they glide across the astro-purple carpeted floor. 

“Fuck, this is a bad idea,” he admits with flushed cheeks as you push yourself to take him deeper, hearing him gasp at the sensation of you fully taking his girthy cock. You clench your eyes closed and swallow around him, slowly shaking your head from side to side and gag around him. 

Frankie can feel himself pulsing in your hot, tight throat. He nips at his lower lip to keep any noises from slipping loose, his legs clamping your body tightly against him. 

You attempt to breathe around his cock, feeling his weeping tip nudge at the back of your throat, making tears cloud your vision as you gagged again. 

You pull up for a gasp of air and gulp back the pool of saliva. Moving your hands to shuffle up and down his length, you spit down his shaft and watch as it dribbles down onto his balls. With the most innocent voice you can muster, your doe eyes meet his stark black ones. 

“Do you want me to stop, Francisco?”

Frankie whimpers at your wrecked voice. It’s so difficult for him not to be vocal. 

You’ve become so used to his guttural moans and deep groans slipping out like heaven to your ears. But there was something that sparked angel dust deep in your stomach to know that he wants you so desperately, and he can’t tell you how good you feel.

“Fuck— no,” he mutters as he loosens his grip on your hair and moves his large palm to the back of your neck, urging you downward once more. “Just keep goin’ baby, wanna come down that pretty little throat of yours,” he grunts, encouraging you to take him in your hot mouth once again. 

You lick a broad stripe on the underside of his cock, tongue tracing the thick vein that courses up his stem. Swallowing back a few inches, you bob your head in sweet, fluid motions that have his thighs twitching. You swirl your tongue around his sensitive tip, and you can feel him losing control under your touch. 

He makes a messy ponytail out of your hair again and bites on his knuckle. Hard. 

“Jesus Christ,” he puffs out as his jaw tightens, as does the grip on your hair. “Just wanted to stuff your mouth with me, didn’t you?” He mutters with a lopsided smirk and hazy eyes. 

You whimper against him, your eyes tearing up as you work to take him as deep as you can because you like the way his body shudders. 

Admittedly, you like it when he’s so rough with you that he forgets the way your scalp tingles with his grip and your knees ache against the floor. All he cares about is himself, and he’s hotly selfish getting his dick sucked. 

His responses make heat slip down your spine, a stickiness growing between your thighs. He attempts to guide your head faster up and down his thick shaft, but you are resistant. He was going to feel all of this, including the heightened excitement of being only a short distance from the rest of the crowd. 

Frankie’s body slumps against the bench as you release him with a pop, your throat feeling swollen as you shuffle your hand up and down his thick and heavy cock. Spit dribbles from your pouted lips, smirking as you blow a sloppy bubble against his base.

“Fuck,” he says with a fuck-happy grin, his eyelids falling closed as he bites down on his lower lip. “So pretty blowin’ bubbles, princess,” he groans softly. 

After you wipe your eyes, you reach into his pocket and fiddle for his change. You gather a few quarters and blindly push them into the photo booth, which goes live again. 

Frankie’s so out of it that he barely registers the music, but he’s so focused on you that he can’t find it in himself to care. 

But you wanted your photo strip. 

He regathers your hair and grunts your name. 

“Fuck, baby, please, I’m so close,” he whimpers, forced to stay hushed.

A satisfied moan leaves your lips, and you’re on him before he can ask again. Your tongue flattens on the underside of his cock. So much saliva has built up that you quietly gluck with each bob of your head. 

You watch with bleary eyes as Frankie’s chest rises and falls at a quickened pace. The rings on his fingers tangle in your hair. Sweat grows tacky against his temples, and his eyes fall closed. Finally, you’re ready to push him over the edge. 

You wrap both of your hands around his length, and your hot mouth focuses on suckling his tip. Like one perfect machine, you shuffle your hands up and down his shaft as your mouth sucks while bobbing. The booth counts down each photo, catching the graphic images of you going down on Frankie. 

The first picture captures him looking down at you with parted lips and lost eyes, one hand gripping your hair as you lay your head in his lap. The picture barely captures the dark, coarse hair of his happy trail; the rest is blocked by your head. 

The second one catches his head falling back, Frankie’s thick neck highlighted by strong, prominent veins coursing upwards as he bites down on his knuckle to keep himself quiet. 

The third picture is your personal masterpiece. Frankie looks to the high heavens, mouth agape as he slips out a moan while his cock spews warm come deep down your throat, his hips flinching with no control and leaving your face and lips with a few salty drops of his finish. 

You gulp back the salty musk of his come and gasp for air, looking up at him weakly as he cups your face and cradles your cheeks in his hands. The last picture catches him leaning in to kiss your lips, not even caring that he can taste his own musk on your tongue. 

“You’re such an asshole,” he mutters into your mouth as you lazily smirk against his lips, running your hands up the front of his shirt and tugging at the folds of his blazer to keep him against you. 

“Frankie,” you mutter against his mouth as he continues to feverishly kiss you, “you just finished in my mouth, you can’t call me an asshole.” 

He sneers playfully as he leans his forehead against your own, allowing you both to catch a breath while his nose gently nudges against yours. 

Suddenly, you feel your heart race in your chest. The way he looks down at you is so strong, and you can’t remember the last time someone looked at you like you were everything, all at once. 

“Stop.” You whisper. 

“M’not doin’ anything,” he whispers back, afraid to break the precious bubble that you’re in. 

You sigh weakly and close your eyes.

It’s hard to be open with someone, to let them have pieces of you, because you can never get those pieces back. People keep them, steal them, and don’t return them in perfect condition like the way they were. 

Frankie can sense that you’re drowning, that it feels too deep for you right now. And you’re thankful that he knows when to throw out the life preserver so you don’t sink. 

“That was the best first date I’ve ever had.” Frankie widely smirks as he wipes your bottom lip with your thumb and leans back to allow you some space. You smile softly as he tucks himself back into his pants, offering his hand to help you off the floor of the booth. 

“Ow,” you mutter as you run a hand over your wrecked knees and roll around your back and shoulders from being so squished. 

You retrieve the pictures and heat floods your chest at the sight. These cannot be seen by anyone, they are so damn dirty. 

“Christ, you did not,” Frankie says upon standing and exiting the booth with you, the coast clear of anyone being suspicious. “When did you take these?” He tries to snag the photo booth pictures from your hands, and you giggle as you hold them against your chest. 

“You were a bit occupied.” You stuff the perfect four pictures into your purse, feeling Frankie slip his hand into yours as you walk to the exit. “They’re just for me, anyway. If you get to keep the cute ones, I’m keeping the naughty ones.”

“What if I want both? Those are hot.” Frankie says as he pushes his body into the exit door, allowing it to swing open for both of you. 

“You can’t have both, that’s just selfish. I want one.” 

“Fine. Keep that one. Or we can do a swapping sort of schedule like we’re divorced and made the poor decision to have children. We can meet in the Wal-Mart parking lot and swap the pictures. Y’know, shared custody style.” 

You snort and shake your head, leaning into his side as he brings his arm to wrap around the tops of your shoulders. 

“I had a good time tonight,” you tell him on the drive back to his apartment. “I know it didn’t go as you had planned, but I meant what I said earlier. I think I’m just… happy with having you around, no matter where we are.” 

Frankie sighs weakly with a smile, trying to hide it as he glances out his driver-side window. “You’re roller coaster happy? Top of the Ferris Wheel happy?”

You nod, and he holds out his pinkie finger. 

“You promise?”

“I promise,” you grin widely as you wrap your pinkie around his own, feeling butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

Because he looks at you and you’re giving him the smile that you’ve come to find out is only made for him and no one else. Not even the adrenaline from a roller coaster or the highest view of a Ferris Wheel could make you grin like this. Your smile existed because Frankie Morales put it there. And it was undeniable. 

Oh my fucking god! This series was worth the WAIT to be able to binge it in it’s entirety 😭😭😭 You have such a way with words it’s unreal!

sweet child o' mine | masterlist

neighbor!joel x f!reader | ao3 | playlist

joel miller has lived next door - since forever. you've been a pain in his ass - since forever. one drunken night changes everything - forever.

please check out individual chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content and themes which may be triggering.

series warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), unplanned pregnancy, discussion of a car accident & dead parents, emotional cheating & some minor/one major instance of physical cheating, smut, angst, fluff.

main series

pt. i

pt. ii

pt. iii

pt. iv

bonus

➵ replaying the wedding night

features

➵ sweet child o' mine moodboard by @sawymredfox

➵ joel and duckie by @knopes-waffles

➵ duckie vs. tomato by @dundienominee

Oh my lort! 🫠 and then Tommy coming in at the ending?! 🤣

make a move on me

➔ pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x reader - 5.5k

➔ You've been teasing Joel every day since he started remodeling construction on your house. He finally works up the courage to do something about it - but not in the way you expect him to.

➔ Rated MA for baby’s first anal fic protected p in a and anal fingering (r receiving), age gap (reader is early 20’s, joel is 36), m masturbation/pillowhumping, daddy kink, size kink, praise kink, gentle-turned-rough sex, pet names (baby, darling, honey, good girl, baby girl, little lady), slight degradation and condescension but only in a sexy way, one use of “slut”, pussy pronouns, one (1) pussy slap, gratuitous dickscription, heavy dom/sub dynamics i mean seriously these power dynamics are out of control, tommy is a little bit of a shit (affectionate) [pls let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ This reader insert character: has female anatomy and uses feminine pronouns, no name/no use of y/n, is generally able-bodied, fits in joel’s shirt and is implied to be shorter/smaller than him, is on summer break from college but no major/year is mentioned.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. Keep his hands to himself and his mind on the job. Don’t fret over the pretty little thing who’s been draping herself all over the house ever since he started demo, practically begging to be fucked.

If he had any sense, he would pack his shit and drop the job–or, at the very least, tell your parents to put you on a leash. But there’s a little part of him that might be a glutton for punishment–that savors the teasing.

The most infuriating part of the whole thing is that he can’t blame you for this whole mess. He shouldn’t be so quick to temptation. You should be able to walk around your own home in whatever you want and not have to worry about the creepy contractor getting flustered every time he looks in your general direction.

But god, you make it hard–double entendre intended. You walk around like you haven’t a care in the world because you don’t; you’re home for summer break after a grueling year at college, and you intend to savor every languid second of it. Your preferred method of savoring just happens to be wearing tight little bikinis that barely hold anything in place as you lounge out by the pool in the Texas heat, or tight leggings that hug your ass so perfectly it almost makes him jealous of the material as you curl up with a book on your couch.

Joel’s a grown man. He can keep it in his pants, no matter how badly he wants you. But you’re not exactly making it easy on him.

Really, it’s Tommy’s fault when the levee breaks. If he could keep his big mouth shut, Joel might’ve been able to maintain the thin control he had over himself. But Tommy goes and makes an off-handed comment about you one night, and that’s the beginning of the downward spiral.

The brothers are both lounging on Joel’s couch after a particularly taxing day of demolition work, beers cradled in hands and the TV droning uselessly with some movie that they’re more staring at than actually watching. It’s late, yet weary muscles are melted so comfortably into the couch that neither of them try to move even after Sarah’s gone off to bed.

Tommy’s eyes flicker over to Joel, then back to the TV. “That girl’s gon’ be trouble for us, brother.”

There’s a question mark in the grunt Joel emits, leaning forward with interest because he knows Tommy’s talking about you without any specification.

Tommy hums in confirmation and takes a sip of his Corona. “She’s always wearin’ those skimpy little outfits a’hers, and she ain’t coy. Must catch that pretty little thing starin’ at your ass even more than I catch you starin’ at hers.”

Joel plays it off as best as he can until Tommy goes home for the night with a half-assed promise to actually be on time in the morning for once. Then he goes up to his room, locks the door, and wraps himself around the spare pillow that lays against his headboard.

He tries so desperately hard not to think about the plump round curve of your ass, or the enticing way you lick your lips, or those damned little bikinis you favor. He grinds his aching cock into the soft pillowcase and tries to think about anything that isn’t you.

But he comes with a muffled growl of your name anyway, face pushed deep into the pillow and hips jerking arrhythmically.

There’s not much he can do now besides clean himself up and try not to think about how thoroughly fucked he is.

The next day is torture because he can feel your gaze lingering. He catches you checking him out on more than one occasion, and you’re brazen about it now. You can tell something has shifted, so you shift with it. Where you once would’ve flushed with heat and hurried away to your room, you now meet his heated eye contact and hold it.

Joel’s jaw hurts that night from the way it’s been hard-set and clenched all day long. He rubs over his sore temporomandibular joints with his long, thick fingers and wills himself to siphon you out from beneath his skin.

It doesn’t work.

The work helps. Laying tile is something he normally considers tedious, but it’s a welcome reprieve in your home because he can get down on his hands and knees and focus on something that isn’t you.

You see the labor he’s going through, and you appreciate it. And really, what kind of host would you be if you didn’t reward his efforts?

It starts with a pitcher of iced tea. It’s made just the way Joel likes it, with light ice and a few slices of lemon. He doesn’t know how you could possibly guess that, but it makes him want you that much more.

And then it’s cookies. Pain-stakingly handmade oatmeal raisin cookies, to be exact. You’re like something out of his most shameful domestic dreams in your cute floral-patterned apron and oven mitts as you pull the tray of cookies out of the oven, and an image of you in nothing but those mitts and that apron flickers through his mind before he can stop it.

All the while you traipse around the house like a mirage–humming along to the yacht rock that drifts from Joel’s stereo, swaying your hips in the kitchen as you put together the most delicious bologna sandwich Joel’s ever eaten, toweling off your soaking wet body after an afternoon in the pool. You’re the worst temptation Joel’s ever had to face.

It becomes his mantra. Be respectful, be respectful, be respectful.

But there’s no respect in your eyes. There’s nothing honorable about the way you bite your lip and smirk when he catches your gaze lingering on him.

Joel had one rule for himself going into this job: be respectful. But why should he have to play nice if you don’t?

And really, the whole thing is Tommy’s fault. He started it with that first comment about you, and then he goes and calls out sick (read: horribly hungover) this morning. He leaves Joel all alone with you–gives you the perfect opening to pounce.

Or, more accurately, entice Joel into pouncing on you.

He’s just setting his tool bag down, about to decide where he wants to start today, when your beautiful face pops in through the door.

“Good morning, Joel,” you say with that gorgeous smile of yours that makes his knees go a little weak. “No Tommy today?”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue when you step further into the room wearing a plaid button-up he left here earlier in the week and booty shorts so small he has to do a doubletake to make sure you’re actually wearing anything on your lower half. You look fucking good in his shirt, and suddenly all he can think about is pulling you in and bending you over the half-finished vanity–

“N-no. He’s sick,” Joel manages to choke out. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then, “that’s my shirt, isn’t it?”

You look down and rub the time-worn fabric between your fingers like you have to think about it, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

“Oh, it must’ve gotten mixed in with our laundry!” The little giggle you let out is so innocent that he almost believes you. Almost. “Here–”

You start to lift the fabric up your torso in the most tantalizingly slow fashion, and he just sits there and watches it happen. He sees the first peek of skin above the waistband of your shorts, and then your beautiful stomach, then the delicious curve of a breast–

He quickly jolts out a hand to stop you in the midst of mentally willing every single molecule in his dick to control itself. “S’alright, darlin’. You keep it. Looks better on you, anyway.”

“Okay,” you acquiesce and let the fabric drop back down into its rightful place. “Can I get you anything? Water maybe?”

He certainly could use it. His neck and face are flushed red, and there’s sweat starting to form at his temples despite the relatively cool temperature within the house.

He realizes, with startling clarity, that he’s at a precipice right now. This might be the only chance he gets to really do something about this burgeoning tension that’s spread thicker than butter between you and him. He’s got a choice to make, and it’s not going to be an easy choice.

“Sure.” It comes out a bit too high-pitched, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Sure, sweetheart. That’d be great.”

“Alright,” you say with that damned giggle again. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as you leave the room, Joel feels like he can breathe again. It’s so much easier to think straight when you’re not standing there, smiling up at him and looking so damn gorgeous.

He’s got two options, when it boils down to it: fuck you or leave you alone. And he really, really wants to take you. Make you scream his name while he pounds himself into you, fill you so full that you never completely wash him out. And you want it too, he knows you do, you’re practically begging for it.

But he promised himself he would be respectful. That he would keep his hands away from the girl that’s definitely too young and too pure for someone like him–because he knows that if has you, he’ll never be able to get enough.

There’s a very clear and obvious loophole that comes to mind now; a way he could have you without ruining you, a way you could both come out of this satisfied yet mostly intact. Joel’s never been opposed to doing the hard jobs, after all.

He’s got a condom in his wallet and KY jelly in his bag–mostly used for plumbing fittings, but it’ll do the job for this kind of pipework, too.

You come back with a glass of ice water, and his resolve slips. How the hell is he supposed to initiate this? What if you say no and think he’s disgusting? What if you tell your parents? He can’t do this, this was such a horrible idea, he–

Your touch on his back is like a gentle breeze, just a flutter of your fingers to alert him to your return. He flinches a bit at the sudden contact, but when he turns you’re still so achingly close. He can smell the agonizingly sweet aroma of your conditioner and the lotion you slather on your body after showering, and all he wants is more. He wants to wrap you around him, to inhale that scent straight from the source. His resolve is back, just like that.

He doesn’t give himself another opportunity to hesitate. He places one big, meaty palm on your cheek and wraps the other around your hand that holds the glass of ice water to steady you; and then he kisses you with such bruising force it almost knocks the wind out of you.

You moan. You actually moan the second his lips meet yours, and he knows just like that–with a startling moment of clarity–that this isn’t going to be enough. He’s going to take, and take, and take–gorge himself on you until you have nothing left to give. And the strangest thing of the whole matter is that he thinks you’ll actually enjoy his greed.

“Joel–”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs as his lips break away from yours–so low and soft in your ear it can’t be anything but a growl. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop right now.”

“I want it,” you affirm.

He searches your eyes, but he finds only earnest honesty and lust. That darkness, that pure and unadulterated want is enough to make his pants tighten. “Fuck.” 

He’s so big underneath your roaming hands as he crowds you back against the long bathroom vanity. He lifts you like you’re nothing and sets you on the counter top; he slots himself between your legs and there’s an actual stretch in your muscles to accommodate the width of his hips. One of his wide palms slips behind your head and his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging a little bit to angle your head just the way he wants it. It’s messy and frenzied and desperate–your hands gliding over tee shirt-covered muscle, his tugging your (his) shirt up over your stomach.

“Was starting to think you weren’t interested.” Your voice is heavy and breathy as he breaks away to tug the shirt over your head, casting it aside to lie forgotten on the floor.

“I’ve been tryna convince myself m’not,” he kisses into your neck. “Didn’t work.”

With a sudden roll of his hips, he has you gasping into his neck. He can’t be more than half-hard, but that bulge is formidable. Thick and straining and… suddenly you can’t focus on anything except getting him out of those tight jeans to see what you’re working with.

Your hand just barely fits around him. He’s thick and flushed, getting harder with each passing second as he scatters feather-light kisses over your neck and shoulders. He muffles a groan into your neck as you slowly pump his length–you think he’s seven, maybe eight inches at best guess. The tip of him is flushed red once you get his uncut skin out of the way, and it makes your mouth water. There’s a slight upward curve to him and a long, prominent vein that runs down the left side. It’s porn star material–you didn’t know real people had dicks like this.

“Joel… Jesus, that’s gonna be a tight fit.”

“Oh, don’t worry darlin’,” he hums, thumb ghosting over your clit in a way that makes your entire body jolt. “It ain’t goin’ in there.”

There’s nothing but pure excitement in your voice, despite the anxious gulp that tracks down your throat. “Where…”

“Flip over f’me.”

You follow his instruction with a sort of morbid curiosity, hopping down from the counter before folding yourself over it.

You can feel his eyes on you, as he takes in your willingness. It’s like you’re on display for him, for his appraisal. You’ve still got shorts and a bra on, yet you’ve never felt more exposed.

It’s almost like he can sense your mind swirling–maybe it’s because his is prone to do the same. He sets a gentle hand on your back and smooths it down your spine as he crowds up against you–you can feel the press of his exposed cock against the curve of your ass, and it makes you shiver.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs as he folds over you, caging you in with the delicious weight of his body. His lips trace along the curve of your jaw and down your neck as he speaks. “But I made myself this little promise that I wouldn’t fuck you. You got me actin’ so unprofessional, honey.”

You whine at the sincerity in his voice–all you’ve wanted since the day he started was for him to have you folded over and at his mercy like this. 

“You can fuck me,” you whine earnestly. “It’s okay, I promise. Won’t tell.”

“Mmm, I know. You’re too good a girl to go gettin’ me in trouble over somethin’ like this,” he hums–you can hear the condescension in his voice even as he praises you, and it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “But with all the teasin’ you been doin’... don’t rightly know that you deserve to be fucked.”

“Please–”

“However,” he continues, landing a light smack to your ass in retaliation for your interruption, “might be willin’ to take you anyway, with some conditions. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

He pauses to let you ask, “What conditions?”

And then he pauses again, asking his own question this time. Is he really going to go through with this? But he’s spent the better part of two weeks staring at your ass, and you’ve spent the better part of two weeks putting it on display for him. It’s like you’ve been silently asking him all this time to take it.

His hand slides down from where it rests on your spine, over your tailbone to where he’s been thinking about all this time. He feels the way your muscles tense up even through your shorts, and it sends a thrill he can’t describe coursing through his veins.

“You ever taken someone here before?”

“N-no.” He feels it again as his other hand comes to soothingly rub your hip–that excited-yet-nervous flutter of muscle. You haven’t run away screaming yet, and that’s the biggest motivator he could have to keep going.

“I think you ought to let me. As a thank you, for puttin’ up with all your play,” he growls into your ear.

It’s fucking dirty, the idea of letting a man you hardly know take you in such a taboo way. It’s even dirtier how fucking excited the idea has you.

“You say no right now and I’ll drop it,” he murmurs so sweetly. “Don’t ever have to talk about this again.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished talking–a sly smirk spreading over your lips as you grind back against him hard enough to make him choke on a moan.

“It’s only right,” you affirm. “Gotta make it up to you for how naughty I’ve been.’

His eyes flash dangerously as he grinds his cock against you again, smearing precome against the flimsy fabric of your shorts. “Atta fuckin’ girl.”

He has your bottoms and panties down around your ankles in a flash, and he actually groans at the sight of your sticky cunt all puffy and wet and on display for him.

He can’t resist the urge to swipe a finger through your folds, delighting in the string of shiny arousal that connects his finger to your core when he pulls away. “She wants it so bad, hmm? Such a shame she ain’t gettin’ any.”

It tugs a moan from your throat, especially when he drags as much slick as he can up to circle your tightest hole. He feels the way you flutter with apprehension, and he leans back down to kiss the corner of your jaw.

“Gonna get you nice and ready, I promise. M’not gonna hurt you, baby girl.”

“Thank you, da–” You almost lost yourself there for a second–almost laid your whole hand of cards out on the table for him to see. You try not to get flustered over the slip–you simply clear your throat and try again. “Thank you, Joel.” But you aren’t nearly as smooth as you hope to be.

In a flash Joel’s free hand is lifting your head, forcing you to look into his deep brown eyes. They’re so much darker than normal, and it only serves to make you wetter.

“What’d you call me?”

“J-Joel.”

His hand slips down to your throat and gives it a warning squeeze–his jaw is set, you know he isn’t playing. “Try again, and tell the truth this time.”

“D… daddy.”

You try to hide your face, to cower in shame, but he won’t let you. He smashes his lips to yours at the exact second his first finger probes that tight, waiting entrance.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as he slowly breaches you, using your own slick to guide the way. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You can’t do anything but gasp, hands clutching for dear life to the edge of the counter. This feels different, and not in the way you were expecting it to. It’s tight, sure, and it feels foreign, but it also feels so much better than you ever could’ve expected it to. The subtle stretch around his thick finger is addicting.

Joel’s jaw drops at the expression on your face; you already look so thoroughly fucked-out, and he’s barely even started. “Fuck.You like this, hmm? Like feelin’ daddy’s fingers gettin’ you ready for his big cock?”

The only response he gets is a wrecked little whimper, and he props your chin up again to meet his heated gaze. “Talk to me. Gotta talk to me, tell me how you’re feelin’, or I’m gonna stop.”

“Fuck!” It’s shriller than you want it to be and you would feel pathetic if you weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with this new sensation. “Don’t stop daddy!”

“Feels good, yeah? How long has daddy’s little slut wanted to try this?”

But there’s no way you can be expected to answer, not when he’s adding another finger to the onslaught. Not when your legs are already shaking and you’re thinking about just how many fingers he’s going to have to use to get you ready for the massive cock you can feel throbbing against your thigh.

He retracts just as suddenly as he started, and a needy little whine escapes from your throat involuntarily.

He can’t help chuckling as he reaches for the bottle of KY jelly he’d dug out of his bag while you were getting him water. It feels like it’s been years since you left the room on that little errand for him–definitely not the barely ten minutes it’s actually been.

“Relax, baby girl. I’m comin’ right back.”

You feel the cool drizzle of the water-based substance over your hole and it forces another whine from your throat. It’s met with his thick fingers again, spreading the jelly over your hole before plunging two in knuckle-deep.

“Atta girl.” His voice is thick and sweet as honey as he slowly works his fingers, thrusting and scissoring at an achingly slow pace. “Doin’ so good f’me.”

“Daddy–”

“I know,” he coos. “I know, it’s so much, isn’it?”

All you can manage to do is nod your head, arms shaking under the strain of holding yourself upright. He sees the way your limbs tremble and he adds a third finger just to be extra cruel–although he steadies you by grabbing your hip firmly with his free hand, keeping you in place as he fucks you open with his fingers.

Everything is so hot. There’s a sticky sheen of sweat covering your forehead and your chest; you can feel your own slick dripping down your thighs.

And then his free hand drops down to thumb at your clit, and everything twists in your gut so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

Within seconds you’re coming–no pretense, no warning. It explodes white-hot from your belly and sweeps through you to the tips of your fingers and toes with flash flood speed. One second there’s nothing more than pleasant anticipation–the next, you’re shaking and convulsing and sobbing Joel’s name as you fight with every cell in your body to remain upright.

He does his part to work you through it, thumb swiping even circles on your sensitive clit, pulling his fingers from you to pin you in place on the counter so he can continue working you through it.

“I know, I know,” he coos so sweetly in your ear over the sound of your moans and cries. “You’re doin’ so good baby, let yourself have it.”

It’s minutes before you’re breathing normally again–your legs are cramping from trying so desperately to support your shaky weight. Joel’s hands are soothing you the whole time once he lets up the onslaught on your clit; it’s like he’s mapping you, tracing over every dip and curve so tenderly you could almost forget what this encounter really is.

“Doin’ okay?” He husks into your ear–and then he’s folding himself over you again, and you can feel the insistent press of his hard cock against the curve of your ass.

For some reason, that’s what really makes it sink in. That’s the moment you realize that this is actually going to happen–that you want it to happen. Joel’s about to take something from you that no one has ever taken before, and you want him to. You’re offering it willingly, even.

You hum in response and buck your hips back, giving him a delicious taste of friction that pulls a ground from his throat. “Mhm. I’m ready, daddy.”

“Fuck, that’s my girl.” He gives your hip a light pat before pulling away for a moment, and you somehow have the presence of mind to jump up on the deep countertop because you know your legs won’t be able to support you through what’s about to happen.

There’s a smile on his handsome face when he turns back towards you, lube and condom in hand. “That how you want it, baby?”

Despite everything that’s already happened, you feel so much more exposed like this. You’re completely naked, and he’s fully clothed with his pants shoved down just enough to free his dick. Even as you spread your legs to admit him between your thighs, you feel shy. And he senses it, the slight apprehension in your gaze, because his smile softens even further; he sets the lube and condom down on the counter next to you so he can grasp the collar of his worn t-shirt and tug it up over his head.

He’s beautiful for a nearly forty-year-old man, you think. He’s firm and toned, but there’s a softness about him that you can’t help admiring, especially around his belly. Your eyes eagerly lap up the soft curve of his tummy, following the tantalizing promise of his treasure trail to his cock, hard and aching for you. The ruddy, flushed tip is weeping for you; you don’t know that you’ve ever seen someone so turned on before, and it’s a heady rush of power.

He chuckles as he sees your hungry eyes taking him in–he raises one big hand to cup your chin and pull your gaze up to meet his. “You’re so pretty, baby, look so good spread out f’me like this. You sure you’re ready f’this?”

“Fuck yes,” you say with an alluring little wiggle of your hips, and that’s more than enough for him.

He pulls his bottom lip between even rows of shiny white teeth as he rolls the condom down over his length, and it’s actually intimidating like this. He’s so big and imposing and it makes your legs want to close, but–

“M’gonna go slow, okay?” He vows, voice gentle as his big, brown eyes look into yours. His fingers wrap tightly around the half-used tube of KY jelly, and he leans down to kiss you when he sees the nervous gulp that bobs your throat. “Gonna be real gentle, I promise. You tap out at any time and we’re done, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you affirm, and you feel a lot better. As out of the blue as this is, as little as you really know Joel, you can tell he’s being sincere. You trust him; you know he won’t hurt you.

The first press of his aching tip against your hole is enough to make you choke on a gasp. He’s big, and even with all of his attentive prep work to get you ready for him it’s a tight fit. You can tell it’s affecting him, too. His eyes flutter shut and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, and you can tell that he’s fighting with all his strength not to just shove himself deep inside you. You appreciate his restraint more than words can convey, so you don’t even try; you hook your arms around his neck and pull him in for a deep, messy, desperate kiss instead. His tongue licks eagerly into your mouth as he eases his hips further and further towards yours, and it’s a nice distraction from the nearly overwhelming stretch of your muscle trying to accommodate his girth.

He shudders when his hips finally meet yours, cock stuffed to the hilt into your ass. “God damn baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight. You doin’ okay?”

You whine at the first roll of his hips, nodding your head rapidly because words won’t come. It’s such a foreign sensation, being stretched and breached like this. Not unpleasant necessarily, but so brain-scramblingly different that all you can do is dig your nails into his strong, broad shoulders and hold on for dear life as he actually starts to fuck into you.

It’s nasty, and you’ve never been so wet in your life. You hear the sticky squelch of lube as he thrusts his hips, shoving his cock deeper than you imagined possible. Your own wetness seeps from your neglected cunt and drenches him, dripping down around his cock and wetting the dense curls at the apex of his sex.

“Shit baby, you’re takin’ daddy’s cock so well,” he whines breathlessly; one arm hooks under your knee so he can spread you open a bit wider for him, and then the other hand returns to your puffy, arousal swollen clit.

You make what has to be the most high-pitched sound you’ve ever made as his index and middle fingers start a torturously slow pace on the little bud. “Fuck daddy!”

“I know,” he coos–you think that soft, breathy, Southern twang is going to actually put you in your grave. “I know, you wanna come, dontcha? It’s okay baby, daddy’s gonna make you come all over his cock just the way you need.”

His hips pick up the pace in time with his fingers, and all you can do is lay there limply like a ragdoll. The pleasure is so much different than what you’re used to, but it’s good. It’s amazing, the feeling of him balls deep in your guts in tandem with his ministrations on your clit, in a way you never imagined it could be.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl f’me,” he growls, hitching your leg a bit higher over his hip so he can thrust even deeper. “Fuck, m’not gonna last long like this. You’re gonna make daddy come so hard in this tight little ass.”

His words are accentuated with a little smack to the side of your ass, and it makes you moan louder still. Your head rolls back as he picks up the pace of his fingers, swirling hard and messy circles with reckless abandon. He’s not trying to prolong it anymore–he’s going for the kill.

“Fuck daddy!” Your hands scrabble for purchase on his smooth, freckled skin as he pounds harder into you. “W-want it, please, want you to come in my ass–”

“Gonna give it to you, impatient girl,” he growls deep in his chest. “You gimme one first.”

Your entire body jolts when he brings his hand down on your sensitive cunt before groaning at the way your arousal sticks to his hand and makes his fingers shine.

“She wants t’be stuffed so full, doesn’t she?” He purrs, fingers dancing so fucking teasingly around your fluttering cunt that it makes your eyes water. “Bet she’d love to be chock full’a cock right now.”

“Joel–”

“Now, now, baby, no whinin’. It’s unbecomin’ for such a sweet little lady,” he grunts, and the condescension dripping from his tone is almost enough to make you come on its own. “You’re gonna take what I give you and be grateful for it, aintcha?”

“Yesyesyesplease–”

His fingers have barely returned to your clit before you’re coming again. This one is even more powerful than before–a hurricane instead of a flash flood. Your entire body trembles with the ebbing flow of pleasurable waves–the words you’re panting aren’t even discernible English anymore.

The way you clench and flutter around him in your own pleasure pulls him over the edge faster than anything ever has before. He comes hard, chest clenching hard around his breath, cock twitching more violently than anything you’ve ever felt before as he spills his load into the condom.

It’s a long, breathless moment before he pulls himself from the vice-like grip you have around his dick. He pulls out with a deep, long groan–it makes you giggle, because it’s the most over-dramatic sound you’ve ever heard in your life.

There’s a beat, and then he starts laughing, too. At the sweet sound of your laugh, at the way he feels like he just ran a marathon, at the absolute absurdity of this whole thing. His laughter is so sweet and gut-deep and infectious, and it only serves to make you laugh harder. For a good few moments it’s just you and Joel, half naked, panting and sweaty, doubled over in laughter.

And then the bathroom door swings open and Tommy barges in. 

“I’m feelin’ a helluva lot better after sleepin’ in, what’s so funny–” He stops dead in his tracks; he sees you naked and spread out on the counter and Joel disheveled and sweating. Neither of you are laughing very much anymore as you both scramble to cover yourselves up.

Tommy quirks a brow, a smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes dart back and forth between you and Joel. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

You don’t know how to answer when you’re so mortified, so you do the only thing you can think of–you dart out of the room and down the hall to the safety of your bedroom as fast as your shaky legs can carry you.

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