I Want Joel To Take Care Of Me When Im Sick Too!

I want Joel to take care of me when I’m sick too! 😍😍

Sick

Joel Miller x Reader Warnings: Reader is sick, pill taking, food mention (brief), trouble sleeping. A/N: I just wrote this because I'm currently sick AF and would like Joel Miller to look after me pls n thank. It's mostly just fluff tbh. No use of Y/N, no race or gender coding, reader is pretty much a blank slate. 700~ Words | [AO3]

You groan as you stir awake for the hundredth time tonight, pain arcing behind your eyelids as you struggle to rouse yourself. You’re freezing cold despite the warm body pressed to your back. You desperately pull the covers around you as you try and fight the chill that wracks through your body.

“Hey?” Joel whispers in your ear as you feel him pull you to him, his thin scruff scraping along the plane of your shoulder, “You ok darlin’?”

You curse yourself inwardly at the soft voice in your ear. The thickness in his voice sends a pleasant shiver through you as you wrap your arms around his strong forearm as it holds you firm against him.

“No,” you whimper feebly as you hear the cloying distortion to your voice, even with just one syllable it’s obvious you’re sick. You’d been feeling under the weather all week, but it seems it’s finally caught up to you. On a Saturday no less.

“Shh,” Joel hushes you softly as he wriggles his other arm free, you feel his strong palm press against your forehead from behind as he shifts up on the pillows behind you, “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you grumble as you let out a hacking cough as your chest burns.

“Stay here,” he says softly as he places a gentle kiss to your temple.

You whine as he slides out of bed before tucking the covers around you tightly. You grunt helplessly as he shuts the door behind him, missing his body heat already as you burrow down into the sheets. Your eyes flutter shut and your brow furrows at the pain in your skull, amplified only by the way your rattling cough seems to jostle your head.

It could have been minutes, or hours, but when Joel comes back you smile feebly up at him from the cocoon you have crafted around you. He’s a vision of tan skin and grey boxer briefs as he carries in a tray with water, cold medicine, and a few bags of your favourite snacks.

“Poor baby,” Joel coos softly as he sets down the tray on the nightstand, “Can you sit up for me?”

“Sure,” you say meekly as you shuffle yourself up into a seating position, “Thank you.”

“Don’t need to thank me,” he says as he smiles fondly at you, “But you do need to take your medicine,” he frowns playfully at you as he wags a finger in your direction. Your heart swells as you look up into his deep brown eyes as he looks you over. Worry forms in the crow’s feet around his eyes and the semi-permanent crease in his brow. Your stomach flutters and you can’t help but smile.

“Ah shit,” you groan as you realise what day it is, “The party at Maria and Tommy’s.”

“Don’t fret, I’ve already called Tommy,” Joel says as he hands you a couple of cold and flu tablets and a glass of water, “Poor bastard wasn’t even awake yet, I forgot to check the time before I called.”

Once you’ve got a secure hold on the medication and water Joel sits on the edge of the bed before dropping a broad hand to your knee. He rubs soothingly up your thigh as he watches you intently. You sigh peacefully at the ministrations of his hand as you gulp down the water and tablets.

“What time is it?” You ask as your head spins, you relax immediately as you feel Joel slide into bed beside you, sitting up as he pulls you back against his chest. You lay there, head lolled back on his shoulder as you close your eyes.

“Early,” he hums as he gently lays down, pulling you with him, “But don’t worry about that now, get some rest, I’m right here.”

“Ok,” you sigh as another cough rocks your body, prompting Joel to hold you tight against his chest.

“Love you darlin’, get some sleep.”

“Love you too,” you mutter as the lure of unconsciousness becomes too hard to ignore.

You’re not sure if it’s the cold medicine, or the way that Joel nuzzles into the crook of your neck, but you finally feel a little relief as you let out a shuddering sigh before falling into a deep sleep.

😍😘🥵

Farmhand!Joel- Dirty Little Secret

Summary: You’re back home from college for the summer when your parents decide they can’t take care of the farm alone anymore. So they hire a hot middle aged Joel to come work for them. Shit gets spicy when your truck breaks down in a thunderstorm and who else but Joel would come to your rescue?

Warnings: 18+!!! If I see one minor on here I’ll call all your moms. Age gap (ages not specified just implied age gap), degrading, piv sex, fingering, oral sex (male receiving), cranky Joel, smutty smut smut.

Thank you to @bitchesuntitled for your help with editing and ideas!

You wake up to the smell of bacon and coffee. You’ve been back home on the farm with your folks for the past month, since you didn’t enroll in any summer classes in college. The sunlight beams through your window, right into your eyes, rudely interrupting your peaceful sleep.

Your parents are chatting downstairs while they make breakfast. “You can’t do this all by yourself anymore Bill, you’re going to have to swallow your pride, and hire a farmhand.” Your mom says to your dad, in a firm yet soft voice.

“I know Marian, I know. I’ll put an ad in the paper. But I ain’t hiring no damn teenager. I want him to know how to do this stuff already. I ain’t got time to babysit.” Your dad says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Your dad is getting older, whether you’d like to admit it or not, he’s in his 60s, and you have no brothers to help him with the manual labor stuff required to run a farm. Sure you can milk a cow and feed the chickens just as well as anyone else. But when it comes to fixing broken down tractors, and hauling hay, you're of little to no use. So it’s about time that he finally hires someone to help him.

“Finally giving in to her? Wow, you’re going soft on us in your old age.” You ask your dad, in your best mocking tone.

“Nah it was my idea really, she just gave me a reminder.” He says, never willing to admit defeat.

“No, I think it was you throwing your back out trying to clean the chicken coup that served as your reminder.” Your mom chimes in.

“Well either way, I think this’ll be good for you. Who knows, maybe you’ll make a new life long friend.” You tell your dad, hoping he’ll see the brighter side of things for a change.

“I don’t need a friend. I need a farmhand that shows up, works his ass off until dark, and goes home.” Your dad grumbles, as he finishes his plate of eggs and bacon.

—

A week later your dad comes in after dark grumbling about how “it’s about time someone answers the damn ad”

“I’m sure tomorrow will be the day dad.” You say, in your most hopeful tone.

—

You were right. The next morning you were awoken by the sound of a squeaky truck rolling down the driveway and then someone knocking on the door. You looked at the clock. 5am.

Great. Dad’s already out in the fields and mom’s probably sound asleep.

You begrudgingly roll out of bed to go answer the door.

You crack the door open and see a tall man, probably in his early 40s, with dark eyes and dark curly hair. He’s in an old flannel and jeans with work boots.

“Uh, sorry, I saw a uh, ad in the newspaper saying y’all needed some help around here?” He says, looking as though he felt guilty for waking you.

“That would be us.” You say, trying to clear the tiredness out of your voice. “Dad’s probably already out in the fields by now, but he’ll appreciate the fact that you’re here at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Oh, should I uh, come back later when everyone is up and around?” He asks, scratching the back of his neck.

You accidentally take a quick glance at his arm flexing. Nice.

“Nah you’re alright. I’ll call him in and he’ll be here in a jiffy. Wouldn’t want ya to have to make the trip again for no reason.”

You usher him in and tell him to wait while you run upstairs to grab your phone. Once upstairs, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Oh my god

You quickly throw your hair up out of your face and slip on a pair of shorts and one of your dads old t-shirts he got from a Led Zeppelin concert. Then grab your phone and call your dad.

“Why the hell are you up so early? Finally gonna start putting in some work around here?” Your dad says, laughing as if he hasn’t made that same joke since you could talk.

“Who me? Never. But I might have someone here who actually wants to shovel shit for a living. So get yer ass down here old man.” You say, in your best I’m-the-boss tone.

You head back downstairs and find the man standing exactly where you left him. Trying your hardest not to stare at him as you descend the stairs, you ask him if he drinks coffee.

“Oh coffee? Yeah, I could go for coffee.”

“Oh, I wasn’t offering,” you say, trying to gauge his reaction, “I was just making conversation.”

“Oh uh, yeah I do like coffee I guess. What’s your feelings on burgers?” He asks, genuinely trying his best to just make polite conversation.

“I’m just fucking with you. Of course I’m gonna make some coffee. It’s fucking 5am.” You say laughing. “You’ll have to get used to that type of shit if you’re gonna be working for my old man.”

He just smiles to himself and says “Oh I’m sure I could get used to it pretty quick.”

“Let’s hope you’re up for the challenge because my dad is a hard guy to gauge. But yeah I like burgers. Oooh and milkshakes.” You say, feeling bad for throwing this man through such a loop this early in the morning.

“What’s your name by the way?” You ask, just now realizing he’s been in your house for 20 minutes and you don’t know his name.

“Joel, uh Joel Miller.” He says, taking a sip of his coffee.

You tell him your name and about that time is when your dad walks through the door.

“Dad this is Joel Miller and he wants to shovel shit for you.” You say, “Also, he likes coffee and long walks on the beach.”

Joel looks worried and says “Wait uh, I didn’t say that. I mean I did say I liked coffee. Not long walks on the beach though. I mean I do but that’s not what-“

“Jesus christ. What is it again? Joel? Well Joel. This one here does enough talking for all three of us,” your dad says, pointing at you, “so I’d say you’re fine to stop talkin now. Let’s get you out in the field for the day and see what you can do.”

“Yes sir,” Joel says smiling at your dad. “You won’t be disappointed.” He says, looking at you.

You feel your face heat up. What the fuck was that?

—

“It’s almost dark out. You’d think they’d be making their way back now.” You tell your mom, peeking out the window.

It’s been two weeks since Joel started working full time with your dad on the farm. Your mom loves the peace of mind and your dad, whether he’ll ever admit it or not, likes having some male company around for a change.

“Is someone getting worried?” Your mom says in a sing-song voice.

“Why yes actually, I am worried, Dad can’t see well after dark.” You say, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Plus we just hired this Joel guy. Who knows if he’s a deranged murderer.”

“Don’t you think if he were a murderer he’d have already gotten your father? Hell I’ve never hurt a fly and that man has me casket shopping on his behalf some days.” Your mom says, laughing.

Just then your dad and Joel come through the front door.

“Hope you got dinner cookin’ honey because we have worked our asses off today and I’m starving.” Your dad says, rubbing his belly the way he always does when he talks about food.

“Yep! Just getting the plates out now. Joel, I insist you stay for dinner tonight.” Your mom says, glancing at you after she says it.

“I wouldn’t wanna put y’all out or anything.” Joel says, smiling his crooked smile you’ve come to enjoy.

“Of course not! Besides, my daughter here has been going on and on about you so I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.” Your mom says, nudging you with her elbow.

“Mom! I haven’t been talking about you. I mean I did mention that you could potentially be a serial killer. But I haven’t been going on and on. I honestly don’t even know why she would say tha-“

“I told you she could talk, didn't I?” Your dad says to Joel, who looks like he would love to be anywhere but here right now.

“Yeah I wouldn’t mind a nice home cooked meal for once I suppose. Thank ya ma’am.” Joel says, smiling warmly at your mom.

—

The next day is Sunday. Your dad doesn’t like to work on Sundays because he says it’s meant for Jesus and football. So no sign of Joel, which is a relief considering how much of a fool you made out of yourself at dinner last night.

You decide to take your mind off of it and go for a drive. It’s raining out and you’ve always loved driving through the countryside when it rains.

“I’m headed out for a bit.” You say, grabbing your keys and wallet.

“Alright, drive careful. That truck still needs new tires even though I told you to replace them last winter.” Your dad scolds.

—

You love driving in a storm, the roads are always free of animals and other cars. The sounds of the thunder and rain usually make you feel like turning on the radio would be a crime.

But tonight is different. You need to get Joel off your mind. He’s older. Bet he’s got more experience. He works for your dad. But it would be such an exciting little secret.

Fuck it. You turn up the radio to drown out the noise in your head. Singing along to Dolly has never failed you before, so it damn sure can’t now.

Before you know it, you’re losing control of the wheel. You’re hydroplaning. You spin a few times until the truck comes to an abrupt halt. You’re in a ditch and the truck won’t start now.

You look at your phone ready to call your dad.

No service. Awesome.

You decide to sit for a few minutes to let the rain die down. You lay your head on the wheel trying to make the world stop spinning. You nearly jump out of your skin when someone knocks on your window.

It’s Joel.

“You alright?” He asks, standing outside your window in the rain.

“I’m not having a great night, but I’m not hurt.” You say stepping out of the truck.

“Here uh, go sit in my truck while I try to get this thing going.”

You climb in the cab of his truck and try to calm yourself down. This is just your luck. The one man you’re trying to not think about right now, just so happens to be the man standing in the pouring rain, assessing the damage to your truck and trying to get it started for you.

You look around his truck and it’s nothing you wouldn’t expect to see. Empty Gatorade bottles on the ground, dirty floors, old torn up leather seats, and his radio on the local country station.

It does smell really good though, way better than you would have expected. Like cologne and pine trees. It feels comforting.

He climbs in the driver’s seat, soaking wet and out of breath.

Dear lord

“Alright, well it looks like she’s not moving anywhere till tomorrow. You’re lucky though, few more feet and you would’a hit that light poll and totaled it.” He says, whiping his face with his shirt.

“Just what I needed. My dad told me before I left that those tires were shit. I just needed to get out of the house to think.” You say, trailing off towards the end.

“Somethin on your mind?” Joel asks, looking over at you.

“Nothing of importance really.” You say, looking down at your hands.

“Oh, so I’m of no importance?” Joel says with a chuckle.

“What? No, I didn’t say that. What are you talking about?” You say, thankful it’s dark enough that he can’t see all the different shades of red your face is turning.

“C’mon, we both know there’s been some uh, tension. I mean, do you always prance around in tiny shorts and no bra?” He says, sure of himself. “Feels like you’re putting on a show for me every time you bring me out a drink.”

“I don’t prance.” You laugh. “I’d like to think I saunter. Also I’m not bringing you drinks just because I want to. My mom wants to make sure you stick around so she wants to show hospitality. So she gives me the chore of bringing you drinks on hot days.”

Although seeing a sweaty Joel looking you up and down is a perk to that chore.

You turn toward him and cross your arms, “Besides, it’s not like you don’t enjoy a little show here and there. I can practically feel you eye fucking me every time.”

“Oh trust me darlin. I enjoy it. Especially that little outfit you had on last week. Those tiny fucking shorts and a white tank top. Took everything in me not to bend you over the hood of my truck right then and there.” He says, his voice deepening.

You scoot to the middle seat and put your hand on his thigh and see his jaw clench when you ask “Do you want to know a secret? I’ve touched myself to the thought of you. Every night since we met.”

You slide your hand over his ever growing bulge and lightly rub your palm up and down his length through his jeans.

He rolls his head back and groans. “Fuck darlin, I guess we have that in common. I stroke my cock every night wishin I was in you instead.”

“Mmm, that sounds like heaven.” You say unzipping his pants and watching his long, thick cock spring free.

“Fuck,” he groweled, “we really shouldn’t be doing this. Your dad would hang me.”

“We’ll keep it our fun little secret.” You say.

Before he has the chance to say anything else you take his cock in your mouth. Slowly bobbing your head up and down.

He tastes like musk and salt, and you can’t get enough. Starting out slow doesn't last long when he grabs you by the hair at the base of your head and guides you. Forcing you to go faster and farther down on his thick shaft.

You gag a little when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuuck. Such a good little whore.” Joel hissed through his teeth. “Just like how I’ve imagined since the day we met. Went straight home that night and came to the thought of you gagging on my cock.”

His words send a rush of heat to your core. You can’t seem to think straight. All you can think of is how much you need him deep in you right now.

As if he could read your thoughts he pulls your head up by your hair. You have saliva dripping down your chin.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this.” He whines, giving your cheek a light smack. “So hungry for daddy’s cock. Shit you’re such a dirty slut.”

He commands you to take off your clothes and you gladly obey. Then he pulls you onto him in a straddle position.

You lean down to kiss him and he groans as he slips his hand down to your wet slit. Giving your hair another nice pull, he forces you to look at him. “You’re so wet for me baby. You’re gonna take this fuckin cock real good aren’t ya?”

You moan in response and he gives your face another smack. “I asked you a question” he says, slipping two of his fingers into your dripping cunt. “I expect an answer. Are you gonna take all of my cock like a good girl?”

“F-fuuck.” You finally manage to cry out, grinding yourself into his fingers as he takes your nipple into his mouth. “Yes, I want your cock in me so bad.”

He helps you lift yourself off of him, and line your entrance up with his tip. You slowly sink down onto him, giving yourself time to adjust to his size.

“Goddamn baby, you’re so fucking tight.” He moans, throwing his head back as you finally sink down on him all the way.

He’s so big, you’re actually surprised you are able to take all of him. He is so deep, you feel as though you’re going to have internal damage after this. But fuck, you’re so happy to have him all the way in you. To be as close as possible. Fulfilling what you have both wanted for weeks now.

He grabs you, with one hand on your ass and the other on your throat. “You’ve been teasing me non-stop. Walkin around in your sluttly little outfits. Always running your mouth.” He forces your hips to grind harder on him “You’ve been just begging me to fuck the attitude out of you.”

You feel you climax building as you grind faster and harder. “Fuck! I-I’m gonna c-cum!” You cry out, writhing as you bury your head in his sweaty neck. Your orgasm feels like something you’ve never quite experienced. Ears ringing, vision blurring, almost slow-motion bliss.

“That’s right baby. Don’t hold back. Come on daddy’s cock like a good little whore.” He says in a dark labored voice.

Joel lets you ride through it before he says, “Now it’s my turn. Keep fuckin goin baby, don’t stop riding this dick.” He says bouncing you up and down on his shaft.

Soon he starts slamming you up and down. Emptying and filling your cunt up each time. You can already feel another climax coming when he starts going even faster.

“You little slut, gonna come all over my cock again already?”

Fuck, you really are.

“That’s it, fuck I’m gonna cum too.” He seethes, “Gonna fill up this pretty cunt of yours with my load and you’re gonna take it.”

With a few more thrusts he plunges you down on him fully and coats your walls with his hot seed, letting out a breathy, almost primal moan.

You stay connected for a couple minutes, just breathing together and coming back to your senses. As you climb off him and put your clothes back on you hear him clear his throat.

“Uh, ya know I meant it when I said your dad can’t find out about this right?”

“Like I said,” you say leaning in to kiss his neck, “I’ll keep it a secret if you do.”

“We just can’t make it obvious that there’s tension ya know?” He says, sounding frustrated with you for kissing his neck.

“Oh I fully agree, guess we’ll have to find a way to relieve that tension.” You whisper in his ear.

You sit back into your original spot and look at yourself in the passenger side mirror. “Well are you gonna drive me home or do I have to walk?” You ask, fixing your hair.

“I’ll drive you home but you gotta come up with a good story.” He says starting the truck.

“Oh don’t worry. I’m a pro at lying to them, they think I’m still a virgin.” You say laughing.

“Oh so you’re a great liar and a good fuck? This’ll be a fun summer.” He chuckles.

“I’m sure we’ll find something to do to make it fun.” You say, already picturing just how fun this summer is going to be.

Oh my! This was such a good read!!!

could I request a fic with these:

“is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?”

“let me stay like this in you for a little bit.”

forget-me-not

hello yessssssss love these 🤤

3.3k, joel miller x reader, no use of y/n

warning(s): angst, sex, 18+ themes, alcohol, qz!joel

*****

you wouldn't say you'd had high hopes for the night, but you definitely didn’t expect it to go quite like this. 

in a dingy booth of a boston qz speakeasy, you nursed a glass of whiskey. it was the real stuff, a true indulgence you could rarely justify, but you had a few extra ration cards this week and needed to blow off some steam.

you couldn’t get your mind off of joel miller. 

he’d saved your ass on countless occasions, and he exuded an intensity that you couldn’t get enough of. he was guarded but caring. chastised you when you slipped up and told you he wouldn’t be there to help if you were in trouble, but contradicted himself time and time again, always showing up somehow just when you needed him.

and now he was leaving.

when he told you, he'd said something about finding his little brother, somewhere out in wyoming. you didn't get much more than that but you're not sure if it's cos he didn't tell you, or if it's that when he told you, you could suddenly hear your pulse in your ears and your stomach plummeted and it felt as though ice water filled your veins and you could see his mouth was moving but you didn't hear anything else.

you'd lived down the hall from Joel for nearly four years, and you'd been sleeping together for two. the night it started, joel had gotten into a fight with some guy who’d managed to slash him real good on his right side. he'd seen light coming from below your door, and asked for your help. 

you'd stitched him up cleanly, a neat enough job that even joel seemed impressed. the air was charged and electric between the two of you. feeling bold, you asked if he'd like to stay--he'd clearly had a horrendous day and you'd like to make him feel better.

sometimes it’s hard and rough and feral, other times passionate and intense. you weren’t a couple, weren’t exclusive. but you both took what you could for as long as you could, because that was truly enough.

you remember he'd always talked about his brother, how they stayed in touch over radio. the past few weeks, joel's been more stressed, and it's been nearly a month since he'd heard from tommy.

you’d told him that you wished him the best of luck finding his brother, but you'd made it clear a long time ago that you weren’t planting roots somewhere new; you’ve travelled enough and lost enough for a lifetime, and told him from the very beginning that you weren’t picking up and relocating ever again. sure, a qz is a qz, but boston wasn't kansas city, and it wasn’t the wilderness either. it’s true, FEDRA’s detained you a few times (and broken a couple ribs in the process), but you’ve finally made a home somewhere, and you don’t have anything real to chase elsewhere. 

you both knew, if Joel left, you wouldn’t be leaving with him.

you weren’t worried about him, not really. joel knew how to take care of himself. you didn’t need anything to change between the two of you. knew you’d be okay, ultimately. but it still hurt, thinking about him off across the country, and you know for a damn fact you’ll never know if he made it. if he’s still alive.

the whiskey had warmed you, and you found yourself right at the comfortable point of relaxed and careless. you didn't let yourself get like this often, prioritising alertness over comfort, but tonight felt like a special occasion. you wanted to get loose, flirt, dance, and interact with people. you stood up to make a move for the jukebox, but in your state, you managed to backhand the whiskey bottle the bartender was reaching to cork.

the bottle catapulted into the air and landed with a sickening crash on the floor, glass spraying, and whiskey spattered seemingly everywhere in a fifteen foot radius. a hush fell across the room as fucking everyone, apparently, turned to look at the loss of an irreplaceable twenty year old bottle.

the glare the bartender aims at you sobers you up real quick.

"you'd best be able to pay for that, sweetheart," the bartender hisses, and your stomach flips. you absolutely do not have enough ration cards to pay for it. you do have something else, though. the chatter in the speakeasy resumes, and you feel like you have a little more privacy.

aiming for sultry, you look the bartender up and down and bat your eyes, "i'm sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement," you coo, and the bartender swallows.

you lean forward and deftly undo the top button of his shirt.

"i'm a little short on cards right now," you admit, "but is there anything else i can offer you?"

you don't miss how his eyes glance over you, pausing for a moment as he stares at your tits. fucking typical, but a good sign you might be able to get away with it.

before you can try and seal the deal, though, you feel someone push up to the bar next to you and slam down a fistful of ration cards.

"that should take care of it," says a gruff voice, and you know it's joel.

the bartender, confused as ever, looks between the two of you, adjusts himself, pockets the money and shrugs. most folks knew better than to fuck with joel if it could be avoided. and then you felt his hand gripping your shoulder and wheeling you out of the building.

"joel-" you say, and he practically hisses in response.

"save it," he growls, and you fall silent.

he's walking you back to your apartment, you realise, and you're both thankful and absolutely infuriated. how dare he swoop in like that. you were dealing with the situation. you're allowed to be tipsy, you're allowed to do whatever you wanted, and quite frankly, joel had no right.

"i had it under control," you spit and he laughs.

"sure looked like it," he snorts, and there's not an ounce of humour in his voice.

"i would've figured it out-" you stammer, before he cuts you off, turning you to face him.

"is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?"

your stomach drops, but heat pools between your legs.

"that is none of your fuckin business, joel," you glare. he's not wrong, but you're not ashamed. it's kept you alive. you're not gonna feel guilty about that, especially not for someone who has no fucking right.

he goes quiet for a moment, and then starts pulling you along again. "i'm taking you home," he says, and you don't argue.

when you step through the door, you expect joel to deposit you and leave. he's been busy, planning this trip out west, you've barely seen him these past few weeks.

instead, though, he slams the door behind him, staring you down. you feel minuscule under his gaze.

"you're really gonna act this reckless, hmm? gettin drunk and careless."

"fuck you, joel." you spit back, but he keeps going.

"practically begging to fuck that guy cos you couldn't pay? if i hadn't found you-"

"wait-" you cut him off, "i'm sorry, you were looking for me?"

you'd thought it was just coincidence he'd been in the same place at the same time. suddenly, the fury he'd exuded changed and he looked almost sheepish.

"i'm leaving."

"i know."

"in the morning."

"oh."

and then it hits you.

"you wanted to say goodbye."

he stares for a moment, and then nods. the hostility between you dissolves in an instant, all of a sudden replaced by something more vulnerable, and then, for the first time, you hear joel miller sound nervous.

"i- i know we've been doing this... thing. for a while. and i just. i didn't want to just disappear. tried knocking on your door but you were out, so i went to find you. managed to catch the tail end of you smashing that bottle."

"yeah," you snort, "not my best moment."

"thought it was a long shot finding you there, never thought you were much for public intoxication."

"special occasion."

he stares you down, eyes practically glittering, and you buckle.

"you've been on my mind. i'm really gonna miss you, joel."

he cups a hand to your cheek. "i'm guessing your answer hasn't changed, but you're still welcome to come with us," he murmurs.

you smile sadly and shake your head. "i'm not cut out for another trip across the country. i'd slow you down."

he nods. considers.

"i know we've never defined this," you say, "and it doesn't need to mean anything other than what it is. but you've been a part of my life for a while now. and... you are significant to me."

it feels like a gamble, the closest to any truth you can state. it's not love. well, maybe it is? but not the kind where you need to spend your lives together, or even want to. you just want the moment to mean as much to joel as it does to you.

you half expect rejection, for him to leave you there and leave without another word but instead, joel lets out a little breath and steps a little bit closer. goosebumps spread along your spine and down your arms, and your stomach does a flip.

"one last night?" he asks.

you nod. "one last night."

whatever space had been between you is closed in an instant, joel pulling you in, tongues and teeth crashing together. in the blink of an eye, you find yourself pressed up against your front door with joel trailing kisses down your throat, a leg between yours, and you rut up against him.

"let me take care of you, baby," he hums, and you can feel that he's getting hard against you.

"please-"

he manoeuvres you around and you feel weightless in his arms, like a rag-doll, pliant. you know you're wet at this point, feeling suddenly slick and tingly. before you know it, you're ass is on your dining table and joel's unbuttoning your shirt, laving kisses along your jawline, down your throat. you try to savour every moment. his moustache along your collarbone. tongue hot as he licks down and between your breasts, occasionally stopping to nip or bite at your skin.

it feels like an eternity before he's pulled your shirt off of your shoulders, leaving you bare and open.

"so fucking beautiful," he whispers, his fingers now deftly undoing the button of your jeans, and his words sound like a prayer. he helps you lift your hips so he can pull your jeans down, leaving only your panties. he rubs a thumb over the fabric and feels the wetness that's been pooling between your legs and practically growls in response.

pulling your panties to the side, he starts stroking your cunt with his thick fingers. long, long strokes that make you shudder, before he dips a finger into your tight wet heat and hums. dips a little deeper and pulls it back out and takes a moment to admire the slick coating him.

"all this for me?" he asks, and you nod, breath hitching.

without prompting, you open your mouth and he smirks, pressing the digit between your lips and lets you suck your arousal off of it, licking his finger like you suck his cock and letting out an involuntary moan.

with his finger still in your mouth, he holds your chin and tilts you up to look right in his eyes.

"gonna make you feel good, now, baby," he coaxes, and you inhale sharply. "eyes on me, now, don't look away."

you watch him as he lets go of your chin and drops to his knees. he hooks your panties to the side with his thumb, pries your legs further open, and begins to consume you.

his tongue licks along you as he digs his nose into your clit. long strokes become deeper and you feel your pussy vibrate as he moans into you. "yes, joel, please-" you beg, and you grab a fistful of his hair, which only makes him moan louder. a moment later, he's sucking on your clit and fucking you with two thick fingers fingers and his other hand's grabbing at your ass and the sensation is overwhelming.

it feels so good, so fucking good. a few more flicks of his tongue and you know you're about to come undone. you give joel's hair a quick tug and he looks up at you with those stupid beautiful dark eyes and then you're coming on his tongue, waves of pleasure rippling through you, his name on your lips.

it takes you a minute to come down from it, and joel's still buried between your legs, licking the slick from your thighs and your folds, being careful not to overstimulate your sensitive, swollen clit.

"fuck, joel," you whisper, and he laughs, and the warmth of his breath on your thighs tickles and then you're laughing too. this was stress release you needed, and you can feel the tension slowly uncoiling from you.

you're silent for another moment before you pull him up and into a kiss. it feels odd, you being almost entirely naked and him entirely clothed. you realise he even has his boots on, still.

you stroke his cheek with your thumb and look at him, really look at him. you love every bit; the crinkles around his eyes, the age lines, the grey in his hair, the scar on his temple, the curve of his nose. even the patchiness of his beard. you're thankful for every bit of this.

"i think you should fuck me now," you tell him, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

he stands up, wraps your legs around his waist, and hoists you up and carries you to your bedroom, tossing you onto your bed. you sit up and grab him by the lapels, feeling arousal pulsing through you again already. "take this off," you say, tugging at his shirt, and a moment later he's pulling it over his head and fumbling with his belt.

then he's bare in front of you, and he is beautiful.

"wait," you say, holding out a hand to stop him before he joins you on the bed. "i just want to look at you for a moment."

he swallows, and then nods. it feels almost... precious?

you look down his body and you aren't shy. his freckled shoulders are broad, arms muscled. you trace a fingertip from the hollow of his throat down his chest. you pause a moment to lean forward and kiss the silvery scar on his abdomen, the one you patched up for him two years ago. you carry on, taking a moment to leave kisses along his tummy, appreciating the curve of softness over lean muscle.

and then you lean back and look at his thick cock, still half-hard, hanging between his legs. you are absolutely objectifying the man, and he grins.

"c'mon," he says, and then you're laying back and he's crawling up to you. he yanks your legs up over his shoulders and you hook your ankles around him. you love this feeling, him holding you. guiding you. feeling him press the fat head of his cock into you, how his brow furrows as he watches your face, adjusting to him. then he inches further, hips gliding till he's fully seated in your swollen pussy.

"fuck me, joel."

he does. the first strokes are slow, but without much warning, he's fucking into you roughly. you can feel yourself dripping and you're so wet he's sliding into you easily. his hips thrust harder and harder, and you're letting yourself slip into the absolute unadulterated euphoria.

"you love this cock, don't you-" he hisses between breaths, "love the way i fill you up and fuck you good"

"yes- yes, joel, fuckin love it-"

"you're gonna feel me for days," he grunts, keeping a steady rhythm.

(that was one of your favourite things, feeling his ache deep in your core for days after he'd ruined you. enjoying every bite mark, every bruise, every scratch and hickey.)

"fuck me deeper," you whisper.

"really, baby? think you can take that?"

it's not a real question, you've begged him to fuck you deep dozens of times before and you can always take it. but it's a much-needed ego boost for both of you.

you nod, and he wraps one arm around you to pull you up as he kneels upright, so your ass is in the air and only your shoulders make contact with the bed, with your ankles still hooked on his shoulders. another hand wraps around you, pinching at your nipples, grabbing at flesh, thumb trailing down to trace small circles around you clit.

he's seated so deeply in you now, you can feel him in your guts.

"god you feel so good around me." he pants out, and you can feel the way his hips start to stutter. "so fuckin soft, so fuckin wet, so fucking tight around me- god you tasted so good and you feel even better."

"love how you split me open, how you tear me apart, how you break me down and make me come again and again and again-"

it's all things you've said before, but there's more weight on it now. this is the last time. this is the last time.

finally, after another stutter of his hips, he folds over and pulls you close again, kisses you deeply and you're breathing into one another. he grinds against you just right and it rubs your clit so nice.

"fuck, joel- i- i'm gonna come again," you breathe, and he somehow fucks into you even deeper.

"come for me baby," he coaxes, and you do, waves of pleasure wash over you. you feel his balls tighten against you and he shudders as he pulses deep inside you.

you stay like that for a while, appreciating every drop of sweat, every inch of skin pressed together, the rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

before you can say anything, he nuzzles into your hair and lets out a soft moan.

"let me stay like this in you for a little bit," he whispers, and you hold him closer.

hours later, you're still holding each other close.

"would you want me to stay with you tonight, even if it means i won't be there in the morning?"

you think for a moment.

"no," you tell him, "i think that'd just be harder."

he nods. he understands completely.

eventually it's time for him to leave, and he draws you into his arms for one final embrace.

"you'll take care of yourself, won't you?" he asks.

"i'll take care of myself," you assure him.

a beat of silence.

"i-" you want to say it but you don't know how to. "i'm going to miss you. and i hope you find your brother."

"thank you baby" he murmurs.

"will you forget me?" you ask, and it comes out almost a sob. it's somehow the most intimate question you've ever asked him.

he smiles, sad but firm. "couldn't forget you if i tried. i'll always be thinking of you."

somehow that's exactly what you needed to know. it's comfort.

he kisses you deep and rough, and then draws back to put a chaste kiss on your forehead.

"you never know, you might see me again someday," he whispers, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his eyes looked almost like they were glinting with unshed tears.

"be safe joel," you say, and he gives your hand one last squeeze.

then he's out the door, and you're stood alone in your apartment.

but now you know.

you know this means as much to him as it does to you, and in this world, maybe that's enough.

*****

ok this got angstier than i'd intended, and honestly got away from me, but i'm finally dipping my toes back into fic after a long, long time~

edit: just added a title to it

THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME IN THIS! Ugh, how I have missed them since reading Endurance 😭❤️ This is the best way to start my Frankie Friday

Hi Al!

I'm back with my Ask games again!

This time we have a spring based prompts theme. You get a spring prompt and a character and I'd like to know your head canon/immediate thoughts on the combination.

Character: Frankie Morales

Prompt: cherry blossom

With love,

El

Hi El,

Well this took me bloody ages, but thank you so much for the ask as it set of my brain into a Frankie ✨whirlwind ✨

It inspired a little drabble for the 1940’s Pilot Frankie from my mini series Endurance

It’s pure fluff!

Much love 🖤

Cherry Blossom (580 words)

1940’s Pilot Frankie x f!reader

London, 1948

Frankie dreams of cherry blossoms. On the nights when he’s not awake because of the nightmares, or swaying the baby gently to sleep, he dreams of cherry blossoms drifting through the breeze and catching in your hair.

Of course, cherry blossoms will always make him think of you, those pink petals had been blowing in the wind when he’d first caught sight of you in the Blythe House cottage garden, furious at the wet sheet you were trying to hang on the line that was escaping your grasp.

The sky had been permanently grey the spring of 1944, as if the war had sucked up all the joy and colour, leaving the world in sepia tone. But the pink of the blossom had valiantly tried to remain, despite the constant rain, despite the thick clouds that obscured the sunlight.

There had been a scowl on your beautiful face, mouth set in a hard line as you’d scrambled to catch the sheet. You’d glared at him and he’d known then he was lost forever. He’d never jumped a wall faster.

Today he breaths in the clear, fresh spring air and lets it fill his lungs. Drinking in the promise of longer evenings, blue skies and walks in the park under the London blossoms with his ladies. That’s what he calls you, his little family, the ladies.

Exactly a year ago, you had walked through this very park, Santi in his best suit, holding out his arm to Hannah so she could link with him. She kept repeating that she was ‘so proud’ to be on the arm of such a handsome man, her sweet Scottish burr making Santi preen at the compliments and suggesting to her perhaps he needed to go north of the boarder to find a ‘nice British wife like Frankie’.

You were just married, a wedding procession from the registry office back to your shared house in Belgravia. You’d insisted on walking, wanted to stroll through the blossoms as husband and wife, finally, and let your daughter Theo run ahead excitedly. So pretty in her bridesmaid dress, inherited from one of your little sisters, silk sash around her tummy and wild flowers threaded into her chocolate coloured curls so carefully by Hannah. The mirror image of Frankie… just a different name on her birth certificate.

It was under a cherry tree where he’d first realised he loved you. Stolen kisses in the dark, a hunger that couldn’t be sated that night. He still can’t believe he gets to call you his, that fate had bought him back to you. You were the light that he kept burning bright, even in the darkest of days in occupied France.

He can’t stop the nightmares, the memories that refuse to leave, whispers in the dark of what might have been, what was for so many. But waking up next to you, being able to pull you close and breathe in your scent, taste the salt on your skin, it means he’s alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

As you walk through the park, his hand is threaded through yours, you lean into him and press a kiss into his cheek. As is your want, as is your right, now you’re just another married couple walking through the trees and admiring the first signs of spring.

“One year married Lady, who’d have thought.”

“It feels like a dream Frankie.”

Blossoms swirl through the air as Frankie meets your eyes, so much said with just one look, before he takes the breath right out of you with a soft kiss.

READ THIS! READ IT NOW! I absolutely love @beefrobeefcal’s chubby P-Boy fics. I had the absolute pleasure of being able to lend my eyes for this one ❤️❤️❤️

the BEEF | #1: Joel Miller

Summary: no-outbreak AU, Joel has a headache and that headache wants his attention. [based on a prompt THOT up in collaboration with @strang3lov3]

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader | Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) | Word Count: 3,833

Content Warning: Smutty smutty smut smut, angry fools who want to play hide the sausage, angry joel, shovel violence against a truck, monster cock, age gap (joel is in his 50's, reader is younger), p in the v (unwrapped), rough dresser sex,

Author's Notes: welcome to the BEEF. Each P-boy has a thorn in their side that has to be dealt with. Thank you to @covetyou for inspiring the idea, and thank you @neverwheremoonchild, @strang3lov3 & @bitchesuntitled for their brains and eyes.

and thank you to every friendo in the Bistro - it's all for you, babies.

Joel Miller was your street’s cranky asshole. No one dared throw a party or hold a garage sale without letting him know first. No one dared let their grass get over a certain length and the whole neighbourhood breathed a sigh of relief when he would go out of a town and not see the kids scribble with chalk on the sidewalks in the summer. He never called the cops; no, instead he showed up and berated whoever was hosting an event or engaging in an activity he found offensive. And he was intimidating. He wasn’t the tallest, but he was built like a brick shithouse. You’d lived on the block for almost nine years, and in that time, Joel had gone from being a broad, sturdy single father to a single, empty nester who lived off HungryMan frozen meals. He was a big man with linebacker shoulders and a meaty chest stacked on top of a boulderous belly. His plaid button up shirts always looked like they were holding on for dear life to avoid his temper.

And you were utterly in love with him.

Before the most recent snowfall, you’d been in your room on your bed with the window open a crack to let in some fresh air. Right below your window was Joel’s front porch, and as soon as you heard his door fly open, you grabbed your vibrator and listened.

“Get off my lawn!”, you heard him bellow at who ever had dared to approach his house.

You smiled to yourself and turned on your purple silicon friend and shoved it in your underwear.

As Joel berated the hapless victim of his temper, you nudged yourself closer to the edge. As you did, you cared less about the volume of your cries and let your noises out at top volume. By the time you came, Joel was standing on his porch with his mouth agape, staring at your bedroom window and the offending party walked away with a look of disgust.

*****

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

You watched as your snow shovel slipped out of your hands and hit your Joel’s truck. The one with the vanity plate ‘SM 9000’ that you had no clue what it meant. You could only sit back and watch as it fell and gouged in the paint job on Joel’s 1989 Dodge Ram pickup, your panties grew damp as you heard his front door open and slam against his house.

You turned around, raising your hands, trying to look like you were de-escalating the situation. “Joel, I-“

“The fuck’re you think you’re doin’?!”, he bellowed, stomping towards you.

As he yelled and flew into a tantrum over your shovel’s sins, you couldn’t help the stupid, lovesick half grin blooming on your face.

“… and you ain’t got no respect for no one’s property and…”, he stopped, took a breath, and looked you over, face twisting in a confused rage as he tried to figure out why you were looking at him as if he were a can of tuna and you were a cat watching him being pulled open ever so gently.

“The fuck is wrong with you?!”, he yelled, stepping forward, trying to scare you to no avail. He huffed and stomped his foot, trying to snap you out of whatever trance you were in.

You sighed and tilted your head, loving the attention he was finally bestowing on you, not caring that your reaction was essentially dumping gasoline on a house fire.

“Fuckin’ disrespectful shit…”, he snarled as he grabbed your arm and dragged you towards his house.

“Joel? What’re you doing? Where we going?”, you asked with a big dumb grin on your face then wincing at the harsh grip he had on your elbow. Your boots slipped and skidded on the icy walkway and you tripped heading up the stairs.

“Fuckin’ clumsy dumbass…”, he grumbled, shoving you through his front door and slamming it behind you both.

You looked around his entry way, noting the ugly wallpaper and the stale cigarette smell lingering. You crinkled your nose, and he turned around, his frown deepening into a scowl.

“Boots off!”, he barked, harshly motioning to your feet.

You didn’t miss a beat and toed them off quickly, kicking them into the wall. His jaw clenched as he watched the dirty snow clumps slide slowly down, leaving wet patches on his yellow-turned-brown floral wallpaper.

His eyes snapped up to yours, expecting an apologetic look. Instead, he was met with…

“Why the fuck you lookin’ at me like a love sick puppy?”

Joel was enraged. You didn’t run away or beg for forgiveness. No. You stood in his entry way, kicking your boots and making a mess, looking like he was David Cassidy or Patrick Swayze. You smiled back softly and that was the last straw for him.

“WHAT IN THE FRESH HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

You could have cum right there. Joel Miller was yelling right in your face. You’d gotten off by listening to him lose his shit at anyone trying to fundraiser or collect donations who had dared knock on his door but having a front row seat to a live performance was better than you could have ever imagined.

Joel watched your lips part and your brows twitch as they furrowed and your head tilt back slightly. He heard your breath hitch between his furious growling breaths, and his eyes slid down your parka-clad frame and he swore he saw your thighs clench.

His eyes went wide as he realized the effect he was having on you.

“You fuckin’ dirty little shit…”

The whimper he received in response made his cock twitch in his WalMart Levi’s. He sucked in a harsh breath and swallowed hard. He hadn’t had a woman look at him like that since he went to the strip club with his brother for his bachelor party, and he knew she was looking for a hefty tip. But you – the only thing he could think of is that you were trying to find a way to get out of paying for the damage your shovel caused. There was no waythat you were actually interested in him in that way. No. No woman had wanted to fuck him since before his daughter, Sarah, had been in junior high. He was a fat old asshole and you… you weren’t.

“Joel…”

Your soft voice pulled him back and the frown he carried all but left his face, being replaced with eyebrows to his hairline and his mouth open in confusion and shock.

“Joel, I… I’m sorry about your truck.”

You grabbed the zipper to your parka and pulled down, opening it to reveal your great aunt’s knitted sweater with a loon on it. Joel’s widened eyes swept over you and his brows furrowed.

“The hell you up to?”, he croaked, trying to sound intimidating.

“It’s warm in here”, you respond, tossing your parka on to, but missing completely, the stair banister.

His mind was racing. You actually seemed to be coming on to him as you stepped closer in your mismatched socks. You looked up at him through your lashes while your hands slowly slid up your legging-clad thighs and up to the hem of your sweater. He watched as you pulled it over your head slowly, getting it stuck for a moment, revealing a worn out white t-shirt with a faded image of a marshmallow peep and the slogan ‘Holla At My Peeps!’. He took another step back and you tossed your sweater at him, and he stumbled back, falling onto his recliner.

“Jesus, woman!”, he hollered, ripping your sweater off his head just in time to see you standing above him.

“You know how hot you are?”, you asked, leaning forward over him.

He froze. He must be dead. Or asleep. Or maybe he slipped when he stormed out the door to yell at you and hit his head. Or maybe he was drunk. Maybe he took a NyQuil tablet instead of the Omega 3-6-9 fish oil pills.

“The hell is wrong with you?”, he sputtered out, looking at you wide-eyed.

You didn’t answer. You only leaned forward, nudging your nose against his and letting out a breathy giggle. He tried to speak again, but his words got lost in the high pitch grunt he let out when your knee came up and nestled in between his thighs, pushing against the considerable bulge that had developed.

His hand involuntarily gripped your wrist that was supported on his arm rest, and he sucked in a deep breath.

“I know exactly what you need, Joel Miller.”, you cooed, tongue jutting out and licking your teeth, trying to sound seductive. “You need a good fuck.”

His mouth hung open in shock. You grinned wildly and kissed the tip of his nose before nipping at his bottom lip and tugging it between your teeth.

Joel let out a groan and closed his eyes, the hand on your wrist moving to your t-shirt’s hem and slipped underneath it. You nudged your knee against his crotch again and kissed him, tasting no-name waffles and burnt coffee.

The kiss seemed to break something in Joel. This wasn’t a dream, or an antihistamine induced hallucination or a concussion - this was real. You, his hot, young, stupid neighbour was crawling onto his lap and shoving your tongue down his throat.

He grunted lowly and pushed you back, looking up at you with dark eyes. You tried moving forward again, but his hand held you back.

A whine emanated from your throat, and he shook his head. “I’m not fucking you-“

You scoffed and he shushed you.

“Oh, hush and lemme finish, you loony shit!”, he huffed. “I was sayin’ that I'm not gonna fuck you in this chair; it barely holds my weight and if you’re gonna be bouncin’ on me, this fuckin’ thing’ll screw the pooch.”

You shrugged your shoulders, irritated. “Okay, fine. Then where?”

“My bed, you nimrod!”, he snapped with a scowl, then grinned. “Got a nice mattress with good lumbar support.”

*****

You had followed Joel to his room and were pleasantly… let down. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but the beige walls and the picture of a horse above his non-exciting bed were not what you had thought he would have. What surprised you was the essential oil diffuser plugged in on his bedside table, giving the air a fresh lavender smell.

The fact that the rest of his house looked like a rejected concept for an early nineties sitcom and his bedroom looked like a bed and breakfast that had no theme, for some reason, made you want him more. This man and his lack of consistency. You needed him in you now.

Grabbing his arm and turning him around, you pulled him into a desperate kiss; teeth and tongues, fighting for real estate in each other’s mouths.

“Get naked, sugar.”, he grunted as he broke the kiss with a lopsided grin. He unsnapped his shirt, revealing a grey, stained undershirt, its ribbing pulled tight and stretched over his belly while his mouth and surrounding patchy facial hair glistened with your saliva.

While he wasn’t being that polite, he wasn’t being mean. That was a problem. Even with how mundane he’d revealed himself to be, it wasn’t enough. The residual dampness that made your panties stick to your core was a result of him yelling at you out front, and that goodwill your pussy had shown was slowly drying up.

Joel’s hands began to make quick work of his belt and stretch denim jeans, but he noticed you not moving to do the same.

His hand flapped at you in an urging motion, “Make with the no clothes. Can’t fuck you with them on.”

His eyes narrowed as he noted your lack of movement, and he paused. You began to see signs that Joel was getting mad, and your mind flipped through every situation you’d witnessed him lose his shit in.  What was it that would set him off quick? You weren’t about to throw a block party in his room, nor were you a religious group knocking at his door early on a Saturday. Then it clicked.

A devious grin broke out slowly on your face as you sat on his Temperpedic mattress and crossed your arms.

“Make me.”

“You indignant little shit…”, he growled, clenching his fist.

A flutter in your lower belly. More.

“Come on. Make me.”

“You fuckin’ tease… Fuck you!” His eyes were filling with fire.

An almost painful need bloomed in your core. More!

“Fuck me yourself, coward.”

He sputtered and guffawed, eyes wide in rage.

“You fuckin’ shit! Bangin’ up my truck and actin’ like a needy Jezabel just to fuckin’ tease me like this!”

You could have cum right there, between the iron grip on your wrist and his loud belittling.

You couldn’t stop the giggle that erupted, and he snarled. He grabbed your hand and yanked you up off the bed. You truly thought his back was bad enough that the effort of getting you up alone would be too much, but he shoved you against his dresser, then slamming his weight into your back. You whined, feeling your pussy clenching on nothing.

“You’re such a shit!”, he grunted, grabbing your elasticized waistband, and yanking your leggings and panties down on one side while your hand went to the other; the two of you awkwardly working towards removing your barrier.

When they were low enough on your legs to step out of, you clumsily did so, then tried to turn around to help Joel. He wasn’t fast enough, swearing under his breath as your hands lifted his belly to access his strained button fly. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting like a dog on a window while a steak was being grilled just on the other side.

You pushed his jeans down around his hips and they pooled around his ankles. He kicked them off and bit down on the crux of your neck and shoulder as your hand cupped and felt up his hard cock.

Jesus. Oh fuck.

Joel was hung. Like unreasonably so. You’d had your fair share of men slamming their pork steeples into your wet cunt, but none of them could even hold a candle to the monstrosity that sat heavy and covered in satin in your hand. You planted your hand on his chest and pushed him back, needing to get a peek at what Joel was packing. You immediately looked down, seeing the Wile E. Coyote faux-satin boxers protruding out in an impressive, and frankly intimidating, bulge.

“Oh shit...”, you breathed out, contemplating on whether you truly needed to do any serious sitting for the next week, or if you could maybe just get away with laying down at work.

His hand snapped to your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eye, and he gave you a dark smile, “Showed up to a gun fight with a knife, sugar?”

You didn’t have time to respond because Joel shoved his hand between your legs and harshly began rubbing your clit.

Your eyes fluttered and rolled back. Joel watched, an approving sneer on his face.

“’S fucked up … you like this?”

“uh…. Uh-huh…”

“You’re a lunatic…”

You smiled lazily. “You’re fingering a lunatic… w-what’s that say about you?”

He paused then huffed out, “That I’m fingering a lunatic, you moron.”

You let out a throaty laugh that bleeds into a moan as Joel shoves two thick fingers into your hole, slowly dragging them out before plunging them back in.

“You’re a sick little shit… you seducin’ and teasin’ an old man, an’gettin’ me all wound up… Neighbourhood headache… that’s you. Fuckin’ shit up and walkin’ away with a smile on her dumb face.”

“’M close… don’t…. don’t stop…”

His fingers kept the slow languid pace going as he leaned in and harshly whispered, “Unlike you, sugar, I don’t like to leave people disappointed.”

His eyes never left you, watching your every move. Every involuntary twitch and shudder, every flutter of your eyelids and breath leave your parted lips. He could feel it around his fingers and see it on your face that you were feeling everything intensely and now that he had you like this, he wasn’t going to let you go without making sure you weren’t going to pull this shit again.

Joel was many things, but a man who could let things go was not one of them. He was tired of hearing you cream and cry on whatever silicon thing you were shoving into yourself through your bedroom window as he lost his shit on someone; tired of seeing you make eyes at him while you sat in your front yard as he grumbled at a neighbour for the state of their lawn. He was still furious at you for once letting your hand - your soft, sweet, tender hand - linger on his when handing him his mail that was accidentally delivered to your home, forcing him to sit in his shitty recliner and try to finish with his calloused, rough, and hard hand. He never came.

You were going to pay for that. He’d promised himself that for almost five years and now here you were, on your way to being a muppet with how his hand played in your pussy. Joel’s time had come.

You came, moaning, on his hand as he watched, his fingers still moving in and out of you, and his thumb took up the task of tending to your twitching clit. Your face twisted and you cried out, trying to push his hand away.

Your tongue felt thick in your mouth and a moan seeped out. As you rode the wave, he yanked his hand out and grabbed your arm, throwing you onto the bed.

“Goddammit, you’re such a pretty shit.”, he grumbled, reaching for your ankle, and tugging your ass to the edge of the bed. You tried sitting up on your elbows, but he shoved you back down with his body weight.

His weight. Good god, he felt heavier and better than you ever thought he could as he pressed you down into the mattress.

But he got up off you, trying to wrangle your ankles and pull your exposed pussy to just the right spot to save his back from being strained. You tried sitting up again, wanting to have some sort of control over the situation, but Joel growled and grabbed your hips, and, in an impressive feat, flipped you onto your front all while grumbling about what a pain in the ass you were.

“Can’t even fuckin’ be considerate enough to stay put…”

You heard him spit then grunt, figuring he was priming that fucking meat wagon between his legs, and you let out an impatient huff.

“Knock that shit off!”, he snapped, flicking you on your ass cheek. “You just came, nimrod. You can fuckin’ wait!”

“Yeah… but I wanna cum again!”, you whined out with a smile, trying to not laugh at how irritated he was with you.

“I bet you do… but you’re on my time, and I am a patient man, sugar.”, he crooned lowly, snaking his hand up your back and to your hip. You squirmed a bit, but his hold kept you planted in place, and his other hand held his cock as he nudged it against your opening.

The smile on your face dropped as his huge member pushed in; your mouth opened, and out came a gasp followed by a choked moan.

“That’s it… Jesus Murphy…  not even fuckin’ your throat and I got you to shut your mouth…”

Yes, you knew Joel was huge. But it was just an abstract concept up until that moment. Now that he was shoving his massive dick into you, you felt like the universe’s mysteries were now clearly laid out. You knew what religion was right, who shot JFK, how they made the moon landing look real…

Nothing in life would ever surprise you again because you were being split open by this grumpy, fat man. You were being ruined by Joel Miller.

He grunted as he pulled back and then slammed into you.

“Tight little snatch, sugar… takin’ me like a champ.”

You couldn’t respond. Your brain had melted and left your skull empty, and you were unable to do anything but breathe loudly and moan, “S’too big… too big…”

Joel snickered and grunted, snapping his hips and shoving himself deep. You wriggled and squirmed, simultaneously needing him stop and to fuck you harder. Your head began to feel faint, and your core squeezed him, forcing a groan out of him.

He began to snap his hips faster, panting and grunting like the fat kid in gym class being forced to run a mile. You whined and squirmed, trying to get your knees under your body to be able to push back against him, to get him deeper, but he grabbed your calf and bit your leg right above your sock with a growl then groaned, “Stay… stay put… don’t move… jus’lemme… lemme finish…”

You let out a yelp than melted into a moan, throwing yourself into another orgasm. Joel’s thrusts became hurried and more erratic. The high-pitched whine that ripped out of Joel sounded like a dog begging for table scraps as he shot his load into you.

He collapsed onto your back, both of you panting. After what felt like hours but in reality, was only about 30 seconds, Joel had gone quiet. You nudged him, hoping to god he didn’t die from a pussy-induced heart attack. He grunted and struggled to push himself up off you, then flopped on the bed next to you. You rolled over onto your back and looked at him. His cheeks were flushed, and his brows furrowed; his wispy salt and pepper hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes were closed. He was still breathing heavily through his mouth. You smiled, feeling a fulfillment you hadn’t since you’d convinced your parents that it was your sister who broke the CD-ROM drive in the family computer even though it was really you. Cuddling into his, your fingers drew heart shapes in his sweat coated chest hair.

Now that he’d fucked you, you wanted to clear the air as it were, and make sure he wasn’t going to make you pay for any damage to his truck. “So…”

Joel grunted in response, one eye opening and looking at you.

“I was just wondering… what’s your licence plate mean?”

He sighed and closed his eye again. He said the meaning quietly and at first you weren’t sure you heard him right.

“What?”

His cheeks flushed a little harder and he rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a huff.

“ShagMaster 9000.”

TAGLIST: @theywhowriteandknowthings @toxicanonymity @harriedandharassed @neverwheremoonchild @rebel-held @beee-haw @nevergoingbacknowshine @idolatrybarbie @v4vayha @lalocitos @xdaddysprincessxx @deathsholywaterr @heareball @lyssramscal @wintrwinchestr @nerdieforpedro  @southernbe @starkeydaviss @noxturnalpascal @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog@vabeachazn @clawdee @iamasaddie @jennaispunk @tightjeansjavi @rubyfruitjungle @lilmizmoz @strang3lov3 @pedroshotwifey @harryleatherfit @bitchesuntitled

Well, let’s just put this under the didn’t know I’d be into this tab in my brain! This was so good!!! 😍 absolutely love their dynamic!

some good friend

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Tim Rockford x Soft Dom!Sex Worker!f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: pegging, anal fingering, praise kink, mild glove kink, very mild feminization, masturbation, Tim has body image issues and a bit of an identity crisis, kind of coming untouched, sex work, comfort word count: 7k summary: Nerves were coiling in his belly in a way they typically only did at the end of a big case. There was no judge or jury here, no sentence, no surprise acquittal. There was just your door, and the promise of everything that lay beyond it. And it made him nervous.

A/N: finally, my boy Tim sees the light of day. I've been working on this for a while, and it's been nice to try something a little different. I hope you like it (and someone, anyone, please, stop me from making this a 3 part series)

divider by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

Everything burns. His lungs, his legs, his goddamned feet.

He wasn't made for this. Not any more. His fucking shoes definitely weren't made for this - a fact made more and more obvious with every harsh, sharp, slap of his soles against the ground. Gone were the days of intense foot chases. They'd long since been replaced with hours spent at his desk, in interview rooms, searching the stacks in the archive room. The only saving grace was at the very least he was accustomed to low light - the dimly lit rooms he frequented coming in handy now as he thuds along in the semi-darkness, chasing after someone who is more shadow than man.

The drizzle of a cold October day certainly isn't helping either. He's coated in a fine mist of rain and soaked through to the marrow. His shoes - these fucking shoes - skid on the wet road, threatening injury with each turn of a corner. Every intake of breath blooms pain in his chest, each gasp seeming to draw in more water than air. That is, of course, if the biting chill of the wind doesn't swipe it all out of his mouth first.

He's drowning. Drowning and suffocating and burning all in one, but he can't stop. He can't will his legs to stop, even through the burn. Stopping means he loses, and he cannot lose. Not again. Not with this case.

But then, he turns a corner and the shadow is gone, faded into the darkness of an unlit alley, and out of his grasp once again.

Shit.

The ache is settled well into his bones by the time he gets home in the early hours of the morning. His tie sits damp in his jacket pocket - discarded at the roadside in a fit of rage and stomped into the wet ground, only to be picked up and pocketed a moment later. He liked that tie. His holsters tug uncomfortably at his shoulders, the twist of his body as he was running having shifted them to where they now pinch uncomfortably at his underarms. He can't wait to discard it all, to take off the whole damn lot - and these fucking shoes - and pretend for just one moment that he's not who he is.

So, he begins to shed the skin of Detective Tim Rockford.

The shoes go first. The jacket second. And then he removes his gun, stashing it in its case where it belongs and throwing his holster at his closet, where he'll no doubt struggle to find it again tomorrow. The burning sear of a shower is the last thing left to rid himself of the title that hangs over him, but instead he walks to his office. He needs to be Detective for just a moment longer.

It's tidier and more comfortable in here than it has any right to be. Dark wood, soft leather, neat folders, and blank papers. Of course, it's neat because he's rarely here to use it, preferring to use the space given to him downtown where a plaque sits on his desk telling all and sundry that Detective Tim Rockford works here. Here, in this room, he can be a little less Detective and a little more him.

He flops heavily into his chair, a move he immediately regrets when he feels the relief of taking the weight off his feet. How he'll ever get up from here, he doesn't know. Maybe he'll sleep here. Halfway between Detective and himself, stuck in some weird limbo where he is both and neither all at once. That'll lead to some good dreams.

Tim thinks of you. This was the place for that kind of thing, after all. This office where he is himself and someone else, the perfect parts of a person to be liaising with someone like you. Because that's what it was with you, a liaison. Nothing more, nothing less. And you, everything that you were, were his last chance for some good news before he peeled back the rest of the Detective and became himself for a few blissful hours.

Pulling a card from a drawer, he flips it in his fingers once, then twice before tapping it on his desk. You'd given it to him on his last visit - your address and number emblazoned on the front, both things he no longer needed to see to know, and a small list of services on the other side. Services that he ignored when you'd first pointed them out to him with a wink, but that he'd since spent a long time mulling over and, on occasion, searching in an incognito window of his browser.

With a heavy sigh, he picks up the phone, dialing your number from memory, and waits for you to pick up. Anyone else would be furious with a 4am phonecall, but not you. For a while he thought it was what suited your work best - common sense, and his years on the job, had taught him that illicit activities so often were better suited to darkness than daylight. But he'd seen clients leave your studio in the middle of the day on more than one occasion. No, by this point he simply suspected you didn't sleep at all.

A click of the call connecting, a soft breath down through the line, and there you are, the lilt of your voice ringing through his ear like music.

"Detective Rockford, how nice of you to call. What can I interest you in this fine morning?"

He pinches his nose, card still gripped tightly between his middle fingers. You did this every time, no matter the time of day or night. You were always on, always ready to try to rile him and get into his bloodstream. He'd admonished you once, told you he was only trying to do his job and he expected you to do the same. When you told him you were doing your job, Tim had to admit you got him there. You were both professionals, just in very, very different ways. From then on, he'd learned to appreciate it. Even if it did make him ache sometimes in ways he thought best to ignore.

"You got any news for me?"

You scoff down the phone. A light sound, but he can picture you rolling your eyes with it anyway. "Always so charming, Detective. Diving straight in without any foreplay at all. You can do better than that. Sweeten me up a little before you -"

"Please."

He sounds desperate in a way you haven't heard before. A year into your arrangement and he'd never sounded so bone tired and stressed out. You can even hear the pinch in his brow over the phone, the wrinkles there getting deeper and deeper the longer you knew him.

"It's been quiet, Detective. I doubt I have the names you're after, but a few whispers have been floating around. The case with the cat still causing you problems?"

From the heavy sigh he gives you can tell it's not what he was after, but that it is, indeed, still causing him problems.

"Well, I heard that..."

And so, you divulge your secrets, secrets that aren't really yours to have or to give, but you give them anyway. Whispers and names softly delivered down the phone line where he scribbles them down on a blank sheet of paper, careful not to indent the pages below it.

The pen clatters to the desk when you finish. You both know you haven't given him what he needs, but if Tim's honest with himself he isn't always sure what he needs from you any more. Though, he knows what he wants. Yes, he's frequently made painfully aware of what he wants.

"Anything you need?" he asks, his voice sounding tight with frustration. You can't blame him any more than you can hold back the laugh that trickles from your lips.

"Nothing right now. Here I was thinking that was my line anyway, Detective. The things I could do for you, if you'd let me."

Tim's eyes are drawn to the card again, now face up on the desk beside the scrawl of information you'd just given him. Truth be told, your services are as emblazoned in his mind as the details on the front of the card. Sometimes, like right now, he could barely get that list out of his mind long enough to think straight.

That's the moment when, after a long day at the end of an even longer week, part Detective but part just him, he gives in to what he's been fighting himself for for almost a year, and clears his throat.

"Like what? What... what exactly could you do for me?"

You're caught between surprise and glee, briefly straightening where you lounge in your chair. Softening back into the plush fabric, you dance a finger across your lower lip, wry smile tugging at your mouth as you think of the very many things you could do for him.

"Oh, Detective Rockford. I thought you'd never ask."

Nerves were coiling in his belly in a way they typically only did at the end of a big case. There was no judge or jury here, no sentence, no surprise acquittal. There was just your door, and the promise of everything that lay beyond it.

And it made him nervous.

He was in half a mind to walk away, but it was too late. His knuckles had already rapped against the wood, and you were already flicking the latch on the other side, readying to let him in.

When you do he's stunned, just like he always is when he sees you. This time you're half naked, a thin robe draped over your shoulders and left untied at the front. Beneath it you're wrapped in soft mesh lingerie, your nipples visible through the fabric as you beckon him inside.

The space - your studio - was a simple office unit in an undesirable part of town, but you made it work. As funny as it felt to admit, it was familiar to him now, and there was a comfort in that that was already easing the swell of nerves in his body. It wasn't always this way, of course, that first visit being eye opening both figuratively and literally. Furniture and furnishings that were odd were now somewhat normal, and the soft, rich, scent that permeated the room was one that he now associated only with you and this place you existed within. It was a smell too, he notices, that is so much stronger today than it has ever been on any of his previous visits, and he breathes in deeply, both to savor it and to calm the last of the nerves vibrating in his core.

When you shut the door, closing off the world outside, you stand before him again, looking a picture of sultry confidence as you size him up. This wasn't something that was new. You often stood there, letting your gaze wander up and down his body, lingering in places that made him flush red as you taunted him with flirty quips he'd ignore. This time is no different, and he finds himself mesmerized by the way you toy with the ties on your robe as you eye him, fingers gliding up and down the fabric.

"Are you here on your business, or mine, Detective?" you say with a smile, drawing his gaze from your fingers to your face. It was a long running joke, something you said each and every time he visited you here, despite the answer always being the same. But today, finally, it would be different.

Tim rolls his eyes, just as he always does, but instead of replying with a curt mine, he lets a smile pull at his lips instead. "Yours."

"Music to my ears. And you still want to do this? You're ready?"

You both knew that had a double meaning. In the literal physical sense, he knows he's as ready as he could possibly be. But he still takes a moment to check in with himself, to see if going through with all of it is something that he still wants. If those whispers down the phone, whispers that had quickly turned from flirty promises to guidance, to gasps, to relief, were what he still wanted. Would it be worth it, or was it a momentary blip of weakness and want? But then he remembers that relief once again, the soothing of that ache like sitting down off of pained feet, and can only imagine how much better that will feel here, with you, in this room. He's ready.

Tim nods, prompting you to take another step forward. The smell isn't the room at all, he notices. It's you. The fragrance clinging to your hair or your skin, he's not sure, but so much stronger each time you move.

"Good," you say on your slow approach. Barely a step from him you reach out, tugging on his jacket and straightening his tie before letting your palm rest on his chest. The soft stroke of your fingers does nothing to soothe the rapid hammering of the muscle pumping in his chest cavity, but you suppose it wasn't meant to. You wanted him excited and desperate for it. He'd already shown you how beautiful he could be for you over the phone - all whines and whimpers and yes ma'am's. Now you wanted the real thing.

"Why don't you get all of this off for me."

Before now, Tim had wondered how you started these things - how you went from 0 to seemingly 100 with clients to get them in through the door and out in the allotted time frame. He hadn't expected it to be so quick, or so easy. Maybe he just hadn't expected himself to be so quick, or so easy, but he's tugging at his tie before you even move away to settle against your desk with your ankles crossed.

"That's it, Detective," you prompt, letting your robe slip from your shoulders and pool at your elbows as he stuffs the tie into his pocket. "I want to see all of you."

And he wants you to see all of him. He wants to take off everything that makes him Detective Tim Rockford right in front of you, and have you take control, tell him what to do, make his mind blissfully empty. So, first he kicks off his shoes, then he takes off his jacket. Slowly, his shirt is peeled from his body, the nerves racketing up again with each button. He doesn't look how he did 10 years ago, he was less lean and more soft than he had ever been, the middle aged spread proving to be a fact of life he couldn't escape.

You know what he's thinking as his fingers stall on the last few buttons of his shirt. You'd dealt with these insecurities before, in countless other clients. You weren't immune to similar thoughts either. But, he'd told you he wanted to let go, to give up control with you, so you nod to the remainder of his clothes and prompt again.

"Come now. Let me see."

Tim's fingers work quickly over the last buttons and pull the shirt from his broad frame just as quickly, giving no time for the nerves to take root. You voice the sound of your smile the moment his shirt is discarded and he looks up to see your appraisal. Each button had drawn your eyes down his chest, to the soft swell of his belly, and further still to the growing bulge in the front of his pants. Tall and broad and beautiful, the mass of man in front of you had the power to catch your eye even fully clothed, but now, shirtless with the promise of more on the horizon, you couldn't ignore the thrill at seeing so much of his tanned skin, littered with freckles and a soft smattering of hair.

His belt is unbuckled and off, and his fingers are pulling open the button of his pants and his fly. He doesn't look at you again. He can't right now - if he does he'll choke up and stop himself, feeling entirely inadequate offering this body of his to you. Pushing down his pants, down past soft thighs and strong calves, he steps out of them, taking his socks with them with each step, before nervously scratching at his belly.

Only then, does he look back up at you. You're enraptured, and have already pushed back off your desk, circling him to look at every inch of his body. You'd dimmed the lights slightly, as you always did for client sessions, but even in the soft lamplight he looked stunning. Your fingers trace the swell of his bicep, across his shoulder and the jut of his shoulder blade. A shudder runs down his spine as your fingers dance across it, down to the dimples at his back and over his hip before you round him again where your fingertips rest on his soft belly and the trail of hair there.

"You've been hiding all of this from me for how long, Detective?" you whisper, letting your fingers glide down further and further with each word. "It makes me wonder what else you're hiding."

Tim's cock twitches in his boxers, the thin fabric straining more and more with each passing moment under your gaze. He'd never felt so seen, so appraised, before. The way you looked at him was so easy, the shine in your eye so bright as he peeled back each layer.

"You still want this?"

It's what he said he'd wanted. Days ago now, but he'd said he wanted it and he did. He does. He swallows thickly, desperate to get moisture back into his mouth, nodding a croak of a yes.

At that, you slide the tip of your finger into the waistband of his boxers and pull, stretching the elastic a fraction before releasing, pinging it sharply against his skin.

"Then get these off too, Detective."

His boxers are on the floor a second later, his cock springing free semi-hard between his legs. Raising your hands to your face, you gasp in faux shock, hiding your very real delight behind your hands as you take in his entire naked form.

"Oh, Detective Rockford. I'm disappointed. After all this time you've been hiding that from me?" you gasp, and while Tim can't help but roll his eyes, his cock betrays him and stiffens even more at your words. You'd been through it all with him. Your services, yes, but also specifically what he wanted from you, some of which you'd discovered together on the phone that morning. This was one of those things - a thing you'd discovered on a whim, but something you both knew he would like before the words left your lips. There was a reason he was asking you for this and nobody else - Tim knew the specific brand of sordid you dealt in and, more than anything, he trusted you. Unfortunately for him, you planned on keeping exactly to your word from that call and, guiding your fingers down his bare chest, you tease closer and closer to his length.

"Tsk. Such a shame I won't be playing with it today."

Tim groans, a gasp of a thing he cuts short with a pinch of his lips. He's frowning again too, but nods, knowing that what he came here for wasn't that, but also very aware of the weight of the words you used. Not today, but not never.

Then, your robe is off and you're guiding him to the bed, where he lowers himself and leans back, watching your form as it retreats into the other room. He looks down, down at the body you'd just spent minutes looking at and enjoying, and wonders what you see that he doesn't. All he knows is he's trusted your word for as long as he's known you, and it's no different now. Whatever you see in him, you at least believe it to be true, and that alone makes it easier for him to believe himself. Before he can figure much or anything else out, you're sauntering back into the room.

In your hands you hold a few things. None of them should be surprising to him, but he still sucks in a sharp breath when he sees it - the strap you'd picked out just for him. You'd told him about it over the phone, said that you had the perfect one for him, that you could picture him beneath you taking it, moaning and shaking as you fucked him, and now there it was, exactly as you described. This was never something he felt able to ask for with anyone else, his ex-wife especially. It's true he was always married more to his job than to her, but even in the privacy of their own bedroom he had secrets and wants he could never share with her - she made that much clear early on. With you, he didn't even need to mention it first for you to suggest it to him, didn't even need to feel the heat of shame in his cheeks as he struggled to find the words for what he wanted, because there you were already with all the answers.

You settle everything beside him, letting him see the soft, slender, curve of the dildo up close for the first time, and pass him a bottle of water. Tim takes it, grateful that once again that it was another thing he didn't have to ask for, and cracks open the lid, taking a deep gulp of the cold liquid before setting it out of the way. Another day he'd wonder how it got to this - how on earth Tim Rockford got so used to suffering in silence that even thirst wasn't something he'd remedy until he was desperate. But, right now all he knows is the heat of your body and the smell of your skin as you kneel next to him on the bed, looking down at him with a smirk on your lips.

"Usually I ask people how they'd like it," you whisper, stroking gently down his neck, "but I think we both know you'd like it on your knees, Detective." You twirl your finger in the air, signalling for him to move, and like the good little thing he is, he shifts onto his hands before crawling forward slightly to perch on all fours on the bed.

You think he looks glorious; he feels so exposed - entirely naked for you while you're draped in that thin mesh he can see right through. He doesn't want to think about how he looks like this, on his knees with his ass on total display, his cock hanging low and, already, starting to leak precum.

Blunt nails drag down his back, softly scraping down his ass cheeks and the backs of his thighs. He shudders. You can see his cock where it bobs between his legs, and his balls where they hang softly just beneath the cleft of his cheeks. If he were a different client, maybe you'd give in and drag your nails across the soft flesh of them too, cup them in your palm and give them a firm squeeze, but you resist. Whatever this is doing to you, you'll deal with later. For now, this is for him and that desperate man, the Detective, who had all but begged you for information down the phone.

Grabbing at the small selection of things you'd dumped next to him, you get ready. Tim watches, eager eyes looking as you pull a black nitrile glove down your hand and snap it around you wrist, wiggling your fingers at him when you spot his gaze.

"I can tell you're excited," you say with a look down to his ass where his cock bounces hard against his belly with a tense of his muscles. "You're so ready for this too, aren't you? You've been waiting so long..."

Guiding your ungloved hand down his ass, you squeeze, gripping the flesh and pulling him apart, exposing him to your gaze. "Very pretty."

Tim huffs a laugh, not believing for a second that he is pretty at all, let alone like this, or there.

"What? You don't think you're pretty, all bent over and exposed for me, Detective? I'd argue you've never looked better."

"Right. Is this how you get all your information? Your clients must tell you all sorta things, huh? Vulnerable like this."

A swift, sharp slap is delivered to his right ass cheek, making him gasp as you tut and soothe the sting with your palm. "Ah-ah, Detective, you're off the clock. No work talk. We're here on my business now, not yours."

"Fu- Never off the clock, not in my line of work."

"And that's exactly why you're here, sweetie."

"...Yes ma'am."

There's a small delighted giggle that you just can't hold back, a sound that makes him flush, before you speak again. "Polite and pretty. Are you ready for me, Detective?"

It's then he realizes that your hand hasn't stopped its slow, steady caress of his ass cheeks, pushing and pulling him apart as you watch the tension leave his shoulders. He nods, trying not to brace himself for whatever is coming first, not hearing the click of a lube bottle through the blood rushing in his ears, but definitely feeling the cool trickle of it when it drips onto his asshole.

"That's it," you say, soothing with your ungloved hand, as your gloved one comes down to stroke the pucker of his ring. "We both know you're familiar with this feeling, Detective. Are you going to let me in here?"

The wet swipe of your finger between his cheeks almost feels like it could be cool, cold tongue with how you swirl it around and around his asshole. He tries not to curl his toes, and manages not to until he can't help but beg, a small please falling softly from his plush lips, and you immediately push, sinking the tip of your finger into his ass.

Tim groans, gripping the sheets in an effort not to surge forward and away from the gentle probe of your finger.

"Make all the noise you need to, Detective."

"Fuck."

Your finger steadily sinks into him, drawing out and in to collect more lube as you drizzle it onto his hole.

"Remember how this feels?"

He remembers. Remembers the crackle of your voice over the phone line as you told him to finger his ass. How his hands had scrambled to turn on speakerphone, the other still wrapped around his cock, jerking weakly as you whispered filthy encouragement down the line. Before even that, he remembers the nights spent in his own bed, concocting his own fantasies while he fucked his fist and fingers in tandem.

Except, your fingers feel so much different from his own, can reach places his cannot, and he's groaning with his head hung low between his shoulders before you're even knuckle deep.

Curling this way and that, you feel him from the inside out. Soothing him with a hand on his back, you can feel the deep breath he takes just as the tip of your finger collides with a spot inside him he was all too familiar with, massaging back and forth until he's a groaning mess.

"Oh, well that's a pretty sound, Detective. It sounds to me like you want another."

If he closes his eyes, he can see it, see the black of your gloved hand curled into a fist as your index finger stretches his hole. He can see already as you pull out a little, unfurl another finger, and slide it next to the first, ready to push into him again.

And he takes it, letting out a shuddering gasp, as your fingers fuck into his ass once again, scissoring in him before pushing down and beginning a slow curl against that spot again.

"There. That was easy. I think someone is enjoying this quite a bit, aren't you, Detective?"

There's no denying it, he is. The feel of your hand making him want to buckle into a heap on the bed already and you'd barely even started.

"Yeah. It's - ah fuck - it's good. That's - uh - not fair."

You'd been curling and prodding against his prostate as he tried to talk, making him garble words at you as you watch his cock get more and more engorged between his thighs. "What's not fair?" you ask, with a firmer press down into the spot, and you relish in the deep gravelly moan that grumbles from his chest, forcing his elbows to drop down onto the mattress.

When his hips buck forward, you place a steadying hand on his back, stroking soothing circles with your bare fingers over the dimples in his skin whilst your gloved ones curl into the spot again and again. Part of him is longing to reach down and grab his cock, to jerk it and come all over his fist with your fingers buried in his ass, but that's not what he's here for. Each time he opens his eyes he's made aware of what he's here for by the strap that still lays next to him. If he comes too soon, he's scared that'll be it over, the relief he was really seeking from you still totally out of reach by his own failure. He couldn't, wouldn't, fail at this too.

"Just look at you, Detective. You're getting so wet already." He is. He can feel it. His cock is dripping, beads of precum collecting on his tip and threatening to make a mess of the sheets below. Nodding and groaning and squeezing his eyes shut seem to be all he can do already, feeling like a total mess of a man with your voice like honey trickling into his ear. "So good. I think you can take one more finger. That's it, just one more. Good. Good boy."

He preens, back arching with the praise, cock definitely dripping onto the sheets now, three of your fingers curling and thrusting into his ass. He throbs, the ache of arousal thrumming through him with no relief, just building and building and building with nowhere to go, because you don't let it. You control it, each press of your fingers still so achingly slow that it can make him drip and ache but never explode.

A thin sheen of sweat is coating his body, his legs shaking, forehead pressed into the cool sheets, groans falling wantonly from his mouth, by the time you gingerly pull your fingers from him. That in itself feels like a relief, he thinks. Even though he's still painfully hard at least, for one moment, he's not being worked up and up to an edge you won't quite let him over just yet.

But the strap beside him is gone when he looks up, pushing up on shaky hands to look around for you again. Now, it sits on your hips, straps pulled taught over the mesh of your lingerie. You're pulling a condom over the length of dildo, rolling it down to the base, your glove discarded somewhere he can't see. His mouth is dry again, so he reaches for the water, swallowing deeply, wiping away an errant drop from the scruff of his beard.

He can't stop looking. Between your face, your beautiful face, your scantily clad body, your hands and those fingers that had just been inside him, the cock between your legs. He's entranced. It takes a gentle hand on his shoulder for him to notice you're talking to him.

"Look at you, Detective," you hum down to him, and all he can think is Yes. Look at me. Please. Here he was, stripped bare as a man could be, seen by you in ways he'd never been seen. And that name - a taunt coming from you that he longed for rather than loathed. Each tease of Detective a reminder that with you he could be both and neither all at once, just as he always was.

He reaches for you then. Slowly. Delicately. Fingers bridging the gap between you. Usually you'd step back, move away from grasping hands when permission wasn't granted. But, you let him touch, his fingers resting on your mesh covered hip and stroking you. It's the first time he's ever touched you, and it's so soft. You're so soft.

"You're ready for it, aren't you?" you ask, your eyes lazily dragging down to the strap between your legs where his follow.

Without word, and avoiding the mess already splattered on the sheet, he moves back to all fours, his hand leaving you cold. Slicking more lube across the strap, you kneel behind him, palming his ass with both hands, rubbing soft circles down his thighs as you gently rut against the crevasse of his ass.

"Do you trust me, Detective?"

It's a stupid question - stupid because you already know the answer, and so does he.

"You're kidding, right?" he says in disbelief, looking around to see the coy smile on your face.

"Humor me."

"Of course I do."

With his eyes still on you, you press forward, hand steadying the dildo to slip the tip into his slick asshole.

"Oh. That's it. Look at me when I fuck your ass. That feels so good doesn't it?"

Tim pants, nodding as you bear forward. The strap is barely thicker than your three fingers, but his rim still stretches and pulls as you breach him, slowly, steadily, until the entire length is buried in his ass.

"There we go. That's it. I'm all the way in. You take an ass fucking so well, Detective. Are you sure you haven't done this before?" With another roll of your hips he's gasping again, dropping his face to the sheet. The heat of his thighs are against yours and you know, you just know, that his cock is straining, his balls begging to empty already.

"There we are. That's it. You can take it. Oh, good boy. You like that don't you. You like being a good boy."

With his cheek is pressed to the mattress, you can see nothing but the pinched look of ecstasy on his face. It's boiling in his veins too, the heat spreading up his back and burning his cheeks. If he opens his eyes he'll see you, looking down with intent at his ass as you slowly roll your hips into him, and the thought alone makes him groan, brings him so close to coming that he's scrambling for purchase on the bed again, desperate gasps rattling out of him. The cloying scent of you is all over him - stuck in his lungs like molasses, each deep breath in of you coinciding with each slap of your hips against his ass until desperation turns to pleading.

"Please. P-please. Fuck. Please."

"Please what?" you say, looking around at him. And that's when you see his cock, angry and weeping, splattering cum all over your sheets. You hadn't felt him come yet, there'd been no tensing of his muscles or twitching of his cock, just a steady stream of precum dripping from him like a leaky faucet. "Oh, look at that. You're making quite the mess, aren't you, sweetie? Are you going to clean that up? Hm? Or will I have to bill the city for my laundry?"

"Oh, fu-," he pants, and you feel a shiver trickle down his back at the empty threat, his palms pressing harder into the mattress beneath him as his shoulders draw back. He's going to come. You don't even need to move, you could just talk to him in that voice of yours, call him a good boy and tell him how dirty he is and he'd be gone, skyrocketing to a place he'd never been and making a glorious mess of everything.

"What was that?" You slow down the roll of your hips, drawing him back from that edge you'd been dangling him so deliciously over.

"No. No. Don't - Fuck."

"Then you'll have to clean up your mess."

You swipe your finger through the cum that has steadily dripped from his cock and onto the sheet below, and lean forward to bring it to his lips, pressing your hips further and further into his ass. There's a sticky sheen of sweat on his back that slicks you together, and you can't resist. You kiss him. Soft lips pressing into the muscle of his shoulder, waiting for that moment he parts his lips in a voiceless moan to slip your finger inside. His tongue laves around your digit, tasting himself on the salt of your skin and he groans, vibrating desperate sounds from his chest to yours as you fuck so deep he's seeing stars.

"That's it, that's a good boy," you coo, dragging your finger from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva across the scruff of his cheek.

"It's such a shame I have no use for your cock when it looks so pretty, Detective," You say, lifting your leg to fuck more deeply into him. "Look at it, all drippy and useless. You're going to come, aren't you? Even without touching your cock, you're going to come and make even more of a mess."

"Yes. Fuck, yes. Don't stop."

The steady slap of your hips picks up, and you're panting with exertion now too. You could've had him coming in five minutes, but that was no fun for you. You'd waited too long for this not to drag it out, not to see how long he could hold off for you, how much of a desperate mess he could be before he was begging for release. This was it. His limit. You'd found it, and his groans were suddenly impossible to ignore, shooting white hot heat into your own core, making you feel slick with want as you fucked him. You need him to come, before your need for more friction clouds your brain and you need to slip your hand between your own legs before he even leaves.

"Such a pretty ass to ruin. Come for me, Detective. Oh, fuck. Come for me."

He stops breathing. He thinks he's died. He has to have. You think you've killed him. But then his whole body tenses and he groans out a sob, biting sheets and spitting them out over and over as he comes, and comes, and comes. You don't stop, each shuddering sob of a gasp spurring you on until he's milked dry and almost prone on the mattress.

"That's it. That's it. You did it. Good boy. Well done, Detective. Well done."

He feels so soft. His bones must have turned to dust and spurted out of his cock with that final thrust of the strap in his ass. He's never been this weightless, never been this carefree. There's not an ache in him, just pure bliss, and he's so relieved he could cry.

And you're there. Pulling out of him slowly, wiping down his back, his thighs, with a damp towel, cooling him before you dry him with another, bringing water to his lips for him to drink. Pushing his hair back from his forehead, you guide him onto his back, letting him lie down and take a moments rest you know the man wouldn't take any other time. You're fairly certain he doesn't sleep. Detective Rockford works too hard because he cares too much, you know that. And you also know he doesn't care for himself. That is why he's here, even if he'd never say so himself.

"Up you get, sweetie. It's cold. Let's get something on you," you're whispering to him all too soon. Tim's lost, the concept of time gone from his body entirely, but he supposes it has been too long, his time is up. He only paid for an hour of your time, and even that seemed much more valuable than the price you'd put on it. He should go.

When he sits up he's lethargic, reaching for his clothes as he shuffles to the end of the bed. He doesn't know you're holding a robe out for him, strap discarded. He doesn't see the concern in your eyes because he suddenly can't meet them. "Should get going, I guess."

"No. You shouldn't. Stay."

Tim looks up to you then, seeing you wrapped and fully covered for the first time in the year he's known you. You're no more on the job right now than he is, he realizes, blinking in confusion at the robe you toss next to him.

"Look, I've taken up enough of your time, I don't want to overstep -"

"I'm not asking you to stay as a client, Detective. I'm asking you to stay as a friend. Stay. Talk to me." And you say it because god knows you mean it. You want him to stay and you want him to talk as much as you know he needs it, that gap he'd bridged with his hand now being bridged by you, and your simple request that he stay.

"Some friend to have."

"A good friend to have, Tim.”

“- I didn't mean - I meant me, I -”

“The point still stands either way," you say. And you mean that too. "Stay."

And that's it. There he is. Stripped back, just like he wanted. No more Detective. Just Tim. And there you are. Sitting on the blanket draped sofa, looking him straight in the eye. You don't need to look down to see him, and he doesn't need to look up to see you.

Grabbing the robe, Tim drapes it around himself, walking on unsteady feet toward you, the mess of the sheets and his life forgotten for one more second.

"Decaf? Might not have all the answers. But I do have coffee. And that's a start."

"Yeah," he says as he sits beside you. "Yeah, that's a start."

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