she/her/they/them This recently turned 40 yr old millennial has no idea what she's doing. Just here to read good fanfics, post random shit I like, and NOT fuck things up too much.
I'm a grown ass woman who's married and doesn't really care about celebrities on a personal level, ie dating. As long as you're a good person, I'm in.
But I am OBSESSED with these two. I already admire the way Ms Lauren Keyana Palmer moves and am so incredibly impressed with her as a person, but the chemistry is PEAK! Keke deserves the best, and the way Sean looks at her and even the little touches, it's beautiful! The mutual attraction and flirtation is something you only see in books, unless experienced.
I have no one to share this with, so if anyone else is an old millennial that has trust issues still and can't see the good in people immediately, go watch this. It holds nothing to their Hot Ones interviews. The magnetism is so wholesome and beautiful. 
So according to Goodreads, I read over 200 books last year.
That's a fucking lot apparently?
So if this reaches anyone that's a big reader, what do you do with all your recommendations?
I've got shit saved on TikTok, Reddit, KU, and even screenshots. Yes, I have Goodreads but I don't like their app really and only use it because it's connected to KU.
So any suggestions on how to wrangle your outta control TBR lists? I feel like a TBR list shouldn't be nerve inducing just because I have FOMO.
Summary: You stumbled upon Bob's diary. You had no idea how much reading it would change everything, or how much it would reveal about him… and yourself.
Warnings: MDNI 18+, strong language, alcohol consumption, invasion of privacy, unprotected sex (p i v), oral sex (f receiving), breast play, multiple orgasms, mutual orgasm, sexual tension, Bob being emotionally guarded, aftecare (cuddling), smut mixed with fluff, slight obssesion
A/n: Hi there! I had so fun writting this and I am so happy how it turned out! Again, it's a bit long but that's completěy normal for me right :p Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3
Mastelist
“It’s really okay, I promise,” you kept reassuring Bucky, though his expression remained unconvinced.
“You sure?” That was the fifth time he’d asked, and your answer hadn’t changed.
Even if Bucky didn’t believe it, it was true — you honestly didn’t mind staying at Stark Tower while the others went on the mission. Not only would there've been more people than necessary, but you’d had a headache since morning, and you knew you’d be nothing but a burden in your current state.
“Alright, if you say so. I tried,” Bucky said in defeat, raising his hands with a sly grin that sometimes worked, but not this time.
“Just come back alive,” you joked with a soft smile. He chuckled as he slipped his gun into the holster on his belt.
Before they left, you said a quick goodbye to everyone and waved them off. They all looked fairly confident, maybe even excited, except Bob. But he always looked stressed, so it didn’t really surprise you.
The moment the doors closed and silence washed over you, you took a deep breath. Alone. Finally alone.
You couldn’t even remember the last time you had the entire tower to yourself, and though it came with a certain responsibility, it was an amazing feeling.
No more of Walker’s annoying educational lectures. No more of Yelena’s frustration radiating through the walls. No more of Alexei’s disgusting smelly socks. No more of Ava's constant eye-rolls when something didn’t go her way. And no more of Bucky’s mysterious expressions that always made you wonder if he was angry, deep in thought, or just hungry.
When it came to Bob though — strangely, nothing about him annoyed you. Quite the opposite. Ever since he moved in, he had become the most wonderful company, and the others often said you’d been smiling a lot more since then.
The first time you saw Bob, you were immediately drawn to him, not just his looks, but also his silly, lovable personality. Sure, he could be a bit of a goof who missed obvious things, and yeah, maybe he’d almost destroyed an entire city because of his trauma, but that didn’t change how much he meant to you. You’d do anything if he were in trouble, because you knew he’d do the same for you.
It took him a while to open up to you, to let you into his comfort zone. But when he finally did, Bob didn’t regret it. He had learned what it meant not to be alone anymore. To have someone to share stories with, to play PlayStation with, or just sit and watch a movie beside.
And that someone was you. You were a team. Inseparable. Well until now. But you believed he’d be okay out there.
While the others were out risking their lives, you decided to enjoy yourself as much as possible. You made yourself a summery mojito with ice, turned on your favorite show, and sank into the armchair. Strangely, your headache vanished. How odd…
Time passed slowly, and after a while, just sitting and staring at the screen got boring. So you decided to be a little productive.
You started cleaning.
Even you couldn’t believe it. You had no idea where the motivation came from. Normally, when it was your turn to do the dishes, vacuum, or any kind of chore, you’d dodge it like the plague.
But now? You were doing it voluntarily. You even touched your forehead, wondering if you had a fever and were hallucinating, but apparently, you were fine.
You changed into more comfortable clothes, tied your hair into a ponytail, and got to work.
You scrubbed the entire kitchen until it sparkled, surprised by how much dirt had been hiding in various corners.
Then you vacuumed the floors, took out the trash, wiped down the bar, cleaned the bathroom, you even went into the gym and wiped down all the sweaty equipment. And just like that, it was done. You felt good about yourself.
But the crew still hadn’t returned, and you’d finished everything way too fast. You let out a loud sigh, thinking about what else you could possibly do. Then a lightbulb went off.
You grabbed all your cleaning gear and headed to the bedrooms. Was this a breach of privacy?
…Maybe.
But as long as you didn’t snoop or go digging through their stuff, maybe they’d even thank you for it. So you started cleaning each room, one by one.
You were careful to leave everything exactly where it had been, you didn’t want anyone biting your ass over a moved book or out-of-place trinket.
You dusted the shelves and dressers, polished the decorations, and occasionally found things you’d never be able to erase from your memory — but hey, at least now you had blackmail material. Silver lining.
As your little cleaning era went on, you realized how ridiculously messy everyone was.
Underwear on the floor, clean and dirty. Dishes left around with half-eaten food. Smells that hit you like a locker room full of sweaty hockey players. It was chaos. But you managed to clean it up. Now it looked less like a war zone and more like a smaller explosion.
When you walked into Bob’s room, it immediately felt different.
He didn’t have many things, barely any clothes, either, and the empty space gave it a sort of natural tidiness. There wasn’t much for you to clean, really. So instead, you snooped a little.
His books were arranged on the shelf by alphabetical order, by size, and even by color. His perfectionism was going to kill him one day.
The PlayStation controller sat exactly where it always did, right under the TV. His clothes were neatly folded in drawers or hanging on perfectly aligned hangers.
You never would’ve guessed Bob was this meticulous with cleaning. He was tidier than most women you knew. He never stopped surprising you. Still wanting to help a little, you decided to at least fluff up his bedding.
You grabbed the comforter first. It was the heaviest and took the longest. Once that was done, you returned, laid it carefully over the bed, and moved on to the pillows.
He had two, one on each side, like everyone else. You picked up the first. Then the second, and then you stopped. Beneath the second pillow, there was a book. A journal.
Your brows furrowed as you slowly set the pillows aside. You reached out and picked it up. Opening to the first page, you saw the title written neatly in Bob’s handwriting:
“The Diary of Robert Reynolds.”
You inhaled deeply and hesitated. This was his privacy. And you weren’t going to invade that. You placed the diary back, moved the pillows to their original position, and left the room.
But the second your foot hit the hallway, curiosity took over. With a quiet sigh, you turned around, stepped back in, tossed the pillows onto the bed, and stared at the diary.
Your mind was a storm of thoughts. Like you had an angel sitting on one shoulder telling you not to, and a devil on the other whispering, “Read it.”
You stood there with your arms crossed tightly, chewing the inside of your cheek. Your foot tapped nervously on the floor until finally, you made your decision.
“One page won’t hurt anybody,” you muttered, picking up the diary and flipping open the first page.
Just a simple entry about how much he liked the food Yelena had made. Nothing interesting. You flipped ahead.
An entry about how Walker pissed him off. Now that was more interesting. You laughed at the way Bob described him, he’d captured John’s annoying behavior perfectly.
And from there, it snowballed. You flipped through more pages, sat down on his bed, and slowly got lost in his writing.
Even when he was gossiping, even when he was clearly furious — he wrote with this poetic, strangely beautiful tone. He had real talent.
One page…
then two…
then five…
then eighteen.
You didn’t read the whole thing, just the juicy stuff. The gossip. The rants.
Your eyes eagerly scanned the words, a smile tugging at your lips. But then you flipped another page and froze. A chill ran down your spine as you read your name.
He had never mentioned you in the diary before, not even once. And now he had written several pages just about you. You shouldn’t read it. You really shouldn't. But you had to. You wanted to.
God, I don’t even know where to begin. She is so unbelievably beautiful. I adore every single part of her body.
The way her hair dances in the wind when we’re driving to a mission and she’s looking out the window.
Her adorable nose, scrunching up anytime she sees or hears something awkward.
How she bites her lip whenever someone gives her a compliment and she doesn’t know how to respond.
You hadn’t even noticed it, but as you read those words, you were biting your lip. Your heart was pounding like crazy, and your face was as red as a tomato. Still, you kept reading.
She makes me think of things I never imagined before. She brings something into my body, my mind, that I’ve never felt.
It’s like she’s my salvation from the Void. My rescue. My reason to smile each day.
I always thought I needed medication to feel okay again. To feel like I was worth anything. But… all this time, I just needed her. And I still do.
There’s not a single day I don’t think about her. Not one hour. Not a single damn minute.
She’s stuck in my head and I don’t want her out. She’s like my blood, like my oxygen… I need her like I need food. Like I need air.
You couldn’t believe what you were reading. You had no idea Bob felt this way about you. And those words… they weren’t just words on paper. They meant something more. Because no one had ever written about you like this before. No one had ever seen you like this. It made your chest ache, in the sweetest, most terrifying way.
Bob wasn’t just a good man. He was soft, tender, full of things he kept hidden so deep… and now you were reading the most vulnerable part of him.
You couldn’t read any more. Not because you didn’t want to, but because if you did, you’d probably cry. Or get emotional diabetes from how absurdly sweet it all was.
So you flipped forward. Just casually, few pages. No big deal. But then one word stopped you. Then another. And another. Then an entire sentence. And suddenly, you couldn’t do anything else but read the page.
I feel like a stupid teenager when I see her, but I can’t help it. I don’t just need her emotionally, I need her physically.
My body craves her every single night. When I try to sleep, I close my eyes and I see her.
And in that moment, every unholy thought crashes into me, and I can’t fight it. I don’t want to.
I see her, in lingerie, wearing that breathtaking smile. The way her juicy ass bounces when she jumps, or simply walks. The way her breasts sit perfectly, and I just wonder what it would feel like to touch them. To feel her. Inside me. To feel her soft lips wrap around the head of my cock—
You gasped out loud, hand flying to your mouth as you slammed the diary shut with a loud thud. This can’t be real. Bob Reynolds, the most respectful, quiet, gentlemanly person you know, wrote this? Thought this?
You closed your eyes tightly, shaking your head as if trying to reboot your brain. You must be imagining this. You’ve been alone too long, lost deep in your feelings. But curiosity didn’t care and made you reopened the diary. And on the next page, it got worse…or better… well you didn’t even know anymore.
I want to feel her around me. I want to know what it’s like to have my dick buried inside her.
What her voice would sound like if I circled my finger around her clit.
I want to hear her scream my name so loud the whole building knows who’s fucking her.
I want to see her jaw drop, her eyebrows twitch, her eyes close as I make her cum so hard she forgets her own name.
God forgive me, but every night I can’t sleep, it’s her I see. And I have no choice but to touch myself to her. I can’t help it — she’s so damn beautiful. I don’t even understand what she’s done to me, but I let it happen.
That was it. That was the last straw. Your jaw literally dropped as you slowly closed the diary, your eyes wide, staring into the wall like it personally insulted your family. Every sentence replayed in your head like a broken record. You needed a minute, or two.
The real problem wasn't that it was creepy — which, yeah, maybe a little. But the real issue was it didn’t bother you. Not even a little. If anything, it turned you on. And that’s wrong.
Your hands slapped against your face as you let out a frustrated scream. This was getting way out of hand. Well, at least this is your lesson to mind your own business next time and not go snooping through people’s private stuff.
Because now, that diary and those words were glued into your brain. They kept playing on a loop, rewinding and pausing only to make you suffer more.
You sat in the armchair, staring blankly at the TV. Some random program was playing, you didn’t even know what it was about.
Then came the sound of the elevator.
They were back.
You didn’t even need to look over to know the mission had gone well. The cheers, the laughter, the happy chaos — yeah, that gave it away.
Still, you weren’t really present. Your mind was completely hijacked. The damn diary had hypnotized you. Your thoughts were a hurricane of ink, sex, and Bob.
You tried to fight it, but you couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to feel him inside you, stretching you out inch by inch, to hear Bob beg you to make him cum—
“Hey sweetheart! Were you bored while we were gone?”
Alexei’s voice and the sudden slap on your shoulder made you jump out of your skin. He laughed like a maniac and walked past you toward the bar.
“Someone’s got a guilty conscience if they flinch like that,” he teased, grabbing drinks.
“Yep, I do,” you whispered just under your breath, smiling like a criminal who absolutely did it.
“I see the mission went well,” you finally forced yourself to join the conversation, trying to think about literally anything besides Bob’s penis.
“Obviously. But we missed you,” Yelena pouted with fake sad eyes. You rolled your eyes and nudged her, shaking your head.
“No, really. You could be useful on the field sometimes,” Bucky added while throwing back a shot of vodka and instantly grimacing.
“Oh, sometimes?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.
“Yup. Just sometimes,” he smirked back.
You laughed, finally relaxing a little. You glanced around. Ava and Yelena were laughing about something dumb, John, Alexei, and Bucky were crowded by the bar with their celebratory drinks, and Bob—
“AH!”
You screamed when you felt fingers suddenly tickling your sides. You whipped around and there he was. Robert Reynolds, grinning like the smug bastard he was.
“Definitely guilty conscience,” he smirked, poking you once more before sitting down beside your chair.
You gave him a playful shove, trying not to combust on the spot. He stayed next to you, sitting on the floor, quietly watching the others. For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
“So… looks like you made it out in one piece,” you finally said, glancing down at him.
He was already watching you, and when your eyes met, he quickly looked away, his hand going straight to the back of his neck.
“Uhh… yeah. I made it,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact like it physically hurt.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. Was he nervous because he just imagined you naked in his bed?
“Is it just me or, is this place suspiciously clean,” John suddenly said, breaking the moment. Everyone turned toward him.
“Yeah, I cleaned,” you said proudly, lifting your chin.
Silence. Like dead, kill-me-now silence. Then — Loud. Explosive. Collective laughter. You scowled.
“Real funny. No seriously, who came to clean?” Ava asked, deadpan. Your pride died right there on the spot.
“Guys, seriously. I did clean,” you insisted, but your voice was practically drowned in their chaos.
Eventually, you’d had enough humiliation. You slipped away from the group, heading toward your room to take a shower, throw on some pajamas, and maybe pass out and forget about the diary.
Just as you were reaching the hallway, a voice called out behind you.
“Hey, wait! Come have a drink with us!”
You turned back, raising an eyebrow. It was Bucky, gesturing toward the bar with a tilt of his head.
You rolled your eyes dramatically, but smirked with a sly glint. “Maybe,” you called back. And with that, you vanished down the hallway.
Everyone was already in their pajamas, but the way they were chugging drink after drink definitely didn’t suggest they were going to sleep anytime soon.
This was standard procedure after a successful mission — get absolutely wasted and regret it in the morning when the hangovers hit like a truck.
But hey, it’s their lives. And on the other hand, might as well enjoy the good while it lasts. You, on the other hand, were more cautious.
Your head had just stopped pounding this morning, and the last thing you wanted was another round of pain mixed with nausea and existential dread.
So you drank just enough to feel the buzz, enough to tolerate these lovable idiots. Because let’s be honest, sometimes dealing with them is harder than raising fifteen toddlers at once.
You all sat in a circle, some chatting in pairs, others laughing in the group. These little “family moments” were rare, but they were beautiful in their own chaotic way.
Bob sat directly across from you in the circle. You noticed he had a beer in hand, but just like you, he wasn’t overdoing it.
He didn’t seem like the type to drink until blackout. After everything he’d been through with drugs and losing himself, he’d probably had enough unconsciousness for a lifetime.
“Alright, guys, I’m calling it,” you stood up slowly, stretching a little.
Your sleep shorts, maybe a bit too short, and your white tank top with tiny black bows shifted with your movement. Your announcement was met with various groans and sad noises of protest.
You just shrugged. “After the huge cleaning session that I did, I’m seriously exhausted.” They snickered, clearly still not taking your ‘I cleaned’ claim seriously, but at least they wished you goodnight.
As you made your way toward your room, you suddenly heard another wave of “Good night!”And then, fast footsteps behind you. You glanced to your side. Of course it was Bob.
He walked beside you with that soft, crooked smile of his. You smiled back, a little more timidly, then looked ahead again.
“You cleaned really well,” he said quietly, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.
Your cheeks flushed immediately, dimples appearing as your lips curled up.
“Thanks, Bob,” you murmured, eyes still forward.
When you reached his room, he paused, and you turned to him. A warm, soft hug, following with a gentle exchange of “Goodnight.”
And even though a spark passed between you, you both turned away and walked to your bedrooms. The moment you closed yours behind you, you leaned against it and slowly slid down to the floor with a long, exhausted sigh.
You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, or the damn diary, or both, but something had shifted. You looked at Bob differently now. And you had no one to blame but yourself.
Eventually, you climbed into bed, collapsing face-first into the pillow, then slowly turning onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts swirled. The only sound in your room was your steady, rhythmic breathing. And your head wouldn't stop. You couldn’t sleep. How could you?
Every time you closed your eyes, your mind fed you vivid, raw images of Bob. Naked, on top of you, fucking you hard while whispering your name through tearful gasps. And suddenly you understood him.
You understood the restlessness. The sleepless nights. The torment of craving something so badly, your body and soul felt like they might burst without them. You understood Bob now, too well.
You were pulled out of your unholy thoughts by a soft knock on the door.
“Yeah?” you called out, lifting yourself up onto your elbows to get a better view of the door.
It slowly creaked open, and there he was. Bob. For a second, your heart skipped a beat. Could he see what you’d been thinking? Had your sinful imagination summoned him?
“Hey, did I wake you up?”
His voice was soft, cautious, filled with genuine concern that instantly warmed your heart. You smiled, shaking your head.
“What do you need?” you asked gently.
Bob took a deep breath, his fingers nervously toying with each other.
“I need help in my room,” he said, giving you those damn puppy-dog eyes. Of course, you helped him without a second thought.
A few minutes later, you stood in his room, holding your phone flashlight above his desk like some loyal assistant, while he was crouched underneath it, fiddling with a bunch of tangled cables.
Apparently, he was trying to organize them, make everything look ‘neater and more aesthetic.’ And not even the overhead light was helping him see anything properly. So now, you were his lamp.
It was quiet. Neither of you spoke. Only the occasional sighs from Bob and the subtle clicks of tape or plastic filled the room.
“I cleaned the rooms too,” you finally said, trying to break the silence.
“Yeah? That’s sweet of you,” Bob answered, clearly focused on the mess below. His voice was casual, distracted.
“But yours was already clean,” you chuckled softly. “Didn’t really have anything to do in here.”
He smiled to himself but didn’t say anything. You were just about to ask something when Bob suddenly beat you to it.
“Did you find anything interesting?” he asked, his voice light, but just barely. There was something beneath the surface. Your lips curled into a mischievous grin. He had no idea what he’d just walked into.
“Hmm… not really. Just a diary.”
The rustling sounds stopped. Complete silence. You could almost feel the panic fill the room like thick smoke.
“W-what diary?” Bob’s voice cracked slightly.
You could hear it. The tension, the way his throat tightened as he said it. Slowly, he emerged from under the desk. His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow. His shoulders were tense, lips slightly parted. His usual calm was gone — completely replaced with visible stress and terror.
“The one under the pillow,” you said casually with a grin on your face. You watched as his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, as if unsure whether to defend himself or just curl into fists. His whole body language screamed one thing: he felt exposed.
“A-and did you… read it?”
His voice trembled with anticipation. You could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. His gaze locked onto yours, desperate and anxious, like someone waiting for a death sentence.
You shook your head innocently. “Nooo…”
Bob exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging with relief. “Okay…”
“…Just the part where you want me to suck your dick.”
THUD
Bob smacked his head against the underside of the desk so hard you winced for him. He scrambled out from under it in pure panic, his face turning several shades of red at once. ´art embarrassment, part shock.
Honestly you would’ve never said it. Would’ve never admitted it. But you’d had just enough alcohol tonight to stop caring, and it felt damn good.
Bob froze like a statue. His fingers stopped moving, his breathing stalled mid-breath, and his back tensed as if someone had just aimed a gun at him.
His eyes searched yours, but not for understanding, he was looking for mercy. His chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to keep his composure, but you could see right through him.
The way his lips parted in horror, the faint shimmer of sweat on his brow, the frantic micro-movements of his hands, it all betrayed him.
“God… I…” He raked his hand through his messy brown hair, visibly unraveling.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, hoarse. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. It was never meant for you to — God, that’s so inappropriate. I swear, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was drunk when I wrote that—”
You raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, and tilted your head slightly.
“Drunk, huh?” you echoed, almost teasingly.
He nodded, eager. Desperate. “Yeah. I mean, not a lot, but I wasn’t sober. I was feeling… messed up. It doesn’t mean anything, I just — I wrote it in the moment.”
You squinted a little, then smirked, your voice quiet but sharp. “For someone who was drunk, you wrote surprisingly coherently.”
That hit him like a second slap to the face. He blinked, his mouth opening but no words coming out. He knew you had him.
You watched the guilt play across his face, flickering like candlelight. Bob exhaled shakily, then finally stood up. Almost ceremoniously. He was back on his feet now, but somehow still looked small.
“I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I never wanted to disrespect you or offend you in any way. I wasn’t trying to be gross or… or make you uncomfortable.”
His voice cracked on that last sentence. He meant it, you could hear it. Every damn word was sincere.
You let out a quiet laugh, just a breath through your nose, and looked off to the side. Then, softly, you whisper: “You didn’t offend me… quite the opposite, actually.”
Bob’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”
You glanced at him, only for a second, your cheeks warming, eyes betraying that you hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Nothing! I just meant — it’s late, and we should both probably get some sleep,” you stammered, your voice suddenly high and tight as your eyes darted away from his.
Just like that, the tables had turned. You were the nervous one now. Bob didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes never left your face.
He took a slow step forward. You took another step back, and he followed. Each of his movements was slow, deliberate. As if he was giving you time to stop him. But you didn’t want to.
You were hyper-aware of every breath, every beat of your heart slamming in your chest like a drum. The thin fabric of your pajama top clung a little tighter now with each inhale, and you knew he could see it.
“Your heart’s racing,” Bob whispered again, as if he couldn’t help but marvel at it.
His voice — quiet, almost reverent — slid down your spine like a warm current. And still, you stepped back. Step after step, until your shoulder blades hit the cold wall behind you. He stopped. For a second, he just looked at you. Not your face. Not your body. But you, and he felt it.
The way your stomach fluttered and tightened at once, like you were falling from a great height. The heat between your legs, steady and low, pulsing with every inch he closed in. The way your nipples had hardened beneath your top, brushing slightly against it as you breathed.
“You’re breathing faster,” he said. Soft, observant, like he was taking you in, cataloguing your reactions, and treasuring them one by one.
You should’ve felt exposed. But instead, you felt seen.
“Bob…” you whispered, unsure what you were even trying to say.
He didn’t touch you. Not even now, but his chest was inches from yours. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched tightly like he was holding himself back with every ounce of strength he had.
“Have you ever thought about it?” His voice dipped lower, as your eyes widened. He tilted his head, his lips barely parted.
“…what I wrote.”
Your body responded before your mind could catch up. A tremor ran through you. Your thighs clenched. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The image of his words flashed in your head like a match striking in the dark.
The things he wanted to do to you. The way he wanted to do them. Not rough and greedy — but with emotion, with desperation, with need. Crying your name while buried inside you, broken and whole at once.
You said nothing, but your eyes did, and he saw it. Bob leaned in closer, just a fraction. Still not touching.
You could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the tension vibrating off of him like a storm waiting to break. His breath mixed with yours, shallow and heated. Your own breath hitched when he looked down at your mouth. Your lips parted just slightly, just enough.
He clenched his jaw and pulled back the tiniest bit. His hands twitched at his sides, like they ached to touch you.
“Jesus…” he whispered, barely audible. His restraint made it worse. His lack of touch made you need it more. There was so much space and yet none at all.
Everything was amplified. The thudding in your ears. The throb between your legs. The slick heat growing, pooling inside your core, begging for friction.
You bit your lower lip to ground yourself, but his eyes followed that movement like prey, and you saw his pupils dilate. He was as undone as you were. But he still didn’t move.
“Why won’t you touch me?” you finally breathed.
Bob’s eyes met yours again. Dark and intense.
“I’m scared if I start… I won’t stop.”
“And who said I want you to stop?”
Your voice was a whisper, but the weight of your words hit like a storm.
You were skating on thin ice, and you knew it. But with the heat roaring in your chest, you didn’t care if the ice cracked beneath you. Maybe it already had. And maybe that was exactly what you wanted.
It was the alcohol talking. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, you were grateful for the liquid courage, because now you were exactly where you’d wanted to be for far too long.
The second your words slipped out, something in Bob snapped. Whatever thread of patience or restraint he’d been clinging to, it broke.
With zero hesitation, Bob surged forward, his hands flying up to cradle your cheeks. His grip was firm but reverent, like you were something precious and fragile, but he was desperate to have you. And then his lips crashed into yours.
It was hungry, starving, like he’d been holding back for months, and now that he had you, he couldn’t afford to waste a single second.
You insantly melted into him. His kiss devoured you, and you welcomed it. You didn’t need to read a single word from his diary to know that Bob had been aching for this for so long. It poured out of him with every desperate press of his mouth, every tiny, trembling gasp against your lips.
His fingers twitched, shaking just slightly as they cupped your jaw, as if he was at war with himself, wanting to touch you everywhere, but forcing his hands to stay put. Like he was scared he’d lose himself if he did more. Like you might vanish if he didn’t hold you just right.
Your lips parted wider, granting him more access, and Bob groaned into your mouth. A sound that made your knees weak and your pulse pound in your throat. Every time you moaned, he swallowed it greedily, muffling your sounds with another kiss, deeper than the last.
Your entire body was on fire. Your core throbbed with every second that passed— hot, pulsing, soaked with need. Your sleeping shorts clung to your folds, embarrassingly wet, and still it wasn’t enough.
You needed more.
Bob still hadn’t moved his hands from your face. But you had no such self-control. You grabbed him at the waist, fingers digging harshly into his hips as if trying to anchor yourself, and then, unable to stop yourself, you slid your hands beneath his shirt.
Your fingertips met hot skin. Taut muscle. Bob shuddered, his breath hitching, his body jerking like he’d been shocked.
“F-fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, his voice ragged. That noise alone made your thighs clench and your knees threaten to give out.
Your arousal spilled, warm and wet, sliding down your inner thigh. You didn’t even care how pathetically soaked you were. Not when it was because of him. You wanted to be ruined for him.
Each kiss made the air between you thicker. Hotter. Every pant, every moan, every whispered curse fueled the fire between you. He still hadn’t touched anywhere else, and yet you were so soaked.
You could feel the warmth of Bob’s skin beneath your fingertips. He twitched beneath your touch, every little movement from you making his breath come faster, harsher. You felt his restraint. His body was screaming to act, but his mind was still fighting to hold back.
But you weren’t nearly as patient. Your hands roamed greedily across his torso, your fingers mapping the taut lines of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. But that wasn’t enough. You had to see him.
Without hesitation, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and began tugging it upward. Bob didn’t resist. In fact, he helped.
He broke the kiss, his lips pulling away just enough to yank the fabric up over his head in one smooth, almost desperate motion. And suddenly he was there. Bare. Glorious. Godlike.
You froze. Your eyes widened, your breath caught in your throat, and your lips parted instinctively as your gaze drank him in.
He was sculpted like a marble statue brought to life. His chest, his abs, the sharp lines of his V-cut all glistening faintly under the low light.
Bob noticed your stunned expression. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Your wide eyes and parted mouth told him everything.
You reached out. Your palm met his chest, fingers splaying, gliding slowly over the warm, hard muscle, and you gasped softly. Your breath hitched again, your knees quivering slightly at just how solid he felt.
Bob watched you like you were worshipping him. Like he couldn’t believe you were touching him, and still wanted more. Then suddenly, he moved.
He stepped back in, closing the tiny distance between you, and crashed his lips to yours again, this time with even more hunger.
You moaned into him, your arms flying around his waist and pulling him against you. Your bodies collided. Pressed together. You could feel everything.
Your hardened nipples brushed against his chest, sending shivers up your spine. And lower you felt him.
His cock, hard and growing, rubbed gently but unmistakably against your inner thigh, and you whimpered into the kiss, your hips twitching toward him instinctively.
Even though Bob’s body was clearly begging for release, his touch remained careful, respectful. He kissed you slowly, deeply, savoring you like you were something sacred.
But you were losing it. You wanted him. Your desperate kisses, the way you clung to him, the quiet whimpers against his lips, every signal you gave told him he didn’t need to hold back anymore. And he got the message.
His hand slid away from your cheek, trailing a trembling path down your neck, across your collarbone, slowly between the valley of your breasts, then lower, along your bare stomach until he reached the hem of your top.
He stopped there. His voice, rough and breathless, curled in your ear. “Can I?”
You nodded eagerly. Your hands raised above your head, giving him full access. Bob didn’t rush. He took his time, watching you, studying the way you reacted to every inch of skin he uncovered as he lifted your top inch by inch.
And when the fabric passed over your head and off your arms, leaving you completely exposed, Bob froze.
He stared so hard you could feel the weight of his gaze like hands all over your body. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes flicked from your face, to your chest, then back again, and you could see them darken.
You could see his fingers flex and twitch at his sides like he was fighting himself again. Fighting not to grab you and devour you whole. You decided to break the tension.
“You can touch me,” you whispered, your voice soft but confident. Bob’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and hopeful, and then dropped back to your bare chest.
He stepped closer, and gently cupped your breasts in both hands. His touch was so soft, it made you ache. You barely felt the pressure — just the warmth of his palms and the subtle trembling of his fingers.
He wasn’t groping. He was revering. He ran a thumb across the top of your breast, then, hesitantly, dragged it over your nipple.
You gasped, loud and sudden. Your knees almost buckled. It was too much, and not enough, all at once.
Bob noticed your reaction instantly. A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained intense, locked on your body. He did it again. And again. Then he focused solely on your nipples. Gently brushing, teasing, circling, testing.
His thumbs moved with incredible delicacy, exploring the hypersensitive peaks until your back arched and your head lolled against the wall behind you.
You were trembling, and Bob was still just touching your breasts.
The way his hands worshipped your body, the look in his eyes, the careful way he pushed boundaries, it wasn’t just lust. It was need.
Need tangled up in admiration, in awe, in something deeper than either of you dared say out loud just yet.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
The pulsing between your thighs had become unbearable. Each throb more desperate, more consuming than the last. Your whole body was screaming for release, trembling under the weight of restrained need. You had to do something, anything, before you lost your mind.
So you grabbed Bob by the neck and crashed your lips against his, breathless and ravenous.
There was nothing graceful about the kiss. It was messy, uncoordinated, soaked in lust — all sloppy lips and hungry gasps. You devoured each other like you’d been starving, like you’d waited years for just a taste.
Bob groaned into your mouth, deep and throaty, the sound vibrating against your tongue and making your stomach twist in anticipation. Your sighs turned to sweet, trembling moans, soft declarations of everything you couldn’t put into words.
Your hands, shaky and impatient, wandered down his warm chest, over the hard lines of his abdomen, stopping at the waistband of his sweatpants. But before you could go further, Bob beat you.
His hands, warm and firm, suddenly moved from your chest and found their way to your shorts. Even if he had already undressed you in his mind a hundred times, he still stopped and looked at you. His eyes searched yours, asking without words. You nodded, breathless, eager yes.
Bob exhaled in something like relief, and with a single smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your shorts and pulled them down. They slid past your hips, fell around your ankles, and suddenly you were standing there, completely bare. No fabric, no barrier, no hiding, just you.
He stepped back, and for a moment, the air stood still.
Bob’s gaze traveled the full length of your body, like he was trying to memorize you forever. You felt your cheeks flush, a shy warmth blooming in your chest. But then you saw his expression, his parted lips, his softened eyes, his entire face lit up with awe, and suddenly your insecurities melted.
“You’ve got the body of a goddess,” he whispered, stepping close again, his voice low and full of reverence.
You bit your lip, heat rising in your chest, and tried to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. His compliment wrapped around you like silk, making you shiver. When he reached for your face, tilting your chin gently so your eyes met his, your heart just about burst.
“You’re like my muse… if only I could paint,” he murmured, brushing the softest kiss over your lips — feather-light, almost imaginary. And then he sank to his knees.
Your eyes widened in surprise. “W-what are you doing?” you asked, voice shaky, your legs suddenly unsure under you.
His hands slowly trailed up your legs, brushing along your thighs as if he was mapping out constellations in your skin. “I want to taste you,” he said softly, his voice hoarse and laced with hunger. He looked up at you with those dark, adoring eyes that practically begged to worship you.
Before you could say anything, he buried his face into you. Your head tilted back with a sharp gasp, one hand flying straight into his curls, gripping instinctively. Your other hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the involuntary cry that escaped your throat.
His lips found your labia, and your spine arched back against the wall with a trembling whimper. His tongue moved gently at first — soft strokes, testing reactions. He was discovering you one heartbeat at a time, tasting the way your body responded to him.
Every flick of his tongue sent sparks shooting up your spine, every low murmur against your skin made your knees quiver. He groaned softly, clearly savoring every second of it, and the vibration of his voice against you made your breath stutter.
You pulled at his hair instinctively, desperate to stay grounded, but it only encouraged him. His name almost spilled from your lips, caught between a gasp and a moan. Your whole body was on fire and still he didn’t stop. If anything, he became more confident, bolder in the way he worshipped you.
He was in awe of the way you tasted, of how responsive you were, of the way your body practically melted under his mouth. It was like he had dreamt of this for so long that now he refused to rush a single second.
You were barely able to hold yourself upright. Trembling, panting, your fingers tangled in his hair, your entire body pulsing with desire. Every time he looked up at you, you felt yourself coming undone just a little more.
A few more slow, teasing licks, and he found exactly what he was searching for.
The moment his tongue landed on your clit, your entire body jolted. A strangled moan slipped from you despite your hand clamped over your mouth, and your hips bucked toward him as if guided by pure instinct. Your fingers gripped his hair tighter, tugging with each wave of pleasure that rolled through you. That reaction told him everything, he was in the right spot.
Bob stayed there, circling you with his tongue, then flattening it against you with aching pressure, alternating between soft suckling and slow, deliberate flicks that made your vision blur. You could feel him moan against you, low and barely audible, but it vibrated straight through your core.
And yet, even as his own arousal grew harder to ignore, his precum already dampening the front of his sweatpants, a visible mark forming, he didn’t reach for himself. He didn’t chase his own release. His only focus was you. Making you fall apart. Watching you come undone.
“F-Fuck, Bob—” you gasped, your hand now tangled tightly in his curls as you bit your lip hard.
He looked up for a brief second, and what he saw nearly shattered him — your face, flushed and trembling, lips parted in pleasure, eyes half-lidded and desperate. You were beautiful.
Slowly, he lifted your legs and rested them gently on his shoulders, adjusting you carefully so you were supported and he could go deeper. He wanted you comfortable.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he pushed his tongue inside you. The way your body clenched around him, the way your breath hitched and your back arched, it was everything.
The way you pulsed against him, so hot, and needy, it drove him insane. You’d been craving this and now that he had you, he was going to worship every part of you, for as long as you’d let him.
His lips sealed around your clit again, and this time he sucked gently, pulling a raw, desperate moan from you. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a rhythm that felt impossibly good. You writhed above him, your body arching up into his mouth, hips moving on their own as if begging for more.
You were already close, embarrassingly close. Each touch of his tongue sent a jolt of heat straight through your stomach, winding tighter and tighter. Your thighs clenched around his head, but Bob didn’t stop. He wanted you like this. Falling apart. Losing control. For him.
God, he was so hard it hurt. His cock throbbed, twitching inside his sweatpants. Every breath he took was shaky, his body begging for friction. And yet, he didn’t touch himself. Not even once.
Every time you moaned his name, it sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through him, making his hips jerk against nothing. Still, he stayed focused. This was about you.
He was shaking, not just from arousal, but from the overwhelming need to please you. He wanted you to break for him. To lose yourself. To come undone under his mouth and know, without question, that he belonged to you.
Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, pulling hard, and you choked on another whimper. “B-Bob, I— I can’t—” you gasped, your voice trembling as your thighs trembled too.
He moaned again at the sound, encouraging, desperate, hungry. His tongue moved faster now, circling your clit with dizzying pressure, then flattening again and again as your back arched off the wall. Your breaths were shallow and fast, your body trembling as you tried to hold on, but it was useless.
He could feel it. You were so close.
He brought one hand up, resting gently on your hip to keep you grounded as he continued devouring you like a man starved. His own hips rolled again involuntarily, chasing friction that never came. He was a mess and yet still entirely focused on you.
Your back was pressed against the wall, Bob’s mouth was pure fire between your legs. His strong hands gripped your thighs, keeping you open.
The pleasure crested like a wave building at the edge of something unstoppable. Your legs began to tremble uncontrollably, and your fingers clawed at the wall behind you, searching for something to hold onto, because he wasn’t letting up.
His tongue moved in soft but fast circles, his lips sucking gently, then greedily, as though he could drink your pleasure like a remedy for every ache he’d ever had.
Your breath caught in your throat, your chest rising in ragged gasps. Every inch of your skin burned with heat, and your belly tightened, coiling like a spring pulled impossibly taut. Then everything snapped.
Your orgasm hit like lightning. A desperate, broken cry left your lips, and your entire body convulsed. The muscles in your thighs clenched around his head, your hips bucked, and stars danced behind your eyes. Your toes curled. Your nails scraped helplessly against the wall. The pleasure rolled through you in long, drawn-out pulses, overwhelming and raw.
You weren’t sure if you were breathing or sobbing or laughing. Maybe all three.
Bob held you through it, grounding you with his steady grip, his mouth never once leaving you as your body rode out wave after wave. He moaned softly against you, his own body twitching, as if he could feel it too.
Yet, he still didn’t touch himself. His self-control was insane, agonizing, but he only cared about you.
When your body went limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and uneven, he looked up at you with blown pupils and flushed cheeks, lips glistening, hair tousled from where you’d tugged it.
“Hey… easy, okay?” he whispered, standing back on his feet. “You need some rest.”
But you were still drunk on pleasure, dazed, your body humming. You saw the wet spot on his sweatpants, and the huge twitching bulge, and you felt guilty, for not giving him what he gave you.
You reached for him, sliding your fingers down his torso and slowly tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. He didn’t stop you, not at first. But when you sank to your knees in front of him, your gaze hazy and full of intent, he gently grabbed your arms and pulled you back up.
“Whoa—okay, okay,” he said, lifting you effortlessly again. His voice was soft, but there was urgency in it. He looked at you like you were the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever held. You blinked up at him, eyes glassy and wide, guilt and desire blending across your face.
“Please,” you whispered. “I wanna make you feel good…”
Your voice was needy and soft, still wrecked from your high. Bob stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he scoffed, almost bitterly, and shook his head.
“You don’t have to do that—”
“But I want to!” you protested, your words slurred just a little, but sincere. You cupped his face in your hands, trying to plead with him through touch. Your heart pounded, still not fully recovered, but all you could think of was him, how badly you wanted him to feel even half of what he just gave you.
But Bob just closed his eyes, jaw clenching harder, as if struggling not to give in.
“We’ll save that for another time, alright?” he murmured, resting his forehead gently against yours. His next words came low, almost a growl. “You have no idea how much I want to be inside you right now. And if you touch me like that again, I’ll lose it.”
You swallowed, your breath catching in your throat. His words hit like fire straight to your core.
But you nodded. You understood. Even in the haze of pleasure, you saw the discipline in his eyes, the way he forced himself to hold back, for you.
He gave you a moment, letting both of you breathe. Then, with incredible gentleness, he scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing. He lay you down softly, like he was afraid you’d break.
“Are you ready?” he asked in a low whisper, peppering soft kisses over your cheek and temple, each one making you giggle a little, despite everything. You nodded slowly, eyes locked on him.
He watched you too — every breath, every flicker of emotion. You’d never seen him look at anything the way he looked at you right then. Like you were sacred. Like you were the answer to every dream he’d ever had. Not even the way he looked at his cereal in the morning could compare.
He adjusted his position above you, his large hand brushing between your legs again to feel how ready you still were. His other hand gently held your face as he leaned down, his voice a whisper just for you:
“If I need to stop, just tell me, okay?”
You nodded again, biting your lip, your hands fisting in the sheets as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your folds. Your whole body tensed with anticipation.
Bob eased forward carefully, his body hovering above yours as he gently began to push into you. Every inch felt impossibly big, stretching you in a way that burned and soothed all at once. The pressure was overwhelming. Your breath hitched, and you instinctively curled your fingers into the muscles of his back, grounding yourself against him.
Both of you exhaled in sync, a shared breath of tension, release, and disbelief.
For you it was the sharp, unfamiliar ache that came with being filled so completely. The sensation of being opened, inch by inch, by someone so gentle and yet so undeniably large.
And for him it was the sheer heat and tightness of you around him, pulsing, welcoming, gripping. It nearly undid him.
He was still pushing in, deeper than you thought was even possible. You whimpered, the stretch sharp, but your hips shifted instinctively, pushing up to meet him, desperate for the rest of him. “You’re so big—” you gasped, your back arching off the mattress as you tried to take more.
Bob froze for a second, stunned by your voice. Your praise hit him harder than you realized.
“A-am I?” he asked, his voice breathless, a soft laugh escaping through his disbelief. His cheeks were flushed, eyes locked on where your bodies were joined.
You nodded quickly, too overcome to speak, your hands splayed across his back as your body slowly adjusted. He was still stretching you out, your walls fluttering around him, trying to take him in.
“Almost there,” he murmured lowly, his voice like velvet and gravel at once. It vibrated against your skin, sending another involuntary shiver down your spine. His fingers gripped your hips as he pressed the final inch into you, his hips finally meeting yours, his length buried fully to the base.
You gasped, your eyes flying shut, as a wave of sensation washed over you, you’d never felt so full in your life. Bob let out a guttural exhale, the kind pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, as he stopped moving for a moment. He needed to.
He was throbbing. Visibly shaking. He had already been on edge for so long, and now, inside you? He couldn’t believe he was still holding on.
But even his stillness had you trembling. You could feel him pulsing inside you, every twitch making your breath catch, every little flex of his thighs sending subtle, electric aftershocks through your core.
Then, carefully, he began to move.
He didn’t pull out fully. Not at first. Just shallow thrusts, slow and deliberate, building friction and rhythm. The motion created just enough drag, enough pressure to make your toes curl. His hips rolled, his breath huffing near your ear, while your nails scraped lightly down his back.
It was intimate. Your bodies were so close it felt like you were melting into each other. Skin brushing, muscles flexing, quiet moans and wet sounds filling the room in perfect harmony.
And then you started to move. Your hips met his with more confidence, your body adjusting, urging him on. Telling him in the only way he needed to hear: I’m ready.
Bob’s eyes snapped open. He growled softly under his breath, unable to hold back anymore.
He drew back slowly, this time almost fully, leaving only the thick, swollen tip inside you before thrusting back in with a deep, wet sound that echoed in the room. You cried out, your body arching into him, every inch of you alight with sensation.
Bob’s pace shifted, hips moving with more urgency now. Still controlled, still careful, but with purpose. Each thrust was firm, dragging along your walls in all the right ways, hitting that spot that made your legs quake. His skin slapped against yours, a rhythm of flesh and want and helpless need, and the room filled with a symphony of wet, obscene sounds and breathy moans.
You couldn’t stop moaning his name.
He was everywhere, his weight, his heat, the way his arms caged you in as he rocked into you, his lips brushing your ear and jaw and throat in soft, fleeting kisses.
Every stroke made your nerves spark, building again, deeper this time. Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to pull him in even closer, closer than skin allowed. And Bob, panting now, forehead pressed against yours, could barely keep himself together.
“I’m not gonna last—” he whispered, voice wrecked.
Bob’s thrusts deepened, his hips angling just slightly, searching for that perfect spot inside you. But when he heard that soft, desperate gasp from your lips, he knew he’d found it. And that changed everything.
He snapped his hips forward again, harder this time. And again. The bed creaked beneath you with each deep push, the headboard lightly thudding against the wall in a rhythm that matched your ragged breathing. Your legs were trembling, wrapped tightly around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back, urging him not to stop.
“Mhm, you feel—” Bob’s voice cracked, his head falling to the crook of your neck as his hips continued to pound into you, faster, yet still guided by a rhythm that made your toes curl. His breath was hot and erratic on your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone between soft groans.
The room felt smaller now, the air thick with heat and scent and need. Dim light from a bedside lamp threw flickers of amber and shadow across the sheets, catching the sheen of sweat on Bob’s back as his muscles flexed with each movement.
You couldn’t stop moaning. Your voice bounced off the walls. Soft whimpers, sharp gasps, whispered pleas that only made Bob’s grip tighten on your thighs.
He groaned into your skin, his hand sliding up to grip your hip as he drove into you again. “You’re perfect.”
You arched up to meet him, your fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling slightly, and that made him groan louder. He was losing it. His control was thinning with every second. The way you clenched around him, the way your nails raked down his back, it all pushed him closer and closer to the edge.
Then, without warning, Bob shifted his weight slightly, propped up on one forearm, and slid his free hand between your bodies. His fingers found your clit with practiced instinct, and he began to circle it in slow, teasing strokes.
You screamed his name, not out of pain, not even from surprise, but from the sudden wave of unbearable pleasure that rocked through you. Your thighs clenched around his hips, your body arching up into his touch.
“B-Bob— I— please, I can’t—!”
“Yes, you can,” he rasped, barely holding on.
His fingers worked faster, keeping perfect rhythm with the powerful thrusts of his hips. You could feel him everywhere — filling you, pressing against every sensitive spot, driving into you so hard and deep you could barely think. You were unraveling.
The pressure built like a storm inside you. Every nerve in your body was stretched tight, every muscle coiled. His name spilled from your lips in broken syllables. You clawed at his back, your legs trembling violently, your whole body on the brink. And then you shattered.
Your orgasm hit like a wave crashing over a cliff. Your entire body locked around him, trembling, pulsing, milking him as you screamed into the crook of his neck. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. You were gone, drowning in heat and light.
Bob groaned — a low, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest to your bones. He couldn’t hold back anymore.
Feeling you contract around him, the way your whole body gripped him so tightly, it pushed him over the edge.
He slammed into you one last time, deep and hard, and let go with a strangled moan, burying his face in your neck as his orgasm ripped through him. His hips bucked against yours, erratic and desperate, his entire body shuddering as he spilled into you, every throb of release met by another wave from your still-echoing climax.
He whispered your name, over and over, like a prayer. His breath hot and uneven against your skin, hands still trembling as they held you close, grounding himself through the aftershocks.
The world faded into silence except for your uneven breaths and the quiet, sticky slide of your bodies pressed together.
Bob didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, arms wrapped tight around your body, lips pressed to your shoulder.
“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and full of wonder. All you could do was nod, your hands buried in his hair, still catching your breath.
For a while, neither of you said a word.
The only sound in the room was your breathing. Both of you still catching your breath, lungs rising and falling rapidly in sync, chests slick with sweat, pulses slowly settling.
Eventually, he pulled out of you with deliberate care, as though even the smallest movement might disrupt the perfect silence between you.
A soft, wet sound followed, and you shivered slightly at the absence. Bob let out a low groan as he collapsed beside you, one hand flopping limply across his stomach, the other resting near your
You turned to face him, your body aching in the most satisfying way. Then you nestled your head on his chest, right over his steadily beating heart. It felt warm and safe, grounding you as if you’d always belonged there. His arm instinctively moved to hold you closer, fingers brushing through your damp hair.
You could feel his heartbeat thudding under your cheek, the way his breath caught now and then like even he couldn’t fully believe what had just happened.
And somewhere in that soft, quiet moment, you realized that you felt more for him than you thought. More than you were ready to admit out loud.
This wasn’t just sex or fantasy come to life. This was Bob. The man who made you laugh when you didn’t want to, and now held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.
You blinked up at him through the dim light, voice barely above a whisper. “Was it… better than you imagined?”
Bob huffed out a breath and let out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “Was it better?” he repeated, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Yeah. You could say that.”
You giggled softly against his chest, but then he added, mock-serious: “But for the record — stay the hell outta my diary. I need to find a better hiding spot now.”
That made you both laugh.
“I will find it,” you teased, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, a wicked little smirk on your lips. “You forget who you’re dealing with.”
“Oh, I remember,” he muttered, smirking back. “You’re the girl who breaks into people’s privacy and weaponizes their deepest thoughts.”
You gasped in mock offense and pushed yourself up slightly on your elbow so you could look at him properly. Your hair was a mess, your cheeks still flushed, but your eyes were shining.
“I do not break into people’s privacy! I just—accidentally found it. It’s not my fault you hide personal stuff in the most obvious places.”
“Oh really?” he grinned, tugging you back down into his chest and you snuggle closer with a smile. Bob’s fingers threaded slowly through your hair, his other hand lazily tracing patterns along your bare back.
His voice came quieter this time.
“But if you hadn’t found it…” he murmured, “If you hadn’t read it… this never would’ve happened.”
He was still staring up at the ceiling, like the thought truly stunned him. Then he turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours.
“So… I’m glad you did.”
You didn’t say anything at first. Instead, you just nuzzled deeper into the warmth of his chest, letting your hand rest over his heart. You closed your eyes, breathed him in, and smiled softly to yourself.
A small hum of agreement slipped from your lips, full of something deeper than just afterglow. Something like peace
And slowly, with the steady rhythm of his breathing under you and his arms wrapped tightly around you, you drifted off to sleep. Completely his.
The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting warm, golden light across the messy sheets. You were curled against Bob’s side, both of you still completely naked under the tangled covers, your legs intertwined, your head resting peacefully on his shoulder.
Everything smelled like sleep and sex. Bob’s fingers were lazily stroking up and down your spine as you both lay in that sweet, quiet space between dreaming and waking. No words yet, just the comfort of shared warmth and the slow return to reality.
Then a knock.
Bob’s eyes snapped open at the exact same time yours did.
“Bob?” came a voice from the other side of the door. It was Yelena. “Can I come in?”
Your entire body tensed, adrenaline instantly flooding your veins.
“Shit—shitshitshit,” you whispered, already half-leaping out of bed. Your heart thundered in your chest as you scrambled to gather your clothes from the floor — your shorts and top, half-tangled in the sheets.
Bob sat up with wide, panicked eyes, already reaching for his own clothes.
“Wait, just a second!” he called out, voice cracking with forced calm.
You quickly scooped up his sweatpants and t-shirt from the floor and threw them at him. Then you dove under the bed. The floor was cool against your bare skin, dust brushing against your knees and arms as you squeezed yourself into the narrow space, holding your breath.
You watched through the gap between the mattress and the bed frame as Bob pulled his t-shirt over his head and jumped into his sweatpants. He shuffled to the door, opening it with a soft click.
Yelena stepped in casually, dressed in sweats and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a bun.
“Hey,” she said. “Have you seen her?”
Bob scratched the back of his neck. “Who?”
She gave him a flat look. “Her. The girl who’s always around you lately.”
He blinked, keeping his face neutral. “Nope. Haven’t seen her since yesterday.”
Under the bed, you were trying not to breathe too loudly, your hand clamped over your mouth, heartbeat roaring in your ears.
Yelena didn’t say anything for a second. She just looked around the room slowly. Her gaze moved over the unmade bed, the rumpled sheets, the warm glow of morning light. Then she sniffed the air. Bob stiffened immediately.
“…Why does it smell like women’s perfume in here?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Bob froze for half a second. His voice came out too quickly. “Oh—uh—yeah, she came by last night. Helped me with something.”
He cleared his throat awkwardly. “She left after, though.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Right.”
There was a long pause. Then, thankfully, she just sighed and turned toward the door. “Okay. If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her. She borrowed my book and never gave it back.”
Bob nodded. “Got it.”
As soon as the door shut behind her, he locked it, turned back to the bed, and immediately burst into quiet laughter.
You crawled out from under the frame, hair wild, skin covered in tiny dust specks. You were laughing too, mostly from relief, partly from the absurdity of it all.
“That,” you gasped, “was way too close.”
Bob flopped down beside you on the bed, still chuckling, wiping at his eyes. “I thought she was going to smell you and shoot me on the spot.”
“Same,” you grinned, flopping next to him.
He pulled you into his arms, your messy limbs tangling together again, this time with laughter still shaking your chests. You let your head fall against his collarbone, and he kissed the top of your head, still smiling.
Your breaths syncing, your fingers tracing little circles into the soft fabric of his shirt as the adrenaline faded.
“Y’know…” Bob murmured, “That might’ve been the most exciting morning of my life.”
You looked up at him with a lazy smile. “Better than cereal?”
He smirked. “Debatable.”
You giggled and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, still curled into him like you belonged nowhere else. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!
I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.
Series Summary: Detached, closed off, and hardened by failed relationships (romantic and otherwise), hotel mogul Joel Miller is looking to expand his empire to an exclusive tropical island off the coast of Fiji. The problem is, he's not the only one looking to stake his claim in the tropics. The owner of the island, a family man first and foremost, invites all the bidders to the island for a month long retreat to help him decide which mogul will be crowned the winner. And to make himself look more appealing, Joel hires you to accompany him as his significant other. But it's strictly business... right?
-or-
Big, grumpy sugardaddy!joel falls for you.
Series Warnings: no outbreak au, sugardaddy!joel, language, smut (18+ MDNI), slow burn, references to prostitution, (a little bit) of physical violence towards reader (not Joel), alcohol and food consumption, angst, Joel sucks at feelings, past infidelity mentioned, some daddy talk, implied age gap - chapters will have individual warnings
Status: complete
Sequel found here
Chapters:
1: Into the Deep
2: Paradise
3: Go with the Flow
4: Tropical Heat
5: Riptide
6: Undertow
7: Making Waves
8: Line in the Sand
9: Sink or Swim
10: Turn the Tide
Epilogue: Smooth Sailing
Asks/BTS/Extras:
Joel's Likes and Dislikes
Floor Plan of the Villa
Love Languages
Edit by @pvssyfvck3r ❤️
Edit by @saintbitjj ❤️
Oops! [between ch. 3 & 4]: what if you walked in on Joel watching porn?
Sway [between ch. 6 & 7]: you and Joel share a dance during dinner
Warnings: 18+. This fic is for LIMP DICK LOVERS ONLY. If y’all can’t rock with Joel’s flaccid cock, click AWAY 😫 Unprotected p-in-v / intercrural sex. Oral (m!receiving). Age gap unspecified but just know he’s AARP-eligible.
Word count: 3.0k
This wasn’t a problem he’d planned on having.
At twenty-five, he could’ve put you through the mattress four times over in one night and barely broken a sweat. At thirty-five, he could’ve bent you like a pretzel and fucked you eight ways to Wednesday twice a week.
Today, at the age he was, Joel Miller couldn’t stand from the sofa without feeling like bones were about to snap.
He wrote grocery lists and had to stop halfway to flex his hand. He pulled up his pants and damn near always felt a strain in his back. He kept a heating pad as a sidekick at work, and sometimes his baby brother teased him for it, then Joel would wag one liver-spotted finger Tommy’s way and say, ‘You’ll be like this, too, just wait.’ The Golden Years had a habit of sneaking up on people. Nobody warned him that one day he’d be waking up feeling fine and the next not able to wiggle his toes without a herculean effort. In short, old age sucked.
The only one who didn’t seem to mind as much was you.
And how could you? Joel always thought of it with some amusement. You hadn’t been alive long enough to know a single wrinkle, much less as many as he had, and your knees never cracked when you kneeled. He’d noticed that when you greeted him first thing that morning.
Mouth wide and eyes wider, you made for the perfect sight to his sleepy gaze when he lifted the comforter at 6 AM. Your tongue withdrew from the tip of his leaky cock.
“Your shift starts at seven, right?” you whispered.
Shit, he’d quit his whole job for one blowjob from you.
Joel nodded instead. He took a fistful of your hair and nodded again—keep lickin’ the tip just like you had it, honey, that’s it. His lids lowered. They nearly shut. Fifteen more seconds of this wet friction from your mouth and he’d be erect in no time. He knew he would.
These days, while his ‘morning wood’ was never quite what it used to be, and on some occasions like these he woke up completely limp, he was almost always able to coax his cock into it. Just took a little extra time and spit.
It wasn’t until your lips had slid up and down his soft shaft at least two dozen times and nothing stirred that Joel started to worry. He peeled the old coverlet back.
From where you lay between his legs, chin poised over his lap, you didn’t seem bothered. In fact, you were smiling. You’d just taken his flushed, bulbous head between your lips, and your tongue laved over the slit. Joel almost tore a hole in his throat at how good that felt—his groan was loud. The soft suckling noises of your mouth were slight in comparison, but they were purposeful and timed exactly right. His balls twitched.
He should’ve been rock-hard by now.
“‘M’sorry, sweetheart,” Joel grunted, watching you swallow down the soft flesh of him over and over again. “Damn thing just don’t wanna…cooperate this mornin’.”
“I don’t mind.”
You’d pulled off just long enough to say it. Then you were back to bobbing your head, eyes locked on his as you did
He didn’t deserve you.
That much was clear from the way you were sucking him dutifully—fucking cheerfully—like his flaccid dick was a three-star Michelin meal and you hadn’t eaten all day.
It was beyond the pale in the best way possible, and Joel felt guiltier and guiltier with every brush of your lips and tongue that followed. You shouldn’t have had to do this.
“Let me eat you out,” he said then. Abruptly. “Flip over.”
And he slid back on the bed, hearing the delicate, wet pop of his still-soft cock out of your mouth. You frowned.
“What the hell, Joel? I was just having fun,” you huffed.
You were what?
Was that not the most humiliating thing you’d ever seen?
“I can’t even keep a semi,” Joel retorted, almost as low. “Ain’t no use wastin’ our time on me ‘fore I gotta leave.”
Then he started to reach for your hips, about to turn you around and have his breakfast in bed, when your hand swatted him off. The other anchored itself on his thigh, and as you sat up, Joel could tell there was something more adamant in that. You regarded him with a scowl.
“If I wanted to make this about me, I would’ve grabbed my vibrator and gone to town already. This is for you.”
Before he could protest, you inched up some more.
You straddled the broad, muscly legs that had once been bracketing your head, and you placed a palm on his chest. You made him lean back against the headboard.
“Honey—” Joel started.
“Zip it, Miller.”
Well, goddamn. For a woman a fraction of his age and size, you commanded him well. He didn’t move a muscle.
He couldn’t deny that it turned him on, too. To think that you wanted him badly enough that you’d suck the sexual equivalent of a wet noodle and then get on top of him for more. Joel had to grit his teeth and steel himself when your hips shifted. You were bare under one of his t-shirts.
And your eyes were alight with rapt intrigue. Like he was something worth salivating over, and not some decrepit old man whose dick wouldn’t work. The smile you wore before had only grown bigger, and your thighs were squeezing his hips. Your heat was sliding up and—
“Fuck,” Joel hissed.
The breath was knocked out of his chest. That was how stunned he was to feel the seam of your cunt align with his length, which rested lazily across his lower stomach. You braced one hand on the headboard behind him, flattened the other palm to his chest, and again, lowered yourself, rubbed yourself, so that the underside of his shaft cut you down the middle. It parted your folds.
Your wetness was spreading down the length of him. Soft as it was, Joel was thankful he was a shower, not a grower, and he hadn’t lost too much of his size by not being hard. You were pressing yourself gently against him now, bracing your knees on the bed on either side of his body, and your gaze was gradually trailing to his face.
Your motions, much to his surprise, were slow. Sensual.
You weren’t in a hurry at all to get his dick hard. You simply followed what felt good: a little gyration of your hips, a press of your heat, gentle thrusts with your knees planted firmly on the bed. You were riding him, except you didn’t have him inside you at all. The expressions that crossed your face could’ve fooled Joel, though.
Brows knit together in a mixture of pleasure and purpose, you peered down at him and let out the smallest whimper. The sound was more like a breath, trapped somewhere in your chest and begging to be let out with each rut of your lower half. It was as if the action was getting you off—not fucking him, but humping him.
“That’s it, daddy…That’s—oh, fuck that feels nice.”
The speed of your motions increased the slightest amount, coating his cock from root to tip, and for a minute, Joel thought he might’ve stopped breathing.
He had stopped, briefly, just to suck in a breath and hold it, and, fuck, he didn’t want to let it out, because what if this was all a dream? What if he was seeing things, and you weren’t really grinding on his cock at all but laughing your ass off and leaving his bed? Heaving a sigh or rolling your eyes at the sight of him still not getting hard at this.
Joel looked down to double-check his traitorous dick.
The second he caught a glimpse of your sex and his sliding against one another, though, he let out a groan.
This had to be a fucking joke.
Go, go, go, go, GO! GROW!!
“You can do it, bud, just…” Joel trailed off, realizing that he was talking to his penis out loud. “Sorry. I’m…sorry.”
And truly, he was. He’d never felt more remorseful or dumb. On top of that, you probably thought he was nuts.
You only giggled in response.
You leaned back, dropped your chin, and directed your attention to Joel’s woefully soft and squishy member.
A fingertip prodded at it gently; he twitched.
“C’mon, you got this!” you cheered him on.
It was lighthearted. Easy. Kind of insane.
Here you both were, egging on his peri-geriatric penis to form an erection, when Joel should’ve been balls deep in you. Should’ve been giving you exactly what you needed, how you needed it, with little to no interference to your pleasure. And now here you were. Talking to it instead.
“I love you,” Joel blurted out.
He’d only said this a handful of times to date—your relationship was still relatively new—but at present, he couldn’t help it. You were making him laugh when just minutes ago he’d felt as humiliated as he’d ever been.
You leaned down to kiss him, and you said it back to him.
“I love you,” Joel murmured again, against your lips.
“I—” You shifted over his lap, so that your lower halves were re-aligned and he could feel you. “I love you, Joel.”
The sound of those words, paired with the soft, warm friction of your bodies moving in tandem, had pleasure pooling through his gut. Driving up his spine. Stirring something dark and familiar in his mind—arousal.
A second after that, something stiffened in his lap.
Just a little bit. ‘Stiff’ was the key word there, not hard—Joel tried not to grow too excited while it seemed that his dick was filling with blood and the flesh was gradually getting firmer than it had been before. Still, he grinned.
He was back to kissing you, and you’d felt it too.
Your fingers wriggled on his chest. You started rocking back and forth, a bit more quickly now, and hummed.
You pulled away to catch your breath.
“Does that…help?” you murmured.
“What?”
“My…when I rub— here?”
You were trying so hard to help. You must’ve had no clue it’d been two utterances of ‘I love you’ from your lips that had stoked the fire within him. The friction helped, no doubt, but it was you and what you felt that made it happen—got him harder. Joel’s grin stretched bigger.
“Sweetheart, it’s—”
“‘Cause we can switch it up a little. I bet variety helps.” Suddenly, you were leaning back and lifting your hips. You gripped the base of him, now almost upright between your body and his, and started stroking him.
That felt good.
That felt really good.
But anything from you was bound to feel like that.
Joel’s smile wavered momentarily as another jolt of pleasure coursed through him. He couldn’t control the reflex; his hips bucked up from the mattress, and in your hold, the head of his cock bumped right against your clit.
You whimpered.
Your slit was all but dripping with heat. Ready for him.
“Goddamn,” Joel grit out, eyes fixed on that spot.
“Jerk your cock against me, daddy.”
His gaze shot up.
“Yeah, baby?”
The man scarcely knew what it was that he was doing in the moment, or how this might please you—all he wanted was to follow what you’d told him to do.
He nodded dumbly. Grabbed the base of his partly-erect dick and guided the tip to your clit again. He rubbed it.
Your head dropped back on a strangled-sounding moan. Joel rubbed harder—faster, to match the rhythm of your hips—and his own lips parted, betraying a look of awe.
You were writhing above him, reveling in the sensation.
Joel blinked, and he completely forgot his predicament. He dismissed from his mind that slight, inconsequential matter of not being able to get himself hard, and he flipped you. Your body fell prone on the bed beneath him.
And, focused on his pleasure as you were, you might’ve protested. Joel was quick to cut it off when he rolled you onto your side and wedged a leg between your knees.
“Open for me,” he murmured beside your ear.
You whined, ‘Jo-el,’ weakly, but obliged.
“Daddy, it’s supposed to be for y—”
Your last words splintered off. Joel was pushing his dick between your thighs—drenched as both the insides of your legs and his length happened to be, it was easy—and he slid it back and forth. He sawed his half-hard cock like he was fucking you from the inside out, and your answering moan was enough to show him that you liked it. Your head tilted back, against his shoulder, and Joel increased the speed of his thrusts. He smirked.
“This is for me, baby,” he assured you quietly.
Then, he notched his tip at your entrance.
“And this…is for you,” he finished.
Just as your moan morphed into a whine once again, he was pushing in—no more than an inch, but in—and his own breath caught. Joel groaned at the warmth and the wetness, the sheer stricture of your cunt that seized his length like a fist. Your walls pulsed at the feeling. You leaked around that one intruding inch and reached behind you to grip Joel’s neck. You cursed softly.
“Shit, daddy. He’s— he’s in me.” Half-disbelief.
“That’s right. Ain’t that where he belongs?”
You didn’t have to answer that. You simply lifted one leg higher and let him rut in deeper. You fisted the hair at the nape of his neck, and you tilted your hips to him. You soaked him in warmth. Though he didn’t have a full view of your expression from behind, Joel could see that your jaw was hanging slack and your lids were heavy—the eyes rolled back at a third stab of his hips. He fucked in.
Joel still wasn’t fully hard. That was just another part of being old, and he was done pretending like he wasn’t the age he was. You didn’t mind the age he was. If the noises bubbling up in your throat, the wet squelch of your cunt every time he drove home, and the grip on his neck, the gentle, ‘Oh, daddy, like that’ wasn’t proof enough of how much you liked it, the tremors in your legs certainly were.
They were slight. Joel knew what they signified, though.
With three inches wedged inside you, he leaned down.
“Is my sweet girl ready to cum?” he pressed gently.
You bit your bottom lip once before whimpering:
“I— I wanna get you hard first, daddy. Please.”
It was like you needed it. That urge to put him first was unyielding, even in a condition like this, and Joel wanted nothing more than to sate the desire. He also wanted to give you the orgasm you deserved, so he ground himself into your ass. He withdrew to the tip, kissed the warm, sensitive spot behind your ear, then plunged back in.
You convulsed around him.
“That’s it,” Joel went on. His mouth was so close to your skin you were no doubt feeling the grit of his stubble with every word he spoke. He hoped you didn’t mind it.
“That’s a good girl. Daddy’s nearly there. Let the sweet feelin’ in, and I promise I’ll be right behind ya, honey.”
“You— you’ll be hard? You’ll get to finish, too?”
“Givin’ ya ropes an’ ropes of the stuff, sweet pea. Enough to flood your tummy with it. Just…gimme one…good…”
“Oh!”
You let out a cry when he drove in deep.
He wasn’t even sure how he did it; his cock just throbbed and pulsed and pushed through your heat like this was right where he needed to be. He pressed in to the hilt, felt his tip kiss somewhere close your cervix, and that was when it happened again. You clawed at his neck.
You raked your nails down harder and shrieked.
“Oh, fuck, Joel, fuck, fuck, fuck—I love you!”
And that was enough for him, too.
In all the decades of life Joel Miller had lived, he couldn’t recall a single time he wasn’t fully hard and able to cum. But here he was. As soon as you finished, he filled you up like it was nothing. It had to have been the intonation of those words, or else your fingers threading through his hair, pulling tight, and gushing your release all over his cock that helped him get there. Every last sign that you were his, that you loved him, pushed him over the edge.
He was mumbling the same into your skin with each hot, pulsing jet of his seed. He buried his face into the crook of your neck and nearly whimpered. He couldn’t help it.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Like a broken refrain, he kept grunting, thrusting, and pushing his cum as deep into your cunt as your body would allow it, and when he was spent, he kept going.
“I love you, Joel.”
You whispered it again. You hardly could’ve expected the effect it would have as soon as the words left your lips.
Joel wasn’t exactly prepared for it, either.
As tired as he was, as old as he was, he hadn’t thought it was even possible. But for the second time that morning, he found himself proven wrong. He let out a soft groan.
And, buried eight inches deep, drenched to the hilt in his own pleasure and yours, Joel felt it—he was finally hard.
His cock was swollen to full capacity, while his balls had just emptied themselves dry. Your bodies were drained.
Faintly, he caught wind of a laugh.
It rumbled through your ribcage and made its way to his. Joel dropped his head to your shoulder, grinning, because of course he got a boner right then.
“Down to run it back after work, old man?”
Joel chuckled. He glanced at the clock.
Leave in five minutes or you’ll be late.
He shrugged and pulled you closer.
“I think I’d better just call in sick.”
now imagine a follow-up crackfic where joel buys those gas station boner pills for funsies and gets hard as SHIT for fourteen hours and fucks you through every minute of it
((apparently any erection that lasts over four hours warrants a trip to the ER but let’s just pretend))
You just bought a new house that needed a lot of work. Luckily, your grumpy old neighbor was more than happy to fix everything—not because he was generous, but because it gave him an excuse to be close. To look. To stare. And you? Love the attention.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, hotgirl!reader, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), nipple play (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, filthy dirty talk, desperate!Joel, pervy!Joel, pathetic!Joel, age gap, Joel being down bad, obsessive staring, possessiveness, mild power play, teasing, so much cum (like he literally can’t stop), Joel not having sex in decades and it shows, Hot girl reader knowing she's hot, Joel being completely ruined by your pussy, and you loving every second of it
11k. Enjoy!
· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··
The house needed work. And probably a priest.
It wasn’t falling apart, but it also wasn’t move-in ready.
The kitchen faucet screamed whenever you turned it on, wailing like it had unfinished business in this world. The porch stairs were one strong gust away from sending someone straight to the ER- or the grave.
The back gate swung open on its own, which was either a poltergeist or just bad hinges, but either way, it sent an unsettling creak through the yard at odd hours of the night.
The lights flickered sometimes. The water pressure was unpredictable. The floors creaked loud enough to make you think twice before sneaking around in the dark.
But it was cheap. And it had potential.
And you?
You weren’t a DIY girlie, but you could figure shit out. Probably…. Maybe.
You did have a certain level of misplaced confidence that made you think you could tackle anything with enough trial and error.
The problem was—so far, it had been mostly errors.
Your first attempt at fixing the faucet resulted in a flood that had you sprinting to turn the water off before your kitchen turned into a slip-and-slide.
Trying to replace a light fixture nearly ended with you electrocuting yourself into another dimension.
And the less said about the unfortunate caulking incident of last Thursday, the better.
Still, you were determined. A little clueless? Sure. But determined.
You wiped sweat from your brow, standing in front of your latest challenge: the front door. It didn’t latch properly. It wasn’t quite crooked, but something was off. The hinges, maybe? You had no idea.
You just knew that a strong wind could blow the damn thing off, which wasn’t ideal for your safety or your sanity.
So there you were, kneeling on the porch, staring at a pile of tools you weren’t entirely sure how to use, the manual open beside you like it was about to offer some divine intervention.
You twisted the screwdriver in your hand, frowning at the misaligned screws. “Alright, bitch,” you muttered to the door, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
And that was when a shadow fell over you.
A heavy presence.
You turned, blinking up at the broad figure standing at the foot of your porch.
Joel Miller.
Your neighbor. Big, built, silent as the grave. Old as fuck.
You’d seen him around—on his porch, smoking, reading the newspaper, doing old people things and watching. Always watching.
Never introduced himself. Never waved. Never made an effort. Just sat there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes unreadable, watching the world pass him by.
Watching you.
At first, you thought it was your imagination. A trick of the heat, the way his dark eyes always seemed to linger just a little too long before darting away. But then, as the weeks passed, you realized it wasn’t just some coincidence.
Joel Miller was looking. A lot.
From behind the safety of his porch, through his truck window when he pulled into the driveway, stealing glances while pretending to tinker with something outside—he was always looking.
He wasn’t the type to catcall or whistle or let his jaw drop like some dumb, desperate idiot. No, but he did openly watch, with that brooding, set-jaw expression, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting the urge to jump.
A man seeing something he wanted—something he knew he couldn’t have.
And, honestly? It was kinda hot.
You love a pathetic man.
Pathetic in the way only a man like him could be- big and strong and old enough to know better, yet still sitting on his porch like some clueless teenager, hopelessly caught in your orbit.
Joel had spent his entire life working.
Calloused hands. Aching back. A routine as grey and dull as the pavement he walked on. He wasn’t a talk-to-women kind of guy. He was a build-shit-and-keep-his-mouth-shut kind of guy.
He had probably spent years without even thinking about sex. Not because he didn’t want it—fuck, of course, he did—but because who the hell would even let him?
The man was a relic.
Pushing sixty. Grumpy. Built like a man who had done nothing but work his whole life—because that’s exactly what he had done.
No wife. No girlfriend. Nothing.
He didn’t flirt. Didn’t go out. Didn’t fucking bother.
Just work, fix, sleep. Get off when he needed to—always alone, always quick, no one to fucking hear him.
That was life.
And then you moved in next door.
And Joel broke.
Because Jesus Christ.
You.
Soft and sweet and fucking perfect—so young, so pretty, so effortlessly sexy.
You weren’t just beautiful. You were something else entirely.
Something cruel.
With your tiny little skirts and tight little tops, walking around like it wasn’t a goddamn crime to be that fucking perfect.
Joel shouldn’t have been looking.
Knew he shouldn’t memorize the way your tits bounced when you jogged past his house.
Shouldn’t have let himself watch the way you stretched on the porch, or walked in those obscene little shorts, or sunbathed out back with your top straps pulled down—looking so fucking soft, like you were made to be touched.
Made to be ruined.
It was sick.
And he didn’t care.
Because at night, when his house was quiet and the only thing in his bed was his own hand, Joel let himself imagine what it would be like to pull you onto his lap or spread you open, bury his face between your thighs and never fucking leave.
To get his mouth on you.
God, he was so hungry for it.
And the worst part?
He was pretty sure you knew.
It was pathetic.
And he fucking knew it.
But he couldn’t stop.
And right now, his gaze was locked on you.
Or, more accurately—your thighs.
You were still kneeling, skin glistening in the summer heat, your tiny skirt barely covering anything. Joel looked like a man who had just seen God.
His throat bobbed.
His fingers flexed.
Then, abruptly—his eyes snapped up.
“Need a hand?” His voice was rough, all gravel and rust.
You tilted your head, dragging your gaze over him.
You smirked.
“I got it,” you said simply.
Joel didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
“…No, you don’t.”
And before you could argue, he was stepping forward.
Taking the screwdriver right out of your hand.
And just fucking fixing it.
Like it was nothing.
Like you weren’t even there.
· · ──𖥸
From that day on, Joel… kinda never left.
Not literally. Not in a way that you could call him out on.
But he was always there.
At first, it was little things. Fixing what you couldn’t. Offering a hand when you were clearly struggling. Showing up at the exact right time, tools in hand, that furrow between his brows like you’d personally offended him by even attempting to fix something yourself.
Then, it escalated.
Because you didn’t even have to ask anymore.
He was just there.
On your porch. In your yard. Pretending to check something in his truck but really just looking at you while you stretched in the morning, your tight little tank clinging to every inch of you.
The excuses started getting thinner, too.
At first, it was, “Saw the porch light flickerin’. Just figured I’d fix it before it got worse.”
Then, it became, “Just keepin’ busy.”
Then, no excuse at all.
Just Joel, lingering around your property, finding any reason to be near you, any reason to work himself into a sweat just for the chance to look at you up close.
Because that was his payment.
His reward.
Every little smile, every little laugh. The way your tits moved when you pointed at something needed fixing. The way you stretched just right, your little skirts and shorts riding up, flashing soft, smooth skin that made Joel’s head spin.
He didn’t even need you to talk to him.
Didn’t need you to flirt.
Just existing was enough.
So he worked.
For free.
Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?
You made him feel like some pathetic old pervert.
Standing around like a useless extra in the movie that was your perfect fucking life.
A washed-up, near-sixty-year-old loser with a bad back, a lonely house, and a dick that hadn’t worked properly in years.
And now?
Now, he nearly was hard all the time.
No blue pills. No coaxing. No thinking about some old porn magazine he had tucked away for emergencies.
Just your voice, your body, the way you smelled, the way you looked at him when you handed him a lemonade like he was doing something special—when all he was doing was fixing your fucking sink.
And the worst part?
He was leaking.
Like a damn teenager.
Hadn’t been this sensitive in decades.
And yet, here he was—barely keeping it together, feeling the way his cock throbbed and ached, fucking dripped inside his jeans while you leaned in, smiling, teasing—
“Thank you, Joel!”
Fuck.
That voice.
All sweet and grateful and warm, and it was fucking nothing. Just three little words.
And yet, his whole body reacted like you had just whispered something filthy in his ear.
Like you had just gotten on your knees, licked your lips, and told him
Sit back, Joel. Let me take care of you.
God, he was fucked.
So he mowed your lawn.
Fixed your AC unit.
Made sure the fence was latched, the gate was locked, the pipes weren’t leakin’.
And when he wasn’t fixing shit inside?
He was finding things to do outside.
Hammering shit that didn’t need hammering.
Cleaning tools that weren’t even his.
Anything. Anything.
Just to be there.
· · ──𖥸
Joel looked wrecked.
Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his broad shoulders sagging as he finally took a seat at the kitchen table he had just fixed for you.
His hands were rough and calloused, veins prominent, fingers flexing against the cool surface as he exhaled, deep and slow. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that clung to a man who had spent the whole day pushing his body to the limit.
And yet, even now, after hours of working himself to the bone, he was still staring.
Not at the food you’d set down in front of him, not at the cold glass of iced tea dripping condensation onto the table, not even at his own aching hands that had spent all damn day making sure every little thing in your house was perfect.
He was staring at your tits.
You noticed it immediately, of course. How could you not? Joel wasn’t exactly subtle.
His dark, hungry gaze stayed fixed on your chest, drinking in the way your tank top clung to you, damp with heat, the fabric just a little too thin, a little too low. His hands twitched every so often, like he had to physically stop himself from reaching out.
He barely responded when you spoke, offering little more than a grunt here and there, a slow nod, an occasional hum of acknowledgment. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because he was completely fucking gone.
And you?
You smirked.
Because this wasn’t new.
Joel Miller had been looking at you like this for weeks now, like a starving man watching a meal just out of reach, a man standing in the desert watching water slip through his fingers.
And he thought he was hiding it.
He wasn’t.
You leaned forward slightly, trailing a finger through the condensation on your glass, watching his Adam’s apple bob when his eyes immediately flicked down again, drawn like a magnet.
You waited. Let it stew. Let the tension stretch thick and heavy between you until you could practically hear the way he was grinding his teeth together, working his jaw, trying to think of something—anything—other than the way your tits were right there.
Then, casually, you spoke.
“You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
Joel didn’t move at first.
Didn’t even seem to register your words right away.
Just blinked, slow and dazed, before finally dragging his gaze back up to your face, blinking again, like he had just been pulled out of something deep.
“…Huh?”
His voice was thick, rough like gravel, his fingers flexing again before clenching into loose fists.
You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flick down to your own chest, then back up to him, pointedly.
“You like ’em?”
For a moment, Joel just sat there.
Silent.
Completely fucking still.
Then, finally, he exhaled. A slow, measured breath, dragging a hand down his face like he was collecting himself, trying to piece together a response that didn’t immediately give him away.
And then, voice lower, rougher, wrecked—
“…What’s there not to like?”
Oh?
That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did.
But it did.
The way he said it, low and warm and dripping with something dark, something dangerous. The way he looked at you when he said it, like he was memorizing every inch of you, like he needed to burn the sight into his brain.
A slow heat unfurled low in your belly, sinking between your thighs, pooling thick and molten as you shifted in your seat, pressing your legs together, suddenly very aware of how wet you were getting.
And Joel knew it.
Because his eyes flicked down for a split second, watching the way you shifted, the way your breath caught ever so slightly, and his fingers clenched tighter against the table.
And then, voice slow, teasing, stretching out the moment—
“Hmmm.”
You tapped a finger against your chin, watching the way his dark eyes tracked your movements, like he couldn’t help it, like he had no control over the way his body responded to you.
And then, soft and syrupy—
“You know, Joel… I feel kinda bad.”
Joel didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Just stared.
You watched the slow, deliberate way he swallowed, the way his whole body seemed to tense under the weight of those words, the muscles in his arms flexing as his fingers curled against the table.
“…Bad?”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“For letting you do all this work without paying you back.”
There was a beat of silence.
Joel’s fingers flexed. His breath stuttered, sharp and uneven. You could see the battle happening in his head—his morals, his age, the voice in his head screaming this is wrong, you’re too old, don’t do this—
And yet.
When he spoke, it was wrecked.
“…Can I just—”
Joel swallowed hard.
His voice dropped lower, raspier, barely even a sound.
“Can I just see you? Look at you?”
The words sent a jolt of something electric through you, made your skin heat, your pulse quicken, made that molten heat in your belly throb.
You smiled. Slow. Sweet.
Cruel.
"You wanna see me, Joel?"
His breath hitched.
His fingers twitched.
He nodded, almost absently, his mouth falling open, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.
You dragged your nails lightly up your stomach, over your ribs, the movement subtle, slow, making him watch.
Your hands went to the hem of your tank top, your fingers curling around the fabric, slowly dragging it up.
Joel’s pupils blew wide.
His lips parted.
His breath hitched.
And when you pulled it over your head, letting it drop to the floor, you saw it.
The way his fingers clenched so hard around the edge of the table that his knuckles went white, like he needed to physically hold himself back.
You sat there in just your bra, running your hands up your stomach, over your ribs, tilting your head slightly as you murmured—
“Like this?”
Joel made a noise that was almost a groan, almost a curse, a low, strangled thing that caught in his throat as his eyes devoured you.
He swallowed again, hard, blinking like he was trying to process what was happening.
Then—rough, hoarse, desperate—
“…Please. Everything.”
So you did.
You reached behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a slow, deliberate flick of your fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms before shrugging it off completely.
And Joel lost the last shred of restraint he had.
His breath hitched—a sharp, audible inhale, like he had just been punched in the gut.
His eyes dropped from your eyes instantly, dragged down like they had no choice, like the second your tits were bare, he was physically incapable of looking anywhere else.
And fuck.
The sound that tore from his throat was something low, deep, filthy— not even a real word, just a groan, guttural and needy, his lips parting, his tongue darting out, his whole fucking body reacting like he was a man who had been starving his whole goddamn life, and now?
Now he was looking at the best fucking meal he’d ever seen.
Because Jesus Christ.
Your tits?
They were perfect.
So fucking full and soft, high and round, plump little handfuls of heaven that he’d been imagining for weeks, and now? Now they were right there.
And your nipples—fuck.
They were already hard, tight little peaks sitting pretty, puckered and aching, begging for something—a touch, a mouth, something wet and warm.
They looked so fucking sweet, like they’d feel so soft, like they’d taste so good on his tongue.
Joel groaned.
A rough, heavy sound, his jaw clenching so fucking hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack, his entire body tensing like it physically hurt him to just sit there and look and not touch.
And then, voice wrecked, strained, barely even a whisper—
“Best goddamn tits I’ve ever seen.”
You smirked, slow and teasing, shifting slightly, making them bounce just a little, the movement so subtle, but his whole body jerked.
“Yeah?”
Joel grunted, a deep, broken noise, his breath stuttering, his fingers flexing.
“Yeah.”
His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.
His hips shifted.
And you noticed.
The way his jeans were tight.
The way a wet patch darkened the denim.
The way his entire body looked like it was straining under the weight of his own need.
And then, voice breaking, groaning—
“Thank you, Sweetheart.”
Your breath caught.
Because that?
That sounded filthy.
Low, wrecked, grateful.
Like just seeing you was some kind of mercy.
His thighs tensed. His hands twitched. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning, devouring, drowning.
You dragged your hands up your own stomach, slow and lazy, brushing your fingers over the soft curves of your breasts, rolling your thumbs over your hardened nipples, smirking when you heard his breath hitch.
“You wanna touch ‘em, Joel?” you murmured, soft and syrupy, voice dipped in honey.
Joel groaned, deep and guttural, like the question alone was enough to wreck him.
“Fuck yeah.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t fucking think.
His hands were on you before the words even fully left his mouth—grabbing, groping, squeezing like he was starving for it, like he’d been fantasizing about this for so long that the second he finally had them in his palms, he lost every ounce of restraint.
And Jesus fuck, his hands were big.
Rough.
Strong.
Decades of hard labor carved into every thick callus, every flex of his fingers, every hungry, greedy, desperate grab.
“Fuck, babygirl,” he muttered, voice wrecked, almost dazed as he kneaded your tits, rolling them in his palms, squeezing like he needed to memorize the way they felt—like he’d never get this chance again.
He groaned, deep and filthy, fingers digging in, rough fingertips brushing over your stiff nipples, making you suck in a sharp breath as heat licked through your veins.
“So fuckin’ soft,” he rasped, thumbing over the tight little peaks, watching the way your body reacted to him, your back arching, breath hitching.
Joel felt that.
“Feel good, baby?” he rasped, voice a low, guttural thing, dragging his calloused fingers over your nipples again, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, watching your reaction like a starving man watching a meal.
You swallowed hard, a shiver running through you, your thighs pressing together. Fuck.
Your nipples were so sensitive, tingling with every swipe, every flick, every dirty little touch of his rough fingers.
“Yeah,” you breathed, biting your lip, arching into his touch, letting him take what he wanted.
Joel groaned again, deep and needy, gripping your tits harder, pushing them together, squeezing, kneading, fucking obsessed.
His thumbs twisted your nipples, slow and deliberate, watching the way they hardened even further, standing up all soft and pink, looking so fucking suckable.
“Jesus,” he muttered again, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Look at these pretty tits.”
His fingers pinched, tugged, twisted just right—just enough to make you gasp, a soft little sound that sent a lightning bolt of pure fucking need straight to his cock.
He grinned.
A dark, hungry thing.
And then, voice gritted, thick with lust—
“Bet they taste even better.”
“Can I-”
Before he could even finish asking, you were already shushing him, already threading your fingers into his graying hair and pulling his face down, guiding him straight to where he belonged.
Joel went willingly.
Mouth first.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Joel yanked you into his lap, gripping you like you might disappear, like this was a dream he’d wake up from if he let go for even a second.
His knees ached against the floor, his back twinged in warning, but he didn’t give a fuck. Not when you were straddling him, warm and soft, tits in his face like some fucking gift from God.
His mouth sealed over your nipple, pulling at it with an obscene, wet suckle, tongue flattening before flicking, rolling, teasing the sensitive bud until it was aching, stiff, raw.
Just a wrecked, filthy groan, muffled against your soft, warm skin as he was sucking deep, sucking hard, sucking wet.
“Fuck yes,” he moaned into your skin, voice ragged, his breath hot and heavy against your breast.
He was loud.
Not in words—because words didn’t matter anymore.
But in the way he suckled, the way his lips sealed tight, how he groaned and slurped and moaned, every single sound of his mouth on you wet and obscene, filling the space around you.
His tongue swiped up, then down, then circled—slow at first, then faster, flicking against the stiff bud before pulling it into his mouth again, sealing his lips tight, sucking deep.
He couldn’t stop.
Didn’t even try.
His hands moved next, big, calloused fingers gripping your waist, dragging you closer, then sliding up to cup both tits in his palms, rough and desperate.
“Oh—fuck, Joel—” your breath hitched, the sharp pull of his mouth sending a jolt straight between your thighs.
He groaned—deep, guttural, filthy.
“Goddamn, baby—”
Then, harder.
His fingers squeezed tighter, thumbs brushing over your nipples, pinching the one he wasn’t sucking on, rolling it between his fingertips, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
You felt his breath stutter—like he was about to lose it completely—before he pulled off with a wet, sucking pop, spit connecting his lips to your nipple, slick and shining.
He stared.
Breathing ragged. Eyes dark, starving.
And then he dived right back in.
Latching onto the other like a man possessed, groaning into it like he was trying to drink from you, ruin you, consume you.
His hands never stopped.
He hugged you closer, pulling you right into him, pressing your tits together, mashing them up against his face, smothering himself in them.
“So fuckin’ soft, baby—” he rasped, licking, suckling, tongue dragging slow circles around your nipple before he sealed his lips and sucked deep again.
“So fuckin’ sweet—”
He switched between them like he couldn’t pick a favorite, couldn’t decide, couldn’t stop.
His tongue flicked, his lips sucked, his teeth grazed, sending shocks of pleasure straight between your legs.
Your breath hitched.
Your back arched.
Because he wasn’t just playing around.
This wasn’t just teasing.
This wasn’t some guy mouthing at your tits before moving on.
No.
Joel was staying here.
Lingering.
Drowning in it.
Like he could suckle your tits for hours.
And then, voice low, gravelly, wrecked—
“Baby…”
You hummed, already smirking.
He swallowed thickly, his fingers tracing absent circles against your ribs, his voice barely above a whisper—
“Lemme see you.”
Your smirk widened.
“See what, Joel?”
He groaned, head dropping against your shoulder for half a second like he physically needed to collect himself. His nose brushed along your jaw, leaving small kisses, hot breath fanning against your skin, and then—
“Sweetheart, please,” he rasped. “Lemme see that pretty little pussy.”
Your stomach tightened, heat flaring low, but you didn’t let it show. Not yet.
Instead, you stretched, slow and indulgent, arching just slightly, your tits pushing up against his chest. “Hmmm,” you mused, tapping a manicured nail against your lip like you were actually considering it. “You worked so hard for me, didn't you, Joel?”
His jaw flexed. His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, squeezing.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasped. “Don’t tease me like this.”
You tilted your head, tapping your chin, dragging it out just a little longer—watching the way his fingers twitched, watching the way his pupils were blown black with hunger, watching the way his hips barely resisted the urge to rut up against you like he needed something, anything.
Then, finally, you sighed.
“Alright, old man,” you murmured, shifting in his lap, the movement making him groan. “Take me to the couch.”
Joel nearly fucking growled.
His arms came around you instantly, strong, needy, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you. Not struggling, not even hesitating—because fuck if you thought he was too old for this, fuck if you thought he wouldn’t show you exactly what he could do.
He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious, his hands sliding over your body, down your sides, gripping your thighs, spreading you open just enough.
And then—his fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt.
Not pulling it down.
Just flipping it up.
Joel wasn’t breathing.
At least, it felt that way.
He couldn’t. Not with the way you were spread out in front of him, thighs parted, panties soaked, looking like the filthiest, prettiest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life.
And the worst part?
You knew exactly what you were doing to him.
The way you stretched lazily, arching just a little, making your tits push forward. The way your lips curled in that slow, knowing smirk when you caught him staring, like you were indulging him, letting him look, letting him take in every fucking inch of you.
And Joel—Joel was gone.
His hands slid up your thighs, slow, reverent, rough fingertips dragging against soft skin, feeling the heat radiating off you.
“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, dark, almost reverent.
Joel dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, gaze locked on the damp spot between your legs, so fucking dark, so fucking pretty.
His thumbs traced along the edges of your panties, brushing just barely over the damp patch at the center, groaning when he felt the way it stuck to you.
“So goddamn wet,” he murmured, almost to himself, shaking his head, his fingers flexing against your skin. “Been like this all night, little girl?”
You moaned, shifting slightly, watching the way his jaw clenched at the movement.
“Maybe,” you teased. “Not my fault you’ve been looking at me like that all day.”
Joel exhaled sharply, a low, ragged sound, his grip tightening.
Poor old man.
He was completely fucking gone.
“See something you like?” you teased, voice sweet, syrupy, making his jaw clench.
Joel exhaled through his nose, hands tightening where they rested on your thighs, fingers pressing in deep, like he needed to hold onto something, ground himself before he completely lost control.
“Baby,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice low and rough, thick with something desperate. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”
You laughed, slow and taunting, your nails dragging up the couch, watching the way his entire body tensed, like he was on the verge of snapping, like he was barely holding himself together.
“Am I?” you mused, tilting your head, watching him watch you.
Joel groaned, deep and guttural, his grip bruising now, his breath shuddering, his hips twitching like just the words alone were enough to ruin him.
And then—
He leaned in.
Pressed his face against your covered cunt, breathing deep, dragging his nose over the soaked fabric, his entire body shuddering, shaking, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.
And fuck.
He moaned.
You smirked. Moaned.
Because you knew.
Knew exactly what kind of power you had over him. Knew that Joel Miller—this gruff, brooding old man who barely spoke to anyone, who’d spent his life working, fixing, existing—was utterly wrecked over you.
And right now, he was on his knees, rubbing his face against your soaked panties, inhaling like the scent of your cunt was the only thing keeping him alive.
You loved it.
“Mm, you really like it down there, huh?” You moaned dragging your nails through his hair, watching the way his whole body twitched, the way he groaned against you, his nose pressing harder into the damp fabric covering your pussy.
Joel barely lifted his head, just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they were nearly black, lips slick with his own spit. His fingers flexed against your thighs like he was fighting himself—like he wanted to tear those panties off and bury himself in you, but he was holding back.
Barely.
“Like?” he rasped, voice wrecked. His tongue darted out, swiping over his bottom lip, like he was tasting the scent of you in the air.
He groaned.
“Pretty girl, I’m fuckin’ obsessed.”
You moaned. Tilting your hips just slightly, pressing up into his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his breath stuttered like just feeling your heat against his lips was too much.
“Oh yeah?” Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging. “Then show me.”
Joel didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t breathe.
He just acted.
His hands shot up, gripping the waistband of your panties, and for a second, you thought he was going to rip them off you. But no—Joel was feeling something nastier.
Instead, he grabbed the soaked fabric, pulled it tight against your cunt, wedging it between your slick folds, pressing the thin material right into your aching clit.
You gasped.
“Ohhh, fuck—”
Joel groaned, a deep, filthy sound from the pit of his chest as he rubbed the fabric against you, slow at first, then harder, pressing it between your lips, letting the damp, sticky material drag over your throbbing clit.
His nose dragged over the outline of your swollen pussy, mouth parted, tongue slipping out to taste the wet spot directly over your entrance, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking put in his mouth.
“Jesus fuck,” he growled. “S’soaked, girl. Look at this fuckin’ mess. You see this?” He rubbed the fabric in deeper, groaning at the way it stuck to your folds, the way your slick smeared against it, making it wetter, stickier.
You moaned, hips rolling, pushing against his mouth, chasing the friction.
“Joel—”
He growled again, gripping your thighs tight, keeping you spread as he bit down gently on the covered part of your clit, tugging with his teeth, rolling it between them through the fabric.
You gasped.
Your back arched, hands flying to the couch, gripping the cushions for some kind of grounding because—holy fuck.
Joel chuckled. Chuckled. A deep, perverse sound.
“Ohh, you like that, hm?”
He pressed his tongue flat against your clit through your panties, sucking at the damp fabric, like he was trying to drink you through it, humming like he could taste you, even with the barrier in the way.
Then—
His teeth latched onto the thin cotton, gripping the wet spot over your entrance, and he pulled.
A sharp, precise tug.
Dragging the panties against your cunt, making them slide against your soaked folds, pressing them deeper, wedging them between your swollen lips, rubbing everything.
You fucking whimpered.
Joel moaned against you, rutting his hips against the couch, pressing his nose right against your slit, inhaling, sucking, rubbing his face all over your cunt like a man starved.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, nuzzling you, his voice dripping with filth. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ warm, baby. So fuckin’ messy. Leakin’ all over these little panties—bet they’re ruined, huh?”
Your thighs shook. Your breath stuttered.
Your fingers curled tight in his hair, tugging, and he moaned again, loud, tongue slipping out to drag slow, wet strokes over the damp fabric, gathering everything before pressing it back against your cunt, making you feel how fucking messy you were.
His hands—those big, rough, work-worn hands—slid up your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open, thumbs pressing into your soft skin as he finally, finally hooked his fingers into your panties and peeled them off.
He groaned when they stuck.
When your slick clung to the fabric.
When he had to drag them down your legs because they were soaked.
And then—
You were bare.
Wet.
Dripping.
All for him.
Joel sat back on his heels, staring.
His fingers flexed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice deep and wrecked.
Then, dark eyes flicking up to yours, a slow, filthy grin stretching across his face—
“Oh, baby…” He groaned.
“I’m gonna ruin you.”
His voice was a wreck, almost a whisper, full of awe, full of filth, full of something desperate and hungry.
Because you were fucking perfect.
Your pussy was obscene.
Pink and swollen and glistening, folds spread, sticky and slick, so wet you were practically dripping onto the couch.
Your clit—puffy, throbbing—begging for attention, twitching every time Joel’s hot breath ghosted over you.
The dim light caught on the shine of your arousal, making everything look impossibly wet, messy, fucking ruined.
And Joel?
Joel was losing his goddamn mind.
His breath hitched, a low, wrecked groan ripping from his chest, his fingers flexing hard against your thighs, like he was physically restraining himself from lunging forward and devouring you whole.
“Fuck me.” His voice came out rough, strangled, barely even a whisper. “Look at that messy little pussy. S’so fuckin’ wet for me, baby.”
You hummed, stretching out against the couch like you had all the time in the world, arching just slightly making your tits look so good, making yourself even softer, even easier, even more of a temptation.
“Yeah?” Your voice was all gasped, all teasing, your hips rolling up just a little, just enough to make the slick between your thighs glisten in the low light. “You like her, Joel?”
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, eyes blown dark and wide, locked on your cunt like it was hypnotizing him, pulling him under.
He let out a rough, humorless laugh, shaking his head, squeezing your thighs just a little tighter. “Baby, I’ll never let go of her.”
That smirk stretched slow across your lips, your thighs parting just a little more, an open invitation, a silent dare.
Joel groaned—deep, guttural, painful.
And then he snapped.
His big, rough hands grabbed you, dragging you down the couch with no warning, tugging you toward him until your ass was hanging off the edge, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs, his face—his mouth—right where he wanted it.
And then—
A long, wet, messy lick.
Tongue flat, broad, dragging over your slit, catching every drop of slick, lapping it up, his nose bumping against your mound, his groan muffled as he tasted you.
And Jesus fuck—he growled.
“Goddamn, baby… this sloppy little pussy.” His voice was hot against your skin, his tongue flicking out to catch another drop of arousal, swallowing it down, his thumbs spreading you open even wider. “Fuckin’ drippin’ all over my face.”
You whined, hips bucking, but Joel’s grip slammed you back down.
“Uh-uh,” he rasped, dragging his tongue up again, circling your clit, teasing, groaning loud like he was tasting something sinful, something addictive, something he was never gonna get enough of.
His lips wrapped around the swollen bud, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, his tongue flicking, his nose buried against your mound, his face pressed so deep in your pussy he was fucking drowning.
And he loved it.
You were soaked.
Dripping.
And Joel wanted it.
Wanted every drop.
His tongue licked into you, fucking inside, groaning loud when he felt your walls clench, sucking your juices from his own tongue like he was drinking you, like you were feeding him.
And fuck—
His hips rutted against the couch, grinding, his cock straining against his jeans, so fucking wet, his pre-cum soaking through, his whole body wound tight like he could come just like this, just from eating you, from tasting you, from hearing the little broken whimpers spilling from your lips.
His fingers dug in deeper, pressing into the softness of your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you closer, burying his tongue so deep inside you it made your eyes roll back.
And then—
A rough, growled, wrecked—
“Goddamn, baby. Gonna fuckin’ stay down here.”
Joel was gone.
Buried between your thighs, tongue fucking into you like a starving man, like this was what he was made to do.
And fuck, maybe he was.
Because he was too good at it.
You moaned, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling, loving the way he groaned, the way his hips rutted harder against the couch, the way he needed this.
“Fuck, Joel,” you panted, voice thick with pleasure.
Joel growled.
He actually fucking growled, pulling you closer, spreading you wider, licking into you deeper, his tongue flicking, curling, sucking, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself back from humping the fucking couch like some desperate, pathetic thing.
And then—
Joel spat on it.
A wet, messy, lewd spit, right over your swollen clit.
And then?
He rubbed his face into it.
Like some depraved old pervert, moaning as he smothered himself with your slick, nuzzling into it, smearing his own spit and your arousal all over his lips, his chin, his nose .. damn nearly up to his forehead.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, breath hot, words slurred against your swollen folds. “Smell so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste even fuckin’ better.”
His tongue swiped over your clit, broad and firm, lapping at it like he was fucking thirsty, groaning when he felt you pulse, when he felt your thighs tremble.
He spat on it again.
And smeared it in.
Dragged his tongue through the mess, licking his own spit off your cunt like he was cleaning you up.
And fuck.
It sent a shock of pleasure straight through your body, a sharp, hot jolt that made your back arch, your mouth dropping open in a broken moan.
“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “I—I’m gonna—”
Joel knew.
Knew you were close, knew he had you teetering, knew you were about to fucking snap.
So he latched onto your clit, sucking, moaning, filthy and loud, his fingers bruising into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.
And when you came—
Oh, fuck, when you came.
Your body jerked, legs trembling, the orgasm hitting you so hard it stole the breath from your lungs, your vision going white, your whole body clenching around the pleasure, drowning in it.
And Joel?
Joel groaned.
Like he felt it.
Like your orgasm belonged to him.
Like he had just come from tasting you, from making you come, from hearing you cry out his name.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t fucking stop.
Kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking devouring, his tongue flicking over your oversensitive clit, dragging out every last aftershock, keeping you on the edge, keeping you throbbing.
And you—
You were shaking.
Body weak, legs useless, cunt aching for something more.
“Joel,” you gasped, breathless, still trembling. “I—I want your cock.”
And Joel?
He didn’t hear you.
Didn’t process it.
Because he was lost.
Lost in your pussy, lost in the taste, lost in the way you fucking shook for him.
His tongue dragged through the mess, lapping up every drop, swallowing you down like you were something precious, something he couldn’t afford to waste.
So you tried again.
“Joel,” you panted, tugging at his hair, trying to get his attention. “I want your—”
And he still didn’t listen.
Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept moaning against your cunt like he was starved.
So you had to rip his face away.
Fisting your hands in his hair, pulling him back, making him look up at you—
His mouth was fucking open, his tongue still flicking like he was trying to find you, like he was looking for your pussy, like he was about to dive right back in.
He was panting, breath heavy, wrecked, like he had just fucked you, like he was the one who had just come.
And then—
A low, desperate, ruined—
“Baby, please.”
Like he needed it.
Like he needed to go back.
Like he wasn’t done yet.
The smell of you. The taste of you. The way you squirmed and moaned, your fingers sinking into his hair, giving the softest little tugs that made his cock throb.
You hummed, dragging your nails lightly against his scalp. “You gonna stay down there all night, handsome?”
Joel groaned against your thigh, his fingers tightening where they gripped your hips.
“Would if you’d let me,” he muttered, voice rough and muffled.
You laughed, breathy and teasing. “Well…” You tugged gently at his hair, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to look up at you. “Maybe I want something else tonight.”
Joel’s head spun.
His stomach clenched, heat coiling low, thick and heavy in his gut.
Because you couldn’t possibly mean—
“Maybe,” you mused, trailing your fingers down his face, smirking. “You should fuck me instead.”
Joel went completely fucking still.
A full-body freeze.
Because, holy shit.
He hadn’t even considered it.
He hadn’t dared to.
Had been so caught up in this—this ritual, this worship, this sick fucking devotion of getting to lose himself between your thighs, mouth greedy and desperate, tongue messy and unrelenting—he hadn’t let himself imagine it going further.
Hadn’t even let himself hope for it.
But now?
Now, you were looking at him with those big, bright eyes, your lips curled in something teasing and wicked, your fingers trailing down his chest, and fuck.
It hit him.
Like a fucking freight train.
He was gonna fuck you.
Joel groaned, his head falling forward against your stomach, breath heavy, body shaking as his hands gripped your thighs, squeezing so tight it bordered on bruising.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Fuck. Baby.”
You grinned, delighted. “Yeah?”
Joel swallowed, lifting his head, his gaze burning as he looked up at you.
“Yeah.”
His voice was rough, wrecked.
“Then get up here, old man,” you purred, tugging at his shoulders. “Come fuck me.”
And, fuck, he was gonna.
Somehow, he managed to kneel between your legs, looming over you, broad and heavy and burning with something filthy and desperate.
Somehow, he managed to unbuckle his belt, yank his zipper down, pull himself free—
You hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t expected him to be this thick.
Because, fuck me.
Joel Miller was fucking big.
The way his cock twitched the second the cool air hit it, sending a slow, heavy bead of precome dripping down—hot and sticky, landing right on your stomach.
God.
Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching where they were still spread open for him, aching.
And Joel?
He was just watching.
Watching that glistening drop smear against your skin, dragging his fist slow along his length, squeezing at the base, like he was trying to calm himself down.
Not that it was working.
Because he was dripping.
Leaking all over you, precum slick and thick, dribbling down the fat head of his cock, smearing over the tip as he worked himself, his jaw clenched tight, breathing heavy.
His cock was—fuck.
Thick. So fucking thick.
Broad, heavy in his palm, his shaft veined and throbbing, dark with need, his swollen head gleaming wet under the dim light.
A thick trail of silver and black hair led down from his stomach, curling around the base—graying just like the rest of him, salt-and-pepper in a way that made your stomach tighten.
And his balls.
Heavy and full, hanging low, tight and aching with neglect, pulled up just slightly, like his body was already fighting to hold off the inevitable.
And Joel—Joel was losing his fucking mind.
Because fuck.
Your soft, pretty body sprawled out beneath him, tits still sticky from his mouth, your stomach slick with the mess he was dripping all over you, your thighs spread open, that sweet, soaked pussy waiting for him—his cock.
He groaned, low and ruined, watching another thick bead of precum slip from the head, drooling down his shaft, slicking up his fingers.
He couldn’t stop leaking.
Couldn’t stop fucking twitching, pulsing in his own grip, so hard it was almost painful.
His body was betraying him.
Decades of needing, decades of nothing, and now?
Now he was about to lose it over just this.
Just you, looking up at him like that.
Smiling sweetly like you fucking knew.
Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
Joel groaned, watching your expression shift, watching your eyes flick down to where he was gripping himself, your lips parting just slightly, breath hitching.
And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.
He smirked. Just a little.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Ain’t gettin’ shy on me now, are ya?”
You dragged your gaze back up to his, grinning lazily, voice smooth and teasing. “Nah, just thinking.”
Joel raised a brow, cocking his head. “Yeah? ’Bout what?”
Your lips curled.
“How the hell this thing’s gonna fit inside me.”
Joel growled.
A deep, guttural, feral fucking sound, his grip tightening around his cock, his other hand gripping your thigh, yanking you closer.
You giggled, delighted, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, his body pressing heavy against yours, his cock resting hot and thick against your belly, pulsing.
He was panting.
You could feel it, the heat of his breath against your cheek, the slight tremble in his arms, the pure need radiating off him.
“You’ll take it,” he murmured, voice rough and low, dangerous in a way that made your stomach clench. “You’ll take all of it, baby. Ain’t no way I’m not givin’ you every goddamn inch.”
Fuck.
You whimpered.
And Joel—he fucking felt it.
Felt the way you clenched around nothing, the way your thighs trembled, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.
Felt the way your body was begging for it.
“Joel…” Your voice was thinner now, breathless.
He smirked.
“What, baby?” He pressed against your entrance, just barely, the thick head of his cock stretching you the tiniest bit before he pulled away again, teasing, watching the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched. “You were talkin’ so much before. What happened?”
You whined.
Louder this time.
And Joel groaned, dropping his forehead against yours, shaking his head.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re so fuckin’ spoiled, baby.”
Then—
Joel pressed forward.
Slow.
Heavy.
Thick.
The swollen head of his cock pushed against your slick entrance, parting your folds, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. Your body clenched around him instinctively, the burn sweet and deep, making you gasp, your fingers digging harder into his shoulders.
“Fuck—” Joel groaned, long and drawn out, his forehead dropping against yours as he fought to hold himself back, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you knew there’d be bruises come morning. “Goddamn, baby… s’fuckin’ tight—”
You moaned at the stretch, the way your cunt swallowed him up, the way he felt inside you—thick and throbbing, pulsing against your walls, filling you more than you ever thought possible.
And fuck, he wasn’t even all the way in yet.
Joel was shaking.
Every muscle in his body drawn tight, his cock twitching as he struggled to keep himself together, to not just slam in all at once and lose himself in the hot, wet grip of you.
He was too old for this shit.
Too fucking old to be trembling like some desperate goddamn virgin, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, his breath coming in ragged pants as he forced himself to go slow.
But Jesus Christ—
You were so small.
So fucking tiny compared to him, your cunt squeezing around his cock like it was trying to keep him out, like you weren’t built to take something this fucking big.
But you would.
You had to.
Joel wasn’t stopping.
“Take it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked, low and strained. “You’ll fuckin’ take all of it, little girl. Gonna stretch you out real nice, make you mine.”
You whimpered, legs trembling as you tried to relax, tried to take him deeper.
“Good job, sweet girl,” Joel groaned, voice rough, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, spreading them wider, pressing his weight against you. “That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”
You clenched around him at that, and Joel felt it—felt the way your body squeezed him, the way your breath hitched, the way your back arched just slightly, like your body was instinctively trying to get more.
And fuck, that just about broke him.
His hips twitched, and suddenly, he was sinking deeper, forcing more of his cock inside your tight little cunt, and you gasped, nails raking down his arms as he stretched you even further, the feeling almost too much, too full—
But fuck, it felt so good.
“Joel—”
He groaned at the sound of his name falling from your lips, dark eyes snapping up to meet yours, pupils blown wide, his lips parted as he panted against your mouth.
“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice dripping with heat.
You couldn’t even form words. Couldn’t think past the way he felt inside you, past the way he was holding you open, filling you up, stretching you out in a way you’d never felt before.
“More,” you whispered, breath hitching, thighs trembling. “Please.”
Joel growled.
Deep and low, something primal and wrecked, and before you could process it—
He thrust forward.
Burying himself to the fucking hilt.
You choked on a gasp, your whole body jerking at the sheer force of it, the sudden fullness, the way he bottomed out inside you, his cock nestled so deep it felt like he was fucking splitting you in half.
Joel snapped.
The last thread of his restraint fucking gone.
“Fuck—” He groaned, hips jerking, grinding himself deeper, reveling in the way you squirmed, the way you moaned, the way your body clenched around him like you never wanted to let go.
“Goddamn, sweetheart—” His voice was all rough edges, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am?”
You could barely think, barely breathe, barely function beyond the overwhelming stretch of him inside you, the way he filled every inch of you, every nerve ending fucking screaming in pleasure.
Joel didn’t wait for an answer.
Didn’t need one.
Because he knew.
Knew you felt it.
Knew you loved it.
“Look at you,” he groaned, his lips dragging over your throat, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Made for this. Made to take my cock, weren’t you? You were askin' for this, huh? Teasin' me all these weeks?”
You moaned.
Loud and wrecked, your head tilting back, exposing more of your throat, and Joel fucking ate it up.
“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” he rasped, voice strained, his hips pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again, grinding against that soft, spongy spot inside you. “Like this little pussy don’t wanna let me go.”
You whimpered.
Because it didn’t.
Didn’t want him to go.
Didn’t want anything except more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he was stretching you open, fucking ruining you for anyone else.
And Joel knew it.
Could feel it.
Could see it in the way your body arched, in the way your nails dug into his skin, in the way you moaned his name like a prayer.
And fuck—
That did something to him.
Something dark.
Something needy.
Something possessive.
His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and you cried out, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and fuck, he loved that sound.
“Oh, god—i - you feel so good,” you cry, eyes fluttering shut, pleasure rolling over you in hot, heavy waves.
“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice full of filthy heat. “That what you want? Want me to fuck this sweet little pussy with my cock? Want me to ruin you?”
You gasped, back arching, nails dragging down his back.
“Yes—”
And that was all he needed.
All he needed to let go, to give in, to let the raw, aching need consume him.
Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, and then—Joel growled.
A deep, wrecked, guttural thing that ripped through his chest, and suddenly—he was moving.
Thrusting.
Fucking you.
“Oh—oh god—” Your back arched, breath hitching, body jolting with each sharp thrust, each desperate snap of his hips.
Joel fucking grinned.
“That what it takes, huh?” he rasped, voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. “A big cock to shut you up, baby? Hm?”
You moaned, head lolling back against the cushions, unable to form words, pleasure slamming into you so hard your mind went blank.
And Joel? He ate it up.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he gritted out, gripping your hips tighter, dragging you down onto him, forcing you to take every inch. “Too busy takin’ my cock to be a smug little brat now, huh?”
You whimpered.
And Joel groaned, eyes rolling back slightly as his pace faltered, his cock twitching inside you.
Fuck—he wasn’t gonna last.
Not with this.
Not with the way you were tightening around him, squeezing him like you wanted him to cum, like you wanted him to break apart inside you, wanted to milk every drop from his aching cock.
His breath turned ragged, hips stuttering, muscles tensing, and—
“Oh, baby—shit, I—I won’t—”
His voice broke.
He gritted his teeth, fighting it, holding on as long as he could, but you were so fucking tight, so fucking wet, so fucking perfect—
And then—
You clenched around him again, dragging him deeper, pressing your lips to his ear, voice all soft and sweet—
“Cum for me, Joel.”
And that was it.
Joel snapped.
His body locked up, cock throbbing as a strangled groan tore from his throat, his hips pressing flush against you as he spilled deep inside you, pumping you full, burying himself as deep as he could while pleasure crashed over him in heavy, burning waves.
His breath stuttered, his whole body trembling, nails digging into your skin.
Your body was still trembling, sweat slicking your skin, the heat between your legs thick and wet with the mess Joel had already left inside you. Your mind was still spinning, your breath uneven, but Joel wasn’t done.
Not even close.
He held you close, his big body still caging you in, his thick arms wrapped around you like he needed to keep you there, to pin you down, to claim you.
His lips moved against your damp skin, pressing soft, wet kisses against your shoulder, up your throat, nuzzling against the sensitive skin behind your ear as he let out a deep, satisfied groan.
But then—
Another pulse.
Another deep, warm spurt of cum filling you up, coating your walls even though you swore he had already given you everything he had.
Your breath hitched, your body twitching slightly as you felt it—felt him still throbbing, still leaking, still making sure every single drop stayed buried inside you.
“Joel,” you gasped, tilting your head back against the couch, your fingers curling weakly into his sweaty back. “You’re still cumming?”
Joel grunted against your neck, his hips giving a slow, almost involuntary push forward, like he was trying to press himself even deeper, to make sure it stuck. His lips dragged up to your jaw, warm and slightly open, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked when he finally muttered,
“Still got more for you, baby.”
Fuck.
Your stomach tightened, another wave of heat rolling through you at the sheer desperation in his tone, the filth in his words. You felt his mouth on you again, felt the rough scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, and then—
Joel groaned, his lips finally finding yours, capturing them in a slow, wet kiss. The second you moaned into it—
Another slow pulse inside you.
Another spurt.
Hot, deep, filling you up all over again.
Joel shuddered against you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, swallowing your soft whimpers as he rocked into you, his cock still buried deep, still throbbing, still giving you everything.
You broke the kiss first, tilting your head back against the couch, a dazed, smug little smile curling on your lips. “You really are an old pervert,” you murmured, voice teasing, breathless.
Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. His dark eyes were hooded, heavy with lust, filled with something possessive and raw as his fingers flexed slightly, keeping you in place.
“And you,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous, “are a fuckin’ menace.”
His hips rocked again, and you let out a choked little gasp as you felt just how deep he was still buried inside you, still stretching you, still keeping you full. He groaned at the sound, dipping his head to bite softly at your bottom lip before licking over it, tasting you, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy tease.
You melted into it, humming softly as you curled your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly.
Joel growled.
His breath was heavy against your lips, warm and ragged, his body shuddering slightly as the last waves of pleasure pulsed through him. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, then another just beneath your ear, his lips soft and warm and so different from the way he’d just fucked you—filthy and desperate and rough.
Now, he was gentle.
Now, he was melting against you.
His weight pressing you down, his hands smoothing over your hips, his fingers curling possessively around the softness of your thighs. Keeping you close. Keeping you his.
You sighed, shifting just slightly, feeling the thick heat of him settle inside you, the stretch easing, leaving behind a deep, satisfied ache. You were so full.
So stuffed with him.
And god, you could feel it—the way he was still throbbing deep inside, the way the sticky warmth of his spend was already beginning to leak out, thick and hot, slicking your thighs where you were still stretched wide around him.
You smirked.
“Hm,” you mused, tilting your head back against the couch, letting your fingers drag lazily down his back. “I really got forty-year-old cum inside me right now, huh?”
Joel groaned, shifting slightly, dragging his lips down the curve of your throat, nipping softly. “Baby, don’t—”
“What?” You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips slightly, making him hiss. “Just stating facts.”
Joel exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing where they gripped your waist, holding you still. “Not forty,” he muttered, his voice a low, grumbled thing against your skin.
You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Oh? My bad. Forty-something-year-old cum.”
Joel groaned again, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “And yet,” you purred, voice sweet and teasing, “you still came so deep inside me.”
His hips flexed, pushing deeper, and you gasped, arching slightly beneath him. Joel lifted his head then, dark eyes meeting yours, something warm and hungry and satisfied settling there.
“Damn right, I did.”
You shivered.
His lips curled slightly, his hand dragging down to rest against your lower belly, pressing there—right over the place where you were still stuffed full of him.
“Know how long I been thinkin’ about that?” he murmured, fingers flexing slightly. “Fillin’ you up like this?”
Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as he rolled his hips again, slow, lazy, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “Joel…”
His lips found yours again, slow and deep and lingering, his tongue sliding against yours in a soft, lazy tease. You melted into it, letting him kiss you slow, letting him take his time, letting him savor the taste of you, the feel of you, the warmth of you still wrapped around him.
When he finally pulled back, he looked at you for a long moment, his hand smoothing up your side, curling around your ribs, tracing absentminded circles into your skin.
“You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice softer now, rough around the edges but warm.
You exhaled, stretching slightly, feeling the way his body fit against yours, warm and solid and safe. You felt good.
Better than good.
A slow, satisfied smile curled on your lips. “More than okay.”
Joel grunted, pressing one last kiss to your jaw before finally shifting, pulling out slowly, carefully, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he felt just how soaked you were.
He sat back, dark eyes dragging over the sight of you—legs spread, pussy messy and glistening, his cum already beginning to leak out onto the couch. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and push it back inside.
Your smirk deepened. “Like what you see?”
Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”
You stretched your arms over your head, arching slightly, your grin widening. “Well,” you mused, voice lazy and satisfied, “if you die, at least you’ll die a very happy pervert.”
Joel rolled his eyes, reaching for you, tugging you onto his lap effortlessly, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.
You sighed, melting into him, pressing your forehead against his, your fingers dragging up the back of his neck.
Joel exhaled, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers flexing slightly where they gripped your hips.
Then, voice low, murmured against your mouth—
“Yeah, baby. Happiest I’ve ever been.”
· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··
...Hey y'all im back. Opinions and comments are greatly appreciated please PLEASE (please)
I was madly in love with Niles when I was younger. Most girls wanted NKOTB, Johnny Depp, or Keanu Reeves. Not I! I wanted that fictional character who was weird, smarmy, and romantic.
are YOU a former tiktok user trying to learn how to use tumblr to fill the void the american tiktok ban is leaving in your soul? here are some things you should know, from someone who’s going on their eighth year on this hellsite:
1. you can say anything on here. gone are the days of having to use words like “unalive” and “seggs.” murder! kill! sex! fuck! speak your mind!
2. there is a community for you on here. regardless of what you’re into or however small the fandom is, you have a place here. at least one other person will have heard of your weird obscure interest. strike up a conversation!
3. followers don’t matter. tumblr is one of the last remaining social media sites in which your number of followers means absolute jack shit. this can be disorienting at first, but once you lean into the fact that everyone on this website is equal, it’s very freeing. clout means nothing here.
4. similarly, you can post at any time. while tiktok has an algorithm that favors certain times, tumblr has no such algorithm. post whatever you want, whenever you want. every post has virtually the same chance at getting notes, regardless of when it is posted.
5. tags can have spaces between the words! this one is very exciting. tags can be a whole sentence. you can also use the tags to comment on someone’s post without actually adding onto the physical post itself (which is sometimes frowned upon and called “derailing” if you use this feature to bring up a completely different point other than the one that’s being made on the original post).
TL;DR: speak your mind, find your place, followers don’t matter, post anytime, have fun with tags!! tumblr is a wonderful site used to share things you’re excited about. be patient with yourself as you’re learning and have fun!
Gas, Grass or ASS | Pairing mechanic!Frankie Morales X fem!Reader
This story is a gift fic for @astroboots as part of the @pedrostories Secret Santa event. CiCi, I know you're on a hiatus, so I really hope you see this eventually. Merry Christmas!
Summary: You muster the courage to leave your small town and shitty past behind. Fate, it seems, has other plans. Your beater of a truck breaks down in the middle of the highway, and you get it towed to Catfish Auto & Repair. After finding out you don't have the money to pay, you and Frankie find another way to work it out.
Rating: 18+ Minors DNI
Word Count: ~7K
Warnings: Implied abuse (from readers father, not Frankie), alcohol, implied alcoholism (readers father), parent loss (readers mother), small town, spanking, size kink, oral (f receiving), a douchebag rich guy, pet names, sex on a Lamborghini, sex in a garage, references to drugs/addiction, soft!Frankie, rough!Frankie, hints at Frankie's military history, a little bit of shade placed on the Navy, marking, begging, unprotected sex, creampie, drooling, begging, sex in pardon for monetary payment for services received. No major physical descriptions of reader. No age gap. No use of Y/N.
Authors Note: My first Frankie fic. Feeling all the things about it. CiCi's prompt for me was Size Kink. Writing for Frankie was so much fun. You'll definitely be seeing more of him from me in the future. On a real note, I don't celebrate Christmas, but it was fun to be Secret Santa. Merry Christmas to those of you who do celebrate. Special thanks to @sydneyinacoma for brainstorming with me on this bad boy, and for being the queen of writing oral.
Also, surprise! You'll get another gift fic from me for another user later on tonight.
Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications
You watch the sun dip below the horizon from your childhood bedroom. You’re a woman now, but the bubblegum-colored walls and the frilly white duvet on the twin bed still try to convince you otherwise.
You’ve spent your entire life in this shitty little pass-through town. When you were younger you didn’t mind it as much, killing the time on your bike, aimlessly riding through the neighborhood with your friends. But those days are long gone, and all of them have since moved on to bigger and better things, leaving you behind. You’re afraid if you don’t get out now, you’ll become just another dull fixture in this now depressing house.
It used to be a home when your mother was alive, but that was years ago. Now it’s just a place where the echoes of her laughter still linger in the walls, and the weight of your father’s anger hangs heavy in the air, much like the back of his hand after too many Coors.
Haunted by memories, you’ve finally mustered the courage to leave, to escape the oppressive small-town gravity that seems determined to keep you tethered to the past, shackled to a reality you so desperately want to leave behind.
And tonight is the night.
You quietly pad down the steps from your bedroom and peer into the living room. As per usual, your father is passed out in his recliner, surrounded by empty cans and a football game you could care fuck all about rolling on the T.V.. You head back up the steps, being sure to quietly close the wooden door before turning your attention to the suitcase that’s spread open on your bed.
You pack only the essentials, and a handful of things that still have some sentimental value to you; the blanket your grandma knitted for you for your 10th birthday, the locket your mom gave you for your 16th, and the journal that’s been your only true friend in recent years.
Slipping out of the house is easy, thank god. You don’t even want to think about the bruises you’d be covered in if you were to get caught.
No more.
With a meager amount of cash and your old Chevy that’s seen better days, you pull out of the driveway and set out on a journey toward an uncertain future. You know without a doubt that whatever awaits you is better than anything or anyone you’ll find here.
It has to be.
++++
Pulling onto the highway, the familiarity of your small town gradually fades into the rearview mirror. Your heart races with a mixture of anticipation, and fear, if you’re being honest with yourself. You’re not quite sure where you’re going yet, you’ve just decided to head East. The road blurs behind a wall of tears for a moment, but you blink them away and just focus on the long road ahead.
But fate, it seems, has other plans.
Your truck lets out a guttural cough and shudders to a complete stop in the middle of the highway. No. Shit, shit, shit. Panic sets in as you try to restart it, turning the key in the ignition more times than you can count, hoping that luck will be on your side, but you’re met with the ominous silence of a dead engine.
You get out of the truck and wait by the side of the road, frustration welling up inside you. It’s nearly dark now, and there aren’t many passing cars. None that stop, anyway. You’re all alone. No one is coming to save you.
You never thought you would have to use it, but you reach into your glove box and pull out a lone red flare. You fumble but manage to get it lit, placing it a few feet back from the truck, hoping it will alert any drivers so they don’t crash into you. With the sun no longer lending its rays, you slip back into the truck to stay warm. You grab your phone to Google the nearest autobody shop and call for a tow truck driver to help you get there.
You can tell there is a dimly lit town far off in the distance near exit 142. Your Internet search confirms your suspicions, giving you the name and number of Catfish Auto & Repair, just 15 miles away in a town called Willow Creek. Of course, this would be your luck, leave one shit small town, just to end up in another. Tears once again threaten to spill over, but you swallow them down and call for a Tow, praying to a god you no longer believe in that you have enough money for it.
You almost doze off as you wait for the tow truck driver, who arrives nearly an hour and a half after you called for it. He knocks on your window, giving you a little fright. You’re realizing now just how vulnerable you are; alone in the middle of the highway, not even a can of pepper spray for protection.
A burly man with a grizzly beard calls out through the glass, his voice a little muffled behind it. “You called for a tow?” he asks, and you nod your head. You slip out of the truck and he unceremoniously hooks it up and hoists it onto the bed of the tow truck.
“Where you wanna take it?” he asks on the ride to Willow Creek, using one hand to grip the wheel and the other to reach into a bag of Hostess donettes on his dash.
“Oh um, well I guess Catfish Auto & Repair? Google tells me it’s not too far, figured that’s my best bet, well, my only bet if I’m being honest,” you admit.
“Mmm, Frankie’s place,” he mutters, his voice a little muffled from the dry confection, powdered sugar now all over the front of his coveralls, “He’s a good guy, he’ll get you fixed up in no time… just hope they’re still open,” he adds. And shit, you didn’t even think about that. It’s getting late and you didn’t even consider the fact that it might not be.
The tow truck driver signals to exit, and before you know it you’re rolling up on Catfish Auto & Repair. It’s too dark to see anything, but you can tell that the outside is a little weather-beaten. A stark contrast to the cool neon sign that hangs above the garage, an emblem of a grinning catfish, its whiskers extending like the spokes of a wheel. The parking lot is all rocks, and you hear the crunch of them under the tires pulling into position to drop your truck.
The shop is obviously closed, the inside of it dark, a little orange and black sign hanging in the window of the entrance flipped to the closed side.
The driver, Tim, you’ve come to learn, unhooks your truck and rasps his knuckles on the rusted hood. “Well, looks like Frankie’s not here, you’ll have to wait till the mornin’. There’s a motel just up the road, you want me to take you?”
With your hands in the pockets of your jacket, and your fist clutched around the only cash you have, you reply “Uh, no it’s okay. I can walk. Thanks for your help. What do I owe you?” you ask, afraid of the answer.
Tim brings his hand behind his head and sighs. “Well uh, normally it’s $125, but I’ll tell you what…I’ll cut ya deal given the night you’re havin’. $75 work for you?” he asks, and you’re grateful for his kindness. It’s still more money than you wish you had to pay, but it’s a good deal, all things considered.
You slip him three $20s and tell him to keep the $5 for himself, “Go buy a real donut or a coffee or somethin’,” you tease. You don’t have $5 to give, but that’s just the type of person you are. Kindness above all, your mom used to say.
He brings his large hand to the brim of his hat and nods to you in thanks, “You be safe now darlin’,” he says in parting before hopping into his truck and pulling out of the driveway, leaving you once again totally and utterly alone.
You count the remaining cash in your pocket. It’s not nearly enough. You decide to forgo the motel altogether and opt to sleep in your truck outside of the shop.
You fish the blanket from your grandma out of your bag, lock your doors, and curl up into the passenger seat, hoping like hell you don’t get murdered in your sleep. The inside of the truck fogs from your warmth and the cool air outside. Sleep evades you for a little while, but eventually, you succumb to its siren song and drift off.
++++
The following morning, a sharp knock on the window jolts you awake. Your eyes snap open, disoriented before they adjust to the figure of a man before you. You fumble for the door handle in the dim light filtering through the windshield. You’re not sure what time it is, but you wager it must be pretty early, as the sun is just beginning to color the sky. You crack the door open and are greeted with a slightly damp, dewey breeze.
The man stands there, wearing a dark blue mechanic suit, the collar of it open, revealing a patch of tan skin, and a crisp white shirt underneath it. The suit has a patch embroidered onto the breast of it, the name Frankie spelled out in red cursive thread.
His features are sharp, with a chiseled jawline that accentuates his somewhat stoic expression, paired with an aquiline nose and dark brown hair that peaks out from under a ballcap. His shoulders are broad, and his biceps stretch the fabric of his suit. His features are commanding, but his eyes are soft and kind.
“Morning. You need some help here, sweetheart?” he asks in a deep voice, the tone of it warm and reassuring. He takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest, and gives your truck a good once over.
“Uh, hi – yes actually. My truck won’t start, not sure what happened, it just sort of gave out on me on the highway last night,” you say, letting out a yawn and adjusting your neck from side to side, attempting to relieve some of the tension from the way it was crooked at an awkward angle for who knows how many hours.
“Last ni– you were here all night?” he asks, his voice etched with concern.
“Mmm, yeah, I’m sorry – didn’t have much of a choice,” you reply in a hushed tone.
“Shit,” he says, sensing the honesty behind your voice. You must not have had another option if you slept in your truck all night with the motel right down the street.
“Come on, sweetheart. I’ll get this taken care of for you. You can go wait inside, it’s warmer in there. I just put on a pot of coffee, you’re welcome to have some,” he offers, and you do as he says, grateful for his kindness.
Stepping into the building feels like immersing yourself in a world of grit and memories. The air is thick with the smell of oil and grease, masked by the fresh smell of freshly brewed coffee. The overhead fluorescent lights case a no-nonsense glow on the scuffed linoleum floor beneath you. There’s not much in the space, just a desk that’s piled high with receipts and auto repair books. Two worn chairs sit in the corner next to a coffee table with various magazines scattered on the length of it, a fake plant that’s collecting dust sits between them.
You tuck your cash into the back pocket of your jeans and hang your coat on the rack by the door before you turn your attention to the nearby coffee nook. A small shelf holds a collection of mismatched mugs, each with its own personality, the majority of them stacked next to a standard coffee pot, a can of Folgers, and a pile of filters.
You pour yourself a cup and hold it between your hands for warmth as you meander around the room, looking at the photos and various decor on the walls.
Your eyes glaze over a group of men in uniform, holding rifles, poised in front of a helicopter. There’s a snippet of a faded newspaper cutting, highlighting Catfish Auto & Repair as Willow Creek’s best auto repair shop of the year 2022. Your eyes glaze over a small metal sign that hangs by the door. It’s green with white lettering that reads ‘Gas, Grass, or Ass’ – you chuckle at the lewdness of it.
Just as you’re about to bring the ceramic mug to your lips, you’re once again startled by the sound of Frankie coming in from the other door adjacent to the front entrance. Jesus, you’re jumpy. The sound of metal clanking and engines humming fades as it shuts closed.
Now slightly caffeinated and no longer clearing the sleep from your eyes, you finally get a good look at him. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re checking him out, but you’re not confident it isn’t apparent; your mom used to tell you that you were about as subtle as a gun. Your breathing hitches in your throat as you size him up. Men from where you’re from certainly don’t look like him.
He cleans the grease from his hands with a dirty white towel and greets you. “So, I got her in the garage, and from the looks of it, you’ve got a busted belt,” he says, eyes locked on you, drinking in the features of your pretty face. “Shouldn’t take me too long to fix it. Are you good to wait in here? Can I get you anything?” he asks.
You’re not sure you understood everything he said, too caught up in his attention to fully listen, but you reply, “No, thanks, I’m good waiting,” your voice sweet as you break from his gaze to continue looking at the walls around you.
“If you’re sure then,” he responds. Just as he’s about to head back into the garage, you stop him, “oh, before you go, wanted to ask – were you in the Army?” you say, nodding to the framed picture of him with four other guys in camo.
He clears his throat, “I was, actually. I was a pilot,” he adds, and you nod. “That’s cool, my brother’s in the Army.” He lets out a simple smile, before he playfully retorts, “Better than the Navy.” A soft laugh escapes your lungs, the sound of it reverberating through his bones. Shit, you even sound pretty.
“Well, mi casa es su casa,” he says before actually heading out the door to the garage.
++++
You allow yourself to sink into one of the chairs, and to your surprise, it’s pretty comfortable. Your fingers skim over the magazines laid out on the table – Guns & Ammo, Popular Mechanics, Esquire, National Geographic – you pause on a copy of Rolling Stone from last month and pick it up.
You don’t know half of the artists mentioned between its many pages, but it doesn’t bother you. You’re already out of your comfort zone, might as well dive deeper and maybe learn something in the process.
You’re in the middle of reading an article about Bad Bunny when the bells above the front door jingle, announcing the entrance of another customer. In saunters a man who seems to carry an air of entitlement like an invisible cloak. His designer loafers clack against the linoleum. He’s in a suit you’re pretty sure costs more than the value of your entire truck. His perfectly coiffed hair and expensive wristwatch practically scream I’m not from here.
He scans the office as if silently appraising everything and finding it wanting, that is until his eyes land on you. He looks at you like you’re something to eat, a fresh navel orange dancing on the branch of a tree, just waiting, begging, for someone to come and pick it.
Just as he’s about to say something, Frankie enters the room once again and immediately looks at the douchey rich guy and then back at you. “Can I help you?” he asks, his voice a tad curt.
"I need someone to take a look at my baby here," he says, his tone dripping with superiority. He gestures out the window toward a gleaming sports car parked outside, a vehicle that looks like it’s never encountered a pothole in its pampered life.
Frankie, unfazed by the condescension, nods professionally. "Sure thing. What seems to be the issue?"
The rich guy sighs as if recounting an inconvenience of the highest order. "It's making this weird noise. I can't have it sounding like some clunker."
Frankie suppresses a smirk, and you do your best to hide yours behind the pages of the magazine. Is this guy for real?
“Can’t have that,” Frankie says somewhat condescendingly, “Give me your keys and I’ll have a look. Might be a little bit of a wait, though.” The man coughs up his keys on his fancy leather keychain and hands it over. Frankie gives you a look as if to communicate an apology that you have to share the same air as this douche. “Help yourself to some coffee,” he adds, before once again heading back out to the garage.
The man walks over to the coffee station and inspects the coffee mug before pouring himself a cup. He takes one sip and immediately makes a face of disgust. “Ugh, this is terrible,” he says, and you let out a little laugh.
“Can’t say I’m too surprised to hear you say that,” you say over the pages of the magazine, “you don’t strike me as a Folgers kind of guy.” You turn your attention back to the pages of the magazine, but the man takes offense to your comment.
“You’re right about that honey, I’m more of an Italian Espresso guy,” he says, finding a seat next to you in the other empty chair. He crosses one leg over the other and doesn’t even bother to hide his obvious interest in your cleavage.
“To Italy?” you ask, “No, I’ve never been.”
“Maybe you just need someone to take you,” the man purrs, and you swear you taste bile in the back of your mouth. “You know I could –” but before he can continue, he’s interrupted by the door once again opening. You look at Frankie with big eyes that practically scream help and Frankie gets the message.
“You know,” he starts, taking his cap off and running his hands through his dark curls before continuing, “I think I know what’s wrong with it, but I gotta call a nearby garage for a part I don’t have. Might take most of the morning. Could you come back later this afternoon?”
The man scoffs, “And where do you expect me to go? There’s nothing around here except a gas station,” he says, his voice etched with annoyance.
“There’s a motel right up the street. It’s not much, but there’s a bar there. Ask nicely and they might make you a bloody mary with the premium vodka,” Frankie responds, and you can tell the guy tries to come up with some sort of response but gives up. “You can tell Suzie I sent you,” he adds for good measure.
“Right,” he says, rising from his hair and walking over to Frankie. “Here’s my card. Call me when she’s done. Get her done before 1 pm and I’ll give you an extra hundred,” he finishes as he offers a smug wink to Frankie. He moves to walk out the door, letting his eyes linger a little too long on you as he does. “You know where to find me, baby,” he says as he yanks on the door handle and walks out. Ugh, as if.
Frankie looks out the window and watches the man walk out of view. “What an asshole,” he says, and looks down at you sitting in the chair. “Sorry I left you alone with him.”
You don’t know him, not really, but for whatever reason, in that moment, he feels safe. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt safe in the presence of a man.
“It’s okay, not my first time dealing with a douchebag like that,” you say, playing with the corner of the magazine that’s now resting on your lap. Frankie looks at you, noticing the sadness that lingers behind your eyes. He wants to ask, but he thinks twice about it.
“Come on sweetheart, your truck is fixed,” he says and offers you his large palm to help you out of the seat. You place yours in his and admire the feel of his calloused hand, rough in just the right ways. Your stomach swoops as his hand falls to your lower back to guide you out to the garage.
You see your truck in the distance, the hood popped open. You also see the sleazeballs car in the other bay. Of course, that fucker would drive a Lamborghini.
Frankie catches you eyeing the car, and he admits, “Nothing is actually really that wrong with it, just needs a few things tightened,” he says with a little laugh, the corners of his mouth rising in a smirk as he looks at you. You can’t help but match his smile at the thought of Frankie fucking with the guy.
He walks over to the engine of your truck and urges you to come over to follow him. “Here, wanna show you what was wrong and what I did to fix it. I think it should hold, but just in case it doesn’t, I want you to know how to fix it yourself so you don’t get stranded,” he says, making it apparent he cares about your safety.
You step over to the engine and look at the mess of wires and large chunks of metal. Standing next to Frankie, you catch a whiff of him. You half expected him to smell like grease, or sweat, or something. But no, he smells a bit like aftershave, mint, and a hint of cinnamon.
“See this here,” he says while pointing to some part of the engine, “gotta make sure this is connected to this,” he adds moving his finger to another part.
“This needs to be connected to this,” you confirm, pointing at the same parts, letting Frankie know you’re listening.
“Atta girl,” he says with a wink, both of his hands gripped on the frame of the truck. Both of your eyes lock, and he stares at you in charged silence for a moment. His eyes fall to your lips, and you don’t miss the way his pupils dilate as they linger on them.
“Thank you,” you say to Frankie, your voice sweeter than a strawberry in the summer. You bite your bottom lip and he clears his throat, pulling his attention from you, attempting to recover some semblance of professionalism. “Happy to help,” he says.
“How much do I owe you?” you ask, your voice a little wary. You hope you have enough.
He once again takes off his hat and runs his fingers throat his hair. Fuck, he’s so hot when he does that.
“Uh, well I’d have to go back in the office and run the numbers to get you a final number, but with the parts and labor it’ll come out to around $200,” he says.
Your heart sinks at the mention of the total. You slip your hand into your back pocket and feel the cash that rests there. You don’t even have to pull it out and count it to know that it falls significantly short of the figure he just quoted.
Anxiety creeps into your voice as you respond, “Oh, uh $300? That’s…a bit more than I was expecting.”
Frankie runs his fingers through his facial hair and tilts his head sympathetically. A faint frown tugs at his brow, and his expression shifts. “How much do you have?” he asks. He watches intently as you pull out the wad of money from your packet pocket and hold it up, matter of fact.
You feel heat rush up to your cheeks as you respond, “About $100, give or take $5,” you reply embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I should have asked before I even let you make the repairs, it’s just that I finally just got the courage to leave and my da–” You stop before you spill your messy past out for him. “Look, I promise I’m good for the money. I just don’t have it right now, I can give you what I have now, and then may–” he stops you with a finger to your lips before you can continue.
“Sweetheart, stop,” he says, his voice low and thick. He looks at you with dark eyes, and his finger leaves your lips, only for his hand to caress the softness of your cheek and down the razor edge of your jaw. And you do stop, everything stops, actually – time, your breathing, hell, you’re not even sure if your heart is still beating.
His hand drifts to the column of your throat, and he holds you there, practically burning you up from the intensity of how he looks at you. “I think we might be able to work something out,” he whispers, his face inches from yours, close enough that you feel his hot breath on your skin.
Keeping one hand on your throat, his other snakes around to your waist, and he begins to walk you backward until you’re pressed up against the cool metal of the Lamborghini.
Your palm comes up and greets his lean – yet still deliciously soft around the middle – core. Your free hand wraps around one of his defined and brawny arms, the hardness of it clearly from a life full of hard labor. He only stands a few inches taller than you, but he feels big now that he has you caged against the door of the douche nozzle’s car.
Up close, you inspect every inch of his boyishly handsome face. You admire his prominent nose, the dimples on his cheeks, and even the deep sable eyes that act as a hypnotic. He’s rugged, that much is evident, but in a way that’s kind of like your favorite T-shirt, harsh material turned soft from years of repeated wash and wear. If he were anyone else, you think you might feel scared, intimidated, and unsure. But it’s not, and for whatever reason, you find yourself yearning to know what he means about you two finding a way to work something out.
With one of your hands, you begin to unzip the fabric of his mechanic suit and run your palm down the white shirt that rests underneath it. You grab a handful of the cotton material in your hand and look up at him with big doe eyes, ones that all but scream I’m yours however you want me. You feel his growing bulge press back against your belly.
“Sure you wanna do this, baby?” He inquires once more, and you can’t remember the last time you were this sure about anything, aside from ditching the suffocating small town you reign from.
“I’m sure,” you reply, shuddering at the new pet name. You’re not even sure of the last time someone called you something that wasn’t degrading or patronizing.
“That’s what I like to hear. Fuck, c’mere, sweetness,” he coaxes, guiding you around to the hood of the car, “lay back for me.” You comply, goosebumps littering your skin from the cool metal that pierces beneath your thin tan t-shirt.
Frankie hovers over you, both of his hands coming to rest just above your head, palms flat on the hood. He dunks down and places a kiss on your lips, a sense of urgency, and raw lust, lingering behind it. He kisses you with such intensity, and fuck, you taste so good. He’s convinced if he were to stop now he might fall over dead.
He goes to caress your breasts but stops. He suddenly remembers his hands are beyond filthy, covered in smudgy black grease from your engine. He pulls away, “sorry, forgot how dirty my hands are,” he says shyly. You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him back down close to you.
“Leave ‘em be,” you purr, and he furrows his brow in confusion, prompting you to explain yourself, “it’s….. kinda hot,” you shamelessly confess.
A devilish grin washes over his face, “damn baby, I didn’t know you were such a dirty girl,” he growls.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you respond, a seductive tone to your voice. You meant it to be flirtatious, but there’s a morbid truth to the statement. Your stomach sours and your eyes glint with a twinge of pain.
Frankie, having only known you for a few hours, notices the subtle change in your face. You’re vacant; trapped somewhere else in your mind. He swipes a thumb across your cheek to lull you back to the present. He’s wrestled with demons before, the telltale signs all too familiar.
His gentle touch hurls you out of your internal spiral. You smile at him. Genuinely. For what has felt like a lifetime, you have something to smile about, even if it’s fleeting. “There she is,” he gently whispers as he places a soft kiss into the crook of your neck.
“Can I take these off?” He asks as his hand reaches for the button on your jeans, pausing to hear your confirmation.
“Yes, please,” you respond, already sort of breathless and whiney, “do whatever you want with me, I trust you.” You can hardly believe the words that fall from your lips, but you mean them.
Your words strike a chord in him, like electricity to a lightbulb, and a switch flips within him. He’s no longer hesitant, worried he might be crossing a line. He sees it as clear as day, the carnal need he feels for you reflecting at him like he’s looking in a mirror.
“Good girl, using your manners,” he praises, and his large palm cups your breast. He flattens it and drags it over the expanse of your stomach, “Arch your back for me, baby,” he asks, and you lift your hips to help him remove your pants. He moans when your clothed cunt is revealed to him, your desire evident by the arousal that seeps through the thin material.
Frankie drags his rough hands up and down the soft skin of your thighs and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, discarding them on the concrete floor next to your jeans. The chilly air combined with the cool metallic hood makes you gasp.
He licks his lips and looks up at you with hungry eyes before he drops them to your bare center; he all but drools at your soaked pussy now bare before him. He wrenches your legs open wider for him, exposing more of your heavenly pussy to him. It’s the holy grail as far as he’s concerned.
“Put your legs on my shoulders, baby,” he orders, and you do as he says. He lowers his face, his breath hot and ticklish against your wet heat. Leaning on your elbows, you tilt your head down further to watch his handiwork. Dark irises lock with yours as he presses a kiss to your mound and then your throbbing clit. Your body shivers in response, finally.
In an unexpected move, you feel his breath huff against the skin of your wet folds. “You smell fucking incredible,” he groans. You think you might pass out from embarrassment, but you can tell he’s being honest, eager, and truthful in his words. He licks a broad stripe up your wet slit and allows his lips to lock around your puffy clit.
He works you with his tongue, his nose occasionally bumping your clit when he slides down towards your entrance. His worn trucker hat falls off his head from his crusade on you, the locks underneath beckon you to get tangled in them. You run a hesitant hand through the curls, delighting in how the soft strands feel brushing along your fingers. I could do this all day, you think to yourself.
“Pull as hard as you need to, sweet girl,” he encourages. Unable to deny him, you tangle your digits further. You’re thankful for the extra grip as he suddenly grazes his teeth and gently nips your clit, creating the most pleasant sting. He alternates between nipping and sucking at you, your orgasm just within reach.
“Frrrrrankie, ‘mmm so close,” you whine. Your legs tremble against his head and he tightens the grip on your thighs, digging his fingers deeper into the soft flesh. He pulls away for a split second to rasp out, “Give it to me, baby. You can do it, go on, come for me.”
“Fuckfuckshitfuck!” You cry out in a nectarous voice. His sweet command pushes you over the edge, tingly euphoria travels through your entire body, floating in raptures. Your vision goes soft and fuzzy, and you swear you must have floated into the clouds.
As you’re descending back to earth, Frankie continues to tenderly lap at your spent pussy. You drop your legs from his shoulders, and he presses kisses to each of your thighs and trails them up your stomach to find your lips again. You can taste yourself on his tongue and that reignites your desire, fresh arousal mixing with your cum leaks onto the shiny hood.
He pulls himself up off of you, taking you with him, giving you a moment to steady yourself as you rise to stand. Your hands reach out to Frankie to fully unzip the mechanic suit, and you’re pleased when you find he’s wearing only the white shirt and boxers underneath. He kicks off his boots and steps out of his suit, and your mouth drops when you see the massive fucking tent his cock creates in his underwear.
He palms himself above the fabric and admires how sexy you are bottomless, slick tacked onto your thighs, wearing only a tight top with your perky nipples peeking out, standing in front of him. He nearly loses it when he catches sight of his dirty handprint that clings to the fabric above your breast. It’s not the only thing he has planned to mark you.
You step forward and cup his length. Fuck, he’s so big. You dip below the band of his underwear, feeling the silky smooth skin of his hard cock beneath your palm. The tip of your thumb collects a bead of his precum and you smear it into his skin as you work him. You look up at him, admiring the way his jaw tenses as you slide up and down his length. You retreat from the fabric and swiftly pull it down, letting it fall to his ankles so he can kick them off. You begin to drop to your knees, but he grabs the underside of your forearm to stop you.
“As much as I’d love to have you choking on me, I’m impatient and there’s something else I need much more right now,” he says, and in the blink of an eye, his hands find your hips and he swiftly turns you around and bends you over. Your palms fall flat on the hood of the Lambo and you let out a little smirk. He runs his hands over the skin of your behind, and he lands a harsh blow with a flat palm on the skin of your ass.
You’ve been slapped before, but never in this context, and never out of pleasure, never for doing something right. You’ve been slapped before, but never has it felt as consensual, or safe, as it does right now. “You’re so fucking hot baby, my god,” he says.
He grinds his throbbing hard cock, the tip of it red and weeping, against the bare skin of your ass. You moan in response. “I want to hear you beg, baby,” and fuck, you’re not above it. “I want you, Frankie,” you moan, your breath ragged. “Fuck, I need you. Wanna feel you, want you to stretch me out.” He groans in response.
“Cock like this baby, you’re not gonna be able to walk straight for a week if I have anything to say about it,” and he lands another strike to your ass. It stings a little, and you feel your blood starting to pool beneath the tender skin, but you like it. The pain reminds you that you’re alive, and what’s more if you wanted him to stop, you could say so and you know he’d listen.
“Want you to mark me. Mark me so everyone knows who I belong to,” and it’s filthy, the ask is borderline fucked up, but you don’t care. These are bruises you want. His hand grabs a fistful of your flesh and he groans, his cock now slick from rubbing up against your wet cunt. He lands a final blow to your ass, and you feel tears prick in the corner of your eyes.
“Yes, Frankie, yes!” you cry out, “please give me your cock, need every inch of it,” you beg.
He’s more than happy to oblige. He grabs his heavy cock and lines the tip of it up against your weeping hole. He gently begins to nudge himself in, giving you a moment to adjust to the tip of him.
“More, please! Don’t care if it hurts, want all of you, need all of you, now!” you all but scream, your voice wrecked.
“Ah, fuck,” he moans, and he pulls back and then thrusts his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt deep inside of you. Your jaw falls open at the intensity of it, you’re so fucked up already you can’t control the thin line of drool that falls from your lips onto the hood of the douchebag's car as Frankie fills you full of him.
It’s borderline too much. You swear you can feel him in your lungs, and you see what he meant about a cock like this. Your cunt flutters around him and you begin to relax, adjusting to the size of him.
“You’re so gorgeous like this, baby. Gonna split you open and fuck you till you can’t think straight,” he says, his own voice wrecked this time. He thrusts in and out of you, true to his word.
He’s not gentle about it, and you don’t mind. You’re not sure how he knows, but he knows you need to be fucked like this. Like you need every sad memory fucked out of you till it spills out of the crown of your head. He leaves a bruising grip on your hips and fucks you until you’re drowning in an ocean of pleasure, his body your life raft.
You feel a strong wave of emotions wash over you. For the first time, you can’t tell if you want to laugh or cry, or if you’re about to come. The way he fucks into you is like a dopamine hit you’ve never experienced before; you wonder if this is what it might feel like to take drugs. If so, you can see why people get addicted. The heat of your orgasm radiates from your belly, and before long it webs out into your limbs, and you nearly collapse from the intensity of it.
Frankie fucks you through it, and your walls clamped around him have him close. “God I hope you’re on the pill or something, cuz I wanna fill you so full of my come, you’ll be dripping for weeks,” he moans, his words so fucking filthy you nearly collapse.
“Yes, I have an IUD – want it, please, oh god please fill me up, fuck,” you moan and those words might be the best thing he’s heard in a long time. He thrusts slowly and his hips stutter as he pauses with his cock nestled up against your cervix. He releases the biggest load of his life into your wet cunt, and holy shit, it’s so good. He pauses to catch his breath, and you catch yours.
He slowly pulls out of you, and a thick glob of his cum falls onto the hood of the Lambo. Frankie can’t help but let out a little devilish smirk. That asshole wanted you so bad, and here you are, practically in pieces from him, a combination of his release and yours glazing the hood of his car like an overpriced wax.
It’s the ultimate fuck you and Frankie loves it.
You lean back up, and he helps steady you. You turn to face him, and he brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear. The action is so tender it causes your heart to skip a beat.
“Told you we’d work something out,” he says as he leans down to place a soft kiss on your lips. You let out a little mmm in response.
“You know, actually now that I think about it, I’ve noticed a weird noise coming from my truck when I come to a stop. Think maybe it’s my brakes. Do you think you’d have some time to check it out?” you ask, and he knows damn well there’s nothing wrong with your brakes.
“Happy to, baby. Gonna cost you, though,” he grins and lands a soft pat on your ass, more affectionate and playful than before.
As always, feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list, or removed (even if we're moots, no hard feelings). I'll still be using my tag list for now, but I just started a notifs blog, so will be transitioning to that eventually. Please follow @katiexpunkupdates to get notified when I post fics.xx
you've worked for joel miller for three years now, as his personal assistant. answering calls, organizing his schedule, fulfilling every request he could dream of.
it pays well, you know you're good at it, and you get along with all of your coworkers.
there's just one you get along with...a little too well.
please check out individual chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content.
series warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel is late 40s), inappropriate work relationship, cursing, alcohol + dr*g use, displays of wealth, daddy kink, sugardaddy!joel, themes of abandonment, mentions of pregnancy & periods, smut, angst, fluff.
main series
chapter 1: you shook me all night long
chapter 2: state-of-the-art
chapter 3: mile high
chapter 4: la petite mort
chapter 5: faire l'amour
chapter 6: ace
chapter 7: 1691 maple
chapter 8: you'll hurt me if you don't trust me
chapter 9: little aphrodite
chapter 10: champagne problems
chapter 11: twin flame
chapter 12: birth of venus
✨ epilogue ✨
bonus
➵ hanging on the telephone
drabbles
➵ joel taking reader on his sailboat
features
➵ sex on fire wallpapers by @dundienominee
Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only
Notes: …I have no reason, I have no excuse. This is filth. I’m just in a Marcus Pike Mood.
Not beta-read.
Warnings: Cursing, explicit sexual content—hand kink; fingering; hand job; public sex and teasing; Marcus being a sweet little shit
Summary: When you’re home alone—when it’s late, when you’re tired and in bed and just a little on-edge, you think about his hands.
Look, it’s not a big deal. Honestly, the fact that it takes so long for you to notice? Kind of stunning.
The first time you see Marcus use his gun—the speed, the ease, the steadiness—it sets something off in you.
And then you can’t stop noticing his hands.
0k8 | Joel Miller x fem reader | ao3
Summary: Joel fucks you by the window, some guy watches you
Warnings: 18+ mdni. Exhibitionism, rough sex, dirty talk, piv, creampie. Mention of somnophilia. Reader’s hair can be pulled.
No age specified, no outbreak
a/n: same couple: 5 days collection, but can be read alone
@aurorawritestoescape thank you for beta reading 💕🫶
Gif in the mood board by @pedropascalsx 🙏
Series masterlist | Masterlist
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The sun's rays woke you up early, too early for a Sunday. You contemplated going back to sleep, before glancing at Joel. He was snoring softly, lying on his stomach, one leg slightly bent, his face turned towards you. You looked over him, from his tousled curls to his bare back. His arm was hugging the pillow, the sheets were tangled just below his ass. He’d gone out with friends the night before, and had fallen asleep wearing his gray sweatpants.
It was one of the rare nights when he didn’t fuck you before you two went to bed or while you were asleep.
You smiled looking at him and decided to let him rest. You got up and left the bedroom, closing the door behind you. After making yourself some coffee you went to the living room. It was bathed in light. You walked to the window and saw a few people who were already jogging outside. You put your coffee on the windowsill, waiting for it to cool off.
You felt Joel behind you before you heard him, right before he placed his hands on your hips.
“What are you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he asked, his mustache brushing against your ear.
He pressed his crotch against you before you even had time to respond. His morning wood found its place against the crease of your ass, leaving you breathless.
“Mmm?”, he insisted, leaning more against you.
“I…didn’t wanna wake you up.”
“Is that right?”
You felt him pull down his sweatpants, just below his balls. His hard cock sprang free towards the ceiling before he slid it between your thighs with a firm hand on his shaft. He pushed your panties to the side, and grabbed your breasts under his large t-shirt.
“Mmmm…you smell like me”, he murmured.
“Joel…people could see us.”
“Yeah? Shoulda think about it earlier, sweetheart.”
He pressed on your back to bend you further towards the window, and nestled his cock at your entrance. You held your breath. You always loved it when he fucked you without preparation, whether with his fingers or his tongue. The painful second when he thrust in always gave way to long minutes of pleasure when you forgot about everything, except for his shaft ruining your pussy.
When he pushed in, you let out a soft “fuck” biting your lip.
“Yeah, take it, just like that. Good girl.”
He bottomed out, growling, his hands tight on your hips and his gaze down on your ass.
“Shit, this pussy’s barely wet. Poor baby...must be harsh to take this big cock without me spreading you first.”
His pace was slow, but so powerful, that your forehead hit the window each time his cock sank between your folds. He grabbed your hair when you didn’t respond, pulling your head back.
“So cockdumb, when I fuck you raw like that. That’s what you wanted, when you woke up?”
He kissed your neck before nibbling on it, pulling you back against his chest. His hand left your hair to grab a breast and he picked up the pace, thrusting in faster. Then he bent you forward again, making your forehead hit the window, one hand firmly gripping your shoulder for leverage. A jogger passing the house glanced up at your window and slowed down when he saw you.
“Joel!!”
But he neither stopped nor slowed down. He pressed down on the back of your neck, holding you against the window, chasing his orgasm. The stranger was almost walking at that point, watching you two. You slipped your hand into your panties, desperately twirling your clit under your finger.
“Fuck…you’re gonna get off while some guy’s watching you being pounded? Oh, baby…didn’t know you were such a bad girl.”
You couldn’t help but look at the man, now standing in front of the house. There was a smile on your face when the orgasm hit you, your pussy clenching on Joel’s cock. He stopped, buried deep inside your core as his cum spurted over your walls. His eyes were fixed on the man, still watching you.
“Damn it, Joel…”
Once your pussy stopped milking his cock, he grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him, tucking his member back into his sweatpants with the other hand.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re gonna ride my face, right now, in bed. And this time you're gonna cum without looking at a damn stranger. Bet he’s gonna jack off when he’ll get home, thinking about this pussy he can’t have.”
You looked out the window one last time. The man readjusted himself before continuing his run.
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Same couple: 5 days collection
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Thank you for reading 🙏
Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️
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Series Summary: A fall on patrol causes you to lose your long term memory, forgetting the identities of your friends and loved ones. You have to learn all over again how to survive in a post-apocalyptic world, and you learn things about yourself along the way.
-or-
Joel has to make you fall in love with him all over again.
Series Warnings: smut MDNI (18+), post outbreak, language, angst, hurt/comfort, graphic depictions of violence, amnesia, slow burn, minor infidelity - more warnings will be stated for each chapter
Status: complete
I started a notifications blog in lieu of a taglist: @punkshort-notifs
Chapters:
1: the beginning
2: the journal
3: the accident
4: the others
5: the dinner
6: the fight
7: the week
8: the return
9: the end
Extras/BTS/Inspo:
Floor Plan
Pregnancy Scare headcanon
Drabbles/Requests:
Never Enough - a day in the life pre-accident
Before - the morning of the accident
Jealous - you finds out about Angie (the first time)
Stubborn - the night Joel convinces you to make things official
It didn't mean anything - Joel finds out about your history with Ben for the first time
Three Words - You remember another memory, this one more special than the rest
Summary: The stars never aligned for you and Dave growing up. You never thought you'd see him again once he went to college and joined the C.I.A., but one fateful day brings him back into your life - or more specifically, your husband's life.
Warnings: language, violence, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, heavy on the possessive behavior, jealousy, infidelity, a glimmer of dark!dave but in a obsessive, madly in love kind of way, graphic domestic abuse
WC: 10.8K
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Pain seared across your eyes, over the bridge of your nose and thrummed steadily against the top of your skull. The door was locked and you heard his car peel out of the driveway, but you laid curled up on the bathroom floor, body trembling in fear, still anticipating the sound of his heavy footsteps to clamber back up the stairs.
How the hell did you let it get to that point? How did you allow this to happen?
You had a bad habit of falling back into old memories whenever Mike hit you. You always wondered where you went wrong and what you could have done differently. Now? It felt like there was no escape. Even if you ran away, where would you go? He could find you anywhere. He told you that, once. And if he were just some run of the mill, blue-collar drunk, you wouldn't have believed him.
It was maybe ten years ago when he accidentally left the door to his office in the basement unlocked. You were doing laundry and saw the door was cracked, so you poked your head inside. He had told you before that it was nothing special, that it was just a quiet place for him to focus on work. He said he locked the door because the equipment on loan from his office was expensive and he couldn't risk anything happening to it. But what you saw was... not the type of equipment a man in finance would need.
Weapons were perched on the walls, sparkling clean and ready for use. You couldn't count how many computer monitors were mounted on the back wall, how many hidden cameras were placed around your home. But what drew your attention the most were the monitors that displayed a view from another house. Or, houses, as you would come to learn later.
His desk had high-tech looking equipment, tactical gear, files on men in a foreign language. Ten different cell phones were stashed away in a drawer along with countless fake passports and a whole duffel bag filled with a mix of foreign currency.
Mike was not the man he claimed to be.
And when he caught you snooping in his office, that was the first night he hurt you. Really hurt you.
You met him when you were a teenager, taken by the fact that he was a couple years older and seemingly wiser. Youth and naivety kept you from seeing who he really was. He was rough and possessive, but you thought you liked it. Before you knew it, he had proposed to you and almost fifteen years later, you were stuck in not only a loveless marriage, but a violent marriage.
And you had no way out. No means of escape.
When you finally stopped shaking, you stood to gather some ice for your face, pressing it tenderly against the bruises when the same inevitable thought crossed your mind:
Dave never would have done this.
Dave York. The boy who grew up next door to you. Who you went to school with all through high school. The boy you had a painful crush on for as long as you could remember, but who only saw you as just a good friend. Someone to hang out with over the summer. Someone to tag along with to the movies when he was bored. Someone to ride bikes with all over the neighborhood. Someone who gave you your first kiss after he convinced you to sneak out in the middle of the night but then made you swear not to tell anyone.
You had convinced yourself the kiss had meant nothing to him. Why would it, if he made you promise not to say anything? It broke your heart, but the idea of losing Dave as a friend hurt more, so you kept your mouth shut and pretended it never happened.
And you were okay with it. For a while. When you were eighteen, you met Mike, and for the first time, you had feelings for someone else other than Dave.
You were so excited to introduce them. Your closest friend meeting your first real boyfriend. But, of course, they clashed the moment they were introduced. Like two animals who sniffed each other out, they knew the other was bad news and from then on, things changed.
Mike asked that you didn't see Dave as much. It felt like being torn in two, but Dave was already applying to colleges out of state anyway, and it didn't take long until he was accepted.
Against Mike's wishes, you went to Dave's going away party. Alone. It was that day when Dave pulled you aside and confessed his feelings for you. Told you he was in love with you and begged you to come with him. Said that you had so much potential that you would just be wasting if you stayed home, with Mike. That he could take care of you.
And foolishly, you turned him down. At the time, you had convinced yourself what you had with Mike was real. He didn't try to hide you the way Dave did. He proudly had you on his arm from day one.
So, you made the biggest mistake of your life. You said no. Accused him of being jealous and ran home to Mike.
When Mike found out where you had been, he grabbed you by the throat and pushed you up against the wall. Spit obscenities in your face and told you never to lie to him again.
The next morning, he apologized. Said he had been drinking, that it would never happen again. You believed him, and he didn't do anything for another year. After that, the aggression slowly built up. It started with the verbal abuse, the accusations, and the lies. Then he grew more physical.
There wasn't one particular day when it all changed, it was a slow progression, but stumbling across his private office was certainly a bad day. The physical abuse was always linked with something big. Something big and terrible that you felt you did wrong. Over the years, that changed, too.
And now, present day, anything could set him off.
That particular evening, you had burnt the chicken for dinner, so he backhanded you across the jaw before grabbing you by the back of the neck and slamming your face into the refrigerator.
No, Dave York certainly would never have treated you that way. Your life could have been completely different had you not turned him down.
Little did you know, you would find out exactly how different soon enough.
You stared blankly at your computer, one eye still swollen but hidden pretty damn well under a thick layer of your best concealer. Thank god it was a slow day. Even if you didn't get much sleep the night before, allowing yourself to rest by pretending to work was enough to make you feel a little better.
The double espresso in your latte didn't hurt, either.
You had managed to become an expert at faking being busy at work. Zoning out was your speciality. So much so that you hardly heard the front doors of the bank swing open and shut, and only faintly heard the quiet tap of dress shoes on the tile making their way towards your general direction.
"Excuse me?"
Your body jumped at his voice, startling you out of your daydream. With your heart hammering in your chest, you narrowed your eyes at your computer, hoping to convey the look of someone deep in the middle of a very serious work issue.
"Sorry. Have a seat, I'll be right with you," you said without looking up. If you gave up your fake task too quickly, it would prove you weren't really working, so you opened up a few random files and pretended to jot down some notes, some random numbers and names, before clearing your throat and finally giving the man across from you your full attention.
Your jaw dropped. Heart plummeted to your stomach. Body rigid with shock.
It was him. It was Dave York. After fifteen years and never laying eyes on him, you could still pick him out of lineup. Those deep, brown eyes. Thick, slightly wavy hair. Chiseled jaw and angular nose. He was unmistakable.
"H-hi," you stammered, feeling your face warm instantly at your weak greeting. He just cocked his head at you, confused. Then you grew even more uncomfortable when it became clear he didn't recognize you.
You pointed meekly to your name tag, his eyes following your finger and watching as his face slowly filled with recognition.
What you had hoped would be a warm welcome turned out to only be a tight lipped smile and nod.
"Oh. Didn't realize it was you."
You waved him off and briefly looked back at your screen, unable to stand the embarrassment.
"How have you been, Dave?" you asked, pulling your focus away from your computer and back onto him. "Are you home visiting your family? Oh... it's your father's birthday next week, right?"
Something shifted behind his eyes. Something softer. Like he was taken aback but trying to hide it. Your suspicion was correct when he stumbled over his next words, the confidence and cool demeanor he strolled in with temporarily gone.
"How - you remember that?"
You nodded. "Of course, I do. How could I forget?"
The day Dave's father passed away, it was raining. Not just raining, but down pouring. Streets were flooding and everyone stayed huddled in their homes, safe and dry.
But not you.
When you heard the news, you had rushed to the abandoned tree house by the train tracks two blocks from your home. It was a safe place for you both. Whenever your parents were fighting, Dave would find you there. And when Dave's father got sick, you would find him there, too. You had scrambled up the wooden ladder, sheets of rain pelting your face, cascading down your shoulders and soaking through your thin raincoat. But when you hurried into the treehouse and found him, huddled and shaking in the corner with tears streaking down his cheeks, you forgot all about your discomfort. You rushed to him, pulled him into your arms and let him cry against your chest for an hour without saying a single word. The only noise was the distant rumble of thunder and the steady sound of harsh raindrops pelting the wooden roof.
You were both sixteen at the time.
Dave blinked and cleared his throat, shaking off the sudden warmth that filled his chest.
"No. I'm here on business."
He pulled out his badge from his suit coat and your eyebrows raised in surprise.
"C.I.A?" you said, "Wow. I mean, I thought I had heard something-"
"Need you to look up a couple accounts for me."
You clamped your mouth shut, trying to hide your dejection by looking across the lobby floor, but his icy tone and steely demeanor stung. You couldn't blame him, really, given how things ended the last time you saw each other, but you had held out hope that he had forgiven you at some point in the past fifteen years.
Seemed as though you were wrong.
"Y-yeah, sure. That - I can do that," you said, straightening up in your chair, determined to keep things purely professional, same as him. "What are the names and socials?"
He didn't even pull out a file or notepad, he had them memorized so he could keep his eyes locked on your face, studying you, watching for any glimmer of recognition or surprise when he told you the names.
"James Victor Turner."
You typed away on your keyboard, completely unphased by the name, much to his relief. He rattled off the social security number and waited a moment until you found the right person.
"Do you want me to email the account detail or something? That's usually what the feds have us do," you asked, turning back to him. He let your words hang in the air for a moment, searching your eyes for any sign of deceit. Finally, he nodded and slid his card across your desk.
"Email's on there."
Your gaze jumped from his face to the card, noting immediately his cell number was listed, as well, and suddenly the thought of having his cell phone number filled you with a deep sort of comfort you couldn't explain.
He gave you three other names, and every time he waited for a shift in your brow, a flinch in your cheek, or for your breath to quicken in alarm, but every time you remained completely indifferent and calm. He had learned how to read body and facial tells in the academy. He was very fucking good at it.
These names meant nothing to you.
Thank fuck.
"Is that all?" you asked when you emailed the last file. You thought you hid your hopefulness from your voice, that maybe he would say no, let's get a drink, let's catch up. But instead, he nodded and muttered his thanks. Then leaned to the side to slide his wallet back into his pants.
"You taking care of yourself?" he asked casually as he went to stand. "Husband treating you right?"
Now that got a reaction. Your brows tilted slightly, your gaze shifted away and you swallowed nervously. It was then he felt his blood run cold in his veins.
He was very fucking good at reading body language.
"Yeah," was all you said, then pretended to read something in your email. Dave stalled, heart beginning to thunder in his chest when he noticed. How did he miss it before?
"What happened to your eye?"
Your lips briefly pressed into a thin line before you forced a fake smile.
"I was cleaning over the weekend and something fell from the top shelf of my bathroom. Some luck, huh?"
Your tone was practiced. Disarming. He saw right through it.
"What fell?"
"Huh?" you asked.
"What fell from the shelf?" he repeated, watching as you tried to hide the panic behind your eyes. You were used to people not questioning your rehearsed excuses.
"Um, it - I think it was toothpaste."
"Toothpaste caused a shiner like that?" he pushed. He had places to be. He had to report back in less than ten minutes with his findings. But he couldn't seem to give a shit.
"It was still in the box. The corner caught me just right," you replied smoothly, pleased with your quick thinking. Dave slowly nodded, deciding to drop it and not make your day even worse.
Besides, he knew all he needed to know, anyway.
His hands fidgeted at his sides. His gaze slid around the lobby while he tried to think of something else to say. You watched him curiously.
"My number's on the card-"
"I know," you replied, cutting him off. He met your eye and you gave him a small smile. He bit the inside of his cheek and nodded tightly.
"Don't be afraid to use it."
And before you could react, he was halfway across the lobby. When he disappeared through the doors, you looked back down at his business card. Your finger traced the blue numbers indented into the card stock, the small rectangle somehow acting like a talisman. Settling your nerves, calming you.
Dave York came back to you.
An entire week went by and your thoughts rarely drifted from Dave. Every time the doors opened at work, your head snapped up, hoping to see him again. When you laid in bed at night, your husband sometimes there, sometimes not, you would lay awake staring at the ceiling, thinking of him. Wondering what he was doing, where he was staying.
If he was thinking of you, too.
Friday was your anniversary. Mike had promised to be on his best behavior after feeding you apologies for his bad mood lately. It was always the same, you knew he wasn't actually sorry for what he said and did, but you smiled and forgave him all the same.
He had gotten a reservation at a French restaurant, and even though he knew French cuisine wasn't your favorite, you still tried to appreciate the gesture. You had gotten dressed up to celebrate. You wore a mauve dress with a slit up the leg and thin straps that rested delicately over your shoulders. The bruises from the weekend before had faded. Your hair actually cooperated. You were feeling rather good about yourself.
Until it became clear Mike had picked the restaurant for another reason.
His gaze shifted all over the room whenever he thought you weren't looking. He was waiting for someone, you thought. His fingers tapped mindlessly on the cloth covered table while you sipped your wine and picked at your food, doing your best to finish what he ordered for you, too scared to rock the boat.
"How long's it gonna take for you to eat?" he snapped quietly, so as not to cause a scene. You looked up in surprise, poised to answer, when you froze. Over his right shoulder at the bar sat Dave York, nursing a short glass of amber liquid. And his eyes were pinned directly on you.
Mike must not have liked how you took an extra moment to answer because his arm shot out to grab your wrist, fingertips going white from the pressure he was applying. You hissed, attention refocused on him and his hand, as you tried to squirm out of his grip. In the corner of your eye, you saw Dave stand, but he didn't make a move towards your table.
"I did something nice for you and you can't be bothered to pay me any attention? On our anniversary?" he seethed. You wanted to tell him his attention had been elsewhere the entire night, that you weren't stupid and you knew something else was going on, but you bit your tongue. As usual.
"I-I'm sorry," you stammered, giving your arm one quick yank backwards, pulling away from his grasp. "I'm just not that hungry. My stomach hurts."
"Which is it? Not hungry or your stomach hurts?"
You rubbed your wrist under the table and looked into his eyes. You saw the anger bubbling up, just under the surface, and you knew then and there how the rest of the evening was going to go.
"Both," you shot back with a clipped tone.
His eyes widened and he leaned forward, no doubt about to unleash every horrid threat he could think of under his breath when he spotted something or someone behind you. Whoever he was waiting for all evening finally showed up.
Mike stood from the table and buttoned his suit coat.
"I'll be right back. Just saw an old golfing buddy." Then he pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, flexing the digits harshly into your skin, making you wince. "I suggest you finish your food. We're leaving when I get back."
Then he was gone.
Your chest heaved and you took a shaky sip from your glass, looking to calm your nerves. Your eyes darted back towards the bar, but Dave was no where to be seen. Your heart sank. Just as you were resigning yourself to another evening of being on the receiving end of Mike's anger, you felt a gentle brush against your arm.
"Bathroom," Dave muttered as he walked past, heading towards the back of the restaurant.
You didn't even think. You tossed your napkin onto the table, standing up so fast you nearly knocked over your chair to hurry after him. The restrooms were down a short hallway and around a corner. Soft, classical music drifted from the speakers above you, the only other sound besides the click of your heels against the hardwood floors. When you turned the corner, Dave's arm immediately shot out to wrap around your waist, pulling you quickly out of view of the dining room.
He had swiveled you around so your back was against the wall, just past the two doors leading into the restrooms. If anyone exited the bathrooms, they would see Dave's body caging you in, clear as day.
The thought made your pulse thrum steadily in your throat.
"You need to promise me something."
Dave's voice was urgent. Like he was pressed for time.
"Huh?" you asked dreamily, lost for a moment in the warmth rolling from his body and the cloud of his cologne, engulfing you.
He opened his mouth to speak, then annoyance flickered across his face. He yanked out a nearly invisible earpiece, letting it dangle over his collar, and your eyes widened.
"A-are you... working?"
"Promise me," Dave said, grabbing you by the arms and ignoring your question, "that tomorrow night, you won't be home. You need to go out in public. Preferably with friends or family."
"What? Why?" you asked fearfully. You were snapping out of the spell he had managed to put you under. Lust was being replaced with alarm. The hairs on the back of your neck were rising.
"And use a credit card once or twice," he continued, staring deep into your eyes. "Can you do that? Hm?"
Slowly, you found yourself nodding. You had a million questions but you didn't bother to ask - he wasn't going to answer them anyway.
"Good," he breathed, looking visibly relieved. His shoulders relaxed and he let his hands drop from your upper arms to your wrists. His eyes flickered down to where Mike had grabbed you, light blue circles already developing before your very eyes. Dave's jaw twitched. "Good girl," he murmured, dragging his thumb over one of the marks. Your breath stuttered and your knees went weak, the energy between you dissolving back into something else. Something hungrier.
When his eyes met yours again, you could tell he felt it, too.
You were certain you moved at the same time. You pushed off the wall and titled your chin up just as he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around your waist. Your lips met for the first time in almost twenty years and just like that, you felt transported back in time. Anybody could have come down that hall and seen you, including your husband, but in that brief moment, you were safe inside your treehouse again. You were in the arms of the man who had been there since the beginning. Who knew you better than your own husband.
"He won't come home tonight," Dave whispered once he tore himself away. But he didn't go far. His hand had risen to cup your cheek and his forehead pressed gently against yours as he spoke. "Keep yourself safe. Go home, lock the doors, don't leave until tomorrow."
"Okay," you replied shakily, hands coming to lay flat against his chest. You could feel his heart pounding just underneath.
"Tell me what you're going to do tomorrow," he demanded firmly.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. "I'm going to go out with my friends. Somewhere public. And I'll use my credit card."
"Good," he breathed before kissing the tip of your nose. "When it's safe, I'll come get you."
"How?" you asked, gazing up into his dark brown eyes. They looked just as you remembered them. No longer were they cold and distant. Now, they were soft and warm and kind.
"I'll find you."
It was all he managed to say before you had to spring apart, the echo of footsteps tapping down the hall interrupting your moment. He turned away and pulled out his phone, pressing it against his ear as if he were taking a call. You ran your thumb under your lip, hoping to fix any smudges, and forced your feet to move past the other restaurant patron rounding the corner, back into the dining room. Away from Dave.
Even though there was definitely danger swirling somewhere around you, you knew you were safe, because Dave would be watching.
You didn't have many friends. Mike purposely made that difficult for you. But you did manage to have two friends from work who you occasionally went to dinner with or saw a movie together. So that was what you did. The three of you got dinner, where you used your credit card to pay, and then walked around the mall. One of your friends had a wedding coming up, so she dragged you from store to store as she hunted for the perfect dress. At one point towards the end of the night, you bought a tea with your card, claiming you felt a sore throat coming on.
Obsessively, you checked your phone. For what, you weren't exactly sure. Maybe a call from Mike, or something from Dave. You didn't give him your number but you had a feeling he had ways of finding that out for himself. But all evening, your phone remained silent. No texts. No calls. No news alerts. Nothing.
You dragged the night out as long as you could, but eventually your friends wanted to go home.
In the dark parking lot, you waved goodbye before turning in the direction of your parked car. It was almost eleven. That had to be enough time, right? Whatever it was Dave was trying to protect you from had to be over by then.
You fumbled for your keys in the dark, pulling them out of your purse nervously as you approached your car. You were all alone in that corner of the lot, but of course one sleek, black car had chosen to park right next to you.
You tried to keep your breathing steady as you approached, but right when you were a couple feet away from your bumper, the door to the black car swung open, startling you.
"It's me," a familiar, deep voice said. Then Dave stepped out of the car dressed in all black and your shoulders sagged.
"Oh, my god," you breathed, dragging in a ragged breath before leaning against your car. "You scared me."
Then you noticed a strange man unfurl himself from the passenger seat and you stiffened.
"It's alright," Dave assured you, glancing back at the other man for a moment. "This is Kovac. He's gonna drive your car to the hotel."
You furrowed your brow and clutched your keys to your chest.
"Why? Why can't I drive?"
Dave sighed as Kovac casually leaned against the trunk of your car and lit a cigarette.
"Because... I would prefer you drive with me. Just being extra cautious."
You considered it for a moment, looking around the empty parking lot as you shifted your weight from foot to foot until finally you relented and handed over your keys.
"I'll take good care of her," Kovac promised you, stubbing out his cigarette before unlocking your door and sliding into the driver's seat.
Dave rounded the front of his car and opened the passenger door for you. When you passed him, the scent of sweat and gunpowder flooded your senses. You slipped silently into the seat and he gently shut the door.
The hotel Dave took you to was not far away from the mall. You watched in the sideview mirror as Kovac tailed you both in your SUV.
"Don't you have any questions?" Dave finally asked, breaking the silence. You turned to look at him, his breathtaking side profile illuminated by the streetlights.
"I have probably a thousand."
"So... are you going to ask?"
You shook your head. "No. You wouldn't tell me, anyway."
The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement as he safely pulled into the hotel parking lot.
Kovac picked the spot directly next to Dave's car, turning off your SUV and joining the two of you in front of Dave's bumper.
"All set," he said, dropping the keys into Dave's palm.
Dave nodded and gave a subtle tilt of his chin towards another car parked a few spaces down. The headlights turned on and Kovac slipped into the front seat without another word or glance in your direction.
You looked up at the unassuming hotel as Dave led you into the lobby. It was middle of the road, average at best, affordable but not trashy. For some reason, you imagined Dave picking somewhere much swankier.
Dave immediately ushered you past the front desk and towards the rowdy sports bar just off the main entrance. He found a small, open spot against the bar and held out his hand.
"Give me the credit card you used earlier."
Without even questioning it, you handed it over. He bought your favorite drink and two shots of tequila, then handed it back to you. You smirked and pocketed it before taking the glass from him.
"How did you know my favorite drink?"
He shrugged and tossed back one of the shots. "Part of the job."
You took a sip from your glass, trying to hide your smile to no avail.
"I have to admit," you said, glancing around the crowded room. "This isn't the type of hotel I would have expected you to pick."
"No, it's not. But it's the type of hotel you would pick," he countered, fingers wrapping around the second shot of tequila. Your brows knit together in confusion while you watched him toss back the second shot. "C'mon. You don't have to finish that. Let's get you a room."
Your face fell, hoping he would have invited you to stay with him, but you quickly recovered. It had been so long since you had seen each other, and you were married, for fuckssake.
Not that it stopped him from kissing you in the restaurant the night before, but still.
Dave signaled for your card again when the receptionist was booking your room and you quickly handed it over. You rolled your head back and forth, working out the kinks in your neck while you waited. When she slid a piece of paper across the counter for you to sign, you did so as fast as possible. Dave's eyes lingered on your married name when the paper passed in front of him and he pursed his lips.
"Here's your key. Floor seven. Take a left when you get off the elevators and your room is around the bend," the receptionist said cheerily. You nodded your thanks and tucked away your card and receipt while you followed Dave to the elevators.
When you stepped into the car, Dave pressed the button for floor nine. You reached forward to press seven and he stopped you.
"The room's just part of the paper trail."
It took you a moment, but you caught up. Using your credit card at dinner, being with witnesses in a public setting, using your card at the bar and then again at the front desk. He was creating a rock solid alibi for whatever happened that night.
"Oh," you said softly, allowing your hand to drop back against your side.
Then, for the first time, Dave looked uncomfortable.
"Unless, of course, you want -"
"No," you said, cutting him off. "No, I want to be with you."
His eyes lit up but his mouth remained in a straight line.
"Okay, then."
You grinned and leaned next to him against the wall of the elevator, watching the little red numbers on the screen tick up, up, up, until it read nine.
"After you," Dave said, holding open the doors and ushering you out. You gave him a shy smile and stepped forward, then waited for him to lead the way. The entire walk down the hall felt like a fever dream. Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears with each muffled step against the worn out carpet. It was quiet, but when you passed by the other rooms, you could hear televisions playing or people laughing, completely oblivious to whatever it is you were about to do.
Dave tapped his plastic keycard against the sensor, the little light flashing from red to green with a loud click. When you entered his room, it was exactly like you had expected. Suits and shirts hanging carefully in the small, open closet by the bathroom. Suitcase laid out on the floor with his belongings neatly packed inside, not a single item out of place.
He flicked on another light and the lamps next to his king sized bed came to life, casting the deep green comforter and patterned rug in a warm glow.
That moment could have been awkward if you had given yourself a chance to take everything in, but your body moved faster than your mind. You swirled around and looped your arms around Dave's neck, pulling him down to your level, eager to feel the softness of his lips against your own again. And when his mouth crashed hungrily against yours, all of your questions and insecurities drifted away.
It should have felt wrong, being in the arms of a man that wasn't your husband, but not one shred of guilt entered your body. How could it, when his hands on your waist and his tongue slipping past your lips felt so good?
"Tell me you want me," Dave rasped in between feverish kisses. You took a step backwards towards the bed and he eagerly chased after you.
"You know I do," you whispered, head in a fog. His lips had dragged down to your chin, nipping there gently so as to give you a chance to speak. But words were hard to come by whenever you were in his orbit.
His fingers gripped your waist a little harder when he pulled away to look into your eyes.
"I need to hear it."
You slowly blinked up at him, both your chests rising and falling faster than a moment ago.
"I want you."
Dave swallowed and a muscle in his jaw jumped.
"More than him?"
Your knees went weak when you heard the possessive tone in his voice.
"Yes," you told him. He was already pushing you onto the bed, his mouth inches away from colliding with yours when you added, "I've always wanted you more than him."
He groaned into your mouth, a deep rumble you could feel in your own chest when you were trapped between the weight of him and the old mattress. You could taste the tequila on his tongue as he licked into your mouth with an urgency you didn't expect from a man who appeared so put together, and the thought of being the one to unravel him, to make him a little messier, thrilled you.
You whined impatiently when Dave pulled away from the kiss and shuffled back onto his knees.
"Need to see you," he mumbled, shaky fingers already working on the button of your jeans. You eagerly lifted your hips so he could strip them off with a grunt, then tossed your arms above your head when he pushed up the hem of your shirt.
His hands kept working, plucking at your underwear and bra, but he couldn't hold himself back from kissing you any longer, his tongue invading your mouth once again. The feel of his kiss grew more and more familiar with each passing second. You felt your bra come loose around your shoulders and middle, so you subtly shimmied underneath him, freeing yourself of the offensive fabric and letting it fall to the floor. His palm was on you in an instant, feeling the weight of your breast in his hand and rolling your nipple between his fingers before his eyes even had a chance to open and drink you in.
"You know how long I've been thinking about this?" he asked when your head tipped back towards the headboard, lungs filling with fresh air. His lips slowly dragged down the column of your throat, tongue flicking out occasionally to taste your skin. "Twenty years," he said, not waiting for you to answer. Your back arched and your fingers raised to get tangled in his hair. Nobody had ever spoken to you or touched you the way he did. It was intoxicating to be an object of his worship and desire. A small voice in the back of your mind wondered how you would be able to go back to your miserable life after that night, how you would be able to go on after experiencing Dave's lavish adoration like he didn't tilt your world on it's axis.
"You ever think about me?" he asked. His voice sounded a little sheepish, like he was trying to hide it, but you picked up on it. You lifted your hips when he slid your underwear down your legs with one hand and you said, "Yes. All the time. Especially-"
You cut yourself off with a bite to your lower lip. Dave's hands, which were in the process of caressing every soft curve of your now bare body, froze. His eyes met yours once again, searching them before he asked, "What?"
You shook your head and tried to pull him in for another kiss, but he resisted. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes and his brows furrowed. He didn't like the idea of you holding something back. Not now. Not when he finally had you, after so long. He wanted all of you, the good and the bad.
"Tell me," he urged. He needed to know.
You sighed and averted your gaze. "Especially... on really bad days. Those days I stay up at night, waiting for the pain to go away, and I think about you. How you would never lay a finger on me like that."
His jaw tensed. Anger boiled hot through his veins at the thought of you cowering in your bed or bathroom, in pain and crying and thinking about him.
"Look at me," he said through clenched teeth. You took a deep breath and did what he asked, gazing up at him with watery eyes, trying your best to put on a brave face. "That will never happen again, do you understand? He will never hurt you again. It's over."
You gave him a weak smile and shook your head.
"He won't let me leave. I've tried, believe me, but-"
"You're not listening to me, sweetheart," Dave said, pinching your chin and holding your gaze, trying to do his best to convey his message without implicating you. "You're safe. It's over."
You opened your mouth to argue back and then you paused. You scanned his face and he watched you try to mentally connect the dots. What did that mean? Was Mike arrested?
"Do you understand?" he whispered softly. Slowly, you nodded, and his mouth pulled into a smile. "Good. Now-" Dave unzipped his coat and tossed it on top of your abandoned pile of clothes. He rolled on top of you, caging you in for one quick, heated kiss that took your breath away. When he pulled back, he had a playful look in his eye. It made you smile, your anguish quickly sweeping back into the furthest recesses of your mind. "Let me give you a better reason to think about me."
When he began to move down the bed so he could settle his broad shoulders between your legs, a bolt of anxiety shot through you. You leaned up on your elbows, eyes all wide and nervous, watching as he got comfortable. His hands wrapped firmly but tenderly around your thighs, grip strong so he could fight your instinct to clamp your legs shut.
"W-what are you doing?"
Dave looked up at you with surprise. His eyes flickered between your face and your glistening center, then back again.
"Do you not want me to?"
Your heart was racing so fast, you felt like you were floating. Having a man go down on you was certainly not something you were used to, but if you gave yourself any time at all to think, you would have realized Dave was the type of man willing to give you everything and anything you could ever want or need, including something selfless like that. Something just to make you feel good.
"I-I don't know. It's been a while..." you trailed off, cheeks warming with embarrassment. "It's not exactly something Mi-"
"Stop."
Your mouth snapped shut, wilting under the steely look in his eye.
"Don't say his name," Dave said gently, realizing he might have been a bit too harsh at first. You nodded, understanding, but remained silent. He took a steadying breath and started over. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do. But if being shy is the reason you don't want this, I won't accept that."
He looked up at you from between your legs, gaze heated as he tilted his chin slightly to brush his lips over the inside of your thigh. He maintained eye contact, watching you shudder from the sensation of his five o'clock shadow scraping your sensitive skin.
"What's it gonna be, baby?" he asked before doing the same to your other thigh. You gasped quietly and then swallowed before letting your legs fall open. Dave smirked.
"I want it."
Your voice was soft and meek. He wanted you to feel in control. He wanted you to know just how tightly you had him wrapped around your finger.
"Louder."
You dropped your chin to your chest, lips parted with anticipation as you watched his mouth hover over your mound. You could feel the heat from his exhale fan over you, making your cunt pulse around nothing.
"I want it," you said, voice firm, just as he asked. "I want you to make me feel good, Dave."
One corner of his mouth lifted and his eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Yes, ma'am."
Your eyes instantly rolled to the back of your head when he dragged his tongue through your folds for the first time. Fingers thread through Dave's dark hair as he licked at you again. Over and over and over until your head fell back and you collapsed into the plush pillow.
"Oh - fuck, Dave, that's -" you cut yourself off with a moan, head lolling to the side and eyes sliding shut. It felt too good. He was too good. His warm, strong tongue licked into you messily, flooding your body with rolling waves of pleasure you had never experienced before. Your muscles were limp, pliant and soft under his hands and mouth, allowing him to take and take as much as he wanted.
And he did.
You were helpless against him, helpless against the way he feasted between your legs, entirely at his mercy. Shaky fingers grappled for leverage in his hair but it was half-hearted, at best. Dave had reduced you to a whimpering puddle with every greedy lap of his tongue, and he loved it. He loved how soft you were for him, loved hearing sweet little moans filter past your lips. It was every one of his twenty years worth of wildest fantasies come true, and he couldn't be stopped.
When he pressed your thighs into your chest, tilting your hips to give him even better access to your cunt, you gasped his name. The sound made his cock throb painfully, still trapped behind too many layers of clothes. He rut his hips pathetically against the mattress, seeking just a sliver of relief as he continued to lick and kiss and bite at your folds. The roof could have been ripped off the building and he wouldn't have stopped. He was determined to memorize and map out every inch of you, draw out every possible sound and swallow every drop of your arousal. He wanted to smell you on him for days. He wanted his jaw to ache. Every time he closed his eyes, he wanted to see you writhing around in ecstasy underneath him.
He felt insane. Never in his life had he felt so wild and careless, but decades of being denied the only thing he ever truly wanted made him a madman.
"Dave," you moaned, back arching and collapsing repeatedly off the mattress. He peered up at you, tongue still swirling steadily over your clit, lips still suckling and teeth grazing your delicate skin in the same delicious pattern, not sacrificing an ounce of your pleasure when he dragged his focus to your scrunched up face.
Your eyes, wild and dark, found his. His name fell from your lips like a song as you watched his mouth eat at you with skilled precision. The sight of him like that between your legs, all wrecked and crazed and hungry, was the final push you needed.
Your orgasm forced you upright, sitting with your legs bent and spread. You could see Dave so much clearer that way, watching every purse of his lips and flick of his tongue as he guided you through it. One of your hands raked through his hair, holding him against you so you could grind against his mouth while the other supported your weight somewhere behind you.
With one last drawn out moan, your head tipped back and your eyes slipped shut. Your mouth hung open, pulling in deep gulps of air. A shudder ran through your body and your arm began to shake. Dave was still dutifully cleaning up the mess between your legs, but his licks were softer, gentler, as he worked.
"Oh, my god," you breathed, collapsing back into the bed. Your heart was racing in your chest, skin coated in a thin layer of sweat and your mind was blissfully blank. It wasn't until Dave withdrew himself from between your legs that you opened your eyes. The loss of his body heat made you shiver, and suddenly you felt painfully exposed. You weakly pulled at the bedspread, looking to cover yourself up, when he stopped you.
"Don't."
Your hand instantly released the comforter and you rolled your head to look at him. He had been removing his shirt when you were busy trying to cover yourself up. Your breath quickened and you forgot all about your earlier shyness when you drank in his bare upper half for the first time. Your mouth went dry and jaw went slack at the sight of his muscular, wide shoulders and chest, leading down to a soft but toned stomach. Dave smirked, flinging his belt off before working on the zipper of his pants.
You were out of your element. On one hand you could count how many times Mike made you come in the past fifteen years. You were bone tired and legs still shaky from the way Dave had torn you apart just minutes earlier, unsure if you had it in you to go again. But when he dropped his pants and boxers, revealing his thick, rock hard erection, you felt a second wave of energy hit.
"Shit," you whispered, scrambling to your knees on the bed. Dave's dark eyes skated up and down your naked body, cock twitching when he saw the wetness between your legs glisten as you shifted down the bed on your knees, towards him.
Your soft palms dragged down the sharp planes of his chest, your eyes wide and reverent, studying every inch of his skin. He held his breath, tight muscles twitching under your delicate touch. He flexed his hands at his sides, eyes boring into you, giving you all the time you needed to take him in.
"You've grown up, Dave York."
He chuckled, releasing a nervous breath. It was growing increasingly difficult not to touch you.
"A lot's changed since the treehouse," he murmured. Your eyes flickered up to his, hands still drifting slowly down his stomach.
"You remember."
He brought one hand up to cup your cheek. You leaned into his touch, your fingers stalling right above where he wanted you the most. Your fingertips grazed the coarse hairs there and he thought he might die if you didn't touch him soon.
"Of course I remember."
You closed what little distance remained, capturing his lower lip between your own. You could taste your release on his mouth, surprising yourself when you weren't repulsed by the flavor. You had a feeling it had something to do with the man it was connected to. The idea of Dave smelling like you awakened some primal urge deep inside, like you craved to mark him somehow.
You slid your hand down the rest of the way, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. He pulled in a sharp breath against your lips, then groaned when your wrist slowly started to work him, up and down.
Dave cursed under his breath when your thumb swept across his slit, collecting the sticky bead of wetness pooling there. He kissed you deeper, tongue swirling frantically inside your mouth, his hips jolting forward, chasing your touch.
"I want you," he murmured, voice a little strained. He gripped the side of your face so tightly, like he was afraid to let you go. You bloomed with pride when you heard his breath stutter and you grinned before dropping your mouth to taste the skin covering his pulse point. It fluttered wildly under your tongue, the rhythm giving away his true feelings in that moment. He more than wanted you. He needed you.
"You have me," you said, lips trailing down his throat. "I'm all yours."
Desperate hands grabbed at your hip and the back of your head, laying you down flat under him with your lips still latched to his neck and your fist still pumping his cock. Once he settled between your legs, it was as if you moved as one: your hand paused, lining him up at your entrance, and a moment later he grabbed that same wrist, pinning it above your head at the exact same time he buried himself inside you with one deep thrust.
"Oh!" you cried out, the sudden stretch stealing your breath. Your head dropped back, abandoning the mark you left on his throat. It was hard to think, hard to speak, hard to do anything except focus on the way he opened you up, carving a spot for himself inside of you.
"It's okay, I got you," he gasped. It was the first time you realized he was just as much of a wreck as you. His mouth hung open, face buried in the crook of your shoulder, struggling to catch his breath. He still held your arm firmly above your head, pressing your wrist into the plush comforter. After a minute, once you both managed to clear your heads, his grip loosened. But instead of letting you go, he slid his palm up to press into yours, fingers lacing together lovingly when you tilted your chin and slotted your lips together once again.
The weight of him on top of you was stifling, the wide stretch of your hips to accommodate his broad torso already pulling your muscles, but it felt so good. With your free hand, you carded your fingers through his hair, deepening the kiss by slipping your tongue past his lips. There was nowhere else you'd rather be than pinned under Dave York's hulking frame, cocooned and protected by his strong body. You wanted him to possess you in every way imaginable, tangle and weave himself through every fiber of your being.
When he started to move, he was so much gentler than you imagined him to be. He took his time, feeding you his cock inch by inch, slowly dragging his hips back just to push back inside at the same excruciating pace. Your fingers squeezed around his with each thrust, tongues still tangled together, sharing soft sighs and gasps each time he moved.
"Good?" he whispered, breaking away and pressing your foreheads together. Your skin was growing dewy, sweat forming where your bodies touched.
"Yeah," you whispered back. His eyelids fluttered when you rocked your hips up to meet his. "You won't break me, you know," you teased. He grinned but still maintained the same pace, making you gasp when he shifted and brushed against a sensitive spot no one had ever reached before.
"I know. Just - don't want to rush it. Been thinking about this for too damn long." He nibbled playfully at your chin before finally releasing the hand above your head. He cupped the back of your thigh, lifting your leg so it hooked over his lower back, burying himself even further inside your tight cunt. You moaned his name, brows knitting together and face flushing with arousal and maybe a little bit of embarrassment when you whined in his ear, "So deep. You're so fucking deep."
There were times in the past twenty years where Dave thought he might be deranged. The way he could never let you go, never get you out of his mind, bordered on obsessive. Time didn't dampen it, like he thought it would. Distance, either. Not a single day passed where you didn't cross his mind and he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. When your husband's name crossed his desk, his next target, with your name next to it posed as a question, he didn't sleep for three days. Panic seized his entire body, morning and night. If you were guilty, if you were privy to anything your husband did - or, god forbid - assisted him with any of his dealings, he knew he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger. Yet he still came back home, because he couldn't pass up the opportunity to see you again. The relief he felt when he confirmed you were clueless, that you were pushed into the darkness by your husband's cruel hand, was unmatched. It might have been the only good deed that bastard ever did for you.
And then the obsession grew ten-fold. Because he knew finally, when his work was done, he would get to have you.
Mania took hold of his mind. The question did he ever fuck you like this? Did he ever make you feel this good? This loved? sat on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know. He wanted to hear you say he was the best you'd ever had. But he didn't, because that fucking asshole's name had no place in that room. He didn't want to invite him into the sacred place where Dave was buried deep inside you, showing you all the ways he loved you without saying the words.
"You like it like this, baby?" he asked instead. "You like it nice and slow?"
"Yes," you whimpered. Your fingers tugged harshly at his hair when he brushed against that spot again and it made him groan. "Fuck - whatever you're doing, keep doing it," you said, mouthing at his cheek. Your lips burned from the sharp hairs that were already beginning to grow back across his jaw. He rolled his hips again, pulling another broken moan from the back of your throat, slowly fanning the flames of the warmth blooming in your belly. He could feel you pulsing around his cock, pulling him in as your orgasm began to steadily build. He cupped one of your breasts, clamping his mouth around your nipple, allowing his teeth to gently graze the sensitive skin, all in an effort to heighten your pleasure. Based on the way your back arched and you cried out his name, it sounded like he was pretty damn successful.
"You feel so good," he panted, breath coming quick and short. He could feel himself slipping. "So good. So beautiful - fuck," he said with a groan. Your fingers found his shoulder, nails digging into his skin.
It was so hot. Your hair was sticking to the back of your neck. You could feel drops of sweat sliding down the sides of your head. Dave was fucking everywhere. His entire body caged you in, his mouth alternated licking and sucking at your breasts, cock buried further than any man ever had. His hand held your ass, pulling you tight against him, helping you rock your hips in rhythm with his.
And then you felt it. Something deep inside, a pressure that climbed up the base of your spine that had you going rigid and you gasped.
"Oh, my god, Dave - I'm... I'm gonna-"
"Give it to me," he growled, mouth abandoning your sore breasts so he could see you. He wanted to watch. He needed to see the look on your face when you came again. He fantasized about what you'd look like coming on his cock for so long and he was finally going to witness it.
"Right there," you whined, then tipped your head back with a loud moan. He ground his hips against your clit, a grunt rumbling from the back of his throat when your soft cunt clenched down around him.
His dark eyes fixed on yours, feeling his own orgasm creeping up when you screamed out his name and fell apart. He locked his jaw, fighting it, determined to wait until your release swept through you. Your nails dug into his skin, legs pulling tight around his waist. You cried out until your voice cracked and his cock swelled inside you at the sound.
Your release coated his hips and the thick patch of hair that continued to rub against your clit. He looked down, jaw going slack at the wetness that smeared across you both, then moaned your name when your cunt squeezed him again. His head snapped up in surprise to find another orgasm rolling through you.
"Oh, shit," he chuckled, mesmerized. You writhed weakly underneath him, chest heaving with your eyes closed and mouth hung open in a silent moan, too tired and spent to find your voice. You were so soft and warm and fucking soaked, he couldn't hold back any longer.
He scooped you off the bed and into his lap, pressing you against his chest, burying his face in your neck and groaning your name into your skin. His body stilled, breathing a deep sigh of relief when his cock throbbed, spilling thick ropes of his seed deep within your walls.
Dave held you close, each of you panting desperately for air. A shiver ran down his spine and another burst of spend flooded your used cunt. He felt dizzy and out of control, the force of his orgasm taking him by surprise. But he should have known it would have been that good with you.
Your lips brushed lazily against his collarbone, a whisper of his name in-between kisses and he closed his eyes. A wave of peace washed over him: he had everything he could ever want. At last, he could rest.
"We should clean up," he murmured into your hair. You made a whine of protest and he smiled. "You made a mess, sweetheart. We'll be quick, I promise."
If you were embarrassed, you didn't show it. You tilted your chin up, head resting against his shoulder and tired eyes finding his.
"My biggest regret in life was not going with you that night."
Dave wrapped his arms around you tighter, emotion swelling in his chest. I love you, I never stopped loving you.
"I should've fought harder for you. Should've made you mine that night we kissed."
You gave him a sad smile and traced his bottom lip with your fingertip. "Guess we made up for it today, huh?"
"Oh, I plan on making it up to you for a long time," he said, hissing when he flexed his hips and slid out of your warm clutch.
He led you to the shower, let you lean against the wall while he gently cleaned you up. He shampooed your hair with the little bottle that was left next to the sink, thick fingers carefully scrubbing your scalp. You moaned and tipped your head back against his chest, closing your eyes while the warm water cascaded down over both your shoulders.
When his hand fell to clean between your legs, he pressed one finger inside. You tensed and made a little sound, wiggling in his arms as he shushed you. He kissed the shell of your ear and whispered, keep all that in there for me, okay?
"I'm on birth control," you said, wincing when he withdrew his finger.
"So?" was all he said. Then you understood. He wanted to claim you, the same way you wanted to mark him. It made your face flood with warmth.
That night, Dave took care of you. He got you fed and he made sure you weren't in any pain or discomfort. He fluffed your pillows, dried your hair with a towel, and rubbed your sore hips after he slipped into bed beside you.
When you drifted off to sleep, with Dave's strong, protective arm draped over your middle, you dreamt of a boy with dark brown eyes who promised to take you away from all your pain, to save you and care for you until your last breath.
Sunlight beamed through a crack in the shades, landing right over your eyes and stirring you out of the deepest sleep you ever had. It was no wonder, because when you opened your eyes and took in your surroundings, you found yourself still tangled up with Dave. His arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck. Your leg wedged between his own. The thought of having to move whatsoever was cruel, but you had to use the bathroom. Somehow, you slowly managed to extract yourself from Dave's hold with not so much as a change in his breathing pattern.
After you used the bathroom, you hurried back to bed, snatching your phone from the table along the way. You slotted yourself beside him and instinctually, his arms reached over to envelope you once again. It was pure bliss.
You tapped your phone to check the time and your face fell.
38 missed calls. Countless text messages from family members.
Your heart lurched into your throat and with shaky hands, you opened the notifications. There were several voicemails but you chose to call your mother in law first, as she was the one who was responsible for half of the calls.
"Oh Jesus Christ, finally!" you heard her sob when she picked up the phone. You swallowed and sat up in bed, Dave's arms dropping to your waist.
"H-hey, what's going on? Is everything-"
"Didn't you hear my voicemails?" she shrieked. You winced and heard some other voices in the background telling her to calm down.
"No, I just woke up and saw - just tell me what's going on," you said, voice shaking. Dave began to stir next to you.
"He's dead!" she cried, then began to wail nonsense while your vision narrowed and your ears began to ring.
"Hey, honey, it's Ricky," your father in law's voice said from the other end.
"Who's d-dead? W-what is she talking about?"
Dave propped himself up on his elbow, blinking away the sleep from his eyes so he could watch you.
"Mikey's dead, honey. I'm - I'm so sorry," you heard him sniffle and continue to tell you something about a car accident but you couldn't retain any of the details. Dave sat up in bed next to you and pressed a kiss against your shoulder, but you continued to stare blankly at the wall.
"Where are you? Are you home?" he finally asked, shaking you out of your stupor.
"Tell them where you are," Dave's voice whispered so only you could hear. You looked over at him now, panic etched across your face only to find his remained perfectly calm.
"I-I'm at the Hyatt," you stammered. Dave nodded his approval and gave your shoulder another kiss.
"The - what? Why?"
"Tell them you had too much to drink with your friends and you didn't feel safe driving."
You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a deep breath.
"I was out with friends and I had one too many at the hotel bar," you began, licking your lips nervously, "I got a room, I didn't want to drive."
"Good girl."
You listened to your father in law drone on for another five minutes about the police stopping by later and how you really should be there, and you nodded numbly, unable to say much else.
When you hung up, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins and your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you slowly turned to Dave.
He looked at you expectantly, waiting for the inevitable question. But as he stared into your eyes, he watched the fear melt into acceptance, and then calmness blended into what he was ultimately waiting for, what you deserved to feel after years of abuse - relief.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his own heart rate spiking. He saved you. He did what he had to do and saved you, but he still worried you harbored some old feelings for Mike. He braced for revulsion. A look of horror.
"I'm thinking... I want pancakes for breakfast," you said with a small smile.
Dave thought he might collapse from relief. He took your hand and brought it up to his mouth, brushing his lips over your knuckles and making your smile widen.
"Pancakes it is."
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Summary: You are Dave’s personal assistant — when you decide to resign, it sparks a heated confrontation that forces you both to confront your feelings and the moral ambiguities of your intertwined lives.
Warning: dave is a freelance assassin (if that wasn’t obvious), sexual tension, sexual thoughts, mutual pining, yearning, petnames (your daves ‘sweetheart’), unhinged / delusional reader and unhinged dave, obsession/control, emotional manipulation, jealous and possessive thoughts, allusions to smut (reader sleeps with someone else), tolerance of violence, angst, sexual touching, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, toxic dependencies? lack of healthy communication, no carol and no kids in this universe
A/N: This was written per a random post / poll I had fun with. A quote from Equalizer 2 was used from Dave’s monologue when he explains why he does what he does. And yeah… surprisingly the movie Two Week Notice inspired this one-shot, but as you’ll see… it is not rom-com vibes AT ALL or similar to the movie premise AT ALL.
P.S. David York is slept on in this fandom. We need more Dave. Justice for Dave. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
xx
This was not a normal job. You were working for a criminal.
You found out that Dave killed people pretty early on into your role as his personal assistant. You knew that he knew that you knew. But you both never discussed it.
You would think that finding out this information would have dulled the attraction you felt towards him and give you perspective.
But no… you found out something terrible about him and somehow it only deepened the complexity of your feelings for him.
Your time as his assistant had turned into delicious torture. You met him two years ago, and he was cold and distant during the job interview. All you could think of during the conversation was that his eyes were dark pools you wanted to drown in.
As Dave's personal assistant, you originally started with the usual tasks: managing his calendar, organizing meetings, and filtering countless emails. On the surface, he operated like any other high-level official in the Defense Intelligence Agency. His office was sleek and sterile, filled with classified documents and high-tech gadgets that spoke to the seriousness of his work. You often marveled at how someone could navigate the labyrinth of military and intelligence work while appearing so effortlessly charismatic.
But soon, as you delved deeper into his world, a different side of his life began to unfold—one that was far more shadowy and dangerous. It began subtly, with requests that didn’t quite fit the narrative of a government employee. “Can you pick up a package from the warehouse?” he’d say casually, flashing that smug half-smile that sent an electric charge through you. The first time you did it, you brushed it off as another one of his odd quirks. You didn’t think much of it.
But as the requests continued, you couldn't ignore the underlying tension nor the pieces of the puzzle that started to connect. You found yourself in increasingly dubious situations—retrieving items from shady locations, arranging meetings with unsavory characters, and even managing a safe-house, whose purpose you could only guess.
Then there were the moments when he caught you watching. A flicker of warning would cross his eyes, as if to say: "Don’t dig too deeply." Yet, despite the danger, your curiosity drew you further down the rabbit hole. You started noticing the little things: a flash of a weapon concealed beneath his tailored jacket, the chilling coldness in his voice when he'd speak about "loose ends."
The realization hit you slowly but undeniably. The items you were handling were not just part of some covert espionage or high-stakes military operation. They were tools of a darker trade—hiding secrets and bodies, manipulated fates, and merciless choices made in the dead of night.
Rather than shrinking from the truth, you found yourself trying to understand it, caught in a web of conflicting emotions. You felt drawn to him in a way you couldn’t comprehend.
And while rationality told you to quit.
Here you still were... secretly hiding hundreds of thousands of dollars of cash in your house from the ‘additional payments’ Dave would give you every time you completed a non-DIA related task.
xx
Dave leaned back in the chair, the flick of his pen punctuated the silence as he signed off on yet another classified document. His thoughts drifted to you.
He picked up his phone, scrolling until he found your name. The request was simple, a small errand; he was deep into something that needed tying up, and every detail mattered. He tapped your number, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he anticipated hearing your voice.
When you answered, your tone was short and clipped. “Hey, Dave. What’s up?”
“Need you to pick up something for me. There’s a package at the usual spot.”
Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the pregnant kind that wrapped around the tension in the air. He could feel your hesitation buzzing through the line.
“Uh, I can’t, actually. I’m at a bar on the other side of town.”
The admission made aggression spiral through him. He took a deep breath, fighting against his instinct to lash out. “You’re telling me you can’t handle a simple task right now?”
“Not really,” you replied, your voice clipped with just the right amount of frustration. “Honestly, I’ve been drinking. I’m with friends and—”
He interrupted, his tone flat and commanding. “You’re not in a position to decline, sweetheart. I need this done.”
As you began speaking again, he abruptly caught the sound of other voices in the background, laughter and chatter that felt foreign, intrusive in his world. He heard you tell your friends you had to go. It irritated him more than he liked to admit, wondering what you were doing… and who you were with.
He glanced at the corner of the room, where a man was tied up, his mouth covered in tape—a loose end that needed to be dealt with before the sun rose and the world outside woke up. But then, he couldn’t shake the craving to know what you were wearing, how many layers separated your skin from his fingertips.
Part of his mind pictured you in a skirt, the hem seductively short, your legs exposed. He loved seeing you in skirts. His thoughts darted towards that black top you sometimes wore that accentuated your curves perfectly, your cleavage bordering on scandalous. Heat built within him at the idea of you showing off just for the attention of other men tonight. It made him feel fucking insane.
“Are you really going to let a little fun derail your responsibilities?” he asked, voice laced with impatience and something far more primal.
“Dave, come on. I’m off the clock,” you said, a slight edge in your tone, begging him to understand.
“Get to the spot,” he replied, voice low and dangerously calm.
He could practically feel your tension through the phone, wrestling with his words. The grasp he had over you felt intoxicating, as if somehow, despite everything, you were tethered to him in ways neither of you fully understood.
The clock was ticking, and though he had a job to finish, a part of him was just momentarily lost in the desire to dominate not just the situation, but you. You were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, and one he wasn’t willing to let go. “We’ll discuss your evening later. Focus on the task at hand. Get to the spot. Now.”
As he ended the call, he stared at the man slumped in the chair before him, and realized he needed to get this part of the job done. Right now.
xx
You twirled your pen absently in your fingers at your desk at the DIA office, casting glances at the clock as the minutes dragged by. It had been less than 24 hours since your last conversation with Dave, and his demand still burned in your mind, irritating you more than you'd like to admit. You had given up a fun night with friends to cater to his whims.
Yet again.
He hadn’t acknowledged it in the slightest. Instead, it felt like he had just added another layer to his already towering expectations. You thought back to your evening last night.
After you completed your ‘errand’ last night, you felt an impulse to call Brian, a friend who was always down for some casual fun. The agreement had been clear from the start: no strings attached. Yet, as you laid there in bed with him, your body on autopilot, your mind betrayed you. No matter how hard you tried to focus on him, the phantom of Dave lingered.
Every time Brian’s hands grazed your skin, heat coursed through you, but it wasn’t his touch you craved; it was Dave's, the way his voice threaded authority through the air. You could almost imagine him there, the vein in his forehead tensing the way it did when he grew impatient. The intensity in his eyes surfaced in your mind—a dark, predatory gaze that often made your heart race for reasons you couldn’t comprehend.
Every time your body responded to Brian, you couldn’t help but picture how it would feel to have Dave—his hands expertly mapping out your body, his breath hot against your collarbone.
Would he explore your mouth while being inside of you?
No, probably not. That didn’t seem like Dave.
Brian murmured something, leaning in closer, his fingers tracing a languid path across your skin. You feigned a smile, nodding but barely registering his presence. In that moment, you started to detach. The rhythm of your body began to clash with the static in your mind, each pulse a reminder of the experience you craved but couldn’t have with Brian. You tried to push the thoughts away, but the shadows of Dave loomed larger, the tantalizing grip of him impossible to shake off.
Eventually, you found yourself unable to continue. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, forcing yourself to sit up. “I just... need a moment.” You fumbled an excuse, claiming exhaustion, hoping he would understand. His disappointment hung in the air, but you couldn’t bear the thought of continuing to fuck him when every part of you screamed for someone else.
When the call finally came, your heart raced—not out of anticipation, but anger. “Can you come to my office?” his voice crackled through the speaker, cool and devoid of emotion. It commanded attention, though today you were determined to play it cool.
“Sure,” you sighed, feigning nonchalance. Inside, you were ready to let loose the annoyance that had been building up. He had pushed your buttons, and you were done playing the good assistant.
As you walked into his office, you noticed the way the sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting linear shadows that danced across the polished desk. The man himself occupied his usual position, leaning back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly as they met yours.
“Close the door,” he instructed, a slight edge creeping into his voice. You took a moment longer than necessary, shutting it defiantly, and settled into the chair across from him.
“Got something for me?” you started, your tone laced with sarcasm. Dave raised an eyebrow, amused and annoyed at your blatant rudeness.
“Actually, I have some tasks I need you to address,” he replied, keeping his voice calm, though you could hear the undercurrent of authority beneath his words. “I trust you can manage that?”
“You know, it’s not really fair asking me to put in extra hours today after what you pulled the last night,” you shot back. “I’m not your puppet, and I make plans just like everyone else. Maybe you should—”
“Maybe I should what? Respect your personal time just because you feel entitled to it?” he interjected, leaning forward slightly, his eyes hardening. “How cute.”
His confidence irritated you even more.
“Cute? Is that what you think this is?” You crossed your arms defiantly, unwilling to back down. “I’m not here to be objectified, Dave. I have my own life.”
He studied you carefully, and the silence felt heavy, both of you caught in a staring contest where neither was willing to blink. He took a deep breath, amusement flickering in his eyes, and said, “You really should remember who you’re talking to. You’re in my world, and it comes with responsibilities.”
“Responsibilities? I’m not a fucking soldier, I’m your assistant for your role in the DIA. Do you not fucking remember that?” Your heart raced, pumping with a blend of defiance and underlying thrill. Sometimes, entering this battleground with him electrified you, even if it was exhausting.
And then you said something you never thought you would say.
“Consider this my two weeks’ notice.”
Dave leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from amusement to annoyance at your bold declaration. His initial reaction was to laugh it off, to treat your words like a fleeting whim from a child throwing a tantrum. But the gravity of your statement weighed heavily in the air, and as he studied your defiant stare, he felt something shift within him.
“What did you just say?” His tone was level, an attempt to keep the tension manageable, but he felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. You were threatening to walk away, step out of his chaotic orbit. The idea twisted like a knife. The thought of you leaving had never crossed his mind. The very idea of losing you sent a jolt through him, something visceral that he couldn’t quite define. You were supposed to be his—bound by more than just contractual obligations. You were his intrigue, his challenge, the flame that kept him from succumbing entirely to the darkness around him.
“I didn’t sign up for your version of responsibilities, Dave,” you shot back, forcing your voice to retain its steadiness. “I’m… scared,”
His heart pounded painfully in his chest at the revelation that perhaps he had been blind to what was at stake: you.
His lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his steely gaze locking onto yours. It was a look that pulled at you, demanding answers while also hinting at a vulnerability you’d never expected to see from him. “Scared?” he repeated, brow furrowing slightly. “What exactly are you scared of?”
There was a moment of silence, a wordless battle as you processed the enormity of what you were about to say. The raw truth of it clawed at your insides, your fears ripping through the bravado. “What we’re doing… what you’re doing…” You took a deep breath, fighting against the tightening in your throat as you forged ahead. “It’s dangerous, Dave… and I’m terrified of what it means,”
Dave’s lips parted in disbelief, but before he could respond, you pressed on, desperate to let your words spill forth. “I can’t keep pretending I’m comfortable being a part of this—I’ve seen things I can’t explain, and I’m afraid of losing myself. Of losing you.” The last part slipped out before you could catch it, a confession you hadn’t planned to voice.
Dave's expression tightened as your admission hung between you both.
“Why do you do… what you do?” you asked, your voice softer now.
Dave's eyes darkened at your question, and for a moment, the cold veneer he maintained slipped, revealing a glimpse of the turbulence within him.
“Why am I doing this?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, a stark contrast to the tension coursing between you.
Your heart raced as he mulled over his words, searching for the right way to explain the unexplainable.
"I didn’t choose this; I was trained to kill, to fight for a country that didn't give a damn about me once they got what the needed from me.”
His demeanor shifted, frustration creeping in as he leaned back again, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Then one day, I got a call saying they were done with me. ‘Thank you for your service. Here’s a plaque.’ It’s like they were wiping their hands clean of the monster they created while patting themselves on the back. You need a job? Good luck, buddy. Need medical insurance? There’s the VA. It’s like… one moment, I was an asset. The next, I was a fucking afterthought.”
The fervor in his voice surged like a tide as if he were unleashing years of pent-up anguish. “That’s when it clicked for me,” His gaze bore into yours.
Your breath hitched as you took in his response. The man you knew had existed in shades of gray, but now he was embracing the darkness, owning it, and it scared you.
It also thrilled you.
“That I had to do... what I have to do,” he concluded, the undertone of desperation echoing in his voice. And as per usual, Dave was talking to you in “code” because he had to protect you.
You felt a heavy confusion settle over you. “But what happens when you become what you once fought against?” The question slipped out, raw and trembling. “What’s left?”
A flicker of something dangerous crossed his gaze, and for just a second, you thought you saw a man grappling with his own morality. “You either embrace it or watch it devour you whole. It’s the cost of loyalty, of following commands. It’s survival.”
“But at what price, Dave?” you whispered, heart hammering in your chest. “What’s left of you when the bullets stop flying, and all that’s left is a name on a piece of paper?”
He held your gaze, and the silence between you stretched taut. The air crackled with a tension that felt almost palpable. “I don’t have an answer for you,” he admitted finally.
You stood up, your heart pounding in your chest. “I mean it, Dave. I can’t be a part of this anymore. This is my two weeks’ notice,” you said, taking steps toward the door, determined to put distance between yourself and the chaos that had consumed your life.
He remained silent, as you reached for the door handle, ready to step into a world that didn’t revolve around him. But something shifted behind you, a storm brewing in his silence.
“Wait,” he commanded softly, the tone laced with an urgency.
You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. “I’m not changing my mind, Dave.”
In one fluid motion, he stood up from his desk, and before you could register what was happening, he shoved the door closed with a force that reverberated through the air. A shiver ran down your spine as the click of the lock echoed ominously in the confined space.
“Dave—” you began, your heart now racing for an entirely different reason. The air felt electric, charged with something primal that coiled between you like a tightly wound spring.
“Just… wait,” he said, his voice low. He stepped closer, invading your personal space, and while your instincts screamed to flee, his presence held you captive. The darkness in his eyes deepened, and for a moment, his vulnerability collided with a raw intensity that left you breathless.
“Don’t leave,” he continued, his tone now more heated, echoing the urgency of his emotions. “Not like this.” He paused, his jaw tightening as he searched your face for understanding.
“You’ll still have me for two weeks.” you managed, your voice trembling slightly.
“That’s not enough,” he replied. “Do you think I want to lose you?” he remarked, his voice dropping an octave, almost a whisper as he held your gaze. For a fleeting moment, sadness flickered in his eyes. “You’re… you’re different. I won’t find someone like you. Not ever,” he added, grounding himself in the realization of just how much you meant to him.
“What do you want from me?” you challenged.
“Just you,” he confessed. His expression hardened for a moment, and then something shifted. “Just you,” he repeated, and it was almost as if he had murmured a secret.
Admitting he wanted you felt like pulling the pin from a live grenade. It sent a shockwave through him—exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Dave had tried to push his thoughts down about you over the last two years, but it was impossible to overlook the way your laughter could slice through the tension of a long day or how the gentle curve of your smile could disarm him when he was trapped in his own thoughts.
He was a man used to exerting control, but with you, all his usual defenses crumbled.
All rational thoughts left Dave’s mind, and he brought his hand under your skirt and stroked you over your panties with two fingers. You gasped in surprise, and his gaze remained locked onto yours, searching for any sign of reluctance or hesitation. Instead, what he found was a ‘please continue’ look on your face and it fueled a fire within him.
So, he slid your panties to the side, and stroked you gently with his fingers, familiarizing himself with what was between your thighs. His fingertips sampled your wetness, and he spread it around you, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he continued to explore you without entering his fingers.
The office, filled with the sterile smell of paper and leather, became charged with an intoxicating tension. Each brush of his fingers was electrifying, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter with every delicate stroke. You leaned back against the door, surrendering to the moment, the chaos of your thoughts fading as desire took center stage.
“David…” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper as your body responded instinctively to his touch.
Your use of his full name went straight to his cock.
He noticed the way your breath hitched, the little whimper that escaped your lips when he traced circles around your most sensitive spot.
“Tell me you want this,” he urged, his voice filled with hunger, less commanding now, more pleading, as though he was afraid this was all just a beautiful dream that would shatter upon waking.
“I – I want this, David,” you gasped, your heart racing as you felt his fingers push a little deeper, pressing against you in a way that left you craving more. In this moment, you felt free yet utterly bound to him.
“Good,” he replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk of satisfaction as he decided to take his time, wanting to savor every second. He slipped his fingers inside you, hearing how wet you were, watching your face contort in extreme pleasure, every detail etched into his mind like a photograph.
After all the time he had spent obsessing over you, he wanted nothing more than to carry you to the couch in his office and make you scream his name. But this… this was enough. For now.
“So pretty,” he whispered softly, eyes locked onto yours like a hunter who had cornered his prey but was still hesitant to strike. He watched you, every flicker of your expressions fueling his desire. His cock was aching, but he didn’t care.
You were breathtaking like this. Mouth wide open, eyebrows pinched together. You were so fucking perfect. So, fucking beautiful.
As the tension built, reality flickered at the edges of your consciousness, reminding you of the potential consequences—yet the thought only served to heighten your arousal. You couldn’t turn back now; it was too late. You cried out as an intense wave of pleasure washed over you, your body responding to his touch embarrassingly quickly.
Every gasp, and every moan that slipped from your lips only fueled his determination. His free hand found your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes met his once more, his fingers finding that spot that drove you wild. “You’re mine,” he murmured.
The intensity of his gaze made your heart race. "I’m yours," you breathed, a soft confession slipping from your lips as if it were a mantra meant just for him. You clutched at the fabric of his shirt, your nails digging in, the heat of your skin only magnified by the chill of the office.
Encouraged, he quickened his pace, his fingers working skillfully inside your perfect cunt and rubbing your clit in circles with his thumb. The pressure built within you, tightening with each deliberate stroke, and just as you thought you were on the precipice of release, he withdrew, leaving you craving. The loss felt sharp, an ache that pushed you toward the edge of agony.
“Please…” you breathed, the word a plea. The look on Dave’s face shifted—he was caught in the wild dance of control and surrender, knowing he held the key to your pleasure just as much as you held the key to his restraint.
Just as you began to spiral, he pulled his fingers away entirely, and the loss sent a wave of desperation crashing over you. “Not this time,” he said, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his lips as you let out a frustrated whimper.
“Why?” you protested, the impatience clear in your tone. “You’re not playing fair,”
His expression shifted to amusement mixed with something darker. “Life isn’t fair, sweetheart. You know that better than anyone.” His tone was teasing, his fingers still glistening with your wetness, a wicked smile tugging at his lips.
“Life isn’t fair?” you repeated incredulously, exasperation welling up.
He shrugged, leaning back slightly, the way he always did when he felt he had the upper hand.
“Two weeks, Dave,” you reminded him, wanting to ground yourself in the reality of your earlier declaration. “That’s all you get.”
But he wasn’t listening, or perhaps he was clinging to the idea of those two weeks as if they were a lifeline, as if they could anchor you both in a storm of chaotic emotions. His gaze darkened, he leaned forward, his eyes locked onto yours, and you braced yourself. Was he going to kiss you?
He reached out and cupped your face in his hand. The warmth of his palm ignited your skin as you felt his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw—a touch that felt both tender and possessive. Time seemed to halt, everything around you fading into insignificance.
And then, just as you leaned in, your breath hitching and your lips parting in expectation, he pulled back, surprise flickering in your chest at his sudden withdrawal. The loss of contact was like a jolt of cold water, leaving you utterly confused.
“Then let’s make the most of it, sweetheart.”
xx
I have no idea what happens next with these two. If there is even a “next” for them, but it was fun writing something not in the realm of my usual stuff. Also, there’s been such good Dave content recently, thank you so much Dave girlies <3. Please keep feeding me.
NPT for Dave girlies and folks who interacted with the poll or previous Dave content:
