even doves have pride

Michelle. 40s. PPCU reader mentally married to Dave York. Weird painting lover. Human Rights enthusiast.

[aurorawritestoescape]

my favorite story of yours is 'Watching You'. I cannot get enough of that one. It is so fulfilling on so many levels, LOL!!

Thank you so much, friend and I’d love to fulfill you a little more so I wrote this drabble😘🫶 hope you’ll like it!

Dave York x f!reader || drabble for Watching You

18+ mdni, smut, infidelity || 660 words

*****

You hear a tap on the window yet don’t open the doors right away. You watched him walk towards the car but you like to make him wait a little.

As soon as the locks click open he gets in the back and you follow him in.

When you plop next to him, the waistband of his sweatpants already rests under his balls and his cock is standing hard, Dave’s big hand stroking it. He’s huffing with impatience and you smile.

“Your seat’s ready, kitten. Hop on.” His voice is a little raspy after a long day and you want to give him respite but also… where’s the fun in that?

So you get on his lap pulling your skirt up to your waist, showing off your lacy panties, but take your sweet time hovering over his weeping cock. Then you sit on his lap, but with his length pressed to your clothed mound.

“Isn’t Carol home?” You ask tracing a vein on his shaft with your finger.

“You know she is.”

“Isn’t it too risky?”

He glares at you from under his brows and replies, his gruff voice filling the car.

“It is, kitten. So why the fuck did you eat a popsicle half an hour ago?”

You raise your eyebrows feigning a surprise.

“Popsicle? Well…it was hot and I was hungry.”

His hands slide up your thighs and then meet at your pussy, one quickly pulling your panties to the side, before the other caresses your folds.

“It was hot, kitten. So hot that I nearly came in my pants watching you from the window. Was it a little show for me, baby?”

You can’t fool him.

“Maybe”, you purr while his fingers are swirling your clit making you forget all about your games.

“Now be a good girl and ride my hard cock. I don’t have much time. Said I was going jogging.”

You whine as his fingers leave your bud and he grabs your hips waiting for you to pierce yourself with his cock.

“Jogging? Guess I need to make you sweat then, right? Not to blow your cover.”

With a menacing smile you lift your hips up and keep your pussy over his cock while the tip is nudging your entrance. You don’t sit on it and Dave curses.

“Fuck, naughty kitten,” he growls but you know he likes it.

He braces one hand on the car seat, as the other returns to your clit, and raises his hips, thrusting his length up into you. You both moan not caring that you can be heard, can be seen, driven by lust and overwhelming affection for each other.

He thrusts up again and again while you’re keeping yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders. He’s slowly parting your folds, sliding his cock in and then pulling it out almost to the tip.

Dave’s watching your pussy greedily devour every inch of him and with a moan starts hammering it up into you.

His big and perfect cock, his tongue peeking out of his mouth, his dark eyes eating every part of you up like a delicious dessert- everything brings you closer to the climax.

“C’mon, kitten. Come on it, baby”, he growls power fucking you as his fingers are rubbing your clit.

You cry out his name and explode on his cock, finally falling on his lap and rolling your hips against him prolonging your orgasm.

He follows you soon, his hot cum filling you up as he spurts it deep inside your pussy.

Still jerking with aftershocks you kiss his cheeks, nose, forehead and then lips. You make out for some time, enjoying each other like that, spent and satisfied as he’s holding you tight, his cock resting inside you.

You know he needs to go and with a sigh you part from him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dave.”

He tucks his softening cock back, kisses you and says before leaving,

“No more popsicles, kitten. I’ll be watching you.”

*****

Thank you for reading♥️

Tag list: @ghoulettesinspace @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @missannfairy @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @survivingandenduring

[ppascalrain]

Kitten from Dave's mouth is just so asdfhjlsfhlk🥵 love this!

[aurorawritestoescape]

WATCHING YOU

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader

Summary/prompt: reader stalks Dave and he’s super turned on by it.

Tw: 18+, mdni, smut, voyeurism, so much of it, m/f masturbation, infidelity, unsafe piv(wrap it up obv), creampie, f/oral, light pussy slapping, fingering, swearing.

Word count: 4,2k

A/n: Happy holidays, @bonezone44 !🎄❤️ It’s an honor to write for you and I hope you’ll like my present! Love you, friend! Merry Christmas!🫂💖

Drabble || MASTERLIST

It’s another day. You’re in your work car, fast food trash lying on the seat next to you. You’re waiting for him, your current target, David York.

You’ve been surveilling him for some time now. Why? You don’t know. For your boss you’re just a pair of eyes so you follow, watch, take notes and monitor who he meets and who visits him and sometimes you take pictures of him, the hottest man you’ve ever seen.

David York, Dave as you call him... or not exactly. In your head you’ve been calling him Daddy all this time. Daddy was a family man. A loving, driving to and picking up from school, helping with homework, building tree houses, perfect dad. He was attentive to his wife, kissing her goodbye in the morning, making her breakfast in bed from time to time, fucking her missionary style once a week in their bed. See? You’ve been a great pair of eyes! You would gather everything you could and send it to your boss. All the information, every minor thing.

Except.. you might have omitted some details. Like sometimes when he sees his wife to her car in the morning his gaze slides along the street and pauses for a moment at whatever car you’re in that day. He kisses her glancing in your direction.

It might be a coincidence, you think. You just got too close, grew a little infatuated with your target and his warm eyes, kind smile and hot body. Maybe subconsciously you want him to see you. Clearly that would ruin the whole mission so you continue watching him and taking notes.

There is another reason you feel your heart and pussy flutter when you set your eyes on him. Every Tuesday and Thursday when his wife takes their daughters to their dance class he sits down in an armchair in the living room, a laptop in front of him on the coffee table and gets himself off. Watching in your car outside his house you have a great view of the whole process. He discards his belt, unzips his usual slacks and takes out his perfect cock. It’s big and thick, a little curved to the side, veiny but not too much. Perfect!

The first time it happened you reached for your binoculars so fast you spilled your coffee all over the car mat and then nearly choked on your spit at the sight of his length. He began stroking it slowly at first watching whatever was happening on the screen of his laptop while your heart was pounding in your chest and your pussy tingled making you squirm in your seat. With his hand sliding up and down his cock at a growing pace, he closed his eyes, turned his head towards the window, towards you, and bit his lower lip. You couldn’t help but whimper witnessing the sign of pleasure on his handsome face through the lenses. That moment you wished for nothing more than to be between his strong thighs, give him that ecstasy with your own hot mouth.

It happens regularly now. He chokes and milks his cock every Tuesday and Thursday and you watch him and ruin your panties. You don’t dare to do anything else right then and there but as soon as you come home on those days you plop on your bed, shove your hand into your panties and make yourself come sliding your fingers in and out of your tortured pussy. You don’t need your toys, just the image of his hand jerking his cock is enough to make every nerve in your body scream with ecstasy. You know every vein of his member, know the way he loves to start pleasuring himself and know his expression when he comes. It’s in your mind constantly.

You’re in your car waiting for Daddy to return with his daughters after picking them up from school. He’s late. He’s never late. You know his habits, his punctuality so you get nervous. Is he ok? Are the girls?

You’re deep in your thoughts staring at the road waiting for his car to show up and bring your nerves some relief.

TAP TAP

You jump in your seat, as your hand darts to your hip but you stop yourself remembering you’re in a suburban area with lots of civilians around and not armed.

When you turn your head your heart plummets to your stomach and you freeze, eyes wide. Him, Dave, Daddy is standing outside, with a hand on his hip apparently waiting for you to roll down the window. He’s wearing a light blue shirt with no tie and dark blue slacks with his ever present prominent bulge.

You try to compose yourself ready to lie through your teeth, and after taking a deep calming breath, you push the button opening a crack in the window.

He bends over and you see his face, his plush lips, a pronounced nose and warm eyes.

You must be worried, scared, shocked but your contradictory heart is fluttering at the realization that he finally sees you.

“Hello!” he says with a polite smile as his gaze quickly scans the inside of your car. You feel embarrassed scolding yourself for not cleaning up earlier and then another fear sneaks into your mind- have I left anything in the open showing that I’m surveilling him?

“Can we talk?” you hear his deep, velvet-like voice and stare up at him trying to control your breathing and your rushing thoughts.

“I’m sorry I’ve been waiting for my friend. I’ll leave. I don’t think she’s comin….”

He interrupts you, raising his hand in the air.

“Please,..” And then he calls you by your name.

Fuck!

You curse inwardly and begin thinking of your way out. You’re trying to read his expression and immediately drown in his eyes.

Fuck! I need to focus.

He knows. He’s known for some time. You’d be happy to say you’re surprised but in reality you aren’t. Your heart starts beating even faster. Is he dangerous? Of course he is. Why else would they need you to watch him?

“We need to talk,” he tells you, “can we go inside?”

You should say no, make up an excuse or just hit the gas and drive away but he’s here and the way he’s looking at you with his sad puppy eyes pushes you to stay. You can protect yourself if necessary, you think. So you make a decision.

“Yeah.. we can talk”. You open the car door, get out and follow him to his house.

He’s sitting across from you at the dinner table, staring intently at your face, his brows furrowed. He shifts his jaw as if in deep thought. The memory of him fucking his fist flashes in your mind and you quickly avert your eyes. You focus on the table in front of you, crayons and children’s drawings scattered across the surface. You clear your throat and return your gaze to him.

“So.. how long have you known?” you ask, making your voice sound more confident that you really feel.

“How long have you been stalking me?”

“Oh great! I’m that bad,” you chuckle nervously.

“Or I’m just that good,” he retorts with a smile.

“I’m sure you’re,” you breathe out and he raises his brow hearing an almost whimper in your tone. You feel your cheeks burning and you scold yourself mentally for showing your emotions. You want to fill the awkward silence and blurt out, “I'm definitely going to be fired now.”

It’s his turn to surprise you when he leans forward getting closer to you placing his forearm on the table and says looking right into your eyes.

“You don’t have to report this conversation. It can be our secret.”

You laugh bitterly expecting it to be a joke. Yet when you glance back at him you find his expression serious and intense. Why is he looking at you like this, why are you in his house? Your pulse quickens as his gaze slides down from your eyes to your lips and then your cleavage peeking out of your black shirt’s neckline.

“You can tell your boss that you failed or you can keep quiet and continue your mission,” he says, his voice calm and alluring.

“My mission…You mean - secretly surveilling you while you know all about it?” you ask as sarcasm coats your words.

“You’ve been doing it all this time so… you may as well continue,” he smirks. You feel offended by his remark and your instinct makes you to bite back with a question,

“Do you think I like watching you jerk your cock twice a week?”

The words fly out of your mouth before you can stop them and his expression changes.

“ I know you do,” a lopsided smile appears on his face as if he’s been waiting for these words all along. Your breath catches when suddenly he scoots closer to you moving his chair and you feel his knees touch yours. You look down at his thighs and his hand flies and brushes a hair strand away from your face. You grab his wrist and hold it as adrenaline is coursing through your veins. The faint smell of his cologne, oaky and deep, his face, his body, so close overwhelm you, and you feel yourself gush.

Your body wants him. You want him.

Still holding his wrist you bring his hand to your face and press your cheek to his warm palm. Your heart is pounding in your ears and you’re about to apologize for your inappropriate behavior and storm off when he cups your cheek and mumbles, “Oh, baby..”

You’re looking at each other for a few moments which feel like an eternity before he shifts his hand a little, swipes your lower lip with his thumb and murmurs, “Nosy kitten.”

You stop breathing completely, afraid to ruin the moment or make a wrong move. He pushes his thumb between your waiting lips and you readily open them for him. You take it in your mouth and begin sucking on it. It’s thick and heavy on your tongue. You moan and shut your eyes imagining something thicker and longer of his in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the pad of his finger and hear his chair creak.

When you open your eyes Dave’s moved even closer to you, so close that your knees are between his thighs and you tingle all over seeing his broad shoulders, strong arms, all of him right in front of you.

“Mmm, my kitten is naughty,” he coos at you leaning to your face until he places his nose into the crook of your neck and takes a deep breath.

“You smell as good as you look, baby,” he whispers and you feel him kissing your delicate skin there while you’re still sucking on his digit.

Then his hand grabs your thigh and even through the jeans you sense how big and warm it is. He slides it up and you stop sucking focused on the hand itching closer to the place where you need him desperately. His lips leave your neck, he pulls his thumb out of your mouth and looks you in the eye again, his gaze soft yet intent.

“Can I…?” He asks and your breath hitches for a moment. You nod.

“Let me hear it, kitten. You have a very pretty voice,” he says, squeezing your thigh.

His touch gives you some courage and you reply with a tint of plea in your voice, “You can do whatever you want to me.”

He smiles and asks you softly,

“Could you stand up for me?”

You get up and he takes your hands and tugs you closer to him. You're between his legs now looking down at him. Even sitting down he feels bigger and stronger, more dominant than you. His hand moves to your belly and you bite your lower lip with anticipation. He slowly unbuttons and unzips your jeans and glances up at you. With his eyes not leaving yours he hooks his fingers under your waistband and slowly pulls your jeans and panties down. You whimper feeling cold air on your wet pussy. He bends down, sliding the clothes off your body and helping you to take them off completely while you’re grasping his strong shoulders for stability.

He sits up again and takes you all in, naked from the waist down, still wearing your shirt.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as his gaze stops at your pussy and you gasp when he leans down and plants an open mouth kiss on your mound.

Dave caresses it with his lips and bends down a little more running his tongue along your wet slit. He pushes it in between your folds and swirls it around your clit. Your hand darts to his head to grip a fist of his hair and you part your feet to make room for his tongue between your legs.

He parts from your pussy, a string of his spit and your slick still connecting you two, and you whine with desperation.

“Fuck, baby, your taste amazing,” his hand darts to your folds, massaging them and then giving your clit a rub. With his middle finger he takes a scoop of your juices gliding it from your entrance to your clit. He brings it to his mouth and licks it clean, not tearing his eyes off your parted lips and hazy gaze.

“Wanna show you something,” he says getting up and you furrow your brows with confusion and a pinch of fear. He might be dangerous. Having noticed your hesitancy Dave takes your hand in his and squeezes it a little. If he wanted to harm you he’d have done it already, you think.

When your mind clears a bit it dawns on you and your ask with excitement, “is it those movies you watch twice a week?” He nods with a smile, gets up, takes your hand and leads you to the living room.

“I thought they were different every time,” you mumble as you see the familiar armchair and the coffee table with the laptop.

“I have a few favorites, kitten,” he tells you with a smirk taking his usual seat. He spreads his thighs and you glance at the tent in his slacks. Then you turn your head right and look out of the window. That’s where you’d be, watching and squirming in your car seat. You shift on your feet feeling a new surge of arousal between your legs. At this point you must be dripping on his carpet. Dave pats his thigh with his hand and half asks half commands,

“Take a seat.”

You hesitate for a second, glancing out of the window at his car drive, your mind suddenly flooded with images of his wife driving up the road. He takes you out of your thoughts,

“They won’t be here for some time. Don’t worry. Take your shirt off,” he adds and you do as you’re told undoing a few top buttons and then impatiently taking it off over your head.

His dark eyes slide from your face and down to your breasts, your belly and then to your pussy glistening with your slick and his spit. He growls at the sight and adjusts himself palming his growing bulge,

“Hop on, kitten. I know you’ve been itching to see what’s in here,” he taunts you pointing at the laptop.

You can’t wait any longer as well, so you turn your back to him and sit down on his clothed lap. His cock is stiff and big under the back of your thigh and you feel it twitch. Then he flexes his thigh muscles and your pussy cries at the pressure. You hold back a moan and try to focus on the black screen in front of you.

“Lean back,” his hands on your waist pull you to his chest and you rest your back on him as his hands are holding you close. You’re completely exposed and vulnerable, pussy and breasts completely on display for him and you love the feeling of being so naked while he’s fully clothed.

His breath is warm on your neck and then his fingers push on your cheek turning your face to him. His parted lips, hungry eyes are right in front of you, your chest is heaving and the heart is pounding.

He pulls you in for a kiss, gentle and soft at first but gradually desire overtakes your both and you seem to want to devour each other, your tongues tangling as you’re licking into each other’s mouths with impatience.

You melt into his body so strong and broad around you getting drunk on the kiss when his free hand cups your pussy and he begins massaging your folds and clit with his thick fingers, your moans muffled by his mouth.

He drinks your sweet sounds and when he parts from your lips and you both look down at the place where he’s making you a complete mess with his hand.

“Oh, fuck, kitten… look how wet you’re.”

His clothed thigh is glistening with your slick but none of you care, captivated by the sight of his skilful fingers sliding between your folds and rubbing your bud just perfectly.

Your climax is so close you legs are already shaking and you plead, voice quiet and desperate, “Fuck me, daddy.”

He chuckles but his tone lacks humor, “you’ve seen my cock, kitten.. don’t wanna hurt you. Need to get you ready first.”

You whine having dreamed of him inside you for so long, but he slaps your pussy gently and you gasp almost coming from the soft stroke.

“No whining on daddy’s lap,” you hear and your breath hitches when he calls himself that.

His two fingers move down from your clit to your entrance and he easily pushes them in. He starts pumping them in and out of your crying hole, curving them and massaging your g-spot. He adds a third and it’s a stretch but you take it well spreading your legs wider.

His stiff member is pulsing under your thigh and you feel your pussy contracting when you imagine his cock inside of you right now.

“Gonna come..,” you mumble and immediately start shaking in his arms as your walls squeeze his digits.

“Oh yeah.., good girl!” he praises as his fingers are thrusting into you fast and rough, the heel of his palm hitting your clit. Your orgasm flashes white behind your eyelids and you soak Dave’s slacks squirting all over his thighs and knees.

“Yeah… messy kitten,” he says almost triumphantly, panting in your ear, “Should daddy make you lick it all off?”

You whimper, completely spent and his hand slows down.

When your climax subsides and all your muscles relax you’re resting against his broad chest, trying to catch your breath, your eyes closed.

He gives you a minute but then you feel his hand under your thigh as he unbuckles his belt, takes it off and throws it on the floor. You hear a zipper open, and he plants a kiss on your shoulder asking for your attention,

“Come on, kitten, time to sit on daddy’s cock.”

You’ve just come but his words immediately reignite the burning in your core.

You get up clumsily, your legs weak from the hard orgasm, and look back to see him pull down his slacks and boxers. His cock springs out of its confines and you widen your eyes. It looks quite intimidating up close and you worry if you can take him, even after his fingers stretched you.

Seeing your worried expression, Dave smirks as his hand holds his hard cock at the base,

“Don’t be so scared, baby. You two can finally meet in person.” He spreads precum over the head with his thumb. You stare at his girthy shaft and angry red tip, shamelessly licking your lips and he notices, “I’d love that. But daddy really wants to stick it in your pussy now .” Dave takes your hips in his big hands and pulls you down closer to his lap.

Your ass is hovering over him as you’re holding onto the sides of the armchair until his tip nudges your wet hole. You begin sinking down and it aches pleasantly. He’s groaning behind you while you’re slowly taking every inch of him. His hands on your waist are helping you hold your weight, not rushing, giving your pussy time to adjust and accommodate his girthy cock.

Finally your folds and ass are flush against him and you take a deep breath sitting fully on his member.

“Are you ok, kitten?” he asks, his chest heaving deeply against your back.

Your ‘yes’ sounds more like a mewl and you look in front of you at the laptop reflecting your naked breasts and his face, eyes focused on your ass.

He glances up and your eyes meet in the reflection of the screen. He twitches inside of your core and you both moan.

“You wanted to show me something,” you mumble beginning to move a little on his cock and he leans forward. You do too, your bodies flush against each other. You feel him stiff and powerful inside of you and whimper at every movement.

Dave finds a file in one of the folders and clicks the icon. He sits up, pulling you with him and making you lean on his broad chest. You both watch the black screen for a few moments until a video starts and you see a busy street. Dave begins moving his hips and you can’t pay the video much attention focused on his cock sliding in and out as he’s holding you in his arms, thrusting his length up into you.

“Watch it, baby. Made it myself. Bet you’ll love it,” he murmurs as your pussy is dripping around his cock on his balls.

Your fingers grasp the sides of the armchair when he speeds up his movements and starts fucking you hard and deep.

You look down to see him splitting you in half on his cock before he grabs a fist of your hair and tugs on it making you look forward.

“I said watch, kitten.”

You whimper when he gets rough and you stare at the screen feeling the second climax build.

It’s still a busy street and you’re trying to comprehend what exactly you’re watching when you recognise the place and then a person walking through the crowd with their back to the camera.

It’s you.

You, walking home from the local market a few weeks ago.

You sit up watching the screen closer but with his hands under your arms he lifts your hips and uses you like a fuck toy pleasuring himself with your pussy.

The video changes and it’s night time. You know this place. It’s a dark alley behind your favorite bar. You see yourself coming through the back door, a man following you. He pins you against the wall and you’re making out. You remember you two fucked that night, just a one night stand and all the time you’d been thinking about Dave.

“What the fuck?” you ask your shocked eyes glued to the screen.

“What is it, kitten? You've been stalking me, I’ve been stalking you. Think it’s fair,” he grumbles panting hard still manhandling you on his cock.

You’re speechless. The sounds of his hips slapping against your ass fill the room. Your climax is close and you mumble,

“You’ve been getting off on watching me. You’re sick.”

He chuckles as his hand slaps your pussy again and you moan,

“That’s cute. Calling me sick when you’re bouncing on your target’s cock.”

You can’t say he’s wrong and a smile tugs at your lips.

“Fuck off,” you retort, leaning back on him, then turn your head and kiss him. He growls against your lips, close to his own climax. When you part he holds you close and murmurs into your cheek,

“All that time… watching you, kitten…wanted to fuck you so much.” The head of his cock is hitting the spongy spot inside you as you whine and moan. He continues, “Nearly took you in your sleep once… Wanted to slip my cock inside you..my beautiful stalker.”

You come, the bliss opening your mouth in a silent scream, and choke his cock as he quickly follows shooting his cum deep inside your core. He moans your name, his cock pumping all of his seed inside you, to the last drop.

When you open your eyes, slowly coming down from your high, and look at the screen you see yourself sleeping in your bedroom. He’s watching you, lying on your back, with your nipple peeking out of your nighty. The camera shakes as he takes it in the other hand, probably adjusting himself. Then he goes to your mirror. You see his reflection, wearing a black hat and a dark hoodie. He opens his mouth and breathes out on the mirror creating a misty spot on the surface. Then Dave draws something with his gloved finger.

The camera gets close and you see three letters written there.

ICU

Thank you for reading!

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!💖

After Watching You - drabble

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @bbyanarchist @harriedandharassed @missannwinchester @nervousmumbling

[ppascalrain]

This story is so deliciously juicy! The way they've been watching each other and then finally getting to fulfill their fantasy together. I love when Dave always has the upper hand💕

[foli-vora]

masterlist | foli jolly xmas list

meet the yorks

dave york x f!reader

summary: just a fucking filthy fic that is also so very soft i’m struggling to breathe.

warnings: divorced parents (Dave & Carol), soft dad!Dave with his babies, playful sarcastic!dave has me by the throat, i want this man to be my fucking husband, SMUT 18+ ONLY unprotected p in v, toy use, restraint use, spanking, brief barely-there choking, smidgen of oral (f rec), smidgen of tit play, ass play, overstimulation, squirting, cock warming

word count: 4.2k

a/n: the original idea for this was soft… i don’t know what happened LMAO. usually i’d work into the smut later in the fic but we’re turning it around and jumping straight into the good shit before ending on a very soft note. enjoy! x p.s the song i chose for dancing in the kitchen is ‘snowman’ by sia - i’m so fucking SOFT for them together ok bye

You don’t want to stop until everything feels perfect. The tree, in all of its 8ft glory, twinkles peacefully in the lamp-lit lounge, throwing off waves of warm light that shine over the mound of presents crowding its base. Is there too many? Not enough? You fuss with the ribbons and bows on each, ensuring the labels were placed perfectly over the various shapes before straightening and chewing on your lip in thought.

A body presses into you from behind and you sigh lightly, leaning into the lips that press softly against your throat. Dave’s hands land on your waist, palms smoothing along the shape of it before he glances at the tree, smiling against your skin.

“Everything looks great,” he murmurs.

Keep reading

[ppascalrain]

Dave is just the ultimate sweet and spicy snack. I loved everything about this! It just feels like him.

[skyesdelight]

Force of Nature: Part Three

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You have your first real date with Joel.

Warnings: language, drinking, reader has a lot of issues (anxiety, self doubt, traumatic past not yet explored but it's implied, panic attacks), jealousy, Joel likes bossy women, smut (18+, piv sex)

Other parts can be found here

The nerves leading up to your first date with Joel were ridiculous all week. Can you even call it a first date if you've already had sex twice? Whatever. Regardless, the spiraling and the overthinking were on another level, even for you.

It's just a beer, it's just a beer, you kept repeating to yourself. But you knew that wasn't true. For him, maybe, but for you? This was a huge step. Something you haven't done in years, and for good reason. If you still saw your therapist, you're certain she would be proud of you for doing this after everything that's happened. As you finish your makeup, you roll your eyes at yourself in the mirror, knowing exactly what she would have said if she knew you wanted her approval.

You don't need anyone's approval but your own.

Unfortunately, you've never been able to wrap your arms around that piece of advice. You still seek it out constantly.

You swipe some lipgloss on and run your fingers through your hair a few times, tilting your head back and forth until you're satisfied with how it lays before you flick off the light and head towards your kitchen.

The jeans you picked are cute, you think. Tight enough to show off your curves but not too tight that you'll be uncomfortable. The tank top is flowy with skinny straps and a little low cut. It had you second guessing if you looked too desperate, but your backup outfit was a dress and you're certain that would have looked ridiculous in the dive bar you picked. Then you forced yourself to stop overthinking it and just wear the goddamn tank top because Joel's already seen your tits anyway, so who cares?

You take a deep breath and take a long sip of water, gaze flickering anxiously to the clock on your wall. God, you're so out of practice for stuff like this, what were you thinking?

Maybe you should cancel. Fake an illness. A death in the family. No, that's too dark. Sweat begins to bead at your temples as your pulse kicks up.

This was a huge mistake. You're not ready.

Shaky fingers pick up your phone. As you're about to text him some weak excuse, there's a knock at your door and you freeze.

Shit. Too late.

Your heart is in your throat as you slowly walk down the hallway, towards your door. Every step makes the panic rise. Your vision narrows. You try to swallow but your throat's too tight.

Nothing bad is going to happen.

Numb fingers wrap around your doorknob and you tug it open.

Joel is waiting on the other side looking... great. Clean. You blink hard. You've only ever seen him working, when he's covered in sweat and dirt and wearing junk clothes. But the man before you now is freshly showered, beard is trimmed, and he's wearing some type of cologne with a hint of spice. You think you've smelled traces of it on him before but to have the full effect now is very different. It's throwing you off, making you forget about your insecurities entirely.

You're staring. You haven't said anything and you're staring at him like a crazy person. Say something.

"Uh, hi."

Brilliant. Great job.

When you lift your gaze to meet his eyes, you find you weren't the only one gawking. Joel looks speechless for once in his life as he slowly takes in your outfit. All his bravado is mysteriously missing for a minute and it's giving you a much needed ego boost.

"Those for me?" you ask smugly, pointing at the white flowers he's clutching in his fist. Finally, Joel shakes his head like he's snapping out of a trance and looks down.

"Jesus—yes, sorry darlin'."

He hands you the flowers and you grin before sniffing them and making a pleased sound. "Thank you," you say sincerely, and his expression softens.

"Welcome."

"Let me put these in water before we go," you tell him, turning on your heel and walking back into your kitchen. "You can come in if you want," you toss breezily over your shoulder. What were you so worried for?

Joel's head tilts to the side as he stares at your ass disappearing down your hall. "Like the view right here just fine," he drawls, and you shoot him a weak look of offense before slipping out of sight. When you return, he's smiling that easy smile that makes his dimple crease. It's an entirely different feeling walking towards your door the second time—the panic has been replaced with excitement. This is Joel—he's easy to talk to. He's fun. This should be a good night.

He leads you to his truck with his palm pressed firmly against your spine. It's not a controlling touch, just a gentle guide. You like it more than you care to admit.

"Did I tell you how pretty you look?" he asks after helping you into the truck. He braces one forearm above the door with a grin as you get comfortable in the passenger seat.

"You didn't," you say, looking up at him through your lashes, "but it was strongly implied."

"You sayin' you got a good read on me?" he teases.

"Like a book, Miller," you grin. He chuckles then pushes off the door before closing it and rounding the front to slide into the driver's seat. Before he shifts the truck into reverse, he breathes loudly through his nose and shakes his head.

"Wow," he whispers like he's in awe. You feel your chest warm, assuming the breathlessness in his voice was your doing.

"What?" you ask a little timidly.

He shakes his head again in disbelief, looking entirely serious when he says, "Nothin'. Just... can't believe my two girls are finally together."

You pause as you try to process what he just said.

"Your—"

"You 'n my truck."

"Oh, my god!" you groan, embarrassed you allowed yourself to think he was about to say something heartfelt in the first place. "Don't compare me to your truck. And I'm not your girl."

He throws his head back with a laugh and despite yourself, you giggle. He makes it so easy when you're together that even the drive to the bar isn't awkward. He has the radio on low and he hums along with some country tune, fingers tapping occasionally on the wheel. You let the fresh breeze from the open windows caress your skin and relax your body. Occasionally, you glance his way when he's too busy watching the road to notice. The jeans he's wearing are clean. Belt looks nicer, too. Not new, but probably the clothes he sets aside for dates or parties or any time he needs to look presentable. You like imagining what that looks like, in his house. A certain drawer housing clothes that may go untouched but a few times a year. And you like the idea of him pulling out those clothes for you.

His shirt is different, too. It's a plain black tee but it's still bright, so you know he hasn't needed to wash it much yet. On top of that is a dark green flannel, buttons open and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You can't see his boots but you hazard a guess those are nicer than the dirty work boots you're used to seeing.

Eventually he catches on and shifts in his seat.

"Wishin' you cancelled on me already?" he asks, eyes still pinned on the road.

"Not yet," you reply, leaving out your panic attack before he arrived. He doesn't need to know about all that.

He hums and casually taps his fingers against the steering wheel again, squinting as he approaches an intersection. "You go to this bar a lot?"

"I used to," you admit, gaze drifting through the windshield to gauge where you are. "Back when I was in college I came here more often than I probably should've."

"That's a relief. Thought you picked this place so yes wouldn't run into anyone you knew," he grins.

"Oh, that too," you joke smoothly, and he laughs again before slowing and throwing on his turn signal to pull into the parking lot.

Joel helps you slide out of the passenger seat. You murmur your thanks and walk side by side towards the bar.

When a jeep backs out of a parking spot, Joel immediately redirects you and places his body between yours and the car. His expression gives nothing away. He didn't do it as a performance. He just... did it. Like it's second nature, he didn't think twice. Something about it makes your pulse skip.

Even from here, you can hear the music pumping from the jukebox. A few people linger outside to smoke with beers dangling from their fingertips. They casually watch you approach and nod to you both when Joel reaches forward to open the door for you.

Inside, the bar looks the same as it always did. You think they may have fixed some of the cracked seats on the barstools but otherwise, nothing else really changed. There are still a few televisions mounted high up on the walls showing a different sporting event on each one. There are still four pool tables and a dart board tucked into the back of the room, near the bathrooms. The lighting is still dim and the crowd is still the same—a mix of college students blowing off steam and a middle aged crowd scattered amongst the bar and surrounding tables.

It's loud already at only nine at night. There's a college football game on the television above the bartender's heads that most people seem to be focused on. And as Joel leads you to the bar to order, your boots still stick to the floors just like they always did before. If it wasn't so loud, you bet you'd be able to hear them unstick with every step.

"What do you like to drink?" Joel asks after he wedges himself a spot against the bar. He pulls out his wallet and looks at you expectantly. "Wine? Some mixed drink?"

"A beer, whatever kind you're having."

He gives you a surprised look and a nod before turning back to the bar. Behind him, you awkwardly tuck your hands into the back pockets of your jeans and wait, looking around. You spot a couple empty tables near the front windows and you tap Joel's shoulder.

"I'm gonna go grab a—"

But before you can finish your sentence, a familiar face appears behind the bar. It takes you a moment to recognize him, but he clocks you right away and frowns.

"Hey! I remember you! Didn't I say you ain't allowed here anymore?"

Your eyes go wide with horror but Joel just grins easily and sets back to watch the exchange.

"No! That was—"

"Nah, it was you. You and that other girl you were always with. Gave me too many goddamn headaches. Actually—" He leans forward across the bar with a towel dangling over his shoulder. "That friend of yours never did pay me back for the pool table."

"Pool table?" Joel repeats, clearly amused. Your cheeks burn.

"Had to refelt it. Wasn't cheap."

"That wasn't me," you insist.

"Sure as shit was."

You groan and prop your hands on your hips. "C'mon, Dave. That was a long time ago and it was her heels that scratched up the felt, not mine."

Joel laughs, clearly delighted.

Dave's eyes drift slowly between you and Joel before relenting and straightening back up. But then he points a finger at you and you cower a little.

"You can stay. But none of that bullshit anymore, you hear?"

"Yes," you promise, throughly embarrassed.

Joel tilts his head towards Dave. "Two drafts. And don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her," he says. When Dave grunts and turns around to pull the tap, Joel's gaze finds yours and adds so only you can hear, "she's a good girl now."

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the arousal blooming low in your belly at the term of endearment. "Don't start," you warn.

Joel barks out a laugh and grabs the two glasses after paying. "You got alotta explain' to do," he murmurs in your ear before trailing after you to an empty table. You slide into the curved booth right in front of the window and Joel follows. The creak of the thick vinyl seats under his weight can be heard over the classic rock song pouring from the jukebox speakers. On the table is an abandoned bucket of shelled peanuts and you quickly grab one just for something to busy your hands.

"So," Joel says, twisting his body to face yours. His free arm is popped on the top of your seat as the other cups his glass on the table. You like the way he slightly curves his body around yours. "Care to explain what that was all 'bout?"

You shrug, cracking into the peanut shell. "Can't really remember. It was a lifetime ago."

"Bullshit," he laughs, "tell me. You get up to no good back in the day or what?"

You grin up at him and pop a peanut into your mouth. "Maybe."

"Yeah? And who's the other girl?"

Your throat tightens at the memory. "I don't talk to her anymore."

Joel doesn't notice your discomfort. You're better at hiding it now.

"No? Why not? She tearin' up felt in some other bar now?"

He takes a sip from his beer while you chew. "Something like that," you say, and before he can push further, you change the subject. "Have you ever gotten kicked out of a bar before?"

He rolls his eyes and sets down his beer. "Oh, Christ. Yeah. Not my fault, though."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"I mean it!"

"Likely story," you grin, and just like that, the memory of another life fades.

"It was my little brother's fault mostly," he continues, snatching up a peanut. His arm is still propped up on the seat behind you, his hand inches from the back of your neck. You melt into the seat a little so he's closer.

"You have a brother?"

He nods. "Tommy. He's... well, he thinks he's a white knight sometimes. Gets him in trouble."

"So you're the real white knight?"

Joel smirks as he chews. "That's bein' generous."

"Well, you help him out when he's in trouble, right?" you press.

"Outta obligation, not 'cause I'm some hero."

"Oh, don't think I said hero." You playfully poke him in the ribs. He flinches and grabs your hand with a flirty grin.

"Haven't even had a sip of beer and you're already gettin' handsy with me."

You roll your eyes with a smile and yank your hand out of his grip. "You're the one who's holding onto me like Velcro."

"Gotta make sure you don't end up on that pool table again, I made a promise to good ol' Dave."

"Oh, you just loved that, didn't you?"

"I did." He takes another sip of his beer and you follow suit, your eyes never leaving one another over the rims of your glasses. He sets it down and subtly shifts a little closer. "Like findin' out more 'bout you. You're a mystery, y'know that?"

"Am I?" you ask innocently before taking another drink.

"Mhm," he hums, gaze slowly dragging across your face like he's searching for something. "So far, all's I know 'bout you is you work a whole lot 'n you like that you're good at it." He rubs his chin thoughtfully for a second as you pluck another peanut from the bucket. "Well, know a few other things, too. Wouldn't wanna say it in front of mixed company, though."

You smack his shoulder and he laughs. God, his laugh is so infectious. Every time you try to keep a stern expression, you fail.

"What'd I say?" he exclaims, rubbing his shoulder with a shit eating grin.

"You know what you said," you scold, throwing the peanut at his chest.

"Hey! Meant your burnt cookies, I don't know what you're thinkin'."

"Oh, yeah right."

"Didn't wanna embarrass you," he says defensively. You look around the bar, at the oblivious patrons, and then back at him.

"I think I'll live."

There's a brief pause where neither of you say anything, but it's not uncomfortable. He doesn't stop smiling and neither do you. There's a pull between you that leaves you both feeling a little exhilarated.

"Well?" he asks you as his fingers brush gently against your hair. You find yourself drawing even closer to him, like a magnet. To distract yourself, you take another long sip from your beer before catching his eye again.

"Well... what?" you reply.

"Gonna tell me somethin' 'bout yourself or you gonna make me work harder for it?"

You grin and cross your legs under the table. Your foot nudges his leg but neither of you move.

"What do you want to know?"

Joel thinks about it over a healthy drink from his glass before setting it down with determination.

"When was your last relationship?"

You laugh, mostly to cover up the sheer panic you know would otherwise be written all over your face. You're sure of it because you can feel your blood run cold at the mere mention of your romantic past.

"Let's start with something a little less..." you trail off and Joel throws you a lifeline.

"Intense?"

You nod. "Yeah. Intense."

"Alright," he says easily, entirely unbothered by you dodging the question. "You got any family?"

That's easier. You tell him about growing up with your parents and sister just outside of Austin. It was a normal childhood, by all accounts. It wasn't until the last few years when you grew apart. You leave that out and focus on the good times, before you grew up. You tell him about your sister who went to school in London and ended up falling in love with her classmate and getting married out there. How you only visited her twice but it was a beautiful city and you want to go again one day.

"What's keepin' you from seein' her?"

"Work, I guess."

Joel tsks. "Shocker."

"I know," you grin.

The way he's looking at you is making your stomach flip. He's so genuine and warm and funny... he's making it very hard to resist his charm.

"What are you thinkin' 'bout?" he asks. His gaze is heavier than before and it feels like yours is the same. At some point, your legs pressed together under the table and neither of you made the effort to separate them.

"I was thinking you clean up pretty nice," you tease softly. Then your fingers pluck at his open flannel, giving the fabric a playful tug.

Joel chuckles. "You, too. Still don't mind that flimsy robe of yours, though."

"That was my back up outfit."

"Would've gotten kicked outta here a second time for that," Joel grins, dipping his chin down. He's so close he hardly has to raise his voice over the music.

"What makes you think I've only been kicked out once?" The heat of his body surrounds you: his arm across the back of your seat, his leg against yours under the table, his mouth mere inches away from your own. If you wanted, you could kiss him right now. Maybe you should.

There's a low rumble that comes from his chest and his eyes grow darker. "And here I just got done vouchin' for what a good girl you are," he murmurs. "You gonna make a liar outta me?"

Your hand finds his leg and he breathes in sharp when you slowly curl your fingers along the inside of his thigh.

"What can I say?" you sigh, lips barely grazing his mouth. "Sometimes I'm trouble."

He groans and leans in, closing those last remaining centimeters with a slow, firm kiss. It's not messy or passionate, but it doesn't have to be. Even without tasting his tongue, you're still ready to crawl into his lap right here and now. Your fingers on his thigh tighten and his mouth parts ever so slightly, just enough for you each to take a breath before your lips slot together once again. The hand that's been taking up residence on top of your seat is now cupping your cheek, his thumb is swiping gently along your jaw, and it's so intense and sweet at the same time that you're dizzy with need and something else you can't quite admit yet.

The loud sound of billiard balls cracking together across the bar pull you out of it, but just barely. His forehead presses against yours after the kiss is broken and you each draw in a deep breath, clearing away the clouds of desire that took over your better judgement for a few weak moments.

"I'll go get us a couple more," he finally murmurs, pointing to your empty glasses when he inevitably leans back in his seat. His cheeks look a little pink and you have to stifle a smile behind your hand.

"You don't have to—" you start to say, but he cuts you off.

"If I don't get up right now, I'll end us gettin' us both banned for life," he winks, and your face flushes with heat as you laugh. Joel stands with your glasses and begins to weave his way towards the bar.

You prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin in your hand as you watch him from your booth. His back is to you so you feel free to let your gaze linger over his rugged frame, broad shoulders, and dark hair. He's so insanely sexy, just leaning against the bar so casually with that flannel exposing his strong, tanned forearms and his jeans hugging his waist just right. It almost isn't fair how good he looks, how well he fits in. Where's the flaw? What's the catch with Joel? Nobody looks as good as him and has a fun personality. You already know he's great in bed, so it's not that, either.

Stop it. You're doing it again. Stop looking for problems.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and shake loose the invasive thoughts. It's easier with a beer in your system to let that go and relax, but when your gaze settles back on Joel at the bar, another unexpected intense feeling flares up: jealousy. Because at some point in the last thirty seconds when you looked away, a very young and very blonde college girl sporting a mini skirt and cowboy boots has found a spot next to Joel at the bar and appears to be getting just a little too close for your liking.

Your lips press together as you watch, studying her body language like a hawk. She's leaning forward and saying something to Joel, then her perfectly manicured finger points to something. He glances over and plucks some napkins out of a dispenser and hands them over with a polite smile, but she's not done. She appears to be extremely grateful. She leans forward again, expressing her thanks while gently placing a hand on his arm, conveniently giving him a generous view of her cleavage.

Anger drips heavier in your veins with each bat of her fake eyelashes and every high pitched giggle that reaches your ears. You can tell Joel is trying to limit his interactions with her while still being polite, but she's not taking the hint and fucking Dave is ignoring that side of the bar entirely.

He's not your boyfriend, you have to remind yourself. But he is your date. So how much longer do you allow this to go on before doing something?

When she leans in to whisper something in his ear that makes him jerk backwards and laugh awkwardly, you get your answer. Enough is enough.

Joel's face is red as you approach from behind, and when you get closer you can hear him stammering something while the blonde watches him like a siren: all lust filled eyes with a seductive smile.

"Hey, baby," you breathe, stepping between them. You can see the discomfort in his expression, one that slips into a mix of fear and relief when his eyes settle on you. He opens his mouth, either to explain or reply, but you cut him off when you clutch his shirt and yank him down for an obnoxiously deep kiss. You make sure to moan a little so the blonde behind you hears, then you let him go with a breathless laugh.

"I missed you. What's taking so long?" you ask innocently while swiping some of your lip gloss from the corner of his mouth. Joel's eyes are wide with shock until he figures out your game, then they soften with a knowing smile.

"Busy up here. And this young lady was askin' for help," he says, jutting his chin over your shoulder. He doesn't tear his gaze away from you, though, and you like that.

Slowly, you turn to face the blonde, who is doing her best to act innocuous. You give her a smile while dropping your hand, possessively slipping your fingers between Joel's. You lazily size her up and down, then tilt your head to the side.

"Is there something we can help you with?" you ask sweetly, leaning against Joel's chest. You know you're laying it on thick and so does he. You can feel the rumble of laughter through your back and you grin.

"Uh, no," she replies with a tight smile of her own, "he was just telling me which whiskey is best."

"Oh!" you blink with surprise while Joel murmurs your order to Dave across the bar. "You're old enough to drink?"

Joel says your name softly in your ear, a light warning.

The blonde narrows her eyes at you, the mask shifting ever so slightly. "Yes. In fact, it's my birthday."

"Oh, happy birthday," you gush. Joel's fingers flex around your own. "Don't tell me you're celebrating all by yourself?" You plaster on a cheesy smile while the blonde flicks her perfectly curled hair over her shoulder to gesture to a table near the darts.

"No, my friends are over there."

When she turns back to you, your smile drops and the sweetness from your voice is gone.

"Good. You should probably go join them."

A subtle threat is laced in your tone and the blonde picks up on it easily. She slips off the stool and straightens her skirt, offers Joel a cordial wave, and disappears into the crowd.

"Goddamn," Joel chuckles after you turn around, dropping his hand with a glare.

"What did she say to you?"

"What? When?"

"You know when," you snap, "your face was red as a tomato."

Joel smirks and swipes his palm over his mouth with a shrug. "Said it was her birthday but she wanted to take me to the bathroom 'n give me a gift."

Your jaw drops. "That fucking—"

You spin back in her direction, rage boiling over, when Joel snags your arm. "Darlin', easy, a man can only get so hard."

"We got a problem here?" Dave asks, loudly setting down two beers with a scowl. You straighten up and try to unclench your jaw.

"No," you seethe.

"Good." His eyes shift wearily between you and Joel, then juts a finger in your direction. "I'm watchin' you."

You roll your eyes and grab your beer, too pissed to care.

"One foot outta line—" Dave warns Joel, and Joel waves him off before grabbing the other beer.

"Yeah, yeah. I got it."

He rushes after you, looping an arm around your waist and tugging you into his side.

"You're full'a surprises," he murmurs in your ear.

You scoff and slide into the booth, still too angry to think about much else, and take a long sip from your beer and Joel joins you.

"Does that happen often?" you ask with an edge to your voice.

"No," he says, "took me by surprise. I was tryin' to be nice." His arm resumes its post on the top of your seat and his other hand finds a home on your leg. His fingers squeeze a little as he inches forward while you take another angry gulp from your glass to settle the adrenaline. "Can I tell you a secret?" he asks, dipping low so his lips graze your ear. You find yourself leaning closer and the rage pumping through your veins begins to slow.

"What?" you reply, trying to maintain your scowl, but you're failing. Your brows cannot stay furrowed tonight.

Joel smirks and something dangerous shifts behind his eyes. "That was pretty fuckin' sexy, what you did," he admits, and despite yourself, your chest fills with pride. "Never had someone do somethin' like that for me."

"Try not to get a big head over it," you tease with a smile. The last of your anger dissipates and you poke him gently in the ribs.

"Oh, too late for that, honey," Joel laughs. He curls his body inwards more so you can feel that heat again and the hand on your thigh slides up slowly before reaching for your wrist. There's a familiar pull between your legs almost immediately from his touch.

His fingers delicately hold your wrist in your lap before he shifts in his seat and suspiciously glances around the bar. You're confused until he subtly moves your palm to the front of his jeans and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel him, hot and rock hard behind his zipper.

"Joel—"

"Wasn't kiddin'," he whispers in your ear before his lips find a sensitive spot on your throat. You bite your lip and try to ignore the warmth pooling between your thighs, but it's impossible. The gentle graze of his mouth raises the temperature of your skin and without thinking, your hand presses forward. You feel him twitch under your palm and your eyelids flutter in a desperate attempt to remain present and aware of your surroundings.

"Joel..." you try again, but your voice is merely a whisper. Still, he hums in acknowledgement, but his mouth is busy trailing down your neck. You swallow hard. "As fun as it was the other times, I'd really like to not get kicked out of here again tonight."

He makes a disappointed noise before reluctantly pulling back. Your hand falls from his lap to his leg as you stare at one another, tension thick.

"Sorry," he murmurs, voice strained. His heavy gaze drags slowly across your face, both of you equally flushed, hearts pumping wildly in your chests. Then he grins. "I really do wanna know more 'bout you, I swear it."

"I know," you giggle, tension breaking a bit.

"Can't seem to help myself when you get all pissed off," he continues, running his fingers through his hair. "You're doin' somethin' crazy to me, darlin'."

You laugh again, hiding behind your hair. You're not ready to admit it, but he's certainly doing something to you, too.

"Okay," you take a deep breath so as to fight through the veil of arousal clinging to your body, "what, uh... what movies do you like?"

The next hour or so carries on like that. Ten minutes of harmless questions, a joke here or there, and inevitably one of you finds a reason to touch the other. The tension builds again until you snap out of it and then the cycle repeats itself.

It's the beer, you think. It's making you both a little too relaxed. That's the only reasonable explaination for the unusually spectacular date. The connection feels strong because the beer is strong. That's all.

After you finish your drinks and the bar fills up with a much more rowdy crowd, Joel suggests heading out. As disappointed as you are for the night to end, you agree and stand to follow him hand in hand through the throngs of people laughing and milling around on the dance floor. It's only when you're a few feet away from the door that Joel stops and turns to you with a grin.

"Guess I wasn't that special," he says loudly over the music, then nods towards a dark booth in the corner. Your gaze follows and you burst out laughing when you spot a shock of familiar blonde hair all over some guy a few years younger than Joel.

"Sorry she broke your heart," you giggle, stumbling out of the bar side by side. Both hands curl around his bicep as you walk through the parking lot wearing matching grins.

"I'll survive," he jokes, fishing the keys out of his pocket. The music from the jukebox is fading behind you. Laughter and glasses clinking thin with every step. Instead, you begin to hear the soothing sound of crickets chirping from the nearby grass. You're silent for a minute, letting the quiet settle around you like a blanket. It's peaceful and you tip your chin up to gaze at the stars, knowing Joel won't let you trip.

"Wanna walk for a bit?" he asks once his truck is in view. Your eyes tear away from the inky night sky to look at him.

"Sure. Are you not good to drive?"

"Nah, ain't that," he says, grinning at you with that dimple. "Just don't want the night to end yet."

"Oh," you breathe, then hide your shy smile by pretending to study something imaginary across the street.

Your hands fall from his bicep and he laces his fingers between yours as you walk down the cracked sidewalk. You pass restaurants, mostly pizza and fast food places with later hours to accommodate the bar patrons. On the corner is a theater that just let out and your gaze drifts up to read the marquee.

"Oh, that one's supposed to be good," you murmur. Joel reads it and nods.

"Wanna see it next weekend?"

He says it so easily, so casually, that he has you agreeing without even missing that awkward step that typically comes after a first date, the one that has both sides wondering if it went as well as you thought and if it would lead to anything more. Joel decides to eliminate all doubt before the night is even over. He's so smooth about it that you wouldn't know for sure if he was as excited as you if you didn't happen to catch the smile stretched across his face before he swiped his palm over his mouth to hide it.

Eventually, you come to the riverwalk. It's such a calm atmosphere: lights from underneath the railings brighten your path, there's mostly couples strolling quietly along that give you an occasional nod and you smile to yourself when teenagers go racing by on bikes or scooters. Joel doesn't lead you that far, otherwise it will take forever to eventually get back to his truck, so instead he finds a secluded spot with a view and leans against the railing on his forearms. You follow his lead but shiver when the metal railing touches your skin. He notices and immediately shrugs off his flannel, draping it around your shoulders.

"Thank you," you murmur, sliding your arms into the sleeves. The heat from his body is still in the fabric. His scent clings to the fibers and it makes you a little hazy with want to have his shirt engulfing you like this because it's reminding you of the way his body felt folded around you while pummeling you from behind.

When you catch his eye, you think you see the same flash of lust there, but he averts his gaze to the water too quickly.

"Don't come here at night often," he says. The light breeze slips through his hair and it makes you want to run your fingers through it.

"Me, either," you admit, "it's nice."

Despite just wearing a short sleeved shirt now, you still feel the heat rolling off his body. You lean a little closer and watch the water lazily roll under the walkway towards the shore.

"Was it as bad as you thought it'd be?"

You glance sideways at him when he asks the question.

"What?"

He shrugs, eyes still scanning the scenery. "Tonight. Our date."

"Oh," you laugh, "I had a great time. I didn't think it would be bad."

"No?"

He shifts a little, body angling more towards you now. You do the same, leaving one arm on the railing for support and you shake your head.

Joel smiles. "Good. The way you kept makin' excuses when I'd ask before had me wonderin' if it was me."

Guilt blooms a little in your chest. "No," you tell him softly, "it's definitely not because of you."

He gives you a few moments to elaborate but you don't. He doesn't ask, either, which you appreciate. And he doesn't make you feel bad for not sharing. It's almost frustratingly perfect.

You stay there a little longer, shoulders pressed together as you stare at the view and people watch whoever happens to walk by. Your fingers lace together at some point and you only let go halfway back to his truck when he buys you both ice cream.

"Shit," he grumbles when he sees how good your strawberry cone looks. You raise an eyebrow at him while taking a generous lick.

"Buyer's remorse?"

"No," he says stubbornly after tasting his butter pecan. "It's an underrated flavor."

"I'm sure it is."

You walk a few minutes in silence, past the theater again, which is now closed. With your ice cream half gone, Joel crumbles.

"Lemme try yours."

"No! I told you you should have gotten a different one."

You take a stubborn lick of your ice cream and Joel pouts. "I'll give you some of mine," he offers, holding out his cone. You shake your head.

"No, thanks. This is perfect."

Less than a minute goes by with Joel side-eyeing you until he can't take it anymore and he suddenly lunges, trying to grab a lick of your ice cream, but you yank it away just in time.

"Stop!" you squeal, giggling when he tries and fails again. A crowd of drunk twenty-something year olds stumble past in the opposite direction, loudly swearing at one another and cracking lewd jokes, but neither of you notice because Joel figures out a way to get what he wants by pressing you up against the brick wall of a pizza parlor and kissing you so deeply that the entire world around you fades.

"Mmm," he hums, licking his lips after he breaks the kiss. You're lucky you're still clutching your ice cream in your right hand because you almost forget where you are when his body is pressed against yours like this and the faint taste of butter pecan mixed with strawberry lingers on your tongue.

"It's good," he confirms, then thinks about it for a moment before a sly smile stretches across his face. "Can't decide if it's better than mine. Lemme taste it again—"

Your laugh gets cut short by another kiss, but this time you're somewhat prepared. His beard scratches against your lips and chin and you're quickly becoming addicted to the burn, but it's nothing compared to the way his mouth moves against yours, the firm yet soft seal of his kiss, the measured swipe of his tongue behind your teeth, the gentle way he cups your face.

The way Joel Miller kisses is utterly euphoric.

When he pulls away, you have to stifle a whine of protest for your own dignity, but his hand still cradles your cheek as he smiles down at you.

"What do you think?" he asks softly. You're not sure what he means. What do you think about... the kiss? The weather? The president's latest cabinet pick?

"I think..." you pant, heavy eyes dropping to his mouth. Your thumb swipes under his lower lip and you swear he leans forward. "I think it's an underrated flavor," you finish, gaze darting up at him playfully. He smirks.

"Told ya."

The ice cream is gone by the time you wander back to the bar parking lot. Based on the noise filtering from the open door, it sounds like it got much busier since you left. A few motorcycles rumble into the parking lot behind you and Joel tucks you protectively into his side even though there's no chance of them coming anywhere close enough to hitting you.

When he opens the passenger door, he helps you hop in. His hand lingers on your waist a little longer than necessary and you grin.

"Do you want your flannel back?" you ask him. He shakes his head.

"Looks better on you."

Your cheeks warm from the compliment and in the brief moment you have to yourself after he shuts the door, you drag in a loud, steadying breath to calm your nerves. Why are you so nervous anyway? You've already slept with him twice. Yet somehow, being on this date with him feels so much more vulnerable than being naked.

On the drive back to your house, you try your best to keep the conversation light, but it's hard when his hand rests so comfortably on your thigh. All you can think about is dragging him into your house, back into your bed, because the tension that's been ebbing and flowing all evening is making you feel like you may implode.

"How much longer do you have next door?" you ask him at some point. His fingers tighten around the denim of your jeans as he makes a turn, one handed.

"'Bout a week or two."

You hum and keep looking out your window, fingers itching to touch him.

"Then what?"

"Puttin' on an addition for a family who's expectin' a baby in a few months," he tells you. "Spot's over in my neck of the woods, couple streets over."

"Where do you live?" you ask, a little ashamed you haven't asked before.

"Off Rossler, in a little cul-de-sac," he says. You map it out in your head.

"That's not too far from me."

"'Bout fifteen minutes."

"And do you live alone?"

Joel laughs. "You askin' if I got a secret family or somethin'?"

You can't help but grin in return. "I mean, I'd hope not, but you never know."

"Well, I don't. But Tommy'll be comin' to stay for a couple weeks pretty soon. He's in the army and he'll be home on leave."

That surprises you. "I thought you said he's a trouble maker?"

"That I did."

"Hmm," is all you say in response. A comfortable silence falls between you, only to be broken once Joel turns onto your street.

"I like spendin' time with you," he says abruptly. Your gaze skirts to the side in surprise when you hear the earnestness in his voice. "I know you said you don't really do relationships but I want you to know, I don't plan on seein' anyone else."

Joel removes his hand from your thigh so he can properly turn into your driveway, allowing you a chance to process what he's just said. When he shifts the truck into park and nervously glances in your direction, you realize you've taken too long to formulate a response.

"I like spending time with you, too," you say softly. The corner of his mouth lifts and he looks straight ahead, turning the key in the ignition. The headlights blink off, casting your driveway into darkness.

"Lemme walk you up," he tells you before popping open his door and sliding out of his seat. His boots hit the fine gravel and you hear the soft crunch under his weight before his door shuts and you're left in momentary silence. Your eyes track him rounding the front of his truck and you smile as you unbuckle your seatbelt.

You should just thank him for tonight. Maybe give him a chaste kiss. Tell him you're looking forward to next weekend. But you know you can't leave it at just that. It's almost laughable now as you breathlessly ask him to come inside as one hand fumbles with your lock, unable to focus when his mouth is pressed against your throat and his hands are squeezing your hips.

Somehow you manage to both kick off your shoes and push your door shut, even with your mouths seared together in a heated kiss. You mumble the hollow offer of a drink against his lips and as expected, he just shakes his head and pushes you down your hallway, mouth barely giving you a reprieve.

"You look so good," he growls, yanking the collar of his flannel down to expose one of your shoulders. Your breath stutters as you blindly navigate your bedroom, the sharp press of his lips over your skin sending shocks of arousal throughout your entire body.

Calloused fingers gently slip the thin strap of your tank top down next and the flowy material gives way, nearly exposing one breast. Joel helps it the rest of the way, curling his fingers underneath and pulling it down so his warm mouth can cover your nipple with a groan. The backs of your thighs bump against your mattress and you fall back, leaving Joel standing at the edge of your bed with his mouth open while you scoot backwards.

"You coming?" you tease before lifting your shirt over your head and tossing it onto your floor, joining the flannel.

"Not yet," Joel says back, and you giggle before his body folds forward, covering yours. Excited fingers find the soft waves styled on the back of his head and he kisses you again, stealing your breath when your nipples peak and graze against the fabric of his shirt.

"Been thinkin' 'bout this all night," he confesses with one more wet kiss before his lips drag down your jaw. "Been half hard since I picked you up."

You groan and arch your back, lifting your hips off the bed. His hand finds the button to your jeans and he undoes them in a heartbeat, zipper following soon after. Instead of tugging the denim down your legs, his hand delves down, greedy fingers seeking out your pussy and groaning deep when he finds you wet and aching for him.

The pad of his middle finger drags slow and firm over your clit and you moan, holding his face against your throat in a death grip. You're so sensitive from the buildup all evening that your body feels like a coil ready to snap.

Joel only gives you a few long, teasing strokes before he removes his hand and sits back on his knees to pull your jeans down. You eagerly assist, breathlessly lifting your hips and straightening your legs until they're left somewhere at the foot of your bed. You watch, heat licking up your spine as he strips off his shirt and starts to work on his pants. The arousing sound of his belt buckle clinking in the otherwise quiet room makes you shiver with anticipation. Joel sees it and smirks.

"Dyin' for it, ain't you?"

"Shut up," you whisper, eyes glued to the way he pushes his pants down and off, leaving him in only a plain pair of black boxer briefs.

"Mm, there she is," he breathes with a crooked grin. You roll your eyes.

"Get over here," you tell him, and his body jolts forward, eager to obey, but then he stops.

"Just one thing first," he says, bending forward at your waist. His lips find your hip and his beard drags slowly across your skin, distracting you from his hands pulling down your panties until you feel the cool air of your bedroom between your legs. Your eyes flutter closed under his gentle kisses and you almost forget where you are until his broad shoulders nudge your thighs apart and he settles his weight between your legs.

"Wha—what are you doing?" Your thighs tense when his hands glide up to hold them open.

"Wanna taste you," he says, voice low and thick. "Wanna make you feel good."

"No, that's okay," you tell him. Your throat tightens as the panic begins to rise.

"It's okay, just relax." His voice is soft and you jump when his thumbs spread you open. You can feel his exhale fan over your wetness and your muscles seize.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," he smirks, "been thinkin' 'bout it for weeks."

When his mouth dips to taste you, you fist his hair and yank him up. You might have been a little too harsh based on the surprised look on his face.

"Sorry," you whisper shakily, "just... I'd rather not."

Something passes over his face that makes your stomach twist with guilt and you let go of his hair.

"It's not you," you assure him, "I—I just really want you to fuck me."

He scans your face and you can tell immediately he doesn't buy it, but thankfully he lets it go. He pushes himself onto his hands and crawls up to hover over your body and you relax instantly.

"Alright, honey," he says soothingly, "alright. Lemme take care of you, then."

Joel doesn't let your weird moment ruin the mood and you're eternally grateful for it. When his lips press firmly against yours and his weight settles between your hips, all is forgotten for at least the night. But something tells you the topic is only tabled, not dismissed entirely.

Desperate hands push blindly at the band of his boxers and you can feel him smirk against your lips.

"Take these off," you hiss, nipping impatiently at his chin.

"So fuckin' pushy," he chuckles before eventually helping slide the boxers down his legs.

"I know what I want," you reply with a pleased look as you watch him finally free his cock. You widen your thighs and reach for him, circling your fist slowly around his girth and giving him a few measured strokes. His eyelids flutter under your touch and it gives you a little rush, having him quite literally in the palm of your hand.

"Hang on." He sounds a little breathless when your hips tilt and the tip of his cock brushes against your folds. You bite your lip and pout when he shoos your hand away.

"What?"

He slides off the bed and searches for his wallet, wordlessly answering your question when he plucks a condom from somewhere in the depths of the leather and shows it to you like a prize.

The frustrated noise you make is involuntary, but Joel reacts to it all the same.

"I was over nine pounds when I was born," he tells you, tearing the foil and rolling the condom carefully down his length. His eyes flicker up to you and he tuts. "Ain't gonna do that to you, darlin'."

"God!" you exclaim, covering your face. "Don't put that image in my head right before you fuck me."

Joel just laughs and shuffles forward on his knees. His long fingers curl around your thighs, holding your hips wide. When you feel his cock nudge against your opening, your hands fall from your face with an eager gasp.

"Yeah, thought that's all it'd take," he murmurs, pushing forward just an inch. Your head drops back into the pillows with a moan. "First taste of this cock's got that smart mouth makin' sweet noises for me, ain't that right?"

"Asshole," you breathe, arching off the bed when he feeds you a few more inches. Joel chuckles again and leans down, mouthing at your jaw, then throat, then breasts until he's fully sheathed inside you with a relieved sigh. He spots an old hickey he left half faded on your skin and his lips seal around it, sucking on the skin to deepen the mark, to stake his claim.

"Fuck," you whisper, fingers rising to get lost in his hair. He grunts a little when your nails rake gently over his scalp. Then his hips withdraw just so he can slowly sink back into your cunt.

"So wet," he groans, eyes squeezing shut. "Feel so goddamn good, drives me fuckin' crazy."

You preen at the praise and let your hands fall to his strong shoulders, palms skirting over the warm, sun-kissed skin. He's so attentive to your body, studying your reactions every time he buries himself inside you, hands always searching your soft skin and committing every slope to memory. His mouth is always on you, either lightly nipping at your jaw or brushing his lips across your collarbone or kissing you to stifle his groans.

Joel usually starts slow, lets you adjust, then fucks hard, but today he notices how you seem to like it like this. You like being fucked slow. It's easy to tell—you're more relaxed and vocal underneath him. Your hips roll to match his thrusts and you're already short of breath.

"You like it like this?" he grunts, and when your eyes find his he nearly crumbles. You're entirely lost, floating. He can see it in your face. You look so soft like this, so open, that it nearly does him in. Then your lips part to answer, but nothing comes out.

"Hm? Like it nice 'n slow?" He finds your leg and pulls your knee up to press against your chest. A choked sound echoes from your throat and your eyes roll. There's something so intoxicating, having you like this, that it's making his vision swim. He can't tear his eyes away, utterly engrossed with watching how you gasp every time he fills you, how your jaw slackens with every slow roll of his hips, how your face warms and your skin glistens from the pleasure.

Oh, he likes this. He likes making you feel this good. He likes being the person to do this to you, to see you like this, so relaxed and open. And he enjoys peeling back the layers and finding out more things about you. It makes him wonder if it just feels better to be fucked slow and deep, or if there's another reason.

"Eyes on me, honey," he murmurs. His thumb and forefinger tilt your chin and your eyes flutter open. He grins and shifts his weight, deepening the angle and keeping your knee pressed firmly to your chest. The way your brows pinch together when you whine has his stomach pulling tight.

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, still holding your chin. Your mouth is ajar and your gaze is hazy but you're focused on him. Sweat beads at Joel's hairline, desperate to slam into you, to fuck you hard and fast and flip you over and do it again. But he holds firm, he maintains that slow pace, he keeps flexing his hips so he can reach the deepest parts of you because seeing you trembling and moaning so sweetly like this is something he can't resist.

"Joel," you whisper, but your voice shakes. He nods and leans in, lets his parted lips hover above yours but doesn't let them touch. Not yet.

"Doin' so good," he says softly, and when your cunt clenches in response, he says it again. "So good. Takin' it so fuckin' good, darlin'."

You whimper and claw at his shoulders, trying to draw him down. Sweat trickles down the side of his head and your chest heaves but he keeps moving, he keeps his relentless, steady pace because something about it is tearing your walls down and he's desperate to see more.

Slick pools around his length, he can feel it. He can feel the way you respond to his words, to his gentle touches, and he keeps filing it all away, reminders not only for now, but for the future, of things that you like. Or, perhaps, need.

"You're beautiful, y'know that?" he murmurs, lips centimeters from grazing your own, "so beautiful. Y'know how good it felt to have the prettiest girl in the bar next to me all night?"

It's hard to push through the fog in your brain. The pressure building low at the base of your spine is climbing. The heat in your belly is growing. Whatever he's doing and saying is scratching an itch you didn't even know you had and it's got you so far gone, you barely remember your own name. And yet, through the pleasure and praise, your mind snags on one particular piece Joel just said and your heart skips a beat.

"I—" you swallow, throat dry. "I... made you feel good?"

If the question throws him off, he doesn't show it.

"'Course you did, honey," he replies smoothly, "y'make me feel good all the time, thought you knew that."

You whine and cup your hand around the back of his neck. It's impossible to get any closer, not a sliver of light can sneak between your bodies, but you need it. You need him. And maybe later you'll be embarrassed, but not tonight.

"Again," you beg, breath fanning over his lips.

"Y'feel so good," he tells you without hesitation. He keeps moving slow, making sure you feel every inch of him. Your fingers around his neck tighten. Damp curls flop against his forehead. "You're perfect. You fit around me so well, shit—" His hips stall for a moment when you flutter around his cock, nearly pulling him over the edge. You whimper and curl your free leg around his waist. Joel pants heavily above you, and your jaw drops open more, eager to swallow down his moans. "You're gonna make me come, sweetheart," he gasps, the admission only dragging your orgasm closer to the surface.

"Please," you whisper, ignoring the sweat collecting under your bent knee, between your breasts, on the back of your neck. "Please, Joel, please..." you continue, eyes rolling back right before his mouth presses softly against yours.

Of course, he'll give you anything you want. He wants to tell you so, he wants to tell you how fucked up you have him, how much he thinks about you and how badly he wants you, but he needs to be careful. Dumping too much on you will scare you off, he's figured that much out by now. Still, the words claw up his throat, begging to push past his lips and into your mouth so you can't escape them.

When you come, it's quiet, but he feels it like an earthquake. Your body shakes, your cunt pulses, and your free hand snags on the sheets, fingers gripping the fabric so tightly it almost tears. His deep groans tumble from his mouth into yours when he follows, hips stuttering as his hand clenches around your waist, holding you still as he spills into the condom.

The kiss doesn't end until the sweat on your bodies begins to cool. He can't tear himself away, he needs this almost as badly as you. The hand on the back of his neck doesn't loosen. His hand on your waist doesn't move. Your bodies remain intertwined until a dull cramp forms in your bent leg and you wince when he slips his cock from between your thighs.

When Joel makes a move to get up, you make a soft noise of protest that tugs at his chest.

"Gotta clean up, honey," he reminds you before folding the sheets across your body to trap the heat. Your hand finally falls from his neck and he reluctantly pushes himself up. Your eyes are closed, face flushed and muscles loose. He can't stop himself from kissing your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to take care of the condom and wash up.

When he returns, you're exactly where he left you but now you're curled up on your side under the sheets, looking content and sleepy. Joel pauses for a moment before bending down slowly to collect his clothes, but then to his relief, you speak.

"Stay?"

It's a soft mumble that makes his heart soar. He doesn't hesitate to drop his jeans and slip back into bed, under your sheets. His body curls around yours and you nuzzle tiredly against his chest. Joel tries to fight sleep as long as possible so he can soak up this feeling, but his eyelids grow heavy soon after your breathing deepens.

A strong sense of optimism washes over him before he falls asleep.

***

taglist:

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@pengbluevoke @lemonsfromikea @perpetualharpyresonance @lotusbxtch @janescherries

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@kaileahotchner @millersland @mournemee

[ppascalrain]

When she realizes she also makes him feel good waa such a great moment!

[broad-shouldrs]

Virtual Daydream || Joel Miller

a Better in My Head drabble this can be read standalone but feel free to go and read the original story here: masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader word count: 1,813 summary:textfic! you're away and a little tipsy. warnings: rating change from the main fic. 18+. minors DNI.

a/n: i thought i was done with these two but then @billionairecowgirl mentioned sexting and well...here we are as always the biggest of thank you's to my amazing beta @joelsgoodgirl. i wouldn't write/post half the shit i do without your support 💜

as a reminder the format key: Joel Reader

Wednesday, November 19

(6:09pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(6:14pm) I thought you said you’d be done by 6

(6:19pm) Done with the work part of the day but some of my old coworkers from the Detroit office wanted to get drinks at the hotel bar

(6:20pm) Will you call me when you get back to your room?  Missed the sound of your voice

(6:22pm) And miss you saying goodnight to me? Never 😍

(6:24pm) Favorite part of my day

----------------------------------------------

(9:09pm) Joel?

(9:11pm) Yes, sweetheart?

(9:12pm) Why haven't we had sex yet?

(9:12pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(9:13pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(9:14pm) Still at the bar

(9:14pm) Still? It’s past 9

(9:15pm) Drinks turned into dinner, dinner turned into dessert, dessert turned into more drinks

(9:16pm) You didn’t answer my question

(9:16pm) Not sure how to respond 

(9:17pm) Do you find me attractive?

(9:17pm) C’mon now. You know I do. 

(9:17pm) Then what is it?

(9:18pm) I just don’t want to mess this up 

(9:18pm) Joel…

(9:18pm) That’s not fair.  You know I’m a sucker for when you say my name.

(9:19pm) All I’m saying is that I want you to be comfortable I don’t want you to think that I’m pressuring you

(9:19pm) If anything it feels like I’m the one pressuring you…

(9:20pm) I am very much a willing participant

(9:20pm) So, you do think about me like that?

(9:20pm) All the time

(9:21pm) Do you…

(9:21pm) Do I what?

(9:23pm) I’m not sure how crude i’m allowed to be with you

(9:24pm) It’s gonna take a lot to send me running

(9:25pm) Do you think about me when you touch yourself?

(9:25pm) Baby…

(9:26pm) Just a simple yes or no

(9:26pm) I’m only human

(9:28pm) Tell me what you think about

(9:28pm) Cmon now. You’re out with your friends

(9:28pm) I’m being a bad friend and ignoring them

(9:29pm) Just call me when you get back to the room and we can continue this conversation

(9:29pm) Or you can just tell me now

(9:30pm) Here, let's make a deal You tell me what you think about And I'll call you later on and tell you what I think about

(9:31pm) I don’t know what to say

(9:31pm) Just tell me what you think about 

(9:32pm) I’ll try

----------------------------------------------

(9:36pm) There’s a lot of typing going on over there

(9:37pm) Do you want me to tell you or not?

(9:37pm) Sorry, please continue

(9:38pm) Gotta restart now

(9:38pm) You didn’t just copy what you had written?

(9:39pm) I don’t know how to do that

(9:39pm) 🤐

(9:39pm) Mhm. Keep laughing

(9:39pm) You make it too easy

(9:40pm) You know I ain’t good at texting

(9:40pm) No? Because I’m pretty sure that’s how you scored your girlfriend

(9:41pm) You like my dopey way of texting?

(9:41pm) Yes Now, please go back to your super long text that you were sending me.

(9:42pm) It’s nothing crazy.  I just think about kissing you all over. 

(9:42pm) It took you that long to type that?

(9:43pm) I aint done

(9:43pm) No?

(9:43pm) No Just not good at this

(9:44pm) At sexting?

(9:44pm) Is that what they call this?

(9:44pm) Yes, old man

(9:45pm) Not that old

(9:45pm) Would it help if I said I'll be on my best behavior?

(9:45pm) Probably not

(9:46pm) I promise

(9:47pm) Now, can you just try? For me? 🥺

(9:48pm) Why can’t we just wait and have sex like normal people?

(9:48pm) Because i’m thinking about you now…when i’m a million miles away

(9:50pm) Can you…help?

(9:50pm) Stop thinking too hard You’re stuck in your head

(9:51pm) It doesn’t have to be perfect Just tell me When you’re alone and you have your hand wrapped around yourself, what do you think about?

(9:52pm)  You under me

(9:52pm) Okay, good.  And are there clothes involved?

(9:53pm) Not usually

(9:53pm) And what are you doing?

(9:54pm) Kissing your neck and making you arch your back like you do when we make out. 

(9:54pm) You like that?

(9:54pm) I love it

(9:55pm) Good to know.

(9:55pm) What's next?

(9:56pm) I’d slide my leg between yours

(9:56pm) Good (9:57pm) and feel how turned on you were (9:57pm) and you’d feel how…hard I was for you

(9:58pm) Joel…

(9:58pm) Nuh-uh. You asked, and I’m answering

(9:58pm) So keep going

(9:59pm) I’d kiss you until you’re blue in the face.  Always wanna be kissing you.

(9:59pm) Maybe tease you a little

(9:59pm) Tease me how?

(10:00pm) Baby…

(10:00pm) I thought you were answering.

(10:01pm) I don’t know what words to use

(10:01pm) You can say the word cock, Joel. It’s not gonna kill you. and it’s certainly not gonna scare me off.

(10:02pm) Jesus Christ

(10:02pm) Is nowhere near this conversation. Now please continue

(10:02pm) Bossy

(10:03pm) Stop stalling

(10:03pm) Fine

(10:04pm) I’d tease you with my….cock

(10:04pm) Let you rub against it a little bit, get it nice and…wet

(10:05pm) The dramatic pauses are unnecessary but continue

(10:05pm) Baby, I'm trying here.

(10:06pm) You said you were gonna be on your best behavior

(10:06pm) You’re right. I’m sorry. 

(10:06pm) You gonna make fun of me again?

(10:06pm) No

(10:07pm) Good

(10:07pm) girl

(10:08pm) I’m sorry?

(10:08pm) Good girl…

(10:09pm) You like being called that?

(10:09pm) I don't know, but i imagined you saying it and my heart went from 1 to 100 real fast

(10:10pm) I’d kill to have you here with me right now 

(10:10pm) One more day and then I’m back in Texas

(10:10pm) Will you keep going for me, Joel?

(10:11pm) I’m doing ok?

(10:11pm) More than.

(10:12pm) You were saying that you’d tease me with your cock get it nice and wet

(10:13pm) Jesus, yeah Or maybe use my hand

(10:14pm) Let my thumb figure out how sensitive you are

(10:14pm) Start working two fingers inside you

(10:14pm) Maybe this wasn’t a good idea

(10:15pm) Shit, I’m sorry.  I knew I was bad at this

(10:15pm) NO.  God no. The opposite

(10:15pm) I’m getting a little too worked up 

(10:15pm) Oh.

(10:16pm) Do you want me to stop?

(10:16pm) Fuck, Joel

(10:17pm) Bet you’d sound real pretty saying that in my ear

(10:18pm) I’m blushing I’m beet red and blushing

(10:18pm) Is that it?

(10:19pm) What do you mean?

(10:19pm) Are you wet? Thinking about me touching you?

(10:19pm) JOEL

(10:20pm) How did you go from ‘I don't know if I’m good at this’ to….THAT in five minutes

(10:20pm) It’s a real ego boost to hear your girl getting worked up over you

(10:20pm) Touche

(10:21pm) Are you going to answer my question?

(10:22pm) Soaked, Joel. My panties are soaked and I am in public with my colleagues

(10:22pm) Good

(10:23pm) So, two fingers inside you, my thumb on your clit

(10:23pm) Do I need more than two? 

(10:23pm) Subtle

(10:23pm) It’s a legitimate question

(10:24pm) You’re fishing

(10:24pm) I’m not

(10:24pm) All you have to do is ask

(10:24pm) Is that not what I’m doing?

(10:25pm) Just ask the question you actually want to ask

(10:25pm) How is this somehow worse?

(10:26pm) Worse than telling me your panties are soaked?

(10:26pm) I’ve released a monster…

(10:26pm) I would make a pun but it would be in poor taste

(10:27pm) Joel, I swear to god

(10:27pm) I’m sorry. You got me feeling like I’m 16 all over again

(10:27pm) Apparently.  Jesus.

(10:28pm) It would probably be in your best interest to go up to three fingers

(10:28pm) I’m dizzy

(10:28pm) Baby, you okay?

(10:29pm) Keep talking, you asshole (10:29pm) Baby? What did I do?

(10:29pm) Joel, please

(10:30pm) Are you mad at me?

(10:30pm) No. Please keep talking.

(10:30pm) Oh. 

(10:31pm) Three fingers. You said I needed three.

(10:31pm) Yeah, baby. Three fingers inside you.

(10:31pm) I’d let you feel the stretch. Work you open slow

(10:32pm) Could you come from just my fingers?

(10:32pm) yes

(10:32pm) That was fast

(10:33pm) Yes, Joel. I would come from your fingers. Please keep going

(10:33pm) Baby, are you sure you’re okay?

(10:34pm) I am in the restaurant bathroom getting myself off because I can’t just sit there and do nothing while you talk such filth to me and now you’re going to be insufferable about it but i don’t care.

(10:34pm) I’m so close, Joel

(10:34pm) (Outgoing call)

“I cannot do this with you right now.”

“If anyone hears me…”

“You don’t have to say anything, baby. Just listen.”

(zipper opens)

“…are you?”

“Yeah”

“Fuck”

“After you come on my fingers, I’d still want to make love to you.”

“Do you think you can do that for me? Come again?”

“Yes”

“Good girl”

Your breath hitches and you shove the meaty part of your palm in your mouth to keep from moaning.

“I wanna go nice and slow. Feel your fingers dig into my back as you moan into my ear.”

“I’d tell you that you’re doing good. Real good.”

“I’d kiss you, but it wouldn’t be all sweet. Not then, not while i’m inside you.”

“…Joel”

“Shh, quiet, baby. Someone’s gonna hear”

“I don’t care. I’m so close”

“Just from listening to me talk?”

“You don’t get it. I’ve been worked up for weeks now. “

“and you’re so sweet in person.”

“So polite and proper and god, you literally asked if you could put your hand under my shirt I just–”

“I want you so bad”

“I want you too, baby”

“Let me make you come. How can I get you there?”

“Keep talking. Please, Joel. Just keep talking.”

“Okay, baby. Okay.”

“Fuck. I’m touching myself thinking about you.”

“Thinking about how you’d be so warm and tight around me.”

“How I’d lift one of your legs a little higher just so i could get in a little deeper”

“Oh god, Joel”

“Tell me, baby. Is that what you want?”

“You want me inside you? Want me to touch your clit while I’m fuckin’ you?”

“Yes–”

“I’m gonna come, baby.”

“Fuck—I’m so fucking close. Are you close?”

“I’m so close, Joel.”

“Come with me, baby.” 

“Come with me, please. Need to hear you come.”

“Joel–I–I–”

You press your palm tight against your mouth as the wave crashes over you. Your eyes squeeze shut and you’re forced to grab the railing for balance. You can hear the erratic sounds of his hand moving faster as he strokes his cock.

“Just like that, baby. Just like. You sound so good.”

Joel takes in a sharp inhale and then lets out a deep groan as he follows you, his orgasm hitting him hard, making his eyes roll back.

Your whole body shakes as you fight to stay quiet, breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts through your nose. Your thighs press together tightly and your knuckles turn white from where they still grip the railing.

A few moments pass.

“So…how’d I do?”

“The day I get back, I'm not letting you leave the bed.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

tag list: @pedrofan, @cloudguide, @k-d--h, @moel-jiller, @slytherdina, @mxkhxx, @inkandstardusts, @tangledupblog, @ppascalrain, @allie0902, @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack, @justanothergirlfromeurope, @peepawmiller, @la-vie-est-une-fleur29, @sighofthetimez, @clever-dragon, @twilightvelour, @wander-erer5, @joelmillersbabygirll, @secondhand-clothing

[ppascalrain]

It would probably be in your best interest to - sir. Sir. 🥵 Well, how the turn tables have turned. This was so fun to see him get into it when he realizes the effect it's having on her and feels safe from teasing.

[inept-the-magnificent]

What are the odds?- Part 8

Pairing: Casino Owner!Joel Miller X f!Reader

Word Count: 771

Rating: I’m rating this 18+.  There’s no smut here, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.

Warning: My warnings apply to the entire series. Snack time.

A/N: We're at the end. It's been a fun ride. Thank you, everyone, for coming along with me. 💜

You throw the car in park, breathing a sigh of relief.  You lost them somewhere near the exit ramp.  You take a moment to fix your makeup and extract some emergency cash from somewhere deep within your bra.  Stashing cash in random places about your person is an old habit from your waitressing days… and it’s a habit you still hold to this day.  You never know what kind of strange circumstances life can throw at you, like being barefoot and purseless at a donut shop.  Luckily, this particular Mister Donut is like the Waffle House of the donut world.  The chances of a fight breaking out are substantially high, and the chances of them noticing or even caring about your naked feet are incredibly low.  The risks are mostly on you as you step onto the sticky floor for the first time.

Your stomach rumbles again, so you quick-foot it toward the front counter and the disinterested cashier.  Your mouth waters in anticipation, the bra-money clutched tightly in your greedy little fist.  You almost let out a giddy squeal of joy when a shadow falls over you from behind.

“Sit,” a familiar, deep voice commands.  You turn and run right into Joel’s chest.  He says it again, but the word comes out a little gentler.  “Sit.”

You wanna mouth off and tell him to ‘get fucked’, but you don’t.  There’s something in his eyes that makes you just nod.  As you go to move past him, he catches your wrist and plucks the money from your hand, folds it neatly, and tucks it beneath the top of your sequined dress.  He knows you too well…still.  It’s a tender gesture coming from him.

“Your shoes are by the table.”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

You sit and pull on your shoes, your feet slightly tacky from the disgusting floor.  You could easily duck out the door, maybe hail a cab and get the hell out of Dodge.  But you don’t.  You wait.  A minute later, he sets down a tray with two crullers and a chocolate milk and then slides into the seat across from you.

“You remembered,” you say, mildly gob-smacked as you look at the tray.

“Never forgot,” he replies matter-of-factly, breaking the seal on the milk container and setting it down in front of you.  He always used to do that for you, said he loved your pretty nails and didn’t want you to ruin them.

“Where’s Tommy?” you ask, breaking off a piece of pastry and shoving it in your mouth.

“Told him to go home.  He’s in enough trouble as it is without adding Maria.  It’s just you and me now.”

“You mad at me?”  You sip the chocolate milk, taking a moment to savor it.  It’s a little different than you remember, but still just as good.

“Yes.”  It sounds so simple.

“Oh.”  You’d been hoping for a different response.

“Mad that you took my car.  We both know you can’t drive stick for shit, Kitten.”  There it is again… the nickname.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”  You hear a huff of a laugh from him that sounds genuine.

“I’m more mad at you for actually scaring the fucking hell out of me… driving down the highway… no shoes, no purse, no phone.”

“How do you know I don’t have my purse and phone?”

“I’m looking at that dress you’re wearing, and unless you have them stored someplace I don’t know about, you ain’t got them.”  You give him a halfhearted shrug.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the chipped Formica table.  It gives you a good opportunity to take him in, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows… though the shirt itself is now heavily creased.  His once perfectly styled curls are in complete disarray from the trip down the highway.  Beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt you glimpse a gold chain and what you think might be a pendant of sorts… but it’s not.  It’s your wedding rings.  Yours that he placed on your hand that afternoon at the county courthouse.  Yours that you left on the kitchen counter with a note.  Yours that is now nested inside his own and gleaming against the tan skin of his chest.

“Something could’ve happened,” he continues, his hands dangerously close to yours on the table.  “You could’ve gotten hurt… or worse.  I can replace the fucking windshield, Kitten, but I can’t replace-”

“Can’t replace what, Joel?” you ask when he stops suddenly.

He turns his hand palm up in invitation.  You lay your hand in his, and his fingers close around yours.  “Can’t replace you.”

<What are the odds? Part 7 Series Masterlist

[ppascalrain]

Dead. The you remembered/never forgot is the most tender thing ever!! My absolute favorite part that just speaks to so much history and familiarity. These two are gonna be just fine. This was such a great series! 💝💝💝

[inept-the-magnificent]

What are the odds?- Part 7

Pairing: Casino Owner!Joel Miller X f!Reader

Word Count: 523

Rating: I’m rating this 18+.  There’s no smut here, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.

Warning: My warnings apply to the entire series. High-speed chase.

A/N: We're getting close to the end.

“Goddamnit, Kitten!!  Pull the fucking car over!  You’re gonna kill my transmission!”

Tommy white-knuckles the steering wheel while Joel continues to hang out the passenger side window.  He doesn’t even bother trying to risk a glance over for fear of ramming into the car and taking everyone out at once.  Dying is not on his list of shit to do today, and he doesn’t intend to add it to tomorrow’s list either.  If he did manage to die, Maria will resurrect him just so she can kill him herself.  The crap he gets himself into.  All he can hear above the rushing highway noise is Joel yelling across the gap and you obviously struggling to shift gears.  The thing that he finds most odd is that… Joel doesn’t sound angry.  He fully expected him to be enraged to the point of bursting a blood vessel.  But there’s an edge of concern lacing its way through his words… and Tommy doesn’t think it has anything to do with the car anymore.

“Kitten!  C’mon!  Just pull the car over!”

“No!  I’m hungry!” you bark at him, apparently finding the gear you’ve been looking for and launching ahead of them.

“Fuck!” Joel exclaims, settling back into his seat.  His attention turns to Tommy.  “Keep up, will ya?!”

“I’m doing the best I can, Joel!  God!  I’m trying to not get us killed!”

“Jesus Christ… when did you get to be such a wussy behind the wheel?  Should’ve driven the goddamn truck myself,” Joel mumbles.

“You might have a fucking death wish, but I sure as hell don’t.”

“Whatever.  Just keep on her.”

“Are you sure it’s just the car you’re worried about and not-”

“Shut your damn pie-hole, little brother.  I’m not so old that I can’t still kick your ass.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and drops it.  He knows better than to engage at this point.  Joel’s not completely flipping out at the moment, so he takes advantage of the small reprieve.

But the peace doesn’t last long.  Joel’s phone dings in the quiet of the truck.  Tommy keeps his eyes on the Mustang, but the atmosphere in the cab shifts.  The light from Joel’s phone draws his attention very briefly… but it’s enough.  He knows exactly what it is… security footage from the parking garage.  Shit!

“Did you know about this?” Joel asks, not raising his eyes from the screen.  “Was that why you were in the garage?”

Tommy doesn’t answer… doesn’t dare to.  The fact that Joel allowed him to verbally unload on him earlier in the parking garage was a miracle… but some miracles are ‘single use only’.  He tries to pretend like he didn’t hear.

“I’m not gonna ask twice.”

“Yes and yes.”  Surprisingly, it only earns him a small grunt of displeasure.  The Mustang signals and speeds onto the exit ramp.  “What the fuck is she doing?”

Joel looks up and sees the sign.  “Take a left at the top of the ramp instead of the right.”

“But she’s going-”

“Just do it.”  The corner of Joel’s mouth starts to curl up into a smirk.  “I know where she’s going.”

<What are the odds? Part 6 Series Masterlist What are the odds? Part 8>

[ppascalrain]

Tommy has me dying here. Afraid of crashing, afraid of Joel, but terrified of Maria🤣🤣 Also, i meant to say this last time, I love the pictures you use for your stories!

[chronically-ghosted]

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed 

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled. 

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder. 

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.” 

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.” 

Partner. 

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. 

And then he met you and the definition changed again. 

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why. 

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days. 

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions. 

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts. 

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed. 

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here. 

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all. 

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.” 

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime. 

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath. 

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee. 

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold. 

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.” 

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee. 

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets. 

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night. 

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids. 

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it. 

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since. 

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks. 

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair. 

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation. 

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay. 

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold. 

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love. 

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants. 

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare. 

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him. 

“Baby–,” 

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this 

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall. 

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer. 

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in. 

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut. 

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars. 

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day. 

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is. 

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head. 

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful. 

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you. 

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you. 

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees. 

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now. 

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it. 

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch. 

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart. 

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips. 

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs. 

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes. 

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it. 

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford. 

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair. 

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.” 

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole. 

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair. 

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh. 

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty. 

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible. 

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean. 

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face. 

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine. 

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point. 

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now. 

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level. 

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls. 

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest. 

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table. 

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock. 

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?” 

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich. 

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.” 

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.” 

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork. 

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist. 

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.  

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain. 

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.  

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.” 

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.” 

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it. 

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done. 

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.” 

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him. 

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow. 

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy. 

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire. 

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust. 

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again. 

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm. 

“B-baby, please–,” 

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer. 

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.” 

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.” 

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him. 

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name. 

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep. 

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again. 

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more. 

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst. 

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs. 

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet. 

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling. 

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor. 

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull. 

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face. 

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.” 

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest. 

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.” 

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips. 

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all. 

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed. 

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you. 

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.” 

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach. 

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.” 

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

[ppascalrain]

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body.

This whole part, the kintsugi, is just beautiful and reads like poetry. Just a gorgeous, gorgeous read.

[pilotispunk]

midnight snack

pairing: frankie morales x f! reader

summary: It’s almost midnight. You’re in Frankie’s kitchen wearing nothing but his old shirt, licking peanut butter off a spoon. Frankie decides its his turn for a midnight snack.

word count - ~2.2k

rating - E

content - Explicit smut, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, fingering, dirty talk, possessive but soft! frankie, gentle aftercare, some good ole fashioned kitchen counter sex

author's note - not beta'd, I was just horny before bed.

The screen door creaks at 11:47 PM.

Frankie Morales steps inside, smelling like whiskey and bar smoke, the denim of his jacket still warm from the humid Florida night. The house is mostly dark, save for the low hum of the fridge and the flicker of soft yellow kitchen light bleeding down the hall. The guys had stayed behind, still shoulder-deep in their usual too-loud poker game, but Frankie wanted to get home—needed to. You’d stayed in tonight, and his daughter was with her mom for the weekend.

He toed off his boots in the doorway, keys landing in a lazy clatter on the side table. His knuckles still buzzed from the pool stick he gripped for too long, and the quiet hit harder than it should have. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling slow. The kind of breath you take when you know something’s waiting for you—something soft, something good.

The kitchen light cast a glow onto the hardwood. He turned the corner—

And stopped dead in his tracks.

You were barefoot. Hair a little messy. And wearing his old army tee, the faded one with the fraying hem that barely covered your ass. No bra. No pants. Just smooth legs and sleepy eyes and a spoonful of peanut butter at your lips, lit like a fucking dream in the golden hum of the fridge.

Frankie stood frozen, gaze sliding from your thighs to the curve of your mouth as you licked the spoon clean.

You jumped slightly at the sound of the door behind him.

“Shit—I didn’t hear you come in.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away.

His jaw ticked, a slow grind beneath the trimmed edge of his beard. He looked broader somehow in the soft kitchen light—shoulders stretching his jacket, forearms solid beneath the rolled sleeves of a faded button-up he hadn’t bothered to tuck in. He smelled like sweat and smoke and something warmer underneath, something that always made you want to lean in closer.

His eyes dragged over you slowly. Not in a way that felt cheap. Like he was taking inventory. Like he was memorizing. Those eyes—always a little tired, always a little heavy—looked darker now. Sharper.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he finally asked, voice low and rough, like gravel warmed in the sun.

You shrugged, the spoon still in your hand. “Was craving something sweet.”

His gaze flicked to it—then back to your mouth. Slower this time. Like he was following the path of a thought he didn’t want to say out loud.

“You find it?”

You smiled at the innuendo—maybe a little tipsy yourself from the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner.

“Not yet.”

Frankie took a step closer.

And another.

Your body tensed instinctively. Not from fear. From anticipation.

He wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t drunk, not exactly. But loose-limbed and hungry, eyes glazed just enough that you knew something had been building all night. Maybe from the minute he left.

“Y’know,” he said, stopping just inches in front of you, “you walk around my kitchen like this… lickin’ that off your fingers…”

His voice was quieter now, but rougher. Like he was holding something back.

He reached forward, slow and sure, eyes never leaving yours as his fingers brushed yours and took the spoon. His touch was warm. Brief. Enough to make you shiver.

Then he brought it to his mouth.

Licked the last bit from it—tongue dragging over the metal, slow and deliberate—and you gasped before you could stop yourself. Soft. Involuntary. Like your body gave you away.

He didn’t react. Just turned, tossed the spoon in the sink with a soft clang.

And then, still so calm it nearly made you ache:

“You lookin’ to get fucked, or you just like testin’ my patience?”

Your breath caught.

You tilted your head a little, lashes dipping low as you looked up at him through the kitchen light. The shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder. You didn’t fix it.

You gave him a look—wide-eyed, a little coy, a little knowing. Sweet enough to play innocent. Sharp enough to let him know you weren’t.

“Can’t it be both?”

Frankie made a low sound in his throat—half groan, half growl—and then his hands were on you.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he spun you and hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, your bare thighs spreading instinctively around his hips. His mouth was on yours before you could speak—tongue hot and insistent, tasting like whiskey and something darker, deeper. His beard scraped along your jaw, and you whimpered as he kissed you like he owned you.

“You miss me?” he rasped, lips dragging to your neck.

“Yes,” you breathed. “So much.”

“You sittin’ here all soft and sweet like this, fuckin’ waitin’ for me, preciosa?”

Your head tipped back as he sucked at your pulse, teeth just grazing.

“Frankie—”

He slid one hand under the hem of the shirt and groaned.

“No fuckin’ panties?”

“I didn’t think I’d need—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You were right.”

His fingers found your slit—already slick—and he pressed in with a slow, filthy drag. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “This pussy drives me crazy. Siempre tan lista para mí.”

You moaned as two fingers slid inside, slow and steady. His thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit, and your hips rolled into his palm with instinct more than thought.

“You been thinkin’ about me since I left?”

You nodded, breath catching.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Been thinking about you all night.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thinkin’ about what?”

“About this,” you whined. “Your mouth. Your hands. How good you fuck me—”

That was all it took.

Frankie dropped to his knees without warning.

Your breath hitched.

“Frankie—”

“Shh,” he murmured, already coaxing your thighs apart with strong, steady hands. His palms were warm, calloused, dragging up the soft skin of your inner thighs in a slow glide that made your whole body tense.

Then—his fingers.

They slid through your folds, unhurried, like he was savoring the way you opened for him. He stroked you with confidence, curling just enough to make your back arch, pressing deep and dragging out with purpose.

And then you felt it.

His breath—hot and humid—ghosting over your cunt as he leaned in, mouth hovering so close you swore you could feel the outline of every word he was about to say.

Then came the brush of his beard.

Rough, warm, grazing the crease of your thigh like a promise. The soft scrape made your whole body twitch, the contrast of textures—his stubble and your slick heat—almost too much before he even touched you with his mouth.

“Gonna taste what’s mine,” he said softly, voice like gravel and smoke and sex. “Don’t move.”

He grabbed your thighs and dragged you forward, his mouth finding your cunt like it was a fucking destination. There was no hesitation. No teasing. Just need.

You reached for his head as he dropped between your legs—and paused just long enough to pull off that worn, sweat-soft Standard Oil cap. You tossed it somewhere behind you, and your fingers dove straight into his curls.

Thick, soft, still warm from the cap.

You gripped tight when the first swipe of his tongue dragged through your folds—long and slow, like he was savoring the way you opened for him. His beard scraped rough against your skin, and the contrast made your hips jerk.

Then he moaned.

The sound vibrated against you, deep and hungry, and he pressed in harder—tongue working deep, licking and sucking like he needed it. He buried his face in you, messy and starved, groaning into your pussy with every wet flick of his tongue over your clit.

Your fingers clenched tighter in his hair, tugging instinctively. He groaned louder.

“Frankie—fuck—oh my god—”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He held you open, his hands gripping above your knees, thumbs digging into your thighs like he dared you to try and close them.

When you came, it crashed through you like fire—white-hot, clenching, loud. You sobbed, your thighs shaking around his head, but he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, swallowing every twitch, every cry.

“Good girl,” he growled against your cunt. “Come for me.”

You pushed at his shoulder, overwhelmed. Your head fell back against the cabinets as your whole body trembled.

Finally, finally—he pulled back.

He rose slow, licking his lips, beard soaked and glinting in the low kitchen light. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then sucked his thumb clean.

His eyes were dark.

Hungry.

“Bedroom,” you whispered, still shaking.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

Frankie was already unzipping his jeans, his cock springing free—thick and flushed and already leaking.

“I’m fuckin’ you right here,” he said. “On my counter.”

He stepped between your legs again. Palmed your jaw with one hand, the other stroking the head of his cock through your wetness.

“Right where you were sittin’,” he muttered, “eatin’ my food… wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt…”

His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Your breath hitched at the sight of it, your thighs twitching open wider without conscious thought. Need pooled hot and low in your belly.

He didn’t take the shirt off you.

Didn’t even speak.

Just stepped closer, hands sliding up your thighs—slow, steady—and lined himself up. The head of his cock slipped through your slick folds, dragging heat and friction that made your breath catch.

Then he pressed in.

All at once.

One deep, deliberate thrust, and he was buried to the hilt.

You gasped—mouth falling open, hands gripping his biceps for balance.

“F–fuck, Frankie—”

Your voice was barely a whisper, like you didn’t want to break the hush of the house around you. He didn’t groan—just exhaled, long and low, forehead dipping to yours as he stayed there, cock pulsing inside you.

“So fuckin’ warm,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Like you’ve been waitin’ for me.”

“I have,” you whispered.

He kissed you then. Lingering and slow. Like he didn’t need to prove anything except that you were his to come home to.

He started to roll his hips. Deep. Rhythm heavy and slow, like he was savoring every inch, every pulse of your body around him. Every time he bottomed out, you could feel the tension in his back, in his jaw—holding it all in, like he didn’t want to rush.

“You always let me in like this?” he asked softly, mouth brushing your ear. “So easy, baby.”

You nodded, lips brushing his jaw. “Only you.”

A quiet groan left him. His grip on your waist tightened.

“Can feel how much you want it,” he whispered, hips pressing deeper, harder. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Every slow thrust dragged pleasure out of you like he was pulling it, coaxing it from deep inside. You could feel your orgasm building—slow and warm, like being pulled under.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “I can feel it.”

He pressed a kiss to your jaw. Then another behind your ear. His rhythm didn’t change—just stayed steady, patient, fucking you through it like he had all the time in the world.

“Let go for me,” he said, breath thick against your throat. “Come on me, baby.”

You came soft, gasping, eyes wet, arms wrapped around him as you pulsed around his cock. Frankie held you through it—moaning low in your ear, hips still moving, his forehead resting against yours.

“Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, almost a promise. “Nice and slow.”

“Fill me up,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Come inside me, Frankie, please.”

That was all it took.

He groaned—low, guttural, like it punched straight from his chest—and thrust one final time, holding deep, cock buried to the hilt. You felt it before you heard it—the way he tensed, the shudder of his breath, the sudden pulse inside you as he came.

Thick, hot spurts flooded you, deep and slow, each one making you clench tighter around him. You moaned softly against his shoulder, arms wrapped around his back, heart hammering as his hips gave one last grind, like he didn’t want to leave.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice thick and low against your ear. “God, baby…”

He stayed there a moment longer—just breathing, body pressed to yours, both of you slick and warm, flushed from head to toe.

Then he kissed you. Slow. Delicate. His mouth was still wet from you, and it made the kiss all the more tender—like he was sealing something in. Not claiming. Keeping.

His hand slid down to your thigh, stroking gently. You shivered.

When he finally pulled out, you whimpered at the loss. He didn’t say anything—just watched, eyes dark and soft, as his cum began to drip down your thigh.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Look at you.”

You could barely hold his gaze. Your limbs were loose, body trembling, ruined in the best way.

He reached for a dishtowel—soft and faded from use—and crouched to wipe between your legs, slow and careful. Gentle enough not to make you flinch. He didn’t say anything while he did it. Just looked at you like you were something he’d never get over.

Then—without a word—he leaned in and scooped you up. Bridal-style, arms steady, chest warm against your cheek.

You clung to him without thinking. Drowsy. Wet. Safe.

He started down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the wood floor.

“You carry all your midnight snacks to bed like this?” you mumbled, your voice worn out but teasing, lips brushing the skin above his collarbone.

His chest rumbled with a soft laugh.

“Only the ones I’m keepin’.”

[ppascalrain]

I love him soft and sweet. I love him hungry and commanding. I just love him.

[inept-the-magnificent]

Never Have I Ever

Pairing: Tattoo Parlor!Frankie Morales x f!Reader 

Challenge:  Secret Springs Creative Challenge- Week 3: Shops

Word Count: 2567 

Warnings: 18+ only.  This is spicier than normal for me, so be advised.  Two consenting adults have sexy time. 

A/N: I want to thank @secretelephanttattoo for creating Secret Springs.  This is such a fun community project, and I feel blessed to participate.  I asked El to spin the Wheel of Destiny for me to decide where my baby boy, Frankie, was gonna be working… and y’all… I was not disappointed.  We got the Tattoo Parlor.  Let me tell you what… my brain went on overdrive.  I hope you all like it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

Your voyage to Secret Springs was not without its drama… delayed flight… severe turbulence… temporarily misplaced luggage… a fluffy-haired cab driver who was high on who-knows-what making you nearly miss your check-in time at the resort.  The day started like shit and had nowhere else to go but downwards.  It was your first solo vacation since you and your ex broke up, and so far, it’s been just as disastrous as your relationship was. 

In an attempt to salvage your vacation, you spend the first two days lounging in and around the resort pool endlessly doom-scrolling the internet.  You answer a slew of ‘never have I ever’ posts and realize that you haven’t done much of anything… not really.  You had wanted to go on exciting adventures with Chad, but instead, he chose to do exciting things with the girl who lived across the hall in 3B. 

“Fuck you, Chad” you mutter to yourself as you drift in the pool on an inflatable pizza slice.  “Fuck you and Miss Perky Tits.” 

The longer you float there the more you want to uncheck some of the Nevers on these lists.  Some of them were simple. 

Never have I ever had a tropical mixed drink. 

You uncheck that one as you sip on a Malibu Bay Breeze.  You’re not usually into pineapple and coconut but the cranberry juice makes it much better.  Baby steps, you tell yourself. 

Never have I ever sung karaoke. 

Your plan is to uncheck that one tonight at one of the bars situated on the resort property.  You’re excited by the game plan that is slowly taking shape in your mind.  This wasn’t initially on the to-do list but now it’s becoming a mission. 

You live your best life at karaoke.  You meet more people that have flown in to enjoy the resort, same as you.  You recognize some faces from your flight and commiserate with each other over your shared drama.  Some of them never got their luggage back at all, so you count yourself lucky.  You pay for some of their drinks so they can at least enjoy themselves.  Your singing is horrendously off-key, but you don’t care... and neither does anyone else.  The more you drink, the worse you get, until you finally decide to stumble back to your room.  You crank up the AC, pull on a light nightgown, and collapse on the bed. 

Over breakfast, you thumb through the resort brochure looking for other activities to help you uncheck off more things on your list when something catches your eye... a scooter rental company.  You can’t help yourself.  You want to feel like Audrey Hepburn in ‘Roman Holiday’. 

Never have I ever driven a scooter. 

You mentally uncheck it as you stand there in your sundress and sandals while the man behind the rental desk drops the key to a Vespa scooter into your outstretched hand.  You must look like an idiot to him as you grin and do a little happy dance before jogging out the door. 

It takes you a little while to get used to the scooter, but once you do, there’s no stopping you.  You’re thrilled by the lack of a helmet law, allowing the breeze to flow through your loose hair.  You feel freedom as you zip along the city streets, stopping occasionally to visit local artisans who are selling their wares on the sidewalks. 

As the sun is setting, you decide on a small cafe for some sustenance.  You had snacked throughout the day, but now you’re starving.  As you sit at a table outside, picking at the remains of your dinner, you see something else to uncheck. 

Never have I ever gotten a tattoo. 

You balk at this a little.  This would be something permanent... something you would be faced with every day.  You only live once, you tell yourself.  You drink down the last of your wine for some liquid courage, pay your bill, and march across the street. 

You pause in the neon glow of the tattoo parlor.  If you don’t go in now, you never will.  A little bell tinkles as you push the door open. 

“I’ll be right with you,” a deep voice calls from the back.  You take this moment to look around.  The walls are covered with tattoo flash... a lot of it traditional, and some of it overused by drunken college students.  You admire the photos of finished work that looks very custom and extremely personal to the clients.  What really catches your attention is what appears to be large, repurposed gumball machines with small plastic globes in them.  Your nose is an inch from the glass when he speaks again.  “I like to call those ‘Surprise Tattoos’.”   

You startle and let out a little squeak of shock.  You never even heard him come over.  Spinning around, you are faced with a broad, tan man in a faded red tee shirt that’s pulled taut across his chest.  His dark eyes are obscured by the brim of a ball cap... but nothing can hide the moustache, patchy beard, and the smirk on his lips.  He lays his massive hand on top of one of the machines and gives it a prideful pat. 

“’Surprise Tattoos’?” you repeat, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks.  You can’t help staring at the chocolatey curls poking out from beneath the obviously well-loved hat.  The urge to touch them is very strong.  He nods. 

“Yup.  For a hundred bucks, you get one turn on each machine.  The one on the left is what tattoo you get, and the one on the right is where the tattoo will go... hence the surprise.”   The sound of his voice as he continues to talk makes you want to melt.  “So, are you just browsing?  Looking to get a gift certificate for someone?” 

“I... I want to get a tattoo.”  You rush your words out. 

“Do you now?”  His eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under his hat.  “Do you know what you’re looking to get?  Any ideas?” 

“No,” you say bashfully as you look up at him, biting your bottom lip. 

He stands with his hands on his hips, regarding you thoughtfully.  “Are you sure you want a tattoo?” 

“Oh... absolutely... it’s on my list.” 

“On your list?” 

You explain the ‘Never have I ever’ list and all the things you want to do while in Secret Springs because why the fuck not, right?  You know that you’re oversharing, but there’s something about him that makes you want to bare your soul to him. 

“Okay... well if that’s the case, who am I to deny you?”  He smiles and a deep dimple appears that makes you want to swoon.  “Let’s just get your paperwork signed, and you can decide what you want.” 

“I want a ‘Surprise Tattoo’,” you blurt out and start rummaging through your bag, pulling out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. 

“Babygirl... you should really pick out something that you like.”  He gives you a worried look.  “This is permanent.” 

“I want the surprise.”  You’re very insistent, thrusting the money at him.  He plucks it from your fingers. 

“Alright... make your turns.” 

You twist each knob and retrieve your plastic globes.  But when you go to open them, he stops you and gently takes them from your hand. 

“Nope,” he tells you, “that’s part of the surprise.  C’mon.” 

You follow him to the back where everything is set up.  The room is so clean and meticulously organized that you’re certain you could safely perform a surgery there.  He leads you over to a padded table and encourages you to sit down. 

“So,” he hands you one of the plastic globes, “you get to open this one... the one that tells us where we’re putting your tattoo.  You don’t get to see the other one.” 

You take it in both hands and crack it open, pulling a small slip of paper from inside.  Your face falls when you see the word ‘Ass’ scrawled across it. 

He takes the paper from you and glances at it.  He looks back at you with puppy dog eyes.  “I’ll let you pick another one if you want.  I would let you do that.” 

You shake your head at him.  “I’m in it to win it.” 

He chuckles and helps you to lay on your stomach, giving you a pillow to lay your head on.  He pulls his cart and his stool over by the table and takes a seat.  “So... I’m gonna have to pull the bottom of your dress up.” 

“Okay,” you say breathily, watching him from the pillow under your head.  He grasps the hem of your dress and slowly drags it up, knuckles grazing your skin as he does.  It takes every fiber of your being to not clench your thighs together, so you settle for digging your nails into the pillow instead.   

“Is this okay?”  You nod.  With his thumb, he hooks the side of your panties.  “And this?” 

He waits for your permission.  You give another nod, and he pulls them to the side.  You shiver as the AC cooled air hits your exposed cheek.  He stares for a moment, running his tongue along his lower lip, before turning to don a pair of latex gloves. 

He preps your skin with an amazing amount of care.  Even with the gloves on, his hands feel like they are going to set you ablaze.  He talks you through the entire process, telling you what to expect.  He turns away, picks up the other plastic globe, and cracks it open.  You hear the rustling of paper... and he goes silent.  He lets out a barely audible snort-laugh.  He turns back with a grin on his face. 

“You ready?” he asks. 

“Yeah.”  You smile at him. 

You’re not sure when you fell asleep.  You remember talking to him and feeling so relaxed as he worked.  Now you wake up to him stroking your hair. 

“Hey there, sleepy head.”  He gives you a lopsided smile.  “All done.” 

“Can I see it?” 

“Not yet,” he tells you as he helps you off the table.   

You walk beside him to the front of the shop and realize that it’s really dark outside now.  “Shit!  How long have I been here?” 

“’Bout three hours, and you slept through about two of them.  You must’ve been pretty tired.” 

“And you just let me sleep?”  You’re not sure whether to be thankful or annoyed. 

“You looked so fucking peaceful,” he admits.  Why did he have to be so goddamn sweet, you ask yourself.  He shuts the lights off and you both step outside.  

“Well, thank you… for everything.”  You smile shyly at him.  “You must be really good at what you do because it doesn’t even hurt at all… not like I thought it was going to.” 

“Yeah… well… I do my best,” he replies, reaching into his back pocket.  He pulls out the hundred-dollar bill you’d given him and places it in your hand, folding your fingers over it.  He continues to hold your hand between his.  “Keep it.” 

“What?”  You look confused.  “You’ve earned it.  You put in all that work.” 

“Think of it as a gift,” he says softly, pressing a light kiss to your cheek.  You can feel your heart banging away in your chest. 

Never have I ever kissed a stranger. 

You don’t know exactly where you got your balls from… probably stashed in your bag perhaps… but you grab his shirt and pull him into you.  The last thing you see before your lips smash into his is his look of complete and utter surprise.  To your relief, he doesn’t pull away but leans into it for all he’s worth.  One of his hands finds the back of your head and the other is sliding down your back.  The two of you become a tangled hot mess of teeth, lips, and hands right there on the sidewalk for anyone who might be walking by to see. 

You pull away from each other panting.  You didn’t think his eyes could get any darker, but they sure as fuck have. His irises are almost nonexistent.   He comes in for round two, nipping at your lower lip.  You reach up and clutch the curls that you’ve been dying to touch since you first saw them… and they’re softer than you imagined.  He lets out a low growl. 

“Do you wanna come back to my room?” you gasp as his lips move up your neck to find that sweet spot. 

“I’ll call us a cab,” he mutters, greedily licking close to your ear. 

“I have a scooter.”  You hear a slight laugh rumble in his chest. 

“You have a fucking scooter?”  You swear you can feel him grinning against your skin. 

“I wanted to feel like Audrey Hepburn.” 

“Then let’s hurry up and find your scooter,” he groans impatiently. 

You cling to him from behind as he weaves through the little bit of traffic that’s out and about this late… most likely breaking several laws in the process.  Resting your face against his back, you imagine that you feel his heart hammering as fast as yours… the scent of him filling your nostrils. 

He’s barely had time to park the scooter before you’re dragging each other up the stairs, his hands pawing at your dress while you fumble the keys to your room.  He wants this… and so do you.  The door swings open and slams shut, the room becoming a flurry of activity and an explosion of garments. 

“You still okay with this, baby-girl?”  he asks, taking your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. 

“God yes,” you moan, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.  He removes the last piece of fabric from you and carries you to the bed. 

Never have I ever had a one-night stand. 

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over your crime scene.  You vaguely remember discarding the bedspread and pillows, leaving them in a giant heap on the floor.  It was much too hot for blankets, and you definitely didn’t need pillows for what you were doing.  The sight of the faded red tee shirt dangling unceremoniously from one of the lampshades causes you to become acutely aware of the heavy arm draped across your waist.  There’s a mop of chocolate curls resting on your chest.  You run your fingers through them, and his arm tightens, pulling you closer to him.  Warm lips press against your skin, his moustache tickling you to the point of giggling. 

“I have to get up for a second,” you laugh.  The more you try to unwind yourself from him, the more he draws you in, laying little nips down your side.  He finally relinquishes his hold and lets you up with your promises of a quick return.  His eyes follow you across the room as you head toward the bathroom.  As you’re passing the full-length mirror, you freeze, turning your gaze towards your reflection.  It’s your first time seeing it.  You think that you might be hallucinating… but there it is… right there on your left ass-cheek… a picture of a catfish?… and a signature?  You turn a little more to make out the name and make a what-the-fuck face. 

“Who the fuck is Frankie?” you exclaim in confusion.  Your eyes shift back to the bed to find him casually laying on his side, head propped up on one hand, and a grin plastered across his face. 

“G’morning, babygirl.” 

[ppascalrain]

This just hits the spot when you want sweet, soft, sexy, flirty Frankie. So perfect! 💗

[inept-the-magnificent]

What are the odds?- Part 6

Pairing: Casino Owner!Joel Miller X f!Reader

Word Count: 711

Rating: I’m rating this 18+.  There’s no smut here, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.

Warning: My warnings apply to the entire series. Tommy drops some hard truths.

A/N: Barreling into part 6.

Maybe, perhaps, you didn’t think this through nearly as much as you ought to have.  You were irritated with Joel.  And one would have thought that the long walk from the alley to the VIP parking garage would have been enough time to formulate a better plan… but you didn’t.  As soon as you lifted that crowbar from the ground, you straight-up channeled Joel.  It was the ultimate WWJMD moment… ‘What would Joel Miller do?’  He would do exactly what you did… or probably worse, depending on the day, the angle of the Sun in the sky, and his mood in general.  You never know which version of Joel you are gonna get.  He is the proverbial ‘Box of Chocolates’.  You could bite into every candy and still not get the one you’re hoping for.

You sigh as you shift gears again with only minimal grinding.  You’re shifting has gotten only slightly better since you first hopped in the driver’s seat.  Driving a stick-shift was never your thing.  You prefer an automatic… just hop in, turn the key, and go… no fancy footwork required.  And… your ability to see… well… that hasn’t improved.  Maybe cracking the windshield wasn’t such a brilliant idea, but in the heat of the moment, you’d done it.

You hadn’t intended to actually take the car initially.  But after you swung that crowbar, you realized you’d be a dead woman if Joel found it right away.  So, the plan to leave it there for him to find went out the window.  The one thing you never banked on was him leaving it unlocked.  Why would he?  He has soooo much security that the idea of anyone stealing Joel Miller’s car is unfathomable.  Except… you did steal it.  When you pulled the handle and the door swung open, you honestly gasped in surprise.  It was suspiciously too easy.  You gave a quick glance around as your bravado began to waver as you slid beneath the dash.  One of the many tricks Joel taught you in your much younger years was how to start a car when the key was ‘conveniently’ absent.  It took longer than you would’ve liked, but when the engine roared to life, a breathy little ‘Jackpot’ escaped your glossy lips.  You needed time for him to cool down a bit, so it was time to skedaddle.

You’re glad you checked the door handle first instead of smashing the side window.  You’re not completely heartless in the grand scheme of things.  The thing that annoys you the most, currently… besides Joel walking away from you again… is the fact that you left your fucking shoes behind.  They might be fakes, but driving with shoes on is a must.  This barefoot shit is for the birds.

You’re cruising down the highway with the window down, letting the cool night air wash over you.  The sequins of your dress sparkle in the occasional streetlights.  It’s a fine night for a little car thievery.  It’s almost perfect but then your stomach rumbles angrily, forcing you to realize that it’s been a while since you’d eaten anything.  You see the giant lit-up sign in the distance for Mister Donut.

“Fuck yeah.”  You flip your signal to change lanes to head toward the off-ramp.  A pair of high-beams lights up all your mirrors like it’s freaking daytime.  It’s a massive pickup truck, and it’s coming up on you fast.  You complete your lane change, but the truck stays on you.  It switches lanes and moves closer.  You think that they’re either gonna rear-end you for insurance fraud or force you off the road to carjack you.  Neither option is pleasant.  You try to speed up but the exit is still a couple miles away.  They suddenly veer back into the other lane, and you think they’re gonna pass you when… someone shouts your name.

You risk a glance to your left.  The truck is right beside you… and Joel’s half-hanging out the window.  “Pull the car over!”

You shake your head and try to shift gears again to speed up, but the car makes another grinding noise.  You can see Joel wince out of the corner of your eye.  “Goddamnit, Kitten!!  Pull the fucking car over!  You’re gonna kill my transmission!”

<What are the odds? Part 5 Series Masterlist

[ppascalrain]

I don't know what I love more - this story or how much you're having fun with it 😄 I love the different viewpoints. It's easy to see how they drive each other nuts but also really complement each other. He's tightly wound and she's definitely not! 💖

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

blind date l Frankie “Catfish” Morales

Summary:  you were supposed to spend a quiet evening, but someone sat down at your table

Warnings:  just fluff, some kissing, a little bit of alcohol, misunderstanding

A/N: aaaaaahhhhh, I know I shouldn't do this! this platform is full of beautiful stories about Frankie, but I had one thought in my head and I had to do something with it since I had some free time. your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

You were never a big fan of your birthday. When you read about the "birthday blues" somewhere a while ago, you were already sure that it was all about you. Going out with friends, loud parties and drinking until dawn - that wasn't your thing. This time, you decided to do it all differently.

You put on a nice dress, the one that made you feel really good and pretty. You put on light makeup and used your favorite perfume. All of that just to go alone to one of the local bars, order a drink and spend this time in your own company. And everything was going well until a certain moment.

You were just browsing the late-night repertoire at the nearby cinema on your phone when someone unexpectedly sat down at your table. You looked up, a little surprised.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I have no excuse for that. Have you been waiting long?"

"I..." you couldn't get any more out of yourself, because the man glanced at your almost empty drink.

"I'll order you a new one. Wait a minute."

He stood up and walked over to the bar, and you tried to understand what had just happened. You looked back at this strange man. 

He was tall, with broad shoulders and a rather narrow waist. Curly hair peeked out from under his baseball cap. You were sure you definitely didn't know him, because you would have remembered those wonderful brown eyes.

After a moment, he returned to the table carrying a new drink for you and a beer for himself. He sat down and smiled uncertainly at you.

"So..." he began, then extended his hand to you, "I'm Frankie."

You shook his hand, giving him your name. You saw him frown for a moment, as if a thought had appeared in his head, but it quickly disappeared.

He rested his arms on the table, his shirt stretching pleasantly on his body.

"I never thought I'd be on a blind date." he mumbled, smiling "But that seems pretty nice. Especially when the company is so lovely."

"Don't worry, I didn't plan on taking part in something like that either." You replied, pleasantly flattered by his compliment. "But maybe we should just see where it takes us."

"Yeah, sure. So... How do you know Benny?"

What Benny? You didn't know any man by that name. But Frankie was faster than you again.

"You probably met after one of his fights." he stated, adjusting his cap. "Silly question, sorry. I haven't done this in a while."

"What do you mean?” you asked, taking a sip of your drink, the sweet cherry flavor filling your mouth.

"I didn't go on dates." Frankie rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "You know. I've been working a lot lately."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a pilot."

"Oh!"

"A helicopter pilot, I do assignments for different companies." he explained "I was in the military before. What about you?"

"I don't fly and I didn't fight." You replied and he laughed. His smile was really cute.

You told him what you did, and he - it was true - he really listened to you. He asked some simple and polite questions about your job, but he didn't try to let it dominate your conversation.

You felt comfortable and really good around Frankie, so when you finished your drinks and he suggested that you should go out and eat something, you gladly agreed.

You walked side by side through the quiet town, it was a warm and peaceful evening. The conversation revolved around topics that were safe for you, and you were more and more charmed by this man.

You didn't object when he put his hand on your back when you stopped at some takeaway. You even smiled a little embarrassed when the nice salesman asked Frankie:

"And what for your lady?"

"And what does my lady want?" he asked, winking at you.

You placed your order and soon you sat down outside to eat. You could feel Frankie's gaze on you almost the entire evening.

"Sorry, but this is the first time I've seen a girl that looks so hot eating takeout in a place like this." he laughed when you asked what was so funny to him.

"You're unfair!" you replied, holding back a laugh and aiming a fry at him. "I don't dress like this every day."

"So this is for me? Thank you."

You nervously bit the inside of your cheek. You felt a pang of guilt. Frankie was charming, funny and handsome, but he was supposed to meet someone else that night. Maybe you just deprived him of the opportunity to meet a really great woman?

Suddenly, his large, warm hand squeezed your knee and it brought you back to reality.

"C'mon, sweetie. I'd love to spend the whole night with you, but I have to drop you home." he said, smiling. "I have an early flight tomorrow."

"I can call a cab. You don't have to..."

"Please." His eyes were like those of a cute puppy. "Give me a few more minutes with you."

So you agreed. Frankie drove you home, his hand lazily stroking your knee. You liked that.

You wondered for a moment whether to tell him that you lived even further away, because the ride was really nice, but soon the car stopped in front of the building you lived in.

"We're here," he said. "Listen... It was a really nice evening. I understand if you didn't want to meet up with me again, but..."

"I had a great time too." you replied quickly, and seeing how his face lit up you added. "Maybe I'll give you my number? In case you want to meet up again, or... talk?"

"Yeah, sure!"

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and you quickly typed in your number. There was nothing left.

"I think I'll go now. I wouldn't want you to oversleep at work because of me."

"I wouldn't mind, but I guess you're right."

You had already opened the door and was about to get out when a thought crossed your mind. If you had been going with the flow all evening, why would you stop now? 

You saw a small surprise in Frankie's eyes, but after a moment he smiled when you moved closer to him, placing your hand on his cheek. You felt his stubble tickle your skin. 

And then you kissed him. Just like that. Frankie kissed you back, sliding one hand into your hair and the other squeezing your waist. He pulled you even closer, sliding his tongue between your lips.

He was a gentle kisser, or at least that was the first impression he gave. His lips were soft and lightly returned the next kisses. You smiled as you moved away from him.

"Good night, Frankie." You whispered and quickly got out of the car.

Frankie [04:56] Morning. I hope I don't wake you up, but I thought you'd like to see this.

You looked at the message and smiled at the picture of the sunrise he sent you.

Y/N [06:38] Beautiful. Thank you for thinking of me.

Frankie [06:41] I couldn't stop doing this. I'd love to see you again soon.

Y/N [06:44] Good, because I'd like that too ;)

Benny [07:21] Catfish, you idiot!

He showed up at your door in the evening when you were already considering taking a bath and going to bed. When you opened the door, you knew immediately that something was wrong.

"Hi. I wasn't expecting you." you greeted, but he just nodded nervously.

"Can we... Can we talk?" he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Yeah, sure. Come in."

He walked inside and looked around your place. It was cozy and nice, with a big couch perfect for relaxing.

"Listen..." he started as you approached him "I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it, Frankie." you saw he was struggling with something.

He nodded shifting from foot to foot.

"I talked to Benny today."

"Oh." you already knew what he was getting at.

"It's funny, you know. It turns out that yesterday... Fuck! I'm sorry. When I walked into that bar and I saw you, you were so pretty and so lost in your thoughts that I thought maybe I was finally lucky. I didn't think you were waiting for someone else..."

"Frankie, I wasn't waiting for anyone." you replied nervously biting your lip "I had my birthday yesterday and I wanted to spend the evening somehow...differently. You showed up and I jumped on that train."

His dark eyes stared at you completely surprised. You would have given a lot to know what was going on in his head. So you decided to continue the conversation, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

"You surprised me, but you were so sweet and charming." You felt warmth creeping up your neck. "I knew right away that you were wrong, but... I don't know. I'm sorry! I should have said something. That girl was definitely waiting for you, and I thought I could spend a really nice evening with a nice guy. I'm so selfish! Say something, Frankie. Say you don't want to know me anymore and let's end this before I degrade myself even more."

His lips were slightly parted. Your legs were like cotton and you already regretted everything you had done, and even having this little pleasure for yourself.

"Wow." were the first words that fell from his lips "Jesus! I thought... When Benny told me that girl called me an asshole because I didn't show up, I didn't know what was going on. We spent the whole evening together, we kissed and then we texted..."

"I'm sorry..." you groaned, wrapping your arms around yourself "I should have said something..."

"That's not it, babe" he sighed "It's just... I wouldn't have approached you if I knew you weren't the one waiting for me. Because I immediately thought you were out of my league. And when we started talking I believed I was damn lucky. Such a beautiful, funny and sweet girl wanted to spend the evening with someone like me."

You felt your throat tighten painfully and tears welled up in your eyes.

"I've been thinking about it all day." Frankie walked up to you, his hands caressing your arms tenderly "Maybe I was lucky? You could have backed out at any moment, but..."

"I stayed." You finished for him "I really wanted to stay."

"That's good." He nodded, smiling "Because I wanted to take you out to dinner. Did you really have a birthday yesterday?"

"Yeah..."

His hands rested gently on your hips, squeezing them lightly every now and then. You could see that he was thinking deeply about something.

"I think we could celebrate a little today." He finally said "I know a really good place, I think you'll like it."

"You don't have to, Frankie."

"But I want to do it!" He laughed "I'm a lucky bastard, I'm going out to dinner with an amazing girl. Don't take that away from me now."

"Okay, I won't!" Now you laughed too. "Just give me a few minutes, I need to change."

You slid out of his arms, but didn't get far because his fingers tightened around yours. Before you could say anything Frankie walked up to you, his warm hand brushing your cheek and gently grabbing your chin.

"What are you doing?" you asked quietly, trying to hide your embarrassment.

"I'm checking if I'm still lucky." he replied, his lips gently brushing yours, "And I think I am."

You shook your head in disbelief, but smiled. Everything would have to wait, both of you had to test his luck once more.

☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[ppascalrain]

Unbelievably cute and fluffy! 🩷

[shawnfreki]

Artwork by Hana Choi.

[inept-the-magnificent]

What are the odds?- Part 5

Pairing: Casino Owner!Joel Miller X f!Reader

Word Count: 521

Rating: I’m rating this 18+.  There’s no smut here, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.

Warning: My warnings apply to the entire series. Tommy drops some hard truths.

A/N: I wrote the first part based on an ask from @beefrobeefcal, and me being me... I couldn't just leave it alone. We're at Part 5 now.

“Where’s my fucking car, Tommy?!”

“Now… Joel… just… remember what your cardiologist said.”  Tommy tries to move away, but there’s a concrete wall and two other cars stopping him.

“Fuck the cardiologist!”  Joel has gone shades of crimson that even Tommy hasn’t seen on him before.

“Ever since your divorce, you haven’t been yourself.  You-” but he never gets to finish the thought before two thick fingers poke him squarely in the chest.

“You… do not… talk… about my divorce.  It’s between me and her.”  The tremor in Joel’s eyes starts to make Tommy a little nervous.

“I was just trying to help you, brother,” he says calmly.  “I’ve been real worried about you.”

The vein in Joel’s neck twitches slightly and then settles down again.  He steps back, his composed façade falling back into place again.  “You know… I expected meddling from Maria.  I really did.”  His tone is low and careful.  “But not you… my own fucking brother.”

“Joel… you ain’t over her.  I know it.  Maria knows it.”  Tommy pauses.  “You know it.”

“That’s none of your business.  I asked you for one thing.  I asked you to keep your goddamn nose out of it.”

“But it’s become my business!” Tommy exclaims.  “There’s a reason why you have a fucking cardiologist, Joel!  I watched you go down in the middle of the casino floor!  The casino that you’ve made your whole fucking life!  You and the casino have become one and the same!  There’s no splitting the two!  And where did it get you?!  A three-week, VIP stay in the ICU and months… months… of cardio rehab!”

“Tommy.”

“God-fucking-damnit, Joel!  You almost died… and for what?!  And I’m not even gonna pretend that I didn’t see your marriage going down the toilet like it did!”

“Tommy.”

“Joel!  Shut up!  I’m not finished!  You can be mad at me all you want, but I’m tired of seeing you waste away in this place.  So, yeah, I called her.  Because for reasons no one seems to understand, she fucking loves your grumpy ass… and she waited for you… far longer than I fucking think she should have.  You clocked out of your marriage long before she did, Joel, and you know it.  You were out there chasing the almighty dollar instead of going home to the one person who chose to put up with you, and it ain’t fucking right!!  I don’t exactly condone her methods, but by God, someone had to wake you the fuck up.”

Joel, who’s traded his car keys for the purple stress ball, stands strangely quiet.  1… 2… 3… repeat.  It’s the kind of silence that can be deafening… and it stretches on longer than is socially comfortable for either party.  There’s something lingering in Joel’s eyes that Tommy can’t quite place.  It’s fleeting, but he saw it.

“You done?” Joel asks finally.

“Yeah,” Tommy replies, letting out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  “I said my piece.”

“Good.”  Joel leans down and scoops up the abandoned red-bottomed shoes.  “Get your truck.  We’re gonna find out where the hell my car is.”

<What are the odds? Part 4 Series Masterlist

[ppascalrain]

Yay for Tommy saying hard truths!!! Joel's got no response because he knows he's right. Go on and get your car (and your girl) back. Stop squeezing that stress ball and squeeze your girl, Joel! Although, I feel like she's gonna make him continue to work for it, as she should!

[sandmandaddy69]

Patty Carroll

[foli-vora]

run to you: chapter eleven

marcus pike x f!reader

A/N: SURPRISE! Happy almost-end of RTY. It's taken far too long, I know, but for those that have stuck around and still hold interest in these two and their trainwreck of a story - thank you.

Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.

Word count: 6.3k

Warnings: swearing, graphic violence, graphic thoughts of death and torture, reader is Stressed my guy, marcus "i dont have time for bullshit" pike, a kidnapped hostage stand off situation, use of guns and graphic descriptions of bullet wounds and blood, A N G S T (god i love it), i love grace van pelt, jacob wilson is golden retreiever, patrick fucking jane and his antics, some more angst, critically injured marcus, hospitals and talk of surgeries and more death

main masterlist | series masterlist

This story is 18+ only.

The vicious turning of your stomach increases with every second you spend in the car, wedged between two men, complete strangers. They say nothing. The male driver, also a stranger, says nothing. You say nothing. The silence that fills the small space creates a thick tension, curling around your shoulders and tightening around your chest, and you worry any sound or movement you make could shatter it all completely.

You dare not shift in your seat, remaining so still an ache starts to grow along your limbs and deep in your lower back. You don’t breathe too harshly, but the panic that stirs within your chest threatens to ruin that. You focus on each lungful, the inhales and the exhales.

In, and out.

Repeat.

In, out.

You count them.

One, two, three…

Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further. 

Breathe.

In, out.

It’ll be okay.

It’ll—

You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.

They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.

You’re going to die.

It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet. 

No. No crying, you tell yourself. 

This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.

A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn. 

I won’t let anything happen to you.

You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here. 

It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.

It had been real.

The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…

It wasn’t all a lie.

At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real. 

The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.

There was no running.

In, out.

Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.

You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.

For now, there was still a bit of time. 

—

His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.

You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.

Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade. 

“Are we done here?”

He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.

It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.

A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.

He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.

—

He gets it over a call.

The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.

No body was found within the vehicle.

The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.

You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.

They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.

“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.

Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured. 

“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”

“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”

If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.

You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.

“How’re you doing?”

The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”

“Always.”

It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”

Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”

—

“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”

The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.

This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart. 

She’s important to me.

The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.

He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.

“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”

Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.

“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”

Marcus nods.

He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely. 

—

He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.

The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.

He blinks, and the images are as they were.

Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.

Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him. 

He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.

They’re close.

That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.

You’ll be okay.

He’ll make sure of it.

Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.

He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.

“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”

He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.

“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”

It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”

“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.

“Seems like she’s really something.”

He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”

—

It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.

You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.

Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.

Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.

You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.

A welcome relief.

“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”

The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.

You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.

“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.

You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.

“How’d you know it was my work?”

“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”

“We?”

Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”

You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?

“What am I doing here?”

He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.

“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”

A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression.  “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”

“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”

“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”

“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”

“Can’t really blame the girl.”

A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”

If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.

And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.

Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.

“And what are you doing here?”

He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.

“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room. 

“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”

You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.

“You two know each other?”

“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?

It’s all a big fucking game to this man.

“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”

“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.

You had been a pawn.

Just not the FBI’s pawn.

You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.

“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”

He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.

What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.

“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”

“Like I said—inconvenient.”

“Enough.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”

“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”

You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.

Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.

“I said enough.” 

—

“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”

“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”

“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.

“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”

“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”

He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.

“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”

“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.

Anything could happen in four minutes.

Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.

“Uh, where’s Jane?”

Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.

He can’t help it.

Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”

She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”

“If he does anything to—”

A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.

Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—

He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.

“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”

—

Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.

“FBI, put your weapon down.”

You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.

He’s here. 

You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus. 

“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”

“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”

“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”

“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”

You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.

It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.

Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.

The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.

Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.

“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”

His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.

You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.

“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”

“Pike!”

Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.

There's so much blood.

“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.

“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.

“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.

“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”

“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”

Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.

Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.

The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head. 

“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”

The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.

“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”

—

The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.

This room isn’t too bad, though.

It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.

Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.

Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.

You think she knows you would prefer it that way.

He’s hurt. Severely so.

He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.

You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.

“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”

Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it? 

His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee. 

“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”

His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”

He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.

“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”

His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.

“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”

He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”

“Is it my fault?”

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”

“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”

“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”

Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.

“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”

“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.

He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”

—

[ppascalrain]

The best surprise to wake up to! I am reminded of how much I love these two and their turmoil and how much I hate Jane. What a douche. Thank goodness for Wilson being there to push away her fear and guilt at least temporarily. 💕

[frankslangdons]

PEDRO PASCAL as DAVE YORK in THE EQUALIZER 2