daddydindjarin-reads - Tumblr blog

daddydindjarin-reads · 1 month ago

Text

WANT YOU IF YOU SAY IT FIRST TO ME ; jack abbot / f!reader

summary; A story told in 4AM cups of coffee, the unsteady beat that is the emergency department, and how it feels to fall for a man wired for crisis; slowly, deliberately, in the quiet moments between chaos, where respect becomes gravity and love finds room to breathe.

word count; 9.5k

warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. trauma surgeon resident!reader. slow build, falling in love, misunderstandings, jealousy, emotionally constipated jack, bars and alcohol, depictions of blood and surgeries, coworker meddling, one (1) scene inspired by grey's anatomy, queer coded reader (though never explicitly mentioned, just know that this isn't a straight woman), explicit sexual content: choking, semi-public (in a car), vaginal and protected sex. let me know if i missed any.

A/N; worms in my brain. worms. i don’t know where this came from, nor how it got to nine thousand words. i think i hauve covid. uh, give me your thoughts? your prayers? the things stirring in your brain about this man that'd set women back at least a century? (but seriously, comments & reblogs nurture me in the enclosure. askbox is always open. feed your local writer <3). jack abbot… you have bewitched me… body and soul…

⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. gif from this set by emziess. special thanks to my love @imagines-r-s for feeding the brainworms for this with me.

“Oh, this is painful. Like, genuinely, physically, ripping-my-hair-out painful—”

“Alright,” you groan into the salted rim of your glass. The lime in the Margarita singes your taste buds, numbing them in a tequila-dipped haze that slowly but surely slithers its way into your head, thumping in your throat and behind your eyes.

Yinzers’ is as busy as it can possibly get. Cramped booths and stools fully occupied, makeshift dance floor nearly packed. Sticky floors and cheap drinks, the underlying thrum of drunken conversation that beats in tandem with the music: some club classics playlist from the late 2000’s, familiar and dizzying and exactly what you need right now. Something to drown out your swirling thoughts, to reduce your brain down to a pleasantly useless mush.

Yeah, you think, taking another sour sip. You’ve done enough critical thinking for the day.

Samira is at your side, sipping her strawberry Daiquiri, half-choking on her chuckles as Usher’s DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love echoes from the speakers. Heather sits across from Mohan, cheekily sipping her Sex On The Beach and stealing glances behind her back. Squinting her eyes, as if in thought, she says: “Actually, I think ripping hair out would be less painfu—”

“Either kill me,” you cut her off over the music, “or shut the fuck up about it.”

She has the gall to laugh. As does Samira, as does Yolanda. Fuck, you do make for a painful sight, you’ll give them that. Still, your eyes lock into Yolanda’s, sharp and clouded. “Oh,” you laugh, but it gets lost under the beat, “I know you’re not laughing right now, Romeo.”

She almost chokes. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, smirking into your glass, eyes catching onto a certain intern a few tables away whose eyes are locked into your friend’s back for what feels like hours now. You must’ve caught Santos’ eye over Garcia’s back, like, three times in the past fifteen minutes. If Yolanda noticed, she hardly made it known.

Still, as cheap a shot as that was, it worked. Now Yolanda’s silent, staring into the half-melted ice cubes of her Rum & Coke, and the looks exchanged over the table are not about you. You fight dirty when you’re cornered, but you’ll take any win you can get.

This is rare; day and night shift merging after work like this. Shoulders tense and weighed down by code-blue’s and lives lost and the metallic stench of blood, soldiering through it only for the ones you manage to save. It feels almost cosmic. You damn-near begged on your knees for Mohan to tag along, and naturally, she could never say no to you. Even Javadi is here, staring at Mateo with stars in her eyes, sat in the booth with Santos and Whittaker.

Even though it’s your night off, the antiseptic still lingers in your nostrils from yesterday, the ice-cold chill of the OR, your hands raw from scrubbing in. Technically, that all happened today, but you’ve found the days and hours get blurry on the night shift.

Lines get hazy, too; everything does. Boundaries rewritten, reservations forgotten, walls knocked down with nothing but a quirk of the lips and lukewarm coffees under the blaring fluorescence.

You shake your head, tongue curling in your mouth. Fuck.

Well, however you call it, today was a fucking shit show. There’d been a car pile-up just a little after 6AM. “So close. So, so close,” Shen had sighed in the ambulance bay. Two or three or four fucking cars with college boys drunk off their asses behind the wheel, determined to be goddamn gentlemen and drive some girls home from their frat. If only chivalry was dead.

Only two out of the six girls made it. One bled out right in your hands, her shredded abdominal aorta gushing red-hot rivers faster than you could’ve ever stitched her back together. Her name was Sydney, and she had her whole life ahead of her. Besides the smell of her blood, that’s all you can remember about her.

If you focused really hard right now, even over the deafening bass, you could still hear her flatlining on your table. Still taste the bile in your throat from when you called it, breathless, ripping off your surgical mask and moving on. Because you had to. The boy you operated on next, blond and baby faced and crushed behind his friend’s wheel, made it. He nearly hadn’t, but he pulled through.

Jack was… he was there when you entered the trauma room, gait planted and hands methodical as ever. They don’t call him an ER cowboy for nothing.

Sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, he’s precise like the ten-blade that’s as much an instrument as it’s an extension of your palm. “I need to open him up,” you said over the beeping monitor. Jack had already placed a chest tube, but the boy’s vitals were tanking, and his lungs were a ticking time bomb. You didn’t have to say as much, he knew, but you did anyway. It’s terrifying to think you would’ve said anything to make him look at you.

Jack hardly spared you a glance. You like to think you didn’t care, that you didn’t notice he spoke with his eyes pinned ahead, anywhere but on yours. It almost felt more disorienting than the chaos itself. More destabilizing than the wails and moans and heaps of blood on the linoleum, than the nurses and residents all whirring around the department like scattered animals.

Because, that’s the thing with Jack Abbot; his eyes are anchors. Heavyweight, like snares. They catch on yours and keep you there. Steadying, lingering until he’s satisfied, head tilted until he can see the message has registered behind your eyelids.

So, when that lighthouse in the storm suddenly shut you out, you felt stranded. Hurt. Maybe even angry. But you pushed through, because you’re a damn good surgeon, and that boy needed you.

You performed a thoracotomy in OR 3; paged Dr. Walsh for the green light and wheeled the patient past Jack and his bloodstained gown, eyes searching for his in the storm. Only then did he meet your gaze, just as the elevator doors closed, hands curling up to his neck as he ripped the gown off. You were left breathless, staring at cold, humming silver instead of two warm pools of hazel.

The change was sudden. No more than a few days ago, it was all so…

Fuck. It wasn’t like this. It was… good. Dizzying in all the right ways. You were walking on uncertain ground, uncharted waters, but you like to think you were treading them together. Like two sailors in a storm, trudging through disaster side by side; like a log that’s keeping each other from getting swallowed by the waves.

That’s how it started, anyway. You craved it; that comfort, the blanket of warmth only he could’ve given. It was a few months ago—maybe four or maybe more—that you switched to the night shift.

“Giving up one of our best here, brother,” Robby had said during the daily hand-off; your first time working after 7PM.

“Night shift wins again,” he’d quipped beneath his breath, iPad already in hand. The smile he’d shot you was small, tight-lipped, genuine. “Welcome. We love ourselves a scalpel jockey ‘round here.”

You’d quirked your brows. “Scalpel jockey?”

But he’d already turned away from you as he walked off. He’d shot you a look behind his back, smirking, pointing with his thumb. “Wear it proudly.”

In your second week, you went through a brutal shift together. Two kids had died on your watch, and you’d been exhausted. Drained physically, mentally, in every way that mattered, in every way it didn’t.

After talking to the parents, after providing them with a social worker, after showing them their babies’ bodies, you damn near fucking collapsed.

You still don’t know why it hit you so hard. During your residency, you’ve lost more patients than you can count. Kids, teens, parents and friends and strangers. You’ve felt their temperature drop, you’ve heard the echo of a flatline beside the overhead lamp, smelt the staleness of the OR after calling time of death.

Perhaps it’d been because one of the little boys looked so much like your baby brother when he was that age. Perhaps it was their mother’s hopeful eyes as you’d shuffled your feet to the family room, scrub cap clutched between your hands like a cross, a rosary, a lifeline.

The woman’s eyes were beautiful, red-rimmed as they were; they crumpled up like paper when you forced the words out of your throat. “We… I did everything in my power.” “The injuries were far too severe.” “I’m sorry.”

Perhaps it was none of these things at all.

His brother never even left the ER; he’d been DOA. Nothing more to be done other than work on him longer than necessary, just so they could tell the parents they’d done everything they could’ve. Jack stood over him as you’d wheeled on by, eyes catching on his as the flatline echoed.

Backed up against the door of an empty viewing room, heaps and piles of x-rays glaring down at you, you’d heaved and gasped and clasped your mouth shut to muffle the sounds. They sputtered and clawed their way out of your throat regardless, white-hot tears clogging your vision.

He’d knocked on the door. Three precise taps, no room for argument. Still, though, your back had remained glued to the door, even as he’d pushed his way inside. There, bathed in the dim blue light of the imaging, it was as if you truly saw him for the first time.

Wrinkled eyes, kind and steady, anchoring you in their hold. Tilted head, arms tight as he’d laid a tentative palm on your shoulder. You don’t even remember what he’d said at first. Does it even matter? He was there. Warmth seeping from his palm, eyes holding your gaze in their death-grip. He’d made you breathe with him, letting the air sit deeply in his lungs, nodding and muttering an encouraging, “Yeah?” when he felt your stuttering ribs even out.

And, suddenly, you could breathe again.

“Crying is good. Feeling. Means you’re still human,” he’d told you, whispers of a breath. “Means you still got fight left in you. Don’t ever let the job take that away from you. You’re good, jockey. Trust me.”

It was a week after that when the coffees started.

Bleary-eyed under the hospital lights, the stillness of the hallways echoed in a way that’s only possible during the night. You’d been leaning on the nurse’s station down at the ED, staring into nothingness as the iPad screen in your grip shut itself off.

It’d been a particularly quiet shift, not that any of you had dared to say so out loud. When Shen attempted a few hours prior, you’d launched a half-eaten protein bar at his head. You’d missed by an inch. Ellis had nearly pulled a muscle laughing, and you swear you’d seen Jack huff out a chuckle as he passed. A win, in your book.

It was like the coffee had materialized out of thin air. But, no. He was there. Staring at his watch, unassuming and quiet and there. You’d eyed the coffee cup he slid between you with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. When he’d met your eyes, his lips had quirked up. Just slightly, just enough. The sight of that almost-smile was slowly becoming as familiar as the well-trodden hallways to the ORs.

“What’s that about?” you’d asked.

“Can’t have you falling asleep over someone’s cracked chest, can we? Too much paperwork.” He’d lifted his shoulder in a shrug. As if bringing you coffee was something he’d done a million times before and would do a million times again.

“You… got me coffee,” you’d said dumbly, eyes shifting between the brown cup and the hazel of his gaze like a pendulum. Not a question—just a statement, the same way the sky is blue and grass is green—but he’d answered anyway.

He’d softly tapped his fist on the counter. Once, twice. Nodded. “I got you coffee.”

And, that had been it. No more acknowledgement, no further comment; just the piping-hot paper cup next to your hand. Just the look he snuck from further down the ED when he’d seen you bring it to your lips, that’d felt more intimate than having someone’s tongue down your throat.

You’d pretended not to notice, but you think he saw right through you. Of course he had.

It became a ritual, of sorts. A routine. Every night on call together, right around the 4AM slump, a brown paper cup would somehow find its way to you. Always hot, always sugary; you don’t know if he somehow guessed or overheard it, but that’s exactly how you drink it.

“Sugar with a side of coffee, for the lunatic in OR 3,” he said once, monotone and dry in a way that made him funny. That was half his charm, some days.

The cup had felt heavy in your palm. Biting the inside of your cheek, you’d asked: “Why do you keep doing that?”

He’d looked at you, long and hard. The overhead fluorescence made every edge of his face sharper. Your eyes had caught on the grey in his temple, the way it blended with the brown of his curls. He’d shrugged, looked down at the iPad in his hands.

“Told you. Can’t have Walsh’s best triage tourist falling face-first into an open cavity. Don’t need that kinda headache.”

You’d raised a brow, laughed into the cup as you brought it to your lips. The coffee scaled its way down your throat, hot and sweet. You’d felt it settle down your chest. Or, maybe, it was the way he’d looked at you out of the corner of his eye, pursing his lips in that half-smile that made his dimples show.

“Triage tourist, scalpel jockey… I left Langdon and his ‘Edwina Scissorhands’ bullshit for Garcia to put up with. Can’t catch a fucking break with you people.”

He’d huffed a breath, a chuckle. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes, jockey.”

You’d felt brave. “Alright, big guy. Careful not to pull a muscle next time I wring a patient from you.”

That was the first time you’d seen him laugh the way he had. Surprised, eyebrows raised and mouth open, nodding in a way that invited challenge. “Wow, okay,” he’d rasped, “give somebody an inch, they’ll take a fucking mile.”

“Patients is what I take, old man.” You’d clicked your teeth.

“Fuckin’ sawbones,” he’d huffed, shaking his head.

“You know it.”

You never questioned the coffee again. You even missed it on the occasional odd day when your schedules did not line up. Kept looking at your watch around 4AM, unconsciously waiting for a cup of coffee that wouldn’t come unless you dragged your ass to the break room yourself. You’d been fucking Pavlov’ed. Jesus.

One time, though, he had a rough night. Kept limping his way through the ED, brows tight and lips curled. It’d been busy, busier than usual. Broken ankles, lacerations, burns, a bike crash victim. Even a head trauma that’d been sent up to neuro immediately. Fucking gnarly.

The guy didn’t make it; vet, homeless, victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Much of that these days. Every muscle in Jack’s body had been tense, you’d seen it. Felt it, even. You’d kept wincing everytime you saw him grabbing onto the counter of the nurses’ station, letting his weight fall on his good leg.

He’d found you in the break room by 4AM, coffee cup in his hand.

Maybe he’d Pavlov’ed himself, too.

You’d nodded at the empty chair across from you, silent. Shaking his head, he’d dropped the cup on the table and slid it towards you.

“C’mon, humor me,” you’d said, grabbing the cup. “I just… just want your company. So.”

The look in his eyes had called your bullshit. Still, he’d sat down. You’d seen the way his shoulders drooped, the way he craned his neck, clenched his eyes. His palm had trailed down to his knee, massaging the skin above the prosthetic.

The lights had kept humming above you, white sterile noise filling the deafening silence. It’s always quiet around that time of night; a small window where everything pauses before surging again.

“I’m fine,” he’d rasped.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” you’d quipped, head tilting in a way that parroted his own habit.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“And you still believe me. What does that make you?”

He’d hummed. Touché. You’d sat like that for a while. Mutual quiet, a shelter in the storm, blanketed by headache-inducing fluorescence and the smell of teeth-achingly sweet coffee. Until one of the nurses, Bridget, poked her head into the break room and said: “Incoming. GSW to the chest, head trauma, the works.”

You’d locked eyes with him, more awake than you’d been all night. Cup forgotten, you’d smirked. He didn’t need your pity (not that you had any to give); he needed the rush. The knowledge that you could offer him respite and keep him on his toes as easy as you could breathe. You’d huffed, ready to bolt: “Catch me if you can, cowboy.”

You’d found him on the roof that morning; it’d been Robby who told you. (“Yeah, he does that, sometimes. You wanna…?”) Jack had been leaning his back against the outside of the railing, soaking in the early light spilling from behind the clouds. The sunrise is always beautiful on the roof; blooming pink and orange aflush by the white yolk of the sun. It’d been chilly, and you’d felt a shiver run through you as you moved to him, the wind licking at his sleeves.

You knew he’d heard you; heard the click of the door shutting, heard the shuffling of your soles on the ground. Maybe he’d even known it was you. You like to think he had. If not, he never let it show. Only looked at you from the corner of his eye as you stopped at the railing, leaning your elbows on the cold metal.

You hadn’t spoken, not at first. Had simply let your eyes fall on the skyline, tracing the city with your lashes.

A beat passed. Two, three. Suddenly, your voice rang out. “You jump, and I’m not putting you back together.” He’d turned his head. Latching onto his gaze, your lips had quirked; not too much, just enough. “Conflict of interest, y’know.”

He’d shaken his head, lids falling, smile persistent. A scoff had punched its way from his throat, but it was light. Relieved, maybe. Soft around the edges in all the right ways.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he’d rasped. “Fuckin’ addict, you are. You’d pounce at the chance.”

You’d looked away from him, setting your eyes ahead, letting the silence hang. As seriously as you could’ve mustered, you said: “Yeah. Bet your ass I would.”

He’d chuckled, and you’d bottled it right up. Sobering up, you’d continued. Not looking at him, letting your words spill out like morning dew instead; his call to acknowledge them, or let them dissipate. “You don’t need anybody to put you back together, though. That’s a you job. But, jockey as I am, I’m still here. With my 4AM coffees and all. Just… just so you know, or, whatever.”

Fuck, the way he’d looked at you then? You’d felt every muscle in your body somehow tense and melt all at once. Two hazel whirlpools pulling you right the fuck under. You just let it happen.

“Yeah. ‘Or, whatever.’”

And, there it was. That quiet acknowledgement. The hand pulling each other from the ledge. The person you looked for first when the elevator doors to the ER opened and you were thrust into action. The man who was a rock amidst a hurricane, unmoving because he has to be; the one pulling everyone down to their feet beside him.

But, who was there to drag him down to steady ground, except himself?

The first time he kissed you, it was nearly bone-shattering. Sinews splitting apart in his hands, skull crushed in two, heart ready to spill from your throat and into his. He would’ve swallowed it, you really believe he would’ve.

It’d been another circus show at the PTMC Emergency Department, barely past 1AM on a Friday night. Or, was that technically Saturday? Fuck, you don’t even care. Mass casualty: a shooting at a club downtown, with half a dozen victims and twice as many cops flooding the hallways. It’d been all hands on deck. Blood, lidocaine, the moans and yells and calls for attendings who already had their hands full to the brim.

The shooter had landed on your table, shot straight in the chest by the club owner. You had to perform a pericardial repair to address the gunshot wound near his heart, to stop the hematoma from draining the life right out of him.

Instructed to salvage any bullet fragments for evidence, you’d let the world around you fall apart; until all you could see was the red gushing from his heart, and all you could smell was its metallic tang between your fingers. In the end, seven bullet fragments lay on a surgical basin to your right, and the man lay lifeless before you.

Time of death, 2:37AM.

The bleeding had been too much. Too erratic, too tricky for a resident to handle alone. Not because you lacked the experience, but because you lacked the hands. By the time you were ripping the mask and gloves off alongside your gown and throwing them in the bin by the OR door, your fingers had been shaking like leaves.

You hadn’t been good enough to save him, or smart enough to request an attending, or strong enough to accept that this was the hand you were dealt and you did the best you could’ve.

You’d brushed past the OR floor, all the way down to the ER and through the waiting room. People looked at you; at your sweaty scrubs and disheveled surgical cap, at the way you bit your lip until it bled, breezing through the pedestrian entrance doors and into the night air.

Even through your tunnel vision, you saw the state the ER was in; lulled, the first and worst wave of the trauma washed away. The most emergent cases dealt with and admitted to surgery or the ICU, the less-gravely injured cared for and checked up on, families called and statements given. You hadn’t realized how much time had whizzed by while you were wrist-deep into the man’s chest.

Time passes differently in the OR. Slows and twists out of your control. Out there, though—past the cop cruisers and at the park outside—it stood still completely. The wood of the bench you’d fallen on felt cold, even through your scrubs.

Minutes could have passed, or hours, as you sat in the quiet chill. It tickled the goosebumps on your arms, the rawness of your bitten lips as you’d smoothed your tongue over the skin.

Jack had followed you out. Of course he had. There isn’t a world where he wouldn’t have.

“What happened?”

The scoff that spilled from your throat had been tired. Spent. You hadn’t looked at Jack once, not even as he took a seat beside you on the bench, thighs millimeters apart. His warmth spread through the meat of your thigh and right into your bloodstream. You’d sniffed, sharp, tongue curling on the roof of your mouth to stop the tears from gathering.

“I lost him. The shooter. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t… wasn’t good enough, I guess.”

A hand on your knee, big and strong and sure. So, so familiar, it nearly hurt. “If you couldn’t save him, then he couldn’t be saved.” Firm, unshakeable, as if he’d been stating a truth as universally accepted as the stars hanging above your heads. Is that what he truly saw in you? A trust in your abilities so strong, he believed his words like they were set in stone?

You’d shaken your head, eyes clenched shut, a single breath pushing its way out your ribs like a hydraulic press. “I couldn’t fucking do it. Isn’t that messed up? I’m sitting here, crying over a man who shot up a club.” You’d swallowed. “Maybe this was justice. Have him make it to help, only to end up with a surgeon useless enough to let him drain out. Like I’m a goddamn first-year, or something. Fuck—”

“Hey,” Jack had cut you off mid-spiral, grip tightening on your knee, the feeling punching through you all the way down to your belly. He’d tilted his head, searching for your gaze, finding it and keeping it in a headlock. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. You know it’s bullshit. Hey, hey, look at me. You,” he’d paused, “are one of the best. I’ve seen you. I know it, and I’m telling you. So stop fucking saying that.”

He’d looked pained, severe. As if hearing you tear yourself down was like a punch to his gut. You hadn’t known what to make of that realization in the moment. Or, you had, and you just weren’t strong enough to admit to it. Not even to yourself.

You’d nodded, if not for anything else, just to see his brows soften. His shoulders laxing, lips curling softly and dimples showing, thumb softly stroking your skin over your scrubs.

Silence bathed you, louder than the clamor of a war torn emergency room.

“Didn’t know you liked me that much,” you’d quipped after a few moments trickled by, eyes locked on the hand that still rested on your knee. It’d felt deliberate now, the way he’d made no move to remove it. “You getting soft on me, Jack?”

Jack. Not cowboy, or big guy, or Dr. Abbot. Hell, not even old man.

Just… Jack.

It’d taken him a second to respond. Blinking, quiet, surprise melting into something much softer yet unnameable. “I’m not telling you shit again,” he’d chuckled. “Watch it.”

He hadn’t once let his eyes fall from yours, even when you had. Jack Abbot and his fucking staring problem. Pulling you in, making the world melt into nothingness as his hand had stilled. Fuck, why couldn’t he have just looked away?

You’d felt it before you saw it. His other hand—the one nearly touching yours—drifting up to your face, the other still scorching your knee. Curling around the edge of your scrub cap, unruly on your head and halfway down the side of your forehead. Like a deer in headlights, you’d frozen. He’d stared at the cloth intensely, fingers drifting across your face, pulling it back on your hairline, tracing the outline of your burning cheek with the back of his fingers.

Your breath had stuttered, swelled like a balloon about to pop. “What’re you doing?”

“Your cap,” he’d said, fingers hovering. “There. Fixed it.”

“Oh,” you’d exhaled. “Thanks.”

“I might call you jockey,” he’d breathed suddenly, eyes lifting from the curve of your mouth and catching yours again, “but you’re not one. Not really. You know that, right? You have to know it. Can’t even remember all the times you’ve let us mortals try and keep someone from gettin’ sliced up.”

He’d inched closer, and if you hadn’t felt his breath tickling yours as he spoke, you might not have even noticed. Lashes fluttering and eyes shifting from the hazel down to his mouth, to his hands—back and forth, back and forth—you’d breathed: “Jack?”

“Do you? Know?” he’d rasped out, barely a whisper, barely a breath. He hadn’t been looking in your eyes. His gaze had drifted under again, past the slope of your nose, to the angry flare of your bitten lip. But as he said it, he’d looked up. Just for a second. Hand sliding down towards your nape, nearly engulfing your neck whole.

He’d be looking for an answer to a different question. Still, you’d nodded in his hold, lids nearly shut and hands shaking against the wood of the bench. Why did you nod?

Idiot. Is there a world where you wouldn’t have?

A breath, a surprised yelp muffled by his lips, the feel of him pressing you closer. Earth-shattering, bone-splitting, all-consuming. Jack Abbot—the fierce attending, the hardened veteran, the shelter in every storm—kissed you with his entire body, explosive warmth seeping into your skin with every deep swipe of his lips. And when he’d broken away with a sigh, you’d felt the sound curling its way around your skin. Fuck.

“Now you do.”

And, that’s how it was from then. Tentative, unknown, undefined. Real. An, “I’ll walk you home,” at the end of the shift. More 4AM coffees, and rooftop gazing, and brushing past each other in a hallway only to stop for no reason at all other than to soak the other in. No further than heated kisses shared in empty on-call rooms and wandering hands that stopped respectfully just before the threshold was crossed.

(“Damn. You fucking like me, don’t you?” you’d teased a couple weeks back. Breakfast burrito in hand, walking side-by-side on a cracked sidewalk with his hand hovering over the small of your back.

He’d scoffed, smiling in that characteristic way of his. Lips pursed, dimples out, head swerving. “Tolerate, more like. Gotta get those patient satisfaction scores up, somehow. Can’t do that if our best tourist doesn’t get her nightly sugar-induced overdose.”

“Fucking comedian, over here. Poor man’s Carlin.”)

You didn’t mind it; the waiting, the tiptoeing. This… thing felt far too fragile and far too young to have a name yet. At least, out loud. You knew how you felt, you think you knew how he felt. No need to rush. No need to panic. You were content to let the waves carry you.

That brings you to three days ago. You were leaning back against the nurse’s station, almost 4AM, head pounding from the artificial stillness. Bridget was standing beside Ellis, both shaking from laughter. They made you burst into a fit, too.

“Fuuuck,” you moaned, “can’t believe I told you this. Ancient history. Next time I open my mouth, slap me fucking dead—”

Hand clutching her stomach, Ellis wheezed: “And then what’d he fucking do?”

“Ugh,” you clenched your eyes, cheeks flushed from embarrassment. “He was such a pussy, I swear to God. Tried to smooth-talk his way out of it. Can you believe that shit? Anesthesiologist who doesn’t know how to choke a girl right?”

“Sounds like the opening to a bad joke,” said Bridget.

“Right?!”

“What’s that about you getting choked?” piped Shen as he strutted over, slurping on a coffee cup.

“You eavesdropping on us, now?” you asked, leaning to the side to look at him.

He shrugged, smirking as he leaned an elbow on the counter. “It’s not eavesdropping when you’re in the middle of the ER, sawbones.”

Turning to the girls, you pointed a finger at him, jokingly exasperated. “This fucking guy…”

“No manners,” tutted Ellis, shaking her head. Bridget clicked her lips, looking at him as if disappointed.

“Hey,” Shen voiced with his lips around the yellow straw. “Not my fault you go on and on about Stan from Anesthesia and how he almost broke your larynx tryin’ to go all Fifty Shades on you. Quit blamin’ a guy for getting curious.” He winced, grimacing: “But, like, dude… really?”

“Mhm. Worst lay of my fucking life. Scratched the itch, though—”

“—Oh, hello, Dr. Abbot,” sang Bridget from your side. “Right on time,” she glanced at her watch. 4:02AM.

Your blood damn near clotted in place. Oh, fuck. How much did he hear?

The coffee cup—brown, hot, familiar—landed on the nursing station counter with a thud. Two hazel whirlpools found yours, then vanished with a nod. Curt, stern, the attending on call, the veteran medic who barked orders from the back of a helicopter and onto a sand-baked tarmac. Dr. Abbot, not Jack.

Shit, did he think that was…? That you…?

“Get back to work, this ain’t a tea party. Guy in 12 needs an IV change, kept whining when I walked past.”

“Fuck me, that guy’s been on my ass about the food since 10PM. Jesus,” groaned Ellis.

“I got it,” chirped Bridget with a nudge on Ellis’ shoulder. She left to change the IV, Shen made a beeline for the break room, Ellis grabbed an iPad and moved to sit behind one of the monitors. And just like that, you were left staring at Jack’s retreating figure, the steady gait you’d come to think of as familiar. The only warmth was from the coffee, but that was getting cold, too.

You hardly saw him for the rest of the night. Stupid, stubborn, emotionally constipated old man with walls higher than Mount Everest. Even as you waited by the pedestrian entrance for fifteen minutes at the end of the shift—the early morning chill slithering over your exposed arms, the steady beat of people just waking up thrumming all around—he was nowhere to be found.

Fine.

You walked home alone that day, probably for the first time in weeks. You had the next two days off, but you could’ve called him instead. You didn’t. Couldn’t quite muster up the courage to press the button, even as his name glared back at you from the screen in bland sans serif.

Fuck. You hate confrontation; always have, probably always will. It’s kind of ruining your life. You hate feeling shut out, yet something invisible still keeps you from taking that first step to resolution.

It’d have been so easy to just pick up the goddamn phone and say: “Hey, that thing you overheard? Old fucking news, back in my second year. I like you and didn’t go get dicked down by some other guy just because you haven’t had your way with me yet. Don’t shut me out. Dumbass.”

But, you didn’t. Because, like always, the fear of confrontation morphed into something more ugly—more jagged—as the hours and days passed with not one text received. Something like indignation, bullheaded pettiness that oozed from every pore.

He’s pushing fucking 50, and he acts like this? If I wanted to relive my high school boyfriend, I would’ve just texted him.

…Well. In hindsight, that wasn’t entirely fair. Not at all, even. Maybe he was hurt, betrayed, embarrassed. Maybe he needed a day or two to collect his head. Maybe he saw your inaction and perceived it as indifference. Maybe, if you’d just pulled your head out of your ass and called him, this would’ve been ancient history by now.

Fuck. This whole thing had spiralled into mutually assured destruction real fast, and the worst thing?

He’s here now.

Past the sweaty throng of bodies and sitting with Robby, who hasn’t once stopped looking your way. Jack’s in a black button-up, sleeves pulled to his elbows. Brown strands streaked with grey sweating at his temples, salty stubble on a tight jaw, lips curled. His forearms are bulging as if to fucking mock you; thick and corded as he snatches the dart from where it’d landed on the black-and-white target by the side of the bar, gripping it in his hands as he moves back again.

“He’s totally picturing your face,” giggles Mohan, letting her head fall on your shoulder as she hums around her straw.

Heather almost chokes on her drink, the liquid bursting from her lips as she laughs. “He so fucking is—”

“Shouldn’t have told you bitches anything,” you groan, eyes still locked on Jack. He’s watching you back. ‘Fuck you too, old man,’ you hope your eyes say. Shaking his head and taking a sip of the foamless beer that’s been sitting on the bar counter, he shoots another dart. Sharp, precise, sure; looking in your eyes the whole time.

Bullseye.

From the speakers, Ciara has just begun singing about riding (the beat) with Ludacris. The song is familiar, the bass settling down your body like water. Your shoulders sway with it unconsciously, and with a last sour gulp of your lukewarm Margarita, you stand and grab Yolanda by the hand. She gets up with a start, a confused furrow settling on her brows, an easy smile curling at her lips.

“C’mon, Romeo,” you tell her over the music. “Scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?” Your eyes point to Santos, and Yolanda’s fall on Jack by the bar. She smirks, eyes narrowing in understanding. Atta girl.

“I market it so good,

They can’t wait to try-y-y me-e-e,

I work it so good,

Man, they tryna buy-y-y me.

They love the way I ride it,

They love the way I ride the beat,

How I ride the beat,

I ride it…”

Her hands are on your sides, your back against her chest, ass moving in tandem with her hips. Side to side, again and again, a dizzying whirl of motion that has your head reeling.

You picture it’s Jack behind you instead; his strong frame bracketing yours, his fingers digging in the meat of your hips, his breath on your neck. It’s all too easy to imagine as a shiver wrecks your frame.

Jack is watching. Your entire body burns with it; the weight of his gaze, the clench of his jaw, the cording of his muscles as they strain against his pulled-up sleeves. Fuck, he looks so good. Even at fifteen feet away, even in the dark, even in the chaos.

Eyes hooded and lipgloss smudged, you let Yolanda guide your body as you feel her head swerving back. Santos must be gawking, too.

Quid pro quo.

Ciara hasn’t finished singing when you see Jack pushing his way past the small crowd and to the back-door. You pout, laying a hand on Yolanda’s at your hip, motioning with your head towards the door. With a knowing look and a nudge, she sends you off.

“Go get ‘em,” she laughs.

Outside, the chill of the night feels like an old friend. Biting as your body adjusts to the temperature change, humidity giving way to the smallest of breezes. The pavement is cracked, the bottoms of your short heels weaving in-between.

Jack is leaning his back against his car that’s parked by the curb, dark and sleek, just like him. Waiting, like he knew you’d follow; maybe even hoped. And—just because the alcohol made you brave—perhaps even flushed at the sight of you grinding against someone that wasn’t him.

If you squint your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re outside the ER again, and he’s kissed you for the first time.

Stubborn, stubborn old man.

“Piss break?” you breathe. You were going for teasing, but your voice is hoarse from the tequila and all the yelling-to-be-heard inside. You don’t think the tone quite struck the landing.

He scoffs—a dark sound that lands right between your legs—and shakes his head, eyes gliding across your frame. Black polished heels, burgundy sheer tights; mini skirt tight around your thighs, fitted black blouse to match; hands littered with bracelets and rings. The you outside the hardass trauma surgeon clad in scrubs, outside the death and antiseptic that lingers for days at a time.

“Something like that,” he rasps. “You?”

“Something like that,” you echo.

A stretch of silence, the muffled beat of a strong bass still nagging in the atmosphere. His eyes on you, unmoving, anchoring, burning. Fuck. He looks so good like that, brooding because he’s fucking jealous.

Shit.

“I missed you,” you breathe, heels clicking as you inch closer. You see him shift, posture tightening, eyes still locked on yours.

“I’m sure you managed just fine,” he says slowly, clicking his lips. “Stan from Anesthesia, was it? He treat you right?”

You can’t help it, you literally cannot help it: you giggle. Tipsy, flushed, elated; palm shooting up to cover your lips. This fucking idiot. Damn all these past three days of silence, this is amazing. He’s so fucking jealous it makes your heart run like a racehorse, threatening to burst.

“You jealous, tiger?”

Brows lifting, nostrils flaring. “Yes.”

Oh. Oh, there he is. The trauma attending, the seasoned physician, the man who jumps headfirst into calamity and makes sure everyone’s unscathed.

“You idiot,” you snort, smile so wide it’s splitting your face in half. You’ve drifted closer, now; right in front of him, barely ten inches apart, hands ghosting over his tight biceps. He makes no move other than clenching his jaw, huffing a breath.

“Watch it.”

“Or, what? What’re you gonna do, big guy—?”

The way he grabs you has your stomach doing somersaults. One hand on your waist, the other burning on your nape, swivelling your positions in place as your back collides with the cold metal of the passenger door.

He’d cushioned the impact on your skull with his palm, a bulging forearm now stretching past the side of your face. You can see the vein that’s there. Fuck. The breath that punches out of you is half a whine, half a gasp. Equally desperate, disproportionately charged. Like a live wire.

“This what you want?” he asks, low in his throat, two hazel pools of warmth nearly black as tar.

You smile, victorious. No point in holding anything back now, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. “He was a one-nighter back when I was a PGY2. A fuckin’ limp-dick who didn’t know what to do with his own hands, much less with me.”

Silence.

“…What?” He blinks, stupefied.

“Yeah, genius,” you smirk.

Oh, he actually looks in pain. Clenches his eyes shut, drops his head on your shoulder with a sigh so visceral it must’ve come from his gut. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is right, you bitch,” you hum, lids fluttering and smirk widening. Shit, the Margarita must’ve done a number on you. But his head lifts, and those bottomless pits surrounded by hazel are burning you again. He looks so pretty up close like this; you can trace every dip and wrinkle on his face, map it in your mind. His hair is so nice, have you mentioned before? Frames his face just so, thick and curly and salty and hot. So hot.

“You let me not talk to you for days—?”

“Nu-uh. Did that all by your lonesome, cowboy. But don’t worry. I like my men older, riddled with workaholism, and with ‘bout as much emotional intelligence as a brick wall.”

That last part? Again, not fair or factually true, but the alcohol has loosened your tongue way past the point of return. In vino veritas, but not always. Still, he doesn’t protest. He’s secure enough not to.

“You’re in luck then, baby. Got emotional baggage in fucking spades,” he mutters, gaze falling on the exposed expanse of your neck, head falling as his lips seek it out.

It knocks the breath right out of you, shocks the ground from under your feet, liquifies all logic in your brain. “‘Baby’?” you echo, voice a static sort of noise, trembling and broken.

You feel him humming against your neck, nipping at the skin, both his hands tightening on you, reeling you in further, pulling you in closer. “Mhm. I’m fucking sorry. For all of it.”

“Yeah, w–well, you fucking should be…”

“Uh-huh,” against your neck. Dizzying and electrifying.

“Jack…”

“What is it?”

Your hand had somehow found its way into his hair, curling around it at his nape, the other thrown over his shoulder, body arching into him. “Kiss me?”

And, he does. He really fucking does. And, somehow, it feels better than any other time. Every sense wired to the maximum, every brush of his button-up against the exposed skin of your arms, his mouth on yours; gasping and aching and perfect. You feel him swallowing every last bit of your lipgloss, the faint aftertaste of berry-tinted glitter sliding over your tongue.

You moan into him, open-mouthed and desperate. The pulse between your legs has worsened, thumping in tandem with the muffled beat of a song you can’t recall right now.

He breaks away with a sharp breath, and it’s like you feel it as it settles in his lungs. Eyes hooded, looking at you in a way that has you clenching around nothing. “How much have you had to drink?” he rasps.

“Just a watered-down Margarita. Fuckers ripped me off.”

He chuckles, you grin. And then, the hand on your nape drifts forward, so, so slowly. Curls around your throat—feather-light in its touch—thumb and pointer on each carotid. Not applying pressure, just… there. You heave out a breath as your lashes flutter. “What are you doing, Jack?”

“Did he touch you like this?”

“What?”

A kiss on your cheek, down to your jaw, up to your ear. His breath is hot against it. “Did he?”

“No,” you manage, one of your palms tightening around the hair at his nape, the other trailing up and down his strong side. “T–told you, he couldn’t touch me for shit.”

“Figured,” he hums. Leaning his head back to look at you fully, capturing your gaze and not letting it go. He purses his lips, grins. It makes the burning in your cheeks deepen.

You can do nothing but smile back, staring at him from under your lashes. The hand you were trailing down his side comes up, curling around his palm on your throat, pushing and making his hold on you tighten.

It feels heavenly. Two fingers pushing on your carotid, warm and big and firm. Already you feel the telltale signs of reduced-blood-flow induced bliss, and he’s barely even started. You feel your eyes nearly roll back as you moan, mouth closed tight and from within your throat. There’s a fire licking at your insides, spreading from your center and into every neuron.

“Yeah?” he mutters, voice teasing, light and heavy all at once. He lets his hold slacken, and the world comes into focus again.

You grin. Instead of an answer, you seek his lips. He meets you halfway, swiping his tongue against yours, and it’s so hard to think right now; with the breeze making your hairs stand, the heat that scorches your blood, the sounds that keep bubbling out of you and into his mouth.

Your hand is still on top of his palm on your neck, anchoring. Jack leans more of his weight on you, blanketing you under the golden yolks of flickering street-lamps. You break apart with an inhale, spit clogging your throat.

When he pulls back, he looks pained. Brows caving in, a groan clawing its way out of his chest. You feel the suffocating tendrils of concern wrapping around your limbs, and suddenly, anything else is forgotten. “Are you okay? Is it your leg? D’you wanna—”

“My leg’s fine,” he rasps, meeting your eyes. The hand on your neck falls back, grabbing yours and guiding it down. Past his chest, making you cup him through his cargo. Fuck. “This ‘s all you, baby.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He’s hard, painfully so, straining against the tough fabric as you push against him. It makes him suck in a breath, forehead falling against yours, hand on your waist pulling you in, sandwiched between his frame and the car door.

“Open the fucking car,” you mutter against his lips.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Deftly swipes a hand down his pocket, clicks the lock button on the remote, grabs the handle of the back door and holds it open for you. With a giggle and a breath, you get in, knees gliding against the back seats as he follows. Sloppily, you drag your tights and underwear from under your skirt and down your legs, huffing at the lack of space.

“Come here,” he says, door thumping shut behind him as you bunch your tights and panties in your palm, flinging them away haphazardly. Throwing a leg over his lap, you take one of the best seats in the house. There’s a hand on your naked skin, digging in the meat of your thigh. His other softly ghosts over the small of your back, where your blouse has ridden up, toying with the seam.

Just as you let your full weight fall—grounding yourself against his hard-on, skirt completely bunched up—he pushes up. Adjusts his stance in that way men do, spreading his thighs and lighting you on fire. His head tilts, seeking your eyes. He knows what he’s fucking doing.

“You got a condom?” you ask, hands around his neck, fingers weaving in his hair. You think he’ll say no, and you’ll kiss him and say, ‘I’m on the pill. There’s no one else. I need you.’

But, he surprises you. Huffs bashfully, reaches in his side-pocket, retrieves a single shiny foil package. Bunching your brows, your smile is devious as you tilt your head back at him, cooing: “What the hell is that?”

Is he fucking blushing? You can hardly tell in the darkness, but it feels like he might be.

“Robby may or may not have bribed Heather for intel.”

You gasp, playfully, smacking him softly on the shoulder. “Fucking snakes, all of you! I’m surrounded by goddamn sellouts.” But then, quieter, mellower: “You knew I was here? That’s why you came?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Sorry for the abrupt shut-out, the fleeting jealousy that wrecked through him faster than a bullet, the way he had no idea what the fuck to do with it.

You tut your lips, shaking your head. “Talk to me next time, alright, big guy?”

“Done,” he breathed, capturing your lips.

You melt against him, grounding your hips with a sigh he swallows, rocking your clothed center against his. With a shaky hand you snatch the condom from him, breaking the kiss. Watching with a bitten lip as he unfastens the cargo, pushes his pants and briefs down, wraps a hand around himself and sighs. His frame vibrates with it.

You put the condom on with little fanfare and a shaky palm, giggling breathlessly when you catch his eye. He kisses you, hands tight around your hips, guiding you forward.

And when you finally sink down on him, having him this way for the first time, it’s tectonic. Cataclysmic in the best of ways, devastating as you feel him stretching you, feeling full and warm and yours.

The sigh that leaves you is a broken thing, hot against his lips, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out. You’re pulsing with it, this need, slick and aching as his palms start guiding you into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, Jack…” you whine against his lips when he starts rocking up, holding you still instead. Your head falls on the junction between his neck and shoulder; nipping at his skin, mouth falling apart when you feel him sneak his palm between your bodies, thumb catching on your clit and toying with it.

You’re scorching. Sensitive, hips swerving, chasing after a climax that draws nearer with each snap of his hips. His breaths are ragged next to your ear, deep and searing as you clench around him.

“Yeah?” he croons breathlessly, turning his head against your neck. “You feeling good, baby? Tell me, tell—”

“Y–yes,” you gasp out, backing up and sitting straighter. With a shaking hand, you grab the one that’s on your hip, making him wrap his fingers around your neck again.

It’s tethering, blistering, right. It’s showing you trust him in a way you haven’t yet explored together. It’s narrowing down the world to just his eyes as his fingers apply calculated pressure on your arteries; nothing existing past the heat of his gaze, his open lips, his breathless groans, his cock that’s still rocking inside you.

It lasts for a moment, and then it’s gone. Fingers slackening around your neck, his thumb rubbing the skin of your throat, your head swirling and swimming on cloud nine. A little harder to think, to feel time passing. It’s so fucking good it’s bordering on senseless.

“I’m gonna come,” you cry out as his fingers find your clit again, finding a rhythm and holding it; much like he locks someone’s gaze, much like he fixes crises before Surgery even gets the page.

“Do it,” he moans against your lips, “I wanna feel you. Do it, sweetheart, I know you can…”

He doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t slow down; he keeps hitting every motion steadily, surely, like making you come around him is as easy to him as breathing.

It’s only when you feel his hold tightening beneath your jaw again—when the world narrows into a slit, when your head starts swimming in a cloying haze, when each touch is cranked up to eleven—that you melt.

Shaking, writhing in his steady hold, falling down like jelly against his arms, his name on your lips and your tongue in his mouth. It spreads from the bud of your clit like tendril up your muscles, weaving between nerves and arteries like syrup. It leaves you spent.

He’s not far behind. With your body like putty in his hands, with your husky voice in his ear—nipping at him, whispering filth you’re not half-sure you even remember—he comes apart the only way he knows how. Sharp, intense, real. Keeps pushing against you through it, riding it out. The stimulation is dizzying, viscous and nearly too much.

Holy shit.

The car is quiet in the aftermath.

Windows fogged up, keys and underwear and a pair of burgundy tights you got on sale forgotten on the floor, breaths mingling in post-orgasmic haze.

It’s perfect. Or, better yet, it’s right.

His hands are on your back, curling around you completely as you try lifting yourself up. The movement is shaky, and his eyes shine when he catches onto it. His palm comes around, cupping your flaming cheek, thumb rubbing the skin with such softness you think you might actually die. The look on his face is worse, though. Soft, brows furrowed, drinking you in like he’ll go blind and this is his last chance at picturing you. Your chest swells with it, this… fuck, what even is it?

Love feels like too big of a word, too scary; staring you down like the maw of a gaping gorge ready to drag you in its depths. But, like feels too small; too insignificant and wrong for the way he makes your heart surge, the way you look for him first in every room you walk in.

You don’t know right now, or you’re too fucked-out to think, or you do know and it just feels more like being held at gunpoint rather than a self-actualization. Whatever the fuck it is, you’ll figure it out later.

Right now, you just let your lips melt with his own, giggling as his stubble tickles you, huffing a moan together as he pulls out. Back in his place, you’re looking at him from where you’re leaning on his kitchen counter, eyes softening as he places the prosthetic against the arm of the couch, as he sighs and lies back into the cushions with a hand rubbing his aching skin. But then his voice rings out: “I got a new sugar pack, 500 grams. Try not to use it all, yeah?”

And you know. You know.

You love him.

(It’s fifteen minutes before 7AM, and slowly, the day crew has begun trickling in. First it was Dana, then Robby, then Yolanda. You handed patients off, updated last-minute details on the charts, exchanged hello’s and quips. Jack is at the nurses’ station, smiling as Dana tells him about a recipe whose name you missed. Just that it is a ‘must.’ He turns and looks at you, eyes softening around the edges, mouth quirking, dimples showing. You shoot a wink, and maybe, if you were asked, you could pass it off as aimed at Dana instead.

Perlah and Princess are watching; goddamn walking security cameras. You don’t mind, though. Maybe you can even fuck with them about the bet.

Oh, yeah, the bet. When will Dr. Abbot and his favorite jockey finally drop their pants? Find out on page four in the ever-growing PTMC hot-goss column.

Bridget and Shen started it, and then it trickled over to the day shift, and you kind of love Robby and Garcia and Collins and Mohan for being tight-lipped about it. You actually believe it’s because they want the money for themselves, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

“D’you see that wink? You think they did it already?”

“Are you kidding me?! I got money on another week, tops.”

“Walk you home?” asks Jack.

“Yeah,” you grin, shooting a look over your shoulder just to watch two of your three favorite day-shift nurses fumble and flail. “Let’s go.”)

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #the pitt #shawn hatosy #the pitt x reader

2K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 1 month ago

Text

Forbidden Fruit [Part 1] - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Summary: he's been watching you for longer than he can remember, thinking he's too old for you, too dangerous. It's easier to keep people at arm's length, and he isn't the roughened lover he used to be. Turns out you don't care much for what he used to be.

Note: I got this out before episode two dropped. There are no spoilers here, just old man Joel being loved.

Word Count: 3.8k. || Part Two Here

- x. -

Joel knows that deep down, he's not the good guy that he tries to be in Jackson. That no amount of hard work and somewhat begrudging neighbourly behaviour will truly ever mask what he really is.

He does a damn good job hiding it, though. Looks almost unassuming with his greying curls, the crows feet forming round his eyes, the glasses he wears more often than not.

Then there's you. God knows how much younger than him - does it really matter, when he's pushing sixty and you're clearly not - and full of life.

He sees you around and just one look at you gets him half hard; you don't even have to fucking do anything, just be wandering past and give him a friendly wave, a half smile.

He finds his eyes glued to your ass more often than not, given your standard attire of a pastel plaid shirt and jeans does nothing to hide your figure. He feels like a dirty old man each and every fucking time, but he can't help it. Especially when you wander past to get ready for a patrol, an honest to god cowboy hat perched on your head, a lasso and a gun on your hip.

It makes some deep buried dark and depraved part of him wish he was still the cocky, confident bastard he once was. The kind who would have no problem whatsoever with talking to you and getting exactly what he wanted. Age has made him hesitate, though, and so he sort of just contends himself with trying to be as subtle as possible with his stares.

He'd be lying if he said he thought of anything else when he fucked his own hand each night, though.

Imagining you. How you might look spread out beneath him. On top of him. How you might sound with his name on your stupidly pouty lips, which he absolutely hasn't made note of or anything.

Joel likes to think he's completely subtle in his interest in you, thinks he might just be burning up inside with his own desires and need, until Tommy calls him the fuck out for it one night.

They're in the bar long after closing time, just the two of them, perks of Tommy being on the governing council, Joel guesses, and two or three glasses of whiskey deep.

"Don't know why you don't just go after her, y'know." Tommy takes a long sip of his drink. Gives Joel a smirk that he never thought he'd see again, given his younger brother is all settled down now, married with a kid and whatnot.

"You know damn well why not." Joel snipes back, refills his glass with a narrowed gaze. "'M too old and I'm too fuckin' dangerous. She'd probably break or something."

Tommy just laughs. But it's more like his old laugh. The slightly dark sound that Joel hasn't heard in years that makes him goddamn certain his brother knows something he doesn't.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Tommy says, tossing another cube of ice into his glass, swirls it around. "Don't blame you for lookin'. Girl's got a sweet ass, and damn, she can ride, too."

There's that tone again, the one that says he definitely knows something. More than knows something. So Joel gives him that look he does that always inevitably has Tommy spilling the beans.

"And how d'you know the girl can ride, huh?"

Tommy snorts, drags a hand through his messy black curls.

"Wasn't always with Maria, ya know. Back when I first came to Jackson... girl can handle her way around a saddle. Ain't half as cocky when she was gushin' all over my cock in a hay bale. Tell y'somethin, never seen a prettier sight than a cockdrunk woman."

He downs the rest of his drink before he shoots Joel a crooked grin.

"And trust me on this one too - she loves her an older man."

Joel doesn't want details. Doesn't care much about something that happened six or so years ago.

What he does take from the conversation stays worked into his head over the next few days. He's just thinking he might make some excuse to leave his office early, to go home so he can either drink himself senseless or fuck his own fist until he has some semblance of self control again.

He's still debating which it'll be when someone knocks on his office door; he looks up, about to tell whoever it is to fuck off, and instead stops. Because there you fucking are, your hair pulled off your face, still windswept. Dressed in a pastel purple and blue plaid shirt, another pair of jeans that should be fucking outlawed and worn cowboy boots.

“Hey, Joel.”

Vaguely, he wonders if this is the first time he’s actually registered you saying his name; he likes the way it sounds in your voice.

“Hey. What can I do for you?” He can’t help but sense some sort of mischief, wonders whether Tommy has decided to interfere, again, in something he has no business in.

“Oh, uh, Tommy said you were the one to go to if the barn door got caught again?”

Joel registers what you’re saying, can’t help but listen to the way his brother’s name sounds in your mouth, as if he’s looking to see if there’s any hint of any sort of affection in it, but he finds none.

He also thinks his goddamn brother is full of shit, because he knows damn well that Tommy is just as capable of fixing the stupid barn door. But Joel is nothing if not an opportunist, and he sees exactly what’s being offered here – an opportunity.

So he gets up out of his chair, pockets his glasses, and gives you a nod.

“Sure. Let’s go get that fixed up before dark.”

- X -

You’re aware of the sheer size of the man beside you as you help him lift the barn door back onto the track it usually slides in. He must be at least sixty, and yet he’s so big and broad that it doesn’t quite show. That doesn’t mean you’re oblivious to the greying curls, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. You’re not blind. Maybe you’re just fucked up, because you’ve always preferred older men, at least, since the outbreak.

Maybe it’s some convoluted thought that someone older might be able to keep you safe. As if you aren’t a damn good shot yourself. As if you aren’t entirely capable of keeping yourself safe.

You haven’t been as oblivious to his stares as he thinks. No, Joel Miller is not a subtle man, not anymore. Never has been.

That, and you’ve seen a similar look on his brother’s face, once upon a time. The kind of look that says they want to devour you. To do things to you that’ll make your toes curl.

Like you haven’t been watching Joel since he first set foot in Jackson. Figured maybe you were too young, too out of range of his usual type, whatever the fuck that was.

And then you’d noticed him watching you, dared to perhaps hope, but never make the first move. Until now.

“Thanks for the help,” you say as you test the door, pull it open and closed to make sure it isn’t stuck again.

“’S fine,” Joel answers, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Walk you home?” You offer, and the hint of a smile curves his mouth.

“Don’t know that I’m the one who needs a chaperone to walk round after dark.”

You laugh lightly as he falls into step with you regardless.

“Ah, Joel, nobody would be stupid enough to lay a hand on me.”

You don’t entirely believe that, but confidence is certainly part of it, and the last thing you want is for him to think you’re someone weak and scared.

“Why, you got some scary ass husband or somethin’ I don’t know about?” Joel asks, and you can hear the hint of jealousy in his tone, even if he thinks you won’t; it lights up something in your belly that trails all the way down to your core.

“Pff, no. No husband. No boyfriend. Just me, and apparently I’m scary enough.”

You give him time to take all that in, but that means you arrive at his house far too soon with very little progression in conversation. You’re almost feeling disappointed when he speaks again.

“Comin’ in for a drink?”

Joel isn’t sure where that confidence came from. Maybe the way you’ve confirmed there’s no significant other in your life. The almost flirty way you’ve spoken to him. The way you had seemingly no issue getting up in his space as you fixed the barn door.

He notices, too, the way your eyes flicker with something like triumph at the offer, before you just nod, follow him up the steps and into the house.

- X -

Joel watches the way your lips curve around the glass tumbler, and he really thinks he should be more focused on his own liquor consumption at his age more than the way it looks, but he can’t help it.

Unbidden, his mind gives him a picture of your lips wrapped around something else entirely, and for the first time since Tommy shared his little bit of “wisdom” about you the other night, he resents his brother for it. Because of fucking course his goddamn brother would have had the balls to just make a move. So why doesn’t he?

As he’s pondering this, he’s oblivious to your gaze, focused on him over the rim of your glass. They’re so alike, and yet so different, the Miller brothers. You haven’t quite worked out what makes Joel tick yet, can sense a sort of brooding, shut off darkness in him that you aren’t entirely certain you’d like to see unleashed.

What you do know, though, is that you’ve caught his eyes on you more than once. That you want him, even if it’s only for one night, that you don’t care if he shreds your heart to pieces after, so long as you get one single night where you can see what it’s like to be his.

And so while he’s still lost in thought, you down the rest of your drink and cross from your chair to his, straddle his lap and tap him lightly on the cheek.

“Hey, still with me?”

Not a lot takes Joel by surprise; he wasn’t sure what to expect when you moved, but to find you in his lap is definitely unexpected. He puts his half-finished drink to the side and just looks at you for a second, tries to will his cock into behaving, but it’s too late, he’s already hard as fuck, uncomfortable in his jeans with you pressed against him, and you both know it.

“What’re you doin’, sweetheart?” He manages to get out, because he’s got to be sure you’re not just fucking with him, or making some poor decision fuelled by liquor, even though he doubts the single drink has even touched the sides.

“What’s it look like?” You can feel how hard he is, can’t help but rock into him slightly, taunting, teasing, because God forbid you actually want this.

“Makin’ a real poor decision?” Joel regrets saying it as soon as he does so, and it shows on his face; luckily you ignore him.

“You want me to stop?” you ask instead, your hands at the buttons of the flannel shirt he always wears, a well loved dark green thing that you think sets off the olive tones to his skin perfectly.

He shakes his head so fast he almost feels dizzy, because there’s no way in hell he wants you to stop, but he wants you to understand what you might be getting yourself into.

“Fuck, no,” he almost growls it out, leans in to press a kiss to your bare collarbone where your shirt has fallen. “More just… I'm an old man, darlin', but I've never been good at bein' gentle."

You just laugh, because you don’t want gentle. You don’t want young and sweet and inexperienced. You want whatever the hell is lurking behind his tired gaze.

Still, he doesn’t move until you lean in first, press those pouting lips against his, part them so he can taste liquor and strawberries on your tongue. It’s not until you grind down against him again and moan into his mouth that he reacts.

Then whatever control he has left (which isn’t much) snaps, his hands pushing up your shirt; glad he had the foresight to build a fire when you got in, because the last thing he wants is you shivering for any reason that isn't good, isn't at his hands.

You figure he isn't moving fast enough, help him shed your layers of clothing one by one until you're in his lap in just your emerald green panties, and fuck if Joel doesn't think the colour looks good on you.

His hands are wandering, up from your hips, slowly, cupping your tits and rubbing his roughened thumbs across your peaked nipples. You almost wish you could get him naked, but the most he'll allow is a few buttons of his shirt undone. Not that you're about to complain, so full of want for him that you'll take whatever he gives you.

You can feel the fabric of your panties getting damper with every hungry, open mouthed kiss, your little moans muffled as he slowly draws circles with his thumbs around your nipples, humming when he feels you react.

"Sensitive, huh?" His dark eyes stay fixed on yours as he pinches your nipples gently, making your back arch slightly. "Yeah you are, aren't you, sweetheart?"

You just nod, grinding yourself down against the thick length of him, your hands finding his belt buckle.

He doesn't stop you, too preoccupied with playing with your tits, the way you lean into his touch. Your hand unzips his jeans, frees his cock from the too tight confines, and slowly strokes, drawing a low groan from his chest.

Fuck, but you know what you're doing, slow practised strokes from base to tip, gentle twists of your wrist when you reach the thick head of him, spreading the precum that drips heavily along his length.

"Fuck, sweetheart, don't make me cum before I've got you there-" he warns, and you laugh, not at him, but because you're so fucking pleased that you're having that much of an effect on him.

He shuts you up effectively though, slides one rough hand into your panties and almost immediately finds your swollen clit, rubs circles on it with his thumb, smirking at how soaked he finds you.

"Christ. Don't even need t'get you ready for me, do I?"

You shake your head, but he does it anyway; nobody can say he isn't merciful, Joel thinks, as he slides his index and middle finger into your wet heat, drawing a filthy sound from you as he curls them deep.

He kisses you again, rough and needy, thinks about how if he was five, ten years younger he'd pick you up, carry you to the nearest horizontal surface and fuck you into it. The thought makes his cock throb painfully, but even this is enough, having you in his lap, writhing on his fingers...

You're aware of his mouth on you; on your throat, your collarbones, your nipples, then he moves his fingers a little more and you're aware of nothing beyond your own pleasure, your cunt weeping onto the thick digits as he continues to move them, not stopping until he's absolutely certain you're through it.

"So fuckin' pretty for me, baby. You want to come sit on my cock now?"

Slowly, slowly, he slides his fingers out, enjoys the dazed look on your face as you nod; your ruined panties are dragged down, tossed aside, then you're there, intimately close as he lines himself up, catches the tip of his cock at your soaked entrance.

He lets you sink down onto him with little to no guidance; groans when your hips meet far sooner than he expected.

"Fuck, there's a good girl-"

You make a sound of assent, wriggle in his lap to get comfortable, only serving to make his cock twitch inside you and drag another pretty little sound out.

"You like how it feels?" He knows you do, can tell by the way your pussy tightens around him, trying to pull him in deeper, but he wants to hear you say it, almost needs the ego boost.

"Y-yeah," you breathe out, then, "Joel-"

His name is drawn out, a half plea for something that he isn't quite sure about.

"What d'you need, honey?"

"Need you to move," your voice is almost demanding, somewhere between pleading and insistent, but you'll get what you want regardless.

Joel keeps his hands on your hips, giving you some semblance of control still, but he starts to move, slowly rocking his hips up as you rest your forehead against his.

So maybe it's not what he first pictured, not what he'd have done to you ten years ago, but it doesn't quite matter to him, not when he can feel how wet and tight you are around him, hear every single pathetic little noise you make for him.

Your fingers drag through greying curls, tugging lightly; you're rewarded with another low groan, more like a growl, as his hips snap upwards sharply against yours. You don't get to savour that victory, too preoccupied by the suddenly rougher pace.

"Fuck, Joel-" You gasp and he laughs, tightens his grip on your ass to bounce you on his cock just that little bit harder, faster, hitting all the right places inside.

"That's it, good girl," he presses greedy, open mouthed kisses to your throat, keeping up the pace, feeling you tightening around him and knowing without a doubt that you're close already, so worked up for him that tipping you over the edge will be almost easy.

"Such a tight, sweet little cunt, baby, made to take my cock, weren't you?" The filthy words pour out before he can stop them, but you're responsive to those, too, clinging to him, moaning as his cock hits your sweet spot again and again, getting you closer; you try to hold it off, don't want this to be over yet. But God if it isn't difficult.

Joel can feel you trying not to cum, can feel you holding yourself back.

"C'mon, sweetheart, go ahead and cum for me. Y'really think this is gonna be the only time I give you my cock, sweet girl? Fuck, gonna keep this pretty pussy full of me til you get sick of it."

You gasp a moan, because there's no way in hell you could ever get tired of this, of the hint of roughness and the burning passion with which he handles you.

Regardless, once he gives you that permission, even though you didn't need it, your resolve breaks; he presses in deep, grinds his hips against yours so the coarse curls at the base of him brush your over-sensitive clit, and then you're gone, spots in your vision as you cling to him, your cunt fluttering and throbbing around the thick cock splitting you open as your release drips down him, soaking his lap.

Joel groans, almost cums right there, because he can count on both hands and feet how long it's been since he made a woman cum so hard, felt a pussy spasm around his cock and gush fluids into his lap. Fuck, if he doesn't love it.

"Not gonna last much longer, sweetheart," he warns, voice low and rough as he rubs circles on your back, trying to get you through it whilst holding back his own release.

"Please-" Your voice is hoarse, eyes wide and pleading as you look at him, not bothering to finish your sentence and instead leaning in to kiss him.

It's the kiss that pushes him over the edge; years of rough, emotionless encounters, against walls. Bent over surfaces. And here you are, younger than him, softer somehow, kissing him like he's someone good and deserving.

He knows he should pull out of you but it's too late, his cock aches and twitches inside you as his release fills your still fluttering cunt, breaking the kiss only so he can rest his head on your shoulder and try to breathe.

Then your hands are in his hair again, stroking through the soft curls, getting him through the aftermath of his climax with the same gentle touch he gave you.

"Joel," you whisper his name and this time it's not a plea, not an impassioned moan, just your voice being gentle as you continue to stroke his hair.

"Hm?" He's content to just stay like this, actually, even if his joints are starting to protest. He'll deal with that later for another five, ten, fifteen minutes of this with you.

"You don't fuck like an old man." Your voice is soft. Sleepy. Like he's fucked any fire inside you out of you, lulled you into a sense of safety.

Joel can't help it. He laughs, a proper laugh that barely anyone gets out of him these days.

"Guess not, huh."

He feels his softening cock slip out of you, wraps his arms around you and tucks you against his chest.

"Can we do this again?" You dare to ask, because you're feeling sleepy and stupid and high on him, on the feeling of his seed slowly dripping down your thighs as he presses little kisses to your head.

Joel looks down at you for a moment, understands you don't mean right now, but in a sort of ambiguous future way.

"Yeah, sweetheart. Whenever you want. You want a blanket or something?"

Because inexplicably he's worried that you might be cold, as if he's only been watching you to think with his cock and doesn't actually, possibly, maybe care.

You shake your head and nuzzle back into his chest.

"Can we just stay like this for a minute?" You ask instead, and Joel nods, because he really does need to catch his breath, and even if his knees are protesting, he doesn't give a damn, because you're nice and warm in his lap and you fit there just right, like you were made to fit there.

"Yeah, baby. As long as you want."

It won't occur to him until maybe a week or so later, when you're picking strawberries in the greenhouse, that that should have been the moment he realised he was a total, utter goner.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #x reader #hbo tlou

1K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 2 months ago

Text

SOMEONE HUGGED THIS MAN THANK YOU

And you can hold me

Authors Note; HOW DID NOBODY HUG THIS MAN. I had to come out of semi retirement to give this man the hug he so desperately needs

Content warnings; none - just sad boy being sad

Note; this blog is intended for adult audiences regardless of content, by proceeding you agree that you are over the age of 18, have read any relevant content warnings, and wish to proceed.

It wouldn’t run without the donations. One of the bands from PittFest had set it up, funded enough for three years without blinking an eye. A 24hr coffee cart in the emergency department. Not in the waiting room, tucked in a little alcove off the staff entrance. Protein bars, coffee, tea, fresh fruit, all arriving daily, and a staffing roster of four shifts of 6 hours each, ensuring a never-ending supply of caffeine and sustenance for busy doctors, stressed patients and parents, and the occasional late night maintenance worker.

Given the location, you lucked out on the shift you did. Six to midnight, midweek. You missed the start of the night shift by an hour, relieving your coworker who had somehow managed to get milk in her shoes barely giving you a handover before leaving as if she was being chased. The start and end of the shifts were the worst. Sleep deprived, run down doctors, nurses, custodians, all weary and thankful for your existence. You were lucky enough to have a steady trickle of customers across the evening with enough time to sketch in between if you were lucky.

They were a quiet customer based too – all too lost in their own thoughts or already on their phones requesting lab results. In the few months you’d worked here, you’d only learned a few names. Dana, the charge nurse who got a chamomile on her way out the door with the kind smile and impenetrable attitude. Whittaker, whose diet seemed to consist mostly of energy drinks of varying flavours, who reluctantly bought a banana or apple once a week when another doctor ordered him to, shy and sweet. Dr Abbott, who forces you to call him Jack and lets you experiment with weird espresso combinations and has genuinely good feedback on the flavours.

The rest passed you like ships in an inky sea, never rude or demanding, but too consumed with things far more important than sketching barista who isn’t tall enough to see over the cart.

It’s a little under halfway through your shift. Everything is stocked, all the equipment is clean, everything in its proper place you take the time to work on the jellyfish sketch that has been consuming you for the past few days. Something about the floating ribbons of tentacles has sunk its teeth into your subconscious, demanding to spill across a page. You’ve just finished enough to stretch your neck out, stand from the crappy wheelie chair tucked into the little nook behind the cart. That’s when you see him.

He’s tall, clad in a hoodie over scrubs, glasses sticking out of the pocket. You immediately categorise him in shapes. The rounded slump of his shoulders, the blunt square of the fists he’s clenching at his sides, the oval rise and fall of his strong chest as he forces breaths in and out. He looks so sad. So tired and worn down, the words claw out of your throat before you can stop them.

“Rough day?”

He starts, just a little, his hand coming to scrub down his jaw to hide the brief shock as a laugh follows.

“Yeah, yeah… aren’t they all” His voice is weary, tired. You glance briefly at your watch 9:30pm. If he’s a day shift worker he’s currently sitting on hour 14, most likely without a proper break or meal.

“Coffee? Fruit? I think there’s a blueberry muffin hiding somewhere back here”.

“No” he drags a deep breath through his nose as if even the act of speaking is costing him precious energy “Thank you, though”.

“You’re welcome”

His head tilts curiously as he looks at you. Giving you a tight-lipped smile before he leaves out the staff exit, muffled music following him as the door swings closed.

He keeps looking for you. It’s not on purpose, not a conscious decision. But every time he leaves now, he flicks his eyes to the coffee cart, looking for you. Sometimes you’re standing on tiptoe to hand a customer a coffee, sometimes you’re tucked into the corner with your sketchbook, just your shoes visible, the worn graffitied pair you seem to wear every day. He knows Dana orders tea from you sometimes on her way out after a particularly energising shift to help wind down, he’s seen the disposable cups from other coworkers. There’s just not a good reason to bring you up in conversation, no good reason to ask a single question about you that won’t have half the ER gossiping about how he had interests other than work.

The months since PittFest have been long. Gloria crawling all over her star emergency department, Langdon returning from inpatient, McKays schedule changing with an ongoing custody battle, the slow repair of a friendship with Collins. He didn’t need anything else to occupy his mind except the Pitt, and yet you were there. A sliver of his shift spent thinking about you, about the sweetness in your voice as you jumped to offer him a kindness after a day that seemed to have none.

It was another mean shift. Sometimes the days felt cruel – as if luck had taken PTO and left the universe short staffed. Car accidents, children hurt worse than childhood ever should, a pair of scrubs swapped in a vending machine after a surprise arterial bleed when the patient lifted their hand.

It was a day when he didn’t feel like anything he did was enough, the memories of all of it, Adamsons hand growing cold, the tile under his ass as tears cooled on his cheeks, the sharp points of the star digging into his palm as he clung to nothing but a brief snapshot of childhood comfort.

“Another rough one?” Your voice breaks through it. Enough for him to start again, coming back to himself as he whips to look at you. You’re wringing a cloth, your cheeks slightly pink.

“They all are” he replied, a grief laden chuckle forcing the words out, just enough to convince a stranger that he’s fine really. That a beer and a baseball game and thick sleep on his couch in his empty apartment is going to be enough to heal him, to keep him coming back.

“Coffee?... Tea?” you ask, the cloth strangled between white knuckles.

“No muffin this time?” he asks, quirking a brow

“Sold out” You say, a shy smile blooming across your cheeks when you realise he remembers you. It’s cute. It’s too cute for him to notice, the sweet and cute combination of you already seeming precious to him. He tries to resist it, the pull towards that sweetness

“Want a hug?” the words pull him up short, his eyes snapping to yours as you cover your mouth in shock.

You watch his face change, a hint of amusement sparking across his features as you feel your cheeks heat. You don’t know what made you say it, except the thought had occurred to you more than once, that he looked like he could use one.

“I-I… oh my god” you stutter, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping to pull on some long dormant super power to rewind time by thirty seconds to keep the stupid words from coming from your mouth

“Yes” he says softly, so soft you almost don’t hear it.

Looking up you see his lips purse slightly, shrugging his shoulder, the backpack strap lifting a little higher as he does.

“I’d like a hug please” He says, louder now, slowly coming towards the cart, approaching you as if you were a skittish kitten.

You nod, swallowing hard as he comes around the side of the cart. He’s taller than you thought, towering over you as he slowly slides his backpack onto the ground, nestling it next to your canvas bag as he stands and waits.

“Um, okay… come, uh, come here” you nod, tucking yourself into the little alcove where you hide to draw sometimes, the crappy chair you rescued from the outside dumpster with your sketchbook laying open on the seat.

“Pretty” he comments, nodding towards the sketch, another seascape, corals and bright colours, with the whip of a tail pushing sea grass across the ocean floor.

“Thanks” you say, trying to tug bravery from the hidden spot behind your rib cage. Inhaling once you find it, slipping your arms around his waist, relishing in his height so that he cant see the cringe on your face, or the heat in your cheeks as you awkwardly link your arms around his back.

You smell like sugar and sweet fruit. Crystalised pineapple and something earthy and warm tickles his nostrils as shock settles into his bones that you actually did it. He was expecting you to laugh it off, roll your eyes, tease him a little. But instead you wrapped your arms around him and fit yourself against him with a shaky inhale and now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Warmth is the first sensation that bleeds into him. Your forehead pressed into his sternum as you shift a little on your feet. It races through his bloodstream like sunlight through an open window before he realises he hasn’t moved since you touched him.

Slowly his arms come around your shoulders, easily folding you into his embrace. His eyes shut softly as some thread between you lets you rock a little back and forth, his hands splayed around your back. His next breath feels broken, a comfort his body has forgotten and suddenly aches for breaking his ribs as your thumb skates a tiny circle on his shoulder blade.

God, when was the last time he touched a body that wasn’t broken? That he wasn’t trying to put back together, that he wasn’t losing. He feels the muscles in his face relax as his eyes drift shut, his head tipping forward to catch more of the sweet scent of you, some burning sensation starting behind his eyes.

You feel it. The breath he takes, deep and soothing, moving you both with the force of it as the full weight of his arms around you becomes a little tighter. You try not to consider how well you fit directly into his embrace, how the tiniest twitch of your fingers seems to have lifted some weight off his shoulders, the relief in the exhale that curls around your hair. He smells like antiseptic, the sharp sting of hospital cleanser and a hint of old spice hiding somewhere underneath.

“Are your days always like this?” your voice is soft, muffled slightly by his shirt as your thumb keeps gently tracing the curve of his shoulder blade

“Hugging strangers? No… no this is new” He says and is rewarded with the tiniest shake of your shoulders, a tiny laugh.

“Rough… I mean” You say, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

“not all of them, but today was pretty bad”

“I’m sorry” you say instinctually “But… thank you”

“For what?” he replied

“Coming back. Can’t be easy, to have so many days like this and keep coming back for more. Must feel like there’s nobody else, that if you don’t do it, then nobody will, and then people will just… get hurt, and be alone and scared without anyone to help them.”

He tilts his head down, eyebrows scrunching in confusion as you angle your face upwards to meet his eyes. You don’t say anything, just offering him a mirrored version of the same tight lipped smile he’s given you for the last few weeks. His arms tighten around your shoulders, pulling you closer into his body as the heat builds behind his eyes.

The natural end comes when you hear the squeak of sneakers coming towards your card. He pulls away from you, sucking in cool air at the immediate loss of your warmth. The customer is quick, and he watches you rise onto your tiptoes to hand him the coffee and fruit he ordered.

The awkwardness settles over you both like a blanket when you’re left in one another’s company again.

“Go home” you say softly “Sleep in your bed, have sweet dreams”

“That’s the best advice I’ve been given in a while”

“Next one will cost ya” You say with an awkward giggle.

“Hug? Or advice?” He replies, picking up his backpack and turning to go

“Hugs are always free. But I’ve gotta charge you this first time”

“Sure, what’s the going rate?”

“a name?” you say quietly, looking away from him quickly.

“Michael Robinavitch” he says quickly, swinging his hand out to shake yours as you reply with your own “But everyone calls me Robby”

“Sweet dreams Robby”

It’s the first real smile he’s had all day as he nods, music filling his ears as he leaves into the sweet smelling night air.

Thanks for reading! This could easily turn into a series/obsession if there's any interest for it <3

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x you #dr robby x reader #I love this so much omg

250 notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 3 months ago

Text

this but it's dr. robby... thinking of you. his accidental temptress in the form of a pretty face and some scrubs. much too nice for an old man like him, with a smile far kinder than he deserves for the disgusting thoughts he has of you when he's alone. it's the times he returns home to his nice but empty apartment that his mind wanders to another world where you feel the same. where you, too, are drowning in fantasies of him licking and drinking you up with a tongue that slithers around your clit like it's the fruit that god forbid.

grunting into the makeshift gag, robby dreams of you. his eyes roll and fill with frustrated tears as he spreads the slick spurting from the head of his cock. he's certain that if it was your hand instead, he'd be but a crumble of a man. a leaking, mewling something who wouldn't hesitate to sin if it makes his favorite nurse happy.

#the pitt fanfiction #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #doctor robby x reader #dr robby smut #dr robby #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch x you #michael robinavitch #the pitt x reader

506 notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 8 months ago

Text

LIKE WE WERE MADE TO

of course your doting boyfriend satoru cares about you - he walks you to work every morning, packs your lunches, makes you tea every night before bed. he'd do anything for you, so of course he'll help you with your heat.

pairing: alpha!gojo x omega!f!reader

themes/content: dark content (omegaverse). smut. heats, fingering, knotting, light dumbification, satoru being a little lovesick. (wk: 1.3k)

a/n: YAYYY happy quintober everyone >:) here's my contribution for the @ficsforgaza kinktober event, so excited to be a part of this and check out the link below for more works under this project! view my full kinktober masterlist and the google form for signup to be tagged in other works too! hope you all enjoy :3

quintober masterlist | sign up form | ffg kinktober

Satoru had no idea what to expect as he ran home through the crowded streets; since reading your brief text of ‘Come home. Need you.’ the alarm bells sounding in his head had failed to quiet. He prepared for the worst, scenarios racing through his mind. Were you hurt?

As he barrels through your front door, he certainly doesn’t expect what lays behind it: you, sprawled out naked on the couch, flushed cheeks and sweating, two fingers buried deep inside your cunt.

“What’s going on-”

The sentence dies in his throat as his entire body tenses. Something new hangs in the air, something sending his every sense into overdrive. Almost sickeningly sweet, with an unmistakable, carnal need.

Your heat.

“‘Toru,” you breathe out - even his name on your tongue sounds different, an unfamiliar desperation dripping from it, “need you, now.”

In an instant he’s by your side, your scent growing exponentially stronger with each step he takes until it begins to cloud his own thoughts, overcome with his body’s innate desire to care for you, to care for his omega.

He’s never seen you like this - in your time dating, your suppressants had done their job; maybe that’s why you barely noticed when they ran out last week. Just a few hours ago he was walking hand-in-hand with you to work, your eyes glimmering as you told him about your plans for the day. Something about a big meeting with supervisors? He was honestly a bit distracted by the way your thumb drew circles along his skin, the new perfume he thought you were wearing, how pretty you looked all bundled up in your coat and scarf, like a little present waiting to be unwrapped - before you lightly smacked the back of his head.

“Are you even listening to me, ‘Toru?”

“No,” he beamed.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stifle the smile spreading across your lips. Pressing a peck to his cheek, you turned on your heel with a small wave, your fingers dancing against the backdrop of the fall sky.

You always knew how to handle him - that was something he admired about you. He knew his personality easily veered into chaos, and yet you never seemed bothered by it, holding him in your palms and keeping him a stable shape. It took strength to do that, to not let his soul blend the edges of your own.

And yet, now, his strong, independent girlfriend has become nothing more than a sweet, desperate mess. The thought makes his teeth ache.

“Please,” the broken mewl pulls him back to the sweetness surrounding you as you continue pumping your fingers in and out.

Before he can choke out a response, your hands begin hastily removing his clothes, tugging off anything you can grab, palms sweaty against his torso as you unzip his uniform. With a harsh tear, his shirt falls to shreds on the floor, muscles rippling beneath. He was never known for his patience, after all - could you blame him?

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs, climbing on top of you so his thighs straddle your body, sinking into the cushions. “I’m here, m’gonna take good care of you.”

Two lanky fingers collect the slick pooling at your entrance as his free hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your palm from between your legs. He holds it above your head, leaning forward and blanketing you in his warmth. A wave of pleasure crashes over you as he slides inside, curling his fingertips towards that spot only he seems able to reach.

But it’s not enough.

“More, ‘Toru, please, need more,” you whine, your hips bucking up involuntarily. The words continue spilling into the air, desperate pleas for what you really need, what only he can give you.

“Okay, just - fuck - gimme a second.” And he’s panting already, the biological drive within him threatening to take over, to pin you down and fuck you until you’re nothing more than a limp little mess beneath him. But he’s better than that.

Right?

It takes every ounce of control to align his tip with your core and stay there for a moment, allowing you to adjust to the stretch as he knows you would want him to, but it’s made all the more difficult with your hands weakly grasping at his hips in an attempt to pull him forward.

“Please, pleasepleaseplease,” you babble, “pleaaaseee-aaaahhh.”

When his cock finally enters you, all your nerves alight in flames. Your vision goes white, eyes rolling back as he fills you up. Exactly what you needed. For a moment, everything stills, returning to your senses as his own musky scent begins mingling in the air with yours.

The brief clarity lets you pick up on the prettiest little whines falling from his lips at the way you envelop him so perfectly, two souls made for one another.

In only a few thrusts he’s sweating, his body sticking to yours with each push and pull of his pelvis. It’s hot, impossibly hot, both of your cheeks flushed and gasping for air. When his lips meet yours, it’s imprecise and messy, breathing into each other’s mouths as your tongues meld. He tastes like sugar and desire and love and cinnamon, like some dessert you were denied as a child for fear it would give you a tummy ache. But now, it’s the only thing satiating you, the only thing you can stomach.

“M’gonna make you feel better,” he’s mumbling into you, “gonna fuck you so good.”

“Only you, ‘Toru,” you babble, and you’re just as gone as he is, “has to be you.”

There’s truth to it, of course - only he could quell the growing ache inside you. Only your alpha. Your bodies were made for this, you realize: with each increasingly rough thrust, he hits every spot inside you so perfectly, and as your walls begin to flutter around him, you squeeze him in just the way that has him losing the last remaining shreds of his sanity.

Each beat of his heart echoes through his ears, overshadowing the wet squelches of your cunt around him and the lewd slapping of his balls against your ass. All he knows is you - his sweetheart, his other half, his omega.

As he ruts into you, something hot and thick begins coiling in his stomach, something unfamiliar, but the words are engraved into his soul as he slurs, “gonna take my knot f’me, yeah? ‘S’gonna help, okay?”

Teary eyes blink up at him, glossed over in pleasure as you nod. “Need it, please,” you whimper. Your mouth forms the word on pure instinct, “Alpha.”

And that’s all it takes to make him snap.

With a broken cry of your name, he releases into you.

The sensation of his cock twitching sends you over the edge, the heat in your chest burning brighter and brighter and brighter until it’s all you can feel.

As you come down from your high, there’s a new pressure in your core - you feel so, so fucking full.

His cum swells inside you as he cautiously adjusts his body weight. Pink cheeks and blue eyes find your gaze and he gives you a weak chuckle, met with your own equally fucked-out grin as you brush sweat-slicked hair from his forehead.

It takes effort to slow his breathing enough to speak, enough to think. “Your first heat with me,” he muses to himself. His heart warms at the thought: now he can take care of you in the way he was made to. “Love you s’much, baby,” he hums, pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips before nuzzling into your neck, softly breathing in the warm scent.

“Love you, too.” Your fingertips slowly scratch his undercut, the haze now clearing enough that you swear you hear him purr. Your cunt involuntarily clenches around him - around his knot - as you gently run your nails down his back. His body melds perfectly around yours. “Alpha.”

2K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 8 months ago

Text

THE WAY HIS BIG SWEET PUPPY DOG EYES TWINKLE IN THE LIGHT HAS ME FROTHING AT THE MOUTH

5K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 8 months ago

Note

Ps5 Peter Parker x reader inspired by this?

It's one of my favorite MerDer moments on Grey's anatomy 🙈😭

Peter explains something about physics or an idea for a gagdet...

🤣 this image really cracked me up lol thanks for the ask!! I've set the fic to take place in the first game, Peter and Reader are Otto's assistants at Octavius Industries. Please ignore the science mumbo jumbo in this fic.

Otto's lab was really cold this time of year. He barely had the funds to make rent in Manhattan, let alone provide optimal heating and other luxuries.

Still, you shiver, searching through your locker for your comfy, oversized jumper. You're just pulling it on when Peter pops up from behind you.

"Hey."

"Jesus!" You flinch and then rub your eyes. "Hey, Peter. How do you get behind me so fast? That's the third time this month I didn't even see you come in."

"Uh... I just have good reflexes, I think." Peter's mouth twists a little, as he tries not to laugh at your jumper. "Are you sure that's up to lab standards? Where's your lab coat?"

"Ah, Otto doesn't mind. He knows I'm cold." You explain, and Peter sighs.

"Well, he never gives me special treatment."

"Probably because you're not as cute as I am." You joke, but Peter nods and you feel a callous level of attraction towards him for being so nonchalant in terms of flirting.

You never really know where you stand with the guy. He's a naturally witty person and you refuse to read into anything any deeper, just for self preservation.

"Hey, I can't disagree with that." Peter laughs that quiet, soft laugh that makes you smile on your own. "Here, I got you a cup of coffee. That should help warm you up."

You look down and see, sure enough, Peter's holding a coffee cup tray, loaded with three cups, surely your usual orders- for you, extra black espresso to stay awake, for Peter, usually some kind of healthy tea hybrid, and for Otto, a large, creamy Italian coffee blend that's particularly expensive (Peter always jokes that Otto wastes funding on things like this).

"Oh, I'll pay you back." You reach back into your locker for your wallet, but Peter stops you with a raise of his hand.

"It's free of charge. No worries." He hands you the cup gently, and your hand skirts across his. You think for a moment.

"Nothing is ever really 'free of charge', Peter." You give him a side glance. In the last couple of months you've known this guy, you've figured out when he has an ulterior motive.

"... Alright, alright. You got me." Peter starts pulling you along by the hand, towards one of Otto's offices filled with white-boards and desks and equipment. You take a sip of your coffee and notice that it's still quite hot- Peter must've been really fast to make it so.

Not that you're complaining, and now that you're warmer you do feel more inclined to listen to him.

"Okay. You know how Otto's neural interface for the experimental arms have been glitching out?" Peter's got a firm look on his face, as you sit and listen.

"Yeah. It's a poor prototype, I think he asked us to leave it alone? He said he'd deal with it." You shrug. "I've moved on to his requests for a tighter, stronger arm. You know I deal with hardware."

"Yes, but even so, the neural interface problem still persists. Otto's lying." Peter looks at the whiteboard, and sees that half of it is covered all over with erratically drawn diagrams and equations. It's fine, he knows he can write what he needs in that space.

"Okay, look." Peter begins drawing a diagram of the neural interface's circuitry. "See how the voltage is really high?"

"Yeah- but isn't that what Doc wanted?" You grimace. "Last time I brought up the voltage issue, he told me to mind my business and continue with soldering. He wants so much power for some reason."

"Right, that's what I'm talking about. Notice how Otto keeps having those outbursts?" Peter sighs, a deeply upsetting look overtaking him. "He's getting a bit aggressive as of late, and I think it's because he can't figure this out."

"You're telling me. Just yesterday he chewed me out for clocking in a bit late." You sniff. "Okay, I was fifteen minutes late, but still."

"I've been there, you don't even have to justify it." Peter laughs, and begins drawing squiggly lines. You can't help but notice how his strangely muscular arms are tense and visible through his lab coat as he scrawls, and you take a sip of your coffee, savoring the view. Looking isn't illegal, you try to rationalize, but you quickly banish these thoughts as Peter looks back with a sly glance, to make sure you're paying attention.

"This is the electricity flow... and it should be heading this way, but the neural interface is made incorrectly and the flow of energy is heading back this way... towards the-"

"The battery of the arms, not the interface." You suddenly realize, and take a scrap piece of paper off the desk, scribbling down notes. "Hmm... maybe the wiring used for the arms is absorbing too much energy? Or the batteries are too big?"

"Maybe, but neural interfaces are tricky business." Peter winces as Otto yells at something in the background of the lab. "I told Otto not to get too involved with it- it's far too easy to accidentally mess with your brain, and then suddenly you've got anger issues or worse-"

"Dementia." You finish his sentence with an equally grim expression. "Okay. I hear you, but how are we supposed to fix it, exactly? I can only think of using different, smaller wires, or a less cost heavy battery- but then it won't move at the speed Otto wants it to."

"Yeah." Peter's shoulders slump a little, and you feel bad. He's always just one dude trying to take on the entire world's problems.

"Peter, it's not your problem, really. You can only do so much- the man has made up his mind, he's going to have to take the brunt of the problem." You try to console him, but Peter has that determined Parker Pride you've seen far too often, and you know he's not going to let it go.

"Wait, wait. Okay..." Peter starts frantically drawing on the board, and seeing that he's running out of space, without missing a beat, begins to draw on the wall.

"Peter! You're drawing on the wall!" You admonish him, and to your shock and utter horror, but not to your surprise, he keeps going. "Now you've completely lost it- it'll take two seconds to erase the board-"

But Peter isn't listening, in that overly stubborn, inventor way that you know you've done before. He's too lost in his own thoughts, and you know that spark will disappear if he takes a moment to stop drawing.

"I'll clean it. It's fine. We got to get a move on." Peter points to the new diagram on the wall. "Look at this."

Peter's drawn a rudimentary depiction of the robotic arm prototypes you've built for Otto, but the battery pack has been split up into several, smaller batteries that extend over the course of the arms. Something about the way the arms move in Peter's drawings look a lot more... smooth, silky, like a cephalopod.

An octopus.

But you are amazed at Peter's capabilities, either way. "Using multiple different batteries, so the energy isn't drawn away from the neural interface in a great capacity?" You blink, a bit amused at Peter's eager expression. "It would work, I think, but only if Otto is willing for a slight decrease in power."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. We don't need to sacrifice power at all." Peter draws a set of gears, interlocking through the squiddy looking arm, and you clap your hands, clambering up out of your seat, finally enthused by his idea.

"Peter Parker, you genius!" You shake his arm excitedly, and he turns a bit pinker as he watches you, grinning. "Otto wanted the arm to be almost entirely synthetic material- but if it has rotating gears, the less it will jerk around. It'll be faster, smoother-"

"Thus requiring less power anyways, and less power will be redirected into his neural interface. And, hypothetically, no more angry Otto." Peter grins, and you smile up at him. "I mean, it'll still take some tinkering to figure out, but incremental improvements are still improvements, right?"

"Definitely. Plus we can always try to convince him about solar power again." You joke as Peter snickers.

Peter opens his mouth, about to say something to you, but he stares for a moment too long and hesitates, especially because in the nerdy excitement, he had gotten so close to you, and he was a liar if he said he had never checked out his cute co-worker. Any second now, you should be teasing as you usually do- but your eyes are wide and Peter gets the sense you've been swept up in this too.

He's never been so... close. He can make out individual eyelashes, tiny scars, imperceptible to normal people, but not to him.

And his phone buzzes with some kind of alert. He looks it over with bright, concerned eyes, while you take a moment to step back, much to Peter's mild irritation.

"Ah... must be MJ?" You ask, trying so very hard not to sound like a jealous girlfriend, just a curious colleague. You have nothing against MJ- you just feel that she and Peter are so meant for each other, and this is exactly why you've been trying to protect yourself.

Who are you kidding? You and Peter are both so busy- you'd never have time to be his doting, adoring girlfriend. You just have to remember him as a friend.

Already you feel the walls coming into place, your expression turning neutral, your heart becoming steely, when Peter looks at you again, surprised.

He can tell you're holding yourself back- and he doesn't like that. He wants you to come back to him, to be close with him again, and it drives him nuts that it has to be your choice, but he respects that.

"Not MJ. We broke up a while ago." Peter swallows, hoping he's saying the right things. "Uh... I don't think we're going to get back together. She's dating someone else now."

"Oh." You squeeze Peter's shoulder as comfortingly as you can. "Peter, I'm sorry. I would've been less of an ass if I'd known."

"No, don't be." Peter fixes a firm, kindhearted glance at you, taking your hands, the warmth of his own making you feel especially treasured. "You're great."

There's a teeny bit of hope working it's way into you, into your silly, girly heart despite all the steel around it, and Peter has a soft smile reserved just for you- you know that smile, you've seen it before when he comforts you when an experiment goes poorly, or when you've had a Eureka moment.

He rubs your hands. "Jeez, you're cold! I know women are usually freezing in the workplace- different body temperatures on average and all that- but I'm going to have to talk to Otto about making it warmer in here."

"Lest I die of hypothermia, right." You snort, and Peter snickers, but he still stays close, as if he's using this as an excuse. "Well, at least I have your hands."

Peter's phone buzzes again, another alert, which he apologetically takes a moment to read after letting go of you. Something about Fisk's thugs making their way through Grand Central Station- he shouldn't leave right now, but he can see your curiosity is piqued.

"Just a news alert. Nothing big." Peter lies, and you don't quite buy it, but you don't want to pry at this moment after he's complimented you and been so nice to warm up your hands.

Otto bursts through the entrance of the room, sighing.

"Will you two lovebirds stop canoodling with each other and test out the circuitry? You know, like I'm paying you to do so with very limited funds?" He barks, and then inhales. "Sorry. Just... try to stay on task. And I know you're young and all... but stop drawing on the walls!"

He leaves, grumbling about youth being too romantic and wishing they would understand sensibility.

You're about to refute whatever Otto said, so Peter doesn't feel uncomfortable, when he speaks first.

"I take it he isn't a romantic." Peter jokes as he grabs some paper towels, and you laugh, feeling that Peter's flirting was more genuine than you thought.

362 notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 8 months ago

Text

TOO GOOD

summary: it’s decided: peter parker has your heart.

pairing: ps4 peter parker x reader

warning: none– unless you don’t like fluff. then beware.

a/n: nothing is ever gonna make me not love this boy oh my goodness. i’m smitten. i’m committed. i love him so much i don’t even know what to do with all these feelings. he’s literally– look at him!! i mean, are you serious??? i got a little sad™ because i feel like no one talks about him anymore, but i literally couldn’t contain my feelings for him so i vomited this, which is inspired by this by @spideyblogger . please listen to the song peter sings here :’)

“you’re just too good to be true…”

you smother a laugh, rolling your eyes. “oh my god.”

you turn around, closing the box of canned food you had been packing. you lean against the metal counter of the f.e.a.s.t kitchen, drinking in the sight before you.

peter parker stands in the doorway, dressed in that blue flannel he wears like it’s his skin. he wears a smile so big it’s as if he’s a kid staring down presents to be opened on christmas morning– and man, does his heart feel like it. he’s a dork in every sense of the word, but you’d be lying to say you didn’t adore him for it.

you cross your arms, raising an eyebrow, trying to maintain your composure.

“can’t take my eyes off of you,” he continues singing.

“peter,” you laugh.

the sound reaches his heart, sending it soaring. god, you’re beautiful in every way. he grins.

he slowly makes his way over to you, still singing.

“you’d be like heaven to touch,” he closes his eyes and embraces himself, donning a wistful expression.

you feel a warmth spread across your cheeks and you give up keeping it cool because peter parker’s a catch. he’s it. you’re done for.

he opens his eyes as he continues stepping toward you and you’ve pushed yourself off of the counter, bouncing on your toes in anticipation.

he finally comes near, softly capturing you, his hands on your sides. you place your hands on his chest as he sways slightly. “i wanna hold you so much.”

your cheeks hurt from smiling, and wow,when you smile like that? peter thinks he could - and would - do anything and everything just to see it again.

“at long last love has arrived,” he squeezes your sides and a giggle freely tumbles from your lips. “i thank god i’m alive.”

your hands move up his chest until you’re linking your hands behind his neck, pulling yourself closer until your abdomen is touching his. the intimacy sends your head reeling, a feeling washing over you that makes you want to jump and laugh.

he leans his forehead against yours and you run a hand up his neck to his hair. he shivers, wondering how he got so lucky.

“you’re just too good to be true,” his nose brushes against yours, close enough that you feel his breath against your lips. “can’t take my eyes off of you…”

as he finishes the last note, you can’t find it within you to let him continue as you chase his lips.

it’s a feeling he can’t get over yet– kissing you. he doesn’t know if he ever will. when you pull away, he kisses you again.

and again.

peter parker is a dork in every sense of the word, but he’s committed to being your dork for as long as you’ll have him.

“you…” you laugh against his lips as he kisses you again. “you’re not a very good singer.”

he gasps, pretending to be offended. “ah, but you love it.”

he got you there.

214 notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 8 months ago

Text

closure

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: sexual content | booty calling spider-man :)

PETER PARKER doesn't understand why he keeps letting you do this to him. Over and over again you tell him friendship is all you want, yet at the late hours of the night— since you know he's already up— you ask if he can afford a break. Like an idiot, he swings by. Doesn't even get the chance to take off the suit before you're shoving him down into a seat, straddling him to rub yourself all over his bulge.

"Hey, easy," he tells you, "you're gonna leave a wet spot." To protest you, his gloved hands cup the plush flesh of your backside, lifting you over him. That spider-strength has you weak in the knees, eagerly latching onto his neck over the cloth. A gasp emits from him as he maneuvers his erection from the confines of his suit and you mouth at his pulse point.

"Want- you, Spider. Need you." At the invoke of that nickname, he lulls his head back and you bite onto him in your enthusiasm. A delicious and low groan pours from his throat, from both the sensation and anticipation of being inside you again. Obediently, he lowers you, nudging your entrance with the head of his cock until he feels a give. You suck in a breath to feel that stretch, no one stretches you like Peter does.

"Fuck," he drags out the word, slowly reintroducing you to his every inch. Impatiently, you push down, as if you could ever hope to overpower him. The man has lifted buses. "Wait a second, baby, wait," His fingers dig into your skin, warning you that you're going too quick for your sake.

"I can't wait any longer, you took so long getting here," you whine, burying your nose into the crook of his shoulder. You can smell his sweat through it, the musk of recent exercise, prowling the streets of Manhattan looking for trouble. "Just fuck me already?"

Pete can't believe this is working on him. Yet again bowing to your whims because he's that desperate for your attention, that desperate for your touch. He can't lie, your impetuous begging for him and his dick strokes more than his ego, length twitching while half-seated inside you. "You want it that bad?" his tone betrays his hope.

"Yes! Yes, please, Pete," With your plea, your grip on him inflects with your syllables, rutting your body against him for any kind of friction, while his halt remains infallible. No matter how you wiggle, he won't let you sink further. At first it was to keep you from hurting yourself, now it's because he likes hearing your bargain for him. Those addicting lips glide up to his ear, and he can feel your breath on the shell of it through his mask. "Need my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."

"You're gonna pull that card? Seriously?" his indignant question is adversely punctuated with a buck up into you and you cry out. It got you fucking wet. It spurs him on, working himself up to a steady pace as he fucks you. He can hear the sounds of the city through the open window, if sirens flew by right now he's not sure he'd have the strength to leave you.

Putty in his hands, your body acts as fluid as he uses it, and you're so grateful you reached out to him. Fucking a superhero is thrilling enough, but fucking Spider-Man has a perk you can't pass up. That spider bite may have gifted an extra couple inches to his cock, but you're more interested in his power to fuck you like a sex toy. Along for the ride, you bounce on him because he's moving you. Like you're nothing. Out of instinct, your lips clumsily find his on the cloth as you brush noses. Your tongue peeks out, the felt drying the tip and his lips shift under your touch.

Breathless and amused, he asks, "Are you trying to french me through the mask again?"

#ch: peter #indy: drabbles #peter parker drabble #peter parker smut #spider-man smut #peter parker x reader smut #spider-man x reader smut #peter parker x reader #spider-man x reader

5K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 10 months ago

Text

I hate Pedro pascal

4 notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 11 months ago

Text

Hard to Break the Habit | (joel miller x fem!reader) (18+)

Part 3 of Meet Me in the Back

pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader summary: when you need some air in your tires, joel does some filling warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (no specifics), size!kink, daddy!kink, light breeding!kink, brief oral (f!receiving), brief fingering, body-marking, taking nude photos, unprotected PIV, creampie, Joel being good with cars i.e. competency!kink ig, mentions of reader being in the dead dad club, v brief mentions of cigarettes and weed, something kinda sorta resembling…fluff??, Joel being his normal, sleazy self that we all know and love atp, also I typically try to make reader as accessible as I can/is plausible but in this case reader can fit in Joel’s coat and knows jackshit about car maintenance word count: ~5K | ao3 a/n: we know him, we love him, we can't stop writing him. i love this joel so much, and we get just like an OUNCE of cutesy in this part, so I hope y'all like that shit 💖 Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It takes a good, long ponder before you make the decision. The tire light on your car has been on for at least a week now, and you’ve been putting it off. You did a thorough check of them and came to the conclusion that they just need air. Something that you presume should be easy, but you’ve never done it before.

You’ve always happened to have a boyfriend (or boy toy) around to do it for you. And before them, there was your father. You’ve somehow managed to go this long without ever filling up your tires yourself, and you feel fucking stupid about it.

Anything regarding the actual maintenance of your car feels vastly out of your depth, and even though you’re sure you could learn, you’re plagued with an overwhelming anxiety that you could make one wrong move and your car will blow up.

It’s that anxiety that ultimately has you pulling into the gas station on a chilly Saturday night at 2 AM, when you know Joel will be there and won’t be busy. The station has a free air pump, so he must know how it functions, right?

Your zip-up jacket and leggings don’t do much to keep you warm, so you all but sprint inside to the sickly chime of the bell on the door.

Right where you’ve left him every time, he’s on his stool, Maxim between his thighs. He glances up at the sound of the bell, and you think his eyes light up just a titch. “Well, well. Didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

“Wasn’t sure I’d let you,” You banter back, your hands shoved into your jacket pockets, arms clinging to your sides for warmth as you thaw inside the warm store.

“Wind is bitin’ out there. The hell you doin’ out so late when it’s this cold?” A knowing smile creeps across his face. “Couldn’t resist the allure of another ride on the ol’ Joel-er Coaster, huh?”

You stare at him, face riddled with bemusement. “Really? Joel-er Coaster? Do you just sit here all night, coming up with stupider and stupider shit to say to women?”

“Got a lotta time on my hands here, little girl,” Joel says, gesturing broadly to the empty store.

“Well, then, can you give me a hand with something?” You ask, biting your lip with slight apprehension.

Joel grunts through his words as he pushes himself up off his stool and tosses his magazine on the counter, “Sure can.”

His hands are already on his goddamn belt when you rush out, “Not with that! Something else.”

His fingers freeze halfway through pulling the end of his belt through the buckle with a quizzical look. “The hell else would you be comin’ to me for?”

You sigh, rubbing your palm into your eye socket as you brace yourself for the impending embarrassment. “I need someone to fill up my tires.”

Joel’s brows draw down as his hands fall to the counter instead of his belt. “Fill up your tires? That’s it?”

“I’ve never done it before, alright? I don’t wanna fuck something up.”

“You ain’t got a daddy—an actual daddy—to show you how to do that shit?”

You avoid his gaze doggedly. “It’s complicated. Short answer is no.”

“And so I’m the closest thing to a daddy you got?” Joel lets a low whistle. “Shit, I’ll take what I can get.” Joel throws on a thick utility jacket from an alcove under the counter and heads out the door. “Come on, darlin’. Faster we get you filled up…” He looks over his shoulder with a little glint in his eye as he winks, “Well, faster we get you filled up.”

You scoff quietly, but trail after him, wrapping the ends of your flimsy jacket around you as tight as you can with your hands buried in the sleeves.

As you make your way over to the pump where you pulled up your car–proud of yourself for at least being able to identify the right machine, all things considered–Joel chats casually with you. “So your daddy don’t live around here?”

You can see your breath as you exhale, not particularly wanting to have this conversation, but you don’t feel like arguing. “Doesn’t live anywhere anymore.”

Joel halts at your car, peering over his shoulder at your shivering form. “Shit. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s whatever,” You brush off, your teeth chattering, and you have no fucking idea why you didn’t grab a warmer coat.

“Jesus, darlin’,” Joel exclaims softly, wriggling his arms out of his jacket and handing it to you. “Gonna catch your fuckin’ death dressed like that.”

“Joel, it’s fine. You’re in short sleeves! I’m not—”

But he thrusts the coat against you with finality until you wrap your arms around it tentatively and mutter a “thank you” as you pull it on. He hasn’t even worn it long and it’s already warm, smelling of cigarettes, his cologne, and a hint of weed. It’s oddly comforting in a way you are definitely not granting yourself liberty to analyze right now.

“Reckon you don’t know your PSI off the top of your head?”

“That would be a no,” You admit, teeth doing significantly less chattering in the heavy coat.

“That’s alright. Unlock your car,” He instructs as he pulls on your driver’s side handle.

You rear back a little. “Fuck no. I’m not letting you in my car.”

Joel sighs, propping an arm on his hip, the hairs on his arm raised in goosebumps from the chill. “Relax, I just need to check your PSI threshold.”

“PSI threshold?”

“Yes. Stands for Pressure…Somethin’…Somethin’…I don’t fuckin’ know, it just tells me how much to fill up your tires.”

“And that’s found inside my car…?”

“In the door frame typically, yes.”

You eye him warily, but he seems as even-keeled as he ever has, so you sigh out a cloudy breath and pull your keys from your zip-up pocket and hit the unlock.

“Thank ya kindly,” He nods with a little salute as he opens the door and crouches. You round the car to watch for any funny business, but he just taps on the small label right in the frame of the door. “There she is.”

“Oh shit. Never even noticed that before.”

Joel shakes his head. “Jesus. Operatin’ this thing and don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”

“I know how to drive it,” You sass back, leaning in obstinately with your arms crossed, “That’s all that matters.”

Joel’s eyes flick up to you before studying the text on the little sticker, muttering under his breath, “Until you need to fill your fuckin’ tires.”

“Someone usually does it for me, okay, dickhole?”

“Not the one I’d be calling a dickhole out the two of us, but alright,” He mumbles. He cranes his head to look up at you and inquire, “You at least got a pressure gauge?”

“The fuck is that?”

“Jesus. It’s usually like a little…metal shaft with a bulb on the end,” He explains, doing his best to mime the shape with his hands.

You narrow your eyes. “That supposed to be some kind of euphemism for—Oh! Wait,” You cut yourself off, remembering the weird silver thing an ex left in your car once. You scurry over to the passenger’s side and pilfer through the glove compartment until you spy what you think he’s looking for, holding it up in the air.

“Is this it?”

Joel grins widely, holding his hand out for it. “Atta girl! Nudge her along in the right direction and she just might surprise ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, you already know I’m a quick study,” You brag, crouching down to his level by the front tire.

Joel’s gaze falls over you as he rhythmically thuds the metal shaft of the gauge into the palm of his hand, scanning you up and down with that telltale look that he always seems to get with you. “That I do. That I fuckin’ do.”

And god knows why, but you can feel your cheeks heating up, and you’re fairly positive it has nothing to do with his coat on your shoulders.

Joel takes it from there, showing you each step of the process as he goes, since, in his words, if he’s gonna be your daddy, he might as well teach you a thing or two.

In what feels like no time, your tires are pumped and the light on your dashboard flickers off, much to your relief.

“Thanks,” You force out when the job is done, sitting on the hood of your car as Joel wipes his hands on his jeans, still not showing any signs of the cold getting to him and his broad as fuck figure.

“Welcome,” He offers back, reclining against the hood next to you. “You ever need help with this fucker, you come to me first. Don’t want you gettin’ ripped off by some shop when they see a sexy young thing like you who don’t know shit about cars.”

“I dunno. Seem to be able to get whatever I want with just my body. I might never have to pay for something a man’s selling ever again.” You peek over at him with a smirk, just to find that his eyes are already on you, lust glazing over them.

“Hell, might not even need to flash him anything. Just wear his goddamn clothes.”

You snort, but draw his coat in tighter on you against the chill.

“You know, I added a li’l somethin’ to the stockroom I think you’d like.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “What, some increased hygiene?”

Joel breathes out a laugh and pushes off the car, jerking his head toward the store as he walks. “Come see, sexy girl.”

He’s most of the way to the front door before you swallow your pride and follow.

—

“Wow.”

“You like it?”

“Sure is something.”

The tiny, lumpy, floral-upholstered loveseat is crammed in the back of the crowded room, the swooping wood paneling on the front of the arms deeply chipped and scuffed to hell. It looks like someone’s dead grandmother’s old couch that got left on the curb.

That’s probably exactly what it fucking is, from your perception and expectations of Joel so far.

Joel’s breath raises the hackles on the back of your neck as his firm hands slide his coat from your shoulders and he whispers in your ear, “You wanna give the old thing a whirl?”

You swallow thickly, the memory of Joel’s massive cock throbbing in between your legs as his hands grab your hips, his mouth sucking at your neck.

“Joel,” You sigh, your eye falling closed as your head drops to the side to grant him more of your skin.

Joel tuts disapprovingly as his fingers flex at your waist. “You know what to call me, little girl. ‘Specially after I was so generous in teachin’ you somethin’.”

The tips of Joel’s fingers tease at the seam of your cunt through your leggings, and your jaw drops in a gasping moan, “Daddy.”

“Good girl,” He encourages, using two fingers to stroke up the expanse of your pussy over the fabric. “Tell Daddy Joel what you want.”

“Want your cock, daddy,” You moan, rolling your hips against his fingers and pulling a sharp intake of breath when the sides of his fingers pinch at your clit. “Please,” You add on for good measure.

Joel groans in your ear, the tip of his tongue tracing the shell as he begins to disrobe you. “You want this big fuckin’ horsecock ticklin’ your fuckin’ tummy, naughty girl?”

The cold from outside has absolutely nothing on the fucking shiver that runs down your spine at his words. Your lips feel chapped as you slide your tongue over them and breathe out, “Yes, please.”

As Joel ravages your neck, your clothes slump to the floor one by one until he has you startlingly naked in comparison to his fully clothed form. He shoves you playfully in the direction of the sofa, and you flop onto it on your back, draping one leg over the top of the couch and the other hanging off the edge to spread yourself open as wide as possible for him.

“Jesus, Mary, and fuckin’ Joseph,” Joel rasps at the sight of you as he wrangles his cock out of his pants. “Fuckin’ hell I’ve been missin’ out on this view. Goddamn animal shelter ain’t never seen this much pussy.”

“Please just fuck me,” You moan, dipping your hand between your legs to rub at your clit.

Joel growls at that sight too, and practically dives headfirst onto the couch and between your thighs. His mouth latches over your lips and clit, shaking his head rapidly back and forth like he’s attempting to motorboat your cunt.

A wanton cry pushes out your throat as he licks broad strokes over your sensitive flesh. When he comes up for air, he’s panting against your stomach, a blazing fire in his eyes.

“You keep these legs spread wide open for me, darlin’. Wanna watch this little slit stretch.”

“God, yes, I need it,” You whine, using your fingers to part your lips and give him full access.

“Oh, she needs it now, does she? She needs daddy’s big cock rippin’ her open?”

“Yes,” You whimper as the thick head of his cock skates up and down the length of your core, soaking it embarrassingly quick.

“Swear to god this little snatch looks tinier and tinier each time I see it, don’t matter how much I stretch it out. Just snaps right back like a bad habit, don’t it?”

“I like that,” You insist, your voice kicking higher as he starts to tease you on his downstrokes, pushing the tip of him into your opening with the barest amount of pressure, and popping right back out to rub it against your clit with the additional slick. “Like that it stretches me every time.”

“Not so scared of it anymore, are ya?” Joel points out, smacking the length of you with the length of him in increasingly wet thumps against your pussy.

“No. Love it, daddy,” You whisper into the musty room, fingers scratching against the hideous upholstery on the arm of the soft above your head. “Please put it in.”

He doesn’t disappoint, lifting your ass onto his thighs as he positions himself at your entrance. That familiar grunt floods the room as he pushes inside you for the first time tonight, his lips pouted open in pleasure as your body lets him in. “Shit, baby. Already chokin’ daddy just right. Look at that pretty stretch,” He moans, admiring the strain of your cunt wrapping around his giant cock.

You keen at the stretch, how could you not, even after the third time. It prickles and stings along the thin flesh that encompasses him in the fucking best way, the pain vibrating to your clit as he pushes in to the hilt and you feel his thatch of curls smashing into your slick folds.

He doesn’t let you adjust for long before he’s pulling all the way out, the head of his cock catching on your stretched pussy. “Such a slutty, fucked out little hole already, baby,” He groans, lining himself up once more as he slams all the way into you again to hear you shout for him.

“Fuck, fuck, god, fuck me,” You plead, doing what you can to meet his thrusts as they gain speed, peeling you open for his taking.

You can see your vision going unfocused, forcing your senses to feel him instead as your body clings to him, begging him to stay tearing you apart.

A racket suddenly starts up outside the door, like someone yelling and pounding on glass, and you both startle, heads whipping toward the door.

“Fuck,” Joel spits, wrenching his cock out of you with a wet squelch and dancing on his feet as he zips up his jeans in a rush. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” he instructs as he hobbles through the door, shutting it securely behind him.

You whine to yourself and do your best to distract your mind from your aching pussy clenching around the abrupt nothingness, the gaping cavity left by his unjustly huge cock, and strain an ear to assess what is happening outside the room.

“Jesus fuck, can’t a man take a leak in peace?”

“I need gas! What, this ain’t a fuckin’ gas station after 2 AM?”

“Then pay with a goddamn card at the pump, ya broke bastard.”

You hear more muffled altercation, the ding of Joel’s register, and the chime of the front door. Then heavy footsteps leading to the door until his hulking frame fits the doorway, sealing the two of you in again into your grimy paradise.

“Sorry, darlin’. Duty callin’. Hope your little hole didn’t shrivel up in the meantime,” He prattles as he heads back over to you, pulling his still-hard cock from its confines once more.

“Just put it back in,” You sigh, your head falling back into the lumpy cushion.

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice, dirty girl.”

His knees indent the couch again on either side of you as he sinks down and guides his cock back into you. He grunts a deep, low sound as your heat envelops him again. “Nah, still fuckin’ perfect for me. Clampin’ down on my big pecker just right. I know my girl, know just how she squeezes and creams around me.”

“Not your girl,” You pant out as his pace picks up right where he left off, hammering into you like you’ve done him an unkindness.

“Y’are when you’re impaled on my cock like this, darlin’,” He grits out, his hips swinging, smacking back and forth into you like a pendulum. “Ain’t no other word for it but mine. Daddy’s filthy little girl.”

“Oh, fuck,” You squeak out as the head of Joel’s cock smashes against that golden spot inside of you, your head arching back in ecstasy with your neck on full display. Joel growls, stealing the opportunity to bite into your neck, like a dog with a chew toy, like he wants to tear you apart. You moan as you feel the blunt of his teeth on your flesh, denting the side of your neck. “Fuck, give it to me, daddy,” You whine, sufficiently lost inside the pleasure this man arouses in you against your better judgment.

“That’s right,” Joel rasps, his hot breath melting into your skin as he nips at your jaw, “Let daddy have it. Let daddy have all of it.”

You can feel your eyes lazing into the back of your head as his cock continues to punish your g-spot, your tongue hanging out of your mouth as you heroically claw for each breath that Joel seems to be sucking out of you with every stifling press of his cock through your walls.

You’ve never been a match for him, for his massive length, even from the get-go. From the time he sent you hurtling into the first orgasm you’d had on his cock in this same backroom, overwhelmed by such all-engrossing pleasure that you weren’t even sure what it was until your pussy was begging him to stop, to give you a sensory break to analyze what the fuck had just happened. With your tits that you’d flashed him in public mere minutes prior hanging out for his enjoyment, your pliant body bent over a box, and his cock shoved so deep up your cunt it felt like he was taking a self-guided tour of every organ you house within your skin and bones.

No, you’ve never been a match for him, but he still manages to set you ablaze each time you strike against him, stretch open on him. And goddamn it, he makes it feel like you fit. Like he fits inside you, like you fit together.

You fucking hate it. You fucking crave it.

You dig your heels into his ass, a feral scream ripping from your throat as you wordlessly demand more, a concept that you never could have fathomed after that first time. Wanting, needing more from this mountain of a man with his paralyzing cock.

“Yes, fuck yeah, bitch. Let me fuckin’ hear you. Let me hear how fuckin’ insane this cock makes you. How cock drunk I got you when you’re split open on daddy’s dick. Spit it in my fuckin’ face,” He rants, nails digging into your shoulder blade as he pulls you down onto his length to meet his punishing, rewarding thrusts.

Your throat feels raw, beat to hell like the dripping hole between your legs, but you can’t stop screaming for more, tears welling and falling at some instance you can’t pinpoint, but now your face is wet and calling out for him. The “daddy”s and “please”s and “your cock”s rattling, singing off your tongue like sacred psalms for him.

Until you feel the greedy grasp of your orgasm wrenching apart your insides, clinging to his cock like a final lifeline as the remainder of your body splinters into fractions.

“Yes, baby, yeah, fuckin’ come for me. So fuckin’ pretty fallin’ apart on daddy’s cock. That’s fuckin’ right,” He grinds out, fucking into your body until it goes limp from exhaustion. “Open up for Daddy Joel’s come, darlin’. Take every fuckin’ drop,” He growls, finally screeching to a halt as his own release overtakes him, balls deep inside your waiting cunt.

You feel the flood of him, pumping you full and somehow seeping out from the iron clutch of your cunt around him. You already feel him dripping onto the christened couch, and selfishly, senselessly, you hope that it’s the first time for the furniture, at least from Joel’s doing. Logic would argue the contrary, but in your post-orgasm haze, you suddenly loathe the idea of anyone else feeling this goddamn good at this man’s mercy.

“Just like that. Let me breed that little snatch,” He purrs into your ear, the grate of too many cigarettes vibrating from his throat into your already buzzing bloodstream. And fuck wouldn’t that be a concept. Allowing Joel to ingrain a part of himself inside you so deeply that it eventually becomes sentient. A living creature sprouted from pure, unadulterated lust.

You don’t want it. You don’t want kids. At least not now, with him. But shit, you need this man to swallow you whole. You don’t know how else to get there.

But how the fuck did you even get here? Full to bursting with a carnal need for this…menace. This grubby, inappropriate, sleazy sack of…trouble. Loads and loads of trouble. And load after load of his…

Fuck.

As the devil speaks, Joel’s spent cock wriggles out of you, slick and coated with the pair of you and what you’ve done, over and over again now. No longer a one-off or a let’s just test if it was as good as the first time. You’re a repeat fucking offender now. The flow of his come trickling out of your ransacked pussy more than just a memory, but an expectation.

You run a heavy hand down your face and then bury it in your hair with leaden eyelids concealing the shame within them. Thick fingers drag up the seam of your cunt, press inside you with the escaped rivulets of Joel’s spend, fuck into your stretched hole with disarming tenderness as he plants every bit of himself within you as he can, despite the barriers you have firmly in place rendering his actions moot.

“Don’t wanna waste it,” He mutters, voice thick and deep with his own post-orgasm sluggishness. Wetness presses against your lips, and you give no thought before opening them for him, the weight of his digits monumental on your tongue as you suck your shame off of them with concave cheeks.

Your spit tracks down your chin with the drag of his fingertips along it as he frees them from your mouth. You’re vaguely cognizant of them drifting down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach before he mumbles a “Don’t move,” for the second time tonight. You’re just as unwilling to disobey as you were the first time, only it’s the bonelessness in your limbs that fosters it now, rather than that bone-deep longing. So you allow your eyes to rest as they have been.

His presence is gone from the couch for less than a minute before he’s straddling your thighs again. You jump involuntarily when you feel a light tug on your skin under your belly button and above your mound, of something slightly cooler than the temperature of your skin. You lift your head from the sofa in lazy curiosity, to find the tip of Joel’s tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth and a Sharpie in his hand, scrawling on your skin.

“Joel, what—”

“Shh, I want it to be legible. I got notoriously shit chicken scratch.”

You give a brief whine, but drop your head back and remain steady, letting the pull and drag of the marker hypnotize you into a peaceful contentment.

“Alright. You can look.”

You lift your head again, but you can’t quite make it out. You prop yourself onto your elbows and see, “Daddy Joel’s Pussy” with an arrow pointing directly down to your cunt in sharp but still notably sloppy handwriting. Undeniably Joel in a charming sort of way.

Your eyes widen, and you flop back onto the couch. “Jesus Christ, Joel.”

“Don’t like it?” He says, a smirk in his voice. “Lemme do somethin’ else. This is fun.”

“You need to get back out there,” You argue, indicating toward the door.

“I don’t gotta do nothin’. ‘Less someone starts bangin’ down the door again.”

Joel’s tongue darts out once more as the marker bleeds on the curve of your breast. This time you watch every stroke, every line, until you see “Joel’s Slut” adorning your skin, one word inked over each nipple in his terrible penmanship.

“This is gonna be such a fucking pain to get off,” You grumble as Joel eagerly, with almost a childlike intrigue, continues to sketch over your torso. “Just please not anywhere visible.”

“Roger, Roger,” Joel mumbles absentmindedly, transfixed on his next art installment between your breasts. This one he finishes quicker, and you see why when you glance down. It’s a crude dick and balls, the head pointing upwards toward your neck, nestled right in your cleavage, with scattered tiny lines you guess are meant to represent a cumshot.

“Fucking hell, Joel…”

“You ever seen what a sternum looks like on one of them diagrams? Looks like a fuckin’ cock,” He imparts, a youthful glow on his face, like pride at his cleverness.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it, smartass. But if we’re going with actual anatomy, the figurative balls would be at the top and the figurative dick would be pointed down,” You lecture, vague memories of the subject surfacing in your brain that, admittedly, you also only remember because you thought it looked like a downward facing dick when you learned about it.

“Don’t spoil my fuckin’ fun with your facts,” He scowls, a crease between his brows as the marker drags over your abdomen. “I like that it looks like I’m squirtin’ a load on your tits.”

“This is so fucking stupid, Joel,” You protest, laughter in your voice.

“Shut your slutty little mouth and let me play.”

With your bones still feeling like jello, you let him. The minutes tick by until Joel announces proudly, “There. You’re a fuckin’ masterpiece.”

You hazard another look down, and your torso is covered in ink.

Daddy’s Bitch

Golden Gash

Cocksleeve

Gutterslut

Gas Station Hooker

A myriad of other disgusting sentiments plastered in big, bold letters, etched on your skin in permanent marker. You groan, throwing a hand over your face. “Jesus, Joel.”

“Lemme get a picture. You look so pretty.”

You peek through your fingers to find Joel standing over you, his phone poised at his artwork. You cover your face as thoroughly as you can, doing what you can to avoid associating your face with your body as he snaps his photos.

“Fuck, I’m gonna bust a nut over these later. Maybe two,” He moans as he slips his phone into his pocket and paws at your tits, squeezing them together and pinching at your nipples.

You slap a hand down at him to shoo him off and start pulling on your clothes. “Hope you had your fun. I’m gonna make sure this shit is gone by the next time,” You insist, studying down yourself just to ensure no marks are showing through your clothes.

“So we’re sayin’ ‘next time’ now, are we?”

You look back at Joel who is very smugly seated back on the couch, manspreading with the best of them as his face beams.

“Shut up,” You mutter, fixing what you can of your hair.

“Gimme your number, sugartits. I think I’ve earned that.”

“Yeah fucking right,” You scoff, but Joel is holding out his phone insistently. You stare at it for a long moment before sighing and snatching it from him. You consider giving him a fake number, but the incessant ache between your thighs keeps you honest. You toss it back into his lap. “There. Don’t make me fucking regret it.”

“Haven't regretted him yet from what I’ve gathered,” He chides, grabbing his crotch obscenely as you roll your eyes.

“Go do your fucking job. I’ll see you around maybe,” You throw noncommittally at him as you make your way out, trying to purge that look of smug pride on his face, the existence of your naked, graffitied body on his phone, from your memory. “And…thanks. Again,” You tack on as you walk backward out the door for a couple of steps, seeing him give you a wink as you turn back around.

The second you settle into your car, your phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. You heave a heavy sigh and open it.

An image, the exact image you’d been trying to forget, of your naked, graffitied body, with your face masked by your hands. Accompanied with one word.

“Mine.”

Taglist Update: I have decided to decommission my taglist in favor of an updates blog! Please follow @atticrissfinchupdates and opt in for notifications to get notified when I post a new fic!

taglist: @bbyanarchist@within-the-depths@livingdeadmaria@cool-iguana@a-roving-woman @koshkaj-blog @asideblogformyficreading @totallynotastanacc @adaslittleblog @walkintotheriveranddisappear @pr0ximamidnight @sinfulrock @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @kyloispunk @pinkiec6-rubi @vickywallace @pattwtf @chiyo13 @neverwheremoonchild @janaispunk @youandmeand5bucks @ladyburberry @kamcrazy123 @punkshort @survivingandenduring @confessionbrain-writings @lizzie-cakes @prettyinpunk85 @joeldjarin @bubble-pop-eclectic @chloeangelic @tripkid @untamedheart81 @jbb-sgr

Feel free to reply or message me to be added to my taglist :)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller fic

2K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 11 months ago

Text

The Night Is Dark Enough We're Only Seeing Stars | (joel miller x fem!reader) (18+)

Part 2 of Meet Me in the Back

pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader summary: You can’t resist another visit to Joel in all his pervy glory. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (no specifics), daddy!kink, breeding!kink, size!kink, fingering, brief oral (m receiving), unprotected piv (back on my bullshit u kno), creampie, smoking (reader and joel), mild tummy bulge kink, casual shoplifting, Joel still using cringey dirty talk but he’s still old and creepy so it’s still hot word count: ~4.7K | ao3 a/n: plot is hella thin here, I really just wanted to write this old creepy fucker again, and I know all y’all wanted more of him too ❤️❤️ Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Your friend has her head thrown back in laughter as she pushes you through the familiar glass doors of the convenience store.

“There is no fucking way he said that!”

You spin around to face her, walking backwards once you both clear the doorway. “He did, Mandy. And what makes it worse is I didn’t even fucking kick him out after. I just went with it.”

Your friend leads you down the candy aisle, a disgustingly amused expression on her face. “After calling your pussy an ‘angry beaver’? Bitch, you’ve cracked. No more weird fucking hookups, we need to find you an actual fucking boyfriend.”

He’s here. Of course, he’s here. And when you hazard a peek up to the front counter, there he sits. On his filthy old man perch. A Sports Illustrated drooping between his thighs this time. He’s already sneaking a look at you when you sneak yours, and your eyes meet for barely half a second before they dart back to Mandy browsing the wares.

Even with only observing a flash of his face, you could tell he was smirking. Staring.

If only Mandy knew how truly fucked up your hookups have been. One in particular. You hadn’t deigned to inform her of your back room romp with the embarrassingly well-hung specimen behind the counter, and you intend to keep it that way.

That was the lowest of the low for you. Bending over for the elderly should be considered charity work. You’re a goddamn philanthropist. You should’ve received more than just booze and cigarettes.

“Gummy worms or Sour Patch Watermelons?”

You shake yourself out of your stupor, seeing Mandy bent over at the waist to view her options.

A single cursory glance back proves just what you assumed—Joel is eyeing her ass hungrily as her short dress teases up the globes of her ass. You shift your body, obstructing his field of view as you chirp up, “Both.”

“Hell yeah,” Mandy says approvingly, grabbing the two packages. She straightens up and heads back to the refrigerators. “You want a Dr Pepper?” She throws over her shoulder.

“Yes, please,” You affirm, cheating your own look back over your shoulder where Joel’s eyes are back on you—or, rather, your ass in your denim cutoffs. “Hey, I’ll meet you back up front?”

“You got it,” She waves off, and you lose sight of her as she rounds the aisle.

You stalk up to the counter, where Joel sits positively shameless, eyes raking over you before meeting your eyes. “Well, howdy,” He rumbles, dropping his magazine onto the counter.

You lean in slightly and say in a snippy whisper, “Stop fucking staring.”

Joel smacks his lips silently and snatches back up his magazine, burying his nose in it exaggeratedly and glancing up at you over the top of it. He gives you a look as if to say “Better?”

You roll your eyes and catch Mandy approaching the counter out of the corner of your vision.

“How are the articles?” Mandy stifles a laugh as she drops her haul onto the counter and nods at the magazine.

“Downright enlightenin’, darlin’,” He drawls, slumping the magazine onto the counter again and scanning the first item.

Mandy rests an arm on your shoulder, leaning against you slightly. “Keep your eyes to yourself, you fucking creep,” Mandy says, no doubt catching the way Joel’s eyes keep flicking from the counter to both of your chests. “It’s not a fucking peep show.”

Joel peaks his eyebrows in a quick motion and cricks his neck to the side with a barely concealed grin. “‘Course it’s not. Sorry, darlin’.”

Your cheeks burn as your fingers tap impatiently at the counter.

“$11.32,” He recites, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes meet yours again. “‘Less you got somethin’ else for me?”

“Ew, fuck off you geriatric horndog!” Mandy spits out, jamming her card into the machine and snatching it out as soon as it starts beeping. “We don’t need a bag,” She lashes, gathering your snacks in her arms and heading right out the door.

“Come back anytime,” Joel invites again, same as last time, taking up his “reading material” once again.

You toss him a disgusted look. “Fuck off.”

Just to spite him, you snatch up a BIC lighter from the display at the register, wave it in his face tauntingly, and storm out the door with it. He doesn’t even blink.

“Fucking tiny dick skeeze,” Mandy mutters as you clamber into her car and she speeds off.

You keep your mouth shut.

—

Mandy leaves your place around 2 AM after a single text from her current fuck buddy. You feel pathetic, lying on your couch alone.

And you feel horny from Joel’s eyes on you earlier.

You can’t shake that night, and you’ve fucking tried. You have never in your fucking life had dick that had you down for the count the way his had.

And you fucking hate that he was right about being the best dick you’ll ever have. You know you said it about your own pussy too, but that had just been talk. Your pussy is fucking fantastic, but holy shit, his cock. That’s a cock women would go to battle over. That’s the cock that would’ve kickstarted the Trojan War in an alternate universe. The fact that it’s Joel who the dick is attached to is…unfortunate. But you don’t know, it actually kind of works for you. The taboo, the filth, the cringey dirty talk. It all culminates into the kind of fuck nasty sex that a lot of women would kill for. It’s almost a shame to only experience it once.

A damn…damn shame.

You’re out the door in twenty more minutes.

—

You tilt your head back against the brick of the building as you take a drag off one of your Joel cigarettes, lit with your newly procured BIC.

It doesn’t take long for him to notice.

The door chimes, and Joel is leaning back onto the wall next to you, his hands buried in the pockets of his bootcut jeans. Similar wife-beater from that night under a different patterned button-up. Cross still dangling from his neck.

“Bum a cig?”

You size him up with a nose scrunched in distaste. “Get your own.”

“Bit more expensive for me considerin’ I don’t fuck for my smokes. I buy ‘em with my hard-earned cash.”

“Bully for you,” You mutter, taking another drag.

Joel rolls onto his side against the wall, a palm up in the air. “I gave you the damn things. ‘Least you can do is spare one.”

You glance down at his hand and sigh. You tug the carton from your back pocket and drop one into his palm.

“Thank ya kindly,” He offers, bringing the stick to his lips. “Gimme a light with your stolen merchandise?”

You ignore the comment with an eye roll, but hold up the lighter. He ignites the tip and inhales with a gracious nod. As he exhales, his eyes roam your body.

“Wouldn’t mind dippin’ my cigarette back into that toasty little fire between your legs.”

You snort, bringing your own cig back to your lips. “In your dreams.”

Joel shrugs. “I’d say it’s more likely to be in yours. I sure as hell wasn’t the one quiverin’ in a sundress on the stockroom floor after I got a good dickin’.”

“Yeah right. I barely remember that so-called good dickin’,” You play off, poorly imitating his accent with air quotes.

“Then what’re you doin’ here so late, little miss?”

“Needed some air.”

“Ain’t got air outside your place?”

“Needed gas.”

“Ain’t that your little car in that parking spot over there?” Joel nods toward you little Honda civic a couple stalls over in front of the building.

“How do you know which one my car is?” You ask, despite it being entirely plausible that he’s seen you driving up before.

“It’s the only goddamn one in the lot, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes again.

“Besides. Watched you leave last time.”

“Creep.”

“Whore.”

You glare at him, rolling off the wall and stubbing your light out in the ashtray on the trash receptacle. “You know what, I don’t need this. This little tussle with you. I’m out.”

As you turn to go, his hand clamps onto your shoulder and shoves your back against the wall. “Not so fast,” Joel coos, invading your space with his cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. “I ain’t even got a taste yet.”

You shrink back against the wall, your eyes roving for anybody passing by. Whether for help, or checking for prying eyes, you’re not entirely sure.

Then Joel’s lips are at your ear, his hand on your hip, the other against the wall at your head, cigarette between his knuckles. “Just one more taste, sweetheart. I know you been cravin’ it too.”

You shudder as his tongue pokes out, traces the shell of your ear. “I haven’t been craving shit,” You insist, your words contrasting the lack of resoluteness in your voice.

“Then why your legs already tremblin’, sweetheart?”

“Cold,” You whisper, your eyes drifting shut as his chapstick-smothered lips mouth at your neck.

“Plenty warm inside,” He smirks against your skin, the hand at your hip skating down your shorts to your crotch. “‘N I’d like to get somewhere a little warmer too, ‘f you catch my drift.”

You swallow, your resolve crumbling rapidly as his fingers rub right over your pussy through the layer of denim. “I…”

“Come join me in the back again, sweetheart. I can feel your kitty purrin’, even though your clothes.”

“Fuck,” You spit out, shoving off the wall and shoulder checking him as you head to the door. You hear his chuckle behind you as he hangs back a moment to stub out his smoke and then catches the door before it shuts. You hear the lock bolt on your way to the back room, and then he’s at your back, gripping your hips and pulling you against his bulging erection as you scurry into the room.

Then his lips are on your neck, his hands groping your tits, his knee between your legs.

“Such a slutty little thing. Don’t take hardly no convincin’ to give it up again,” Joel slobbers down your collarbone, shoving your v-neck down under your tits to suckle them.

“Fuck you,” You sigh, unable to keep the heated desire out of your voice as you grind down on his thigh and clutch your fingers into his hair.

“Yeah, you missed Daddy Joel’s big fuckin’ cock, didn’t ya? Can’t stop thinkin’ about it tearin’ up that little gash between your legs,” He grunts, rutting his thigh against your pussy as you fuck down onto it.

“Please,” You whine, your fingers stumbling over the button of your shorts and shimmying them off your legs. “Just fuck me.”

“Oh, she wants it bad this time, huh? Makin’ puddles on my goddamn floor.” Joel grips you by your hair at the scalp and cranes your head up to look at him, at the primal, animalistic darkness in his eyes. “Whaddya wanna get fucked with, darlin’?”

“Y-your cock,” You stutter out, hands reaching out to unbutton his jeans. But they freeze when he yanks back on your hair again, face snarling into yours.

“Whose cock? Tell me whose cock.”

“Y-your—”

“Nu-uh. Whose cock? Say it.”

You scour your brain, and there’s only one thing you think he’d want to hear. And, god, you don’t want to say it. But, fuck, him making you say it…it makes your pussy leak down your thighs.

“D-d-daddy Joel’s cock.”

His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath. “That’s right, little bitch. Gonna get fucked stupid on Daddy Joel’s cock, aren’t ya?”

You whimper, grabbing for the button in his pants again. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Mmm,” He rumbles from his chest at the word, his forehead falling against the door by your head as he lets you undo his jeans. “Gonna have you screamin’ and creamin’ on it again, just like last time.”

“Fucking shit,” You breathe out as you attempt to wrap your hand around his huge length. “How are you so fucking big?”

“Good lord blessed me real nice,” He croons in your ear as his fingers brush teasingly over your pussy lips. “First when I was born, then when those perfect little tits waltzed into my store.”

“Such a charmer,” You mutter, focusing on the feel of his rough fingers on your sensitive skin between your thighs.

“Noticed you learned your lesson about your panties from last time, didn’t ya?” Joel says, slipping his middle finger into your folds and teasing your clit.

“I’m a quick study,” You remark, tilting the head of his cock toward your opening.

Joel’s forehead presses against your temple as his hips twitch forward. “Where’s that damn condom of yours?”

Your senses flood back to you all at once as you realize how close the bare head of his cock is to your pussy. And after you give yourself a moment to breathe, you think—just maybe—not all your sense has returned. “Shit, I guess I’m fresh out.”

Joel retracts, searching your eyes for…something. And when he doesn’t find it, a Cheshire grin spreads across his face. “Goddamn. Nasty girl.”

“Shut up,” You mumble, hitching your leg over his hip and angling his cock right where you want it. “Just fuck me.”

“So goddamn impatient tonight. Can’t fuckin’ wait for this cock. So desperate you’re lettin’ a man you hardly know rawdog this little cunt, huh? Well I got it right here for ya.”

Joel’s hand grips your hair, holding your head up so your eyes peer directly into his. You whimper as your scalp prickles in pain and your cunt clenches in anticipation.

“You look right at me, darlin’. Right at fuckin’ me when I split this pussy open.”

You nod frantically, your eyes never leaving his. And god, his face really is fucking beautiful. The lines in his skin, the angles of his jawbone, the curvature of his nose. The plumpness of his bottom lip falling ajar when the head of his cock slides through your slick pussy lips. You have the sudden urge to bite it. But your eyes shift back to his own right as he presses against your entrance.

Your hands fly to the back of his neck, your nails digging into the skin there as the thick head pushes past the opening of your cunt. Your mouth drops open, your eyelids fluttering as you struggle to keep eye contact with Joel through the painful pleasure. “Oh fuckshitjesuschrist,” you blabber, your cunt squeezing around the intrusion.

“Yeah, you feel that cock stretchin’ you open? You remember this dick now? Still ‘barely remember’ Daddy Joel wreckin’ this pussy?” He says snidely, emphasizing by shoving another inch inside you.

“Please just shut up and fuck me,” You beg, the heel of your foot fighting for a proper hold at his lower back until Joel’s hand grips under your knee to facilitate your spread.

Joel groans as the shift has him sliding deeper inside your tight opening. “Love you wide open like this, darlin’. Nowhere for that little hole to hide from this fat cock Daddy Joel’s givin’ ya, huh?”

You knock your head back against the door as Joel breaks you open in short bursts, reaching the end of you with a deep grunt against your collarbone. You breath through the oversized intrusion, the stinging stretch of your pussy sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. You’re much more prepared to take him this time—not so much physically, but mentally—and that is doing fucking wonders for you.

“Fuck, that’s still such a tight little snatch, sweetheart,” He groans, snapping his hips up into you as you gasp. His tip rams into your cervix, making your stomach seize and your pussy constrict around him. Your fingers tear at the collar of his loose button up, and he follows your lead, ripping it off his shoulders and chucking it to the ground. His biceps flex as he grips you again, squeezing your thigh hitched onto his hip and pressing a hand to the front column of your neck. He strokes the skin there with his thumb, not choking, but a heavy reminder that it’s him who is in this grimy room with you. Him who is fucking you breathless. Him who has you by the throat, physically and metaphorically.

He’s the reason you came back.

Joel’s grunting thrusts have you going lightheaded even without the assistance of his hand on your neck. On one particularly brutal thrust, he subsequently pulls out of you until you’re completely, achingly empty again. You whimper as you clench around the nothingness left behind by his girth, and tip your head down to watch him, his voracious eyes, as he cups your pussy with his hand and pushes three fingers inside you with no additional stretch. You moan as he pistons his fingers inside you, leaning out to see you swallow them whole.

“Please put it back,” You beg, thrusting your hips down onto his hand to try and feel that all-consuming stretch that only his cock has ever given you.

He chuckles darkly, crooking his fingers and finding exactly what he was looking for with minimal effort, making you buck your hips in desperation. “Yeah? You want this big cock back inside you?”

“Yes, need it now, fuck,” You groan, despite the spike of pleasure his fingers are fucking into you. “Need you to fill me.”

Joel grits his teeth with a filthy snarl. “Can’t stand how fuckin’ empty you feel without me, huh? Eatin’ up three of my fingers and it ain’t enough.”

“It’s not, please,” You whine, and that has Joel humming a satisfied growl.

“Yeah, fuckin’ beg for it. Daddy likes that. Beg daddy for his cock.”

“Fuck, please give me your cock.”

“Please who?”

“Please, daddy,” You moan with as much desperation as you can muster, hands pawing at his hips and jerking them closer to you by his slumping belt loops.

“Come for me first,” He instructs, his fingers still working your g spot and adding two fingers to circle your clit in tandem.

“Fuck,” You moan, not able to argue the heat building inside you as he tears you apart with his fingers.

“Come on, come for daddy. Spit that pussy juice all over my fuckin’ fingers. Show me how much you want it.”

“I want it, I promise!”

“Then fuckin’ show me. Horny little fuckin’ bitch. Can feel you squeezin’ these fingers. Give it to me.”

Your teeth pierce into your bottom lip as your hips grind against his fingers until you cry out, feeling your body go rigid with pleasure as your orgasm washes over you. He fucks you through it with his own lustful commentary of crude compliments, spewing filth about how your body takes whatever it gets and how sexy you are when you come for him.

Before you have time to fully recover, he’s withdrawing his soaked fingers and sliding his full length inside of you once more, your pussy still pulsing with your release.

“Fuck, chokin’ my goddamn cock, sweetheart. Yeah, give this juicy pussy to your daddy,” He rasps, setting a punishing pace inside you as you come down from your high.

“It’s s-so fucking much,” You stutter out, your arms landing around his neck and nails indenting at the base of it.

“Yeah, and your naughty fuckin’ clam is clutchin’ it like a pearl, ain’t it?” He snarls, burying a hand into your hair and using the leverage to help pull himself into your body. “Or, I’m sorry, would you prefer I call it your angry beaver?”

Your breath catches in your throat at his little taunt, the proof that he was eavesdropping on your conversation with Mandy about another hookup. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Awww, don’t like it when I say it?” He teases, nipping at your neck and making you squeal.

“The shit you say is—fuck—already rancid enough.”

He laughs eerily soft in your ear and forces another yelp out of you with a particularly harsh thrust. “You like how I talk to you, I can fuckin’ tell. Gets you the fuck off.”

He pulls out suddenly and wheels you around, tugging you with him as he crashes heavily onto a box, the cardboard caving slightly under his weight. He shuffles his pants further down his thighs. “Come sit on daddy’s cock now.”

You amble over, eyeing the sagging box and anticipating whether it’s going to collapse entirely with your added weight.

“‘S fuckin’ industrial size toilet paper. Believe me, it’ll go through much worse,” He quips when he notices your hesitance, knocking the side of the box with his fist. “Come on, plenty tall enough to ride this ride, sweetheart,” He jokes, patting a hand on his thigh and pulling on his cock in invitation.

Watching his hand wrapped around his length, stroking it so gratuitously and showcasing how much of a fucking monster he has between his legs, has your brain in overdrive wondering how the fuck you fit that thing inside you. How the fuck you can just sit down on it without it prodding at your stomach.

Maybe it does, your mind provides. Maybe you’ve just never noticed.

Your pussy clenches and you swallow. Then you step forward.

Joel grabs your hand with his free one and helps you stumble onto the box, straddling his thick thighs until you feel his tip teasing at your hole.

“Gotta hurry it up, darlin’. Can’t be closed forever. Go on and stuff up that little cunt.”

“Sorry, fuck, you’re just…”

“Already stretched ya out, darlin’. Just gonna be a little deeper like this. Wanna be all the way up in those fuckin’ guts of yours,” He grunts as you ease down on him from above.

Your head lulls back as you sink down on him with a moan, chickening out about halfway down his shaft and keeping your bounces shallow as you open around him.

Joel lets you acclimate for a few moments, mouth dropped open in a sly smile as you pleasure yourself on him.

“Don’t be shy on me now, dirty girl,” Joel purrs, curling his arms under your arms and over your shoulders and yanking you all the way down his cock until your ass smacks against his thighs. You shriek embarrassingly loud, your eyes blowing open and your throat tingling from the shredding noise. “There we fuckin’ go. Take the whole fuckin’ thing, little bitch,” He growls through gritted teeth, fucking his hips up into you as he holds you all the way down.

Stars spark in your blurry vision as he pounds into your cervix, your thighs shuddering under you and your lungs devoid of air as you bear the onslaught.

“You feel this cock ticklin’ that fuckin’ tummy of yours? Feel where I’m gonna squirt all my fuckin’ seed inside you?”

Your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, and shame burns through your cheeks that it’s not from annoyance, but arousal.

“Y-yeah, I f-f-feel it,” You force out, digging your nails into Joel’s bulging shoulders, raking down to his meaty arms.

“That make your little snatch quiver, huh? Daddy Joel bein’ so fuckin’ deep? Shootin’ his babies right into that whore womb? Makin’ your tummy bulge with a little brat like my cock is right now?”

“Fuck,” You squeak out, lifting your weight enough to drop back onto him, silently asking that he loosen his hold on you. He picks up your cue, slipping his hands from your shoulders and onto your waist as you begin to slam onto his cock with the assistance of him pulling down on your hips, meeting his upward thrusts with a slew of guttural moans with each brutal impact.

“Yeah, tear yourself apart on this fuckin’ cock for me. Milk those fuckin’ babies outta me,” He grunts, his grip bruising on your skin as you plunge down on him.

Your hand plummets between your aching thighs and scrubs at your clit frantically, tipping you over what had already been building for several minutes, and shouting out your second orgasm as your pussy flutters around his massive length.

“Oh shit, darlin’, here it fuckin’ comes,” He groans out, cramming you down onto his cock and holding you hostage as he bursts inside you, rope after rope of his hot seed spilling against your walls and claiming you as his little breeding toy.

“Oh my god,” You pant out, your forehead colliding with his sweaty shoulder as you grind in his lap, letting him feel the slide of his own come intermingled with yours inside you.

He groans at the stimulation, but doesn’t stop your movement, just dips down and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He scrapes along it with his teeth before letting it pop back out. “Gotta be able to teach the little one how it’s done,” He mumbles against the rounded flesh of your tit, then takes the peak of it into his mouth again.

And now that the haze is wearing off, his words have you stifling a gag in your throat. “Fuck off, I’m protected,” You mutter blearily, half-heartedly shoving at his cheek with your hand to remove him from the latch he has on your chest.

“Didn’t feel those dumb fuckin’ tassels ticklin’ my pecker when it was poundin’ your little baby cave,” Joel states as he lathes over your untouched nipple with his tongue and envelops that one with his mouth as well.

“Jesus, do you ever even listen to yourself talk?” You cringe, “I feel like I need to record it and play it back to you sometime, just so you know how fucking disgusting you sound.”

Joel halts and then slowly undocks from your tit with a nasty grin. “We can film anythin’ you want, darlin’.”

“Oh, fucking gross, dude. No way.”

Joel shrugs with a raised brow and that nasty grin still in place. “Suit yourself. I’m always willin’.”

“And I don’t have an IUD,” You mumble in response to his prior comment cloaked in crass verbiage, “It’s a thing in my arm. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Good,” Joel grunts out as you push yourself up off his cock and let it fall free onto his lap, leaving you devastatingly empty in a way you struggle deeply to never want to crave again. “Those stupid fuckers are a pain in the ass for those of us that’ve been well-blessed like your daddy.”

“Not my ‘daddy’,” You mutter as you pull your shorts back on and rearrange your shirt. “And this isn’t happening ever again. This was a moment of weakness.”

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself, sweetheart,” He panders, leaning back on his arms as he watches you dress. When you’re as presentable as you’re going to be, Joel’s cock is still hanging limp on his thigh, wet and smeared with your shared juices. “Come clean up your clam’s pearly little mess, darlin’,” He purrs, looping his fingers around his cock and balls and giving himself a squeeze.

You glance to the door and fuss your lip with your teeth. “Don’t you have to…”

“Only take a second. Come on now,” He coaxes, spreading his thighs as wide as his scrunched jeans will allow.

You lower yourself to your knees and shuffle between his legs, tilting your head to lick a stripe up the underside of him. The sharp, bitter flavor of his spend along with your slickness lays heavy on your tongue as you swallow down your first taste.

Joel hums his satisfaction as he holds his dick steady and upright for you to clean. You dive back in to mouth at him, sucking up the sides and flicking into his slit just to see him jerk in overstimulation. You can’t imagine what it would be like to actually take him down your throat, given how wide he feels just from wrapping your lips around the outside of him. You give him one more long, unhurried lick up the vein trailing up the underside of him before finishing with a kiss to the head.

“Happy?”

“As your little clam,” He quips with a wink and a toothy grin as he hoists his pants up over his hips and hides that fucking glorious cock from your sight for, surely, the last time. Without a doubt. Definitely. The last time.

Part 3

Taglist Update: I have decided to decommission my taglist in favor of an updates blog! Please follow @atticrissfinchupdates and opt in for notifications to get notified when I post a new fic!

Feel free to reply or message me to get on my taglist <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller fic

2K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 11 months ago

Text

FILTH

I LOVE IT

Meet Me in the Back (joel miller x fem!reader) (18+)

pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader summary: When the gas station clerk refuses to sell you alcohol after a shitty day, you need to get creative warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (reader is 21+, Joel is 50s-ish), one-sided daddy!kink, bribery, light exhibitionism, flashing tits, VERY light dubcon (ignored discomfort), size!kink (Joel is massive as per usual), protected piv (an atticrissfinch first, folks. i’m different now, surely), light spanking, mentions of alcohol and smoking, Joel using some cringey dirty talk but he’s old and creepy so it’s hot word count: ~3.8K | ao3 a/n: don’t know where this shit came from but god am I a sucker for a sleazy joel, so here you go friends ❤️❤️ Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The sickly fluorescents buzz overhead as the equally pitiful chime of the door chirps your entrance. This isn’t your favorite gas station to frequent, but it’s the closest to your apartment and it’s fucking late. You’re exhausted and your brain is whirring from the past week of work. Oh, yeah, and your shitass boyfriend of five months—now ex-boyfriend—forgot to lock his stupid phone tonight to hide the midnight “u up?” texts coming in from his “just friends, I swear” coworker while he was taking what would be his last piss in your bathroom.

Fuck him. You’re getting drunk.

The clerk, a grimy-looking fifty-something-year-old in an undone patterned short-sleeve button-up and a cheap generic white tank top underneath, sits on a stool behind the register. You somehow doubt the tacky gold cross around his neck has seen the inside of a church in quite some time. He grunts in greeting, eyes glancing up briefly from the Playboy open between his spread legs. You don’t miss the small double-take he does when he sees a pretty young thing in a skimpy sundress entering his store alone, but you let it slide off. He can look if he wants; you could not give less of a fuck tonight.

Your flip flops clack against the dingy linoleum as you troll the empty aisles aimlessly, a force of habit despite knowing exactly what you’re here for. You stop at the refrigerated section at the back and scan the options, settling quickly on a pack of Trulys. You hoist it off the shelf and let the door snick shut, a burst of cool air ruffling your dress and igniting a wave of goosebumps on your legs.

You plop down the case on the front counter and rifle through your purse for your wallet.

“No can do, sweetheart.”

Your hands freeze in your purse as you look up at the clerk, still perched on his stool but sans the naked centerfold, having left it sloughed open on the counter turned to a busty topless swimsuit model with her tits pressed together between her arms.

“I’m sorry?” You inquire, pulling your hand out of your bag slowly. “I’m over 21. I have my ID with me.”

The clerk—Joel, you gather from his name badge—nods toward the 12-pack on the counter. “Can’t sell booze after midnight.”

“The fuck? Says who?” You bite back, your irritation from the day seeping into your tone in a way it typically wouldn’t. You’re not usually a bitch to strangers, least of all customer service workers, but it feels like this is some sort of cosmic joke.

It doesn’t phase Joel in the slightest. He just shrugs off your bitchiness and clarifies, “Says state law, sweetheart.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking law I’ve ever heard,” You deadpan, crossing your arms across your chest.

The man is not exactly subtle when his eyes sink down to drink in the way the motion props up your tits in your low-cut dress. Like you’re his own real-life Playboy model. Whatever. Maybe a little show will get him to bypass the stupid rule.

Joel makes a little tch sound with his tongue against his teeth. “Sorry, darlin’. Law’s the law.”

You huff, leaning forward on the counter and gifting him a very nice view down your dress. “Well I still think it’s stupid. Can’t you just give me a pass? Just this once? I’ve had an unbelievably shitty night,” You pout, mimicking the model discarded next to your elbow and using your arms to enhance your cleavage.

His jaw ticks as he overtly ogles what you’re serving him. When his eyes flick back up to yours, he’s donning a shallow smirk. “You find that that works for you often?” He quips, gesturing to your chest.

You shrug a shoulder with a smirk of your own. “Use what you’ve got, right?”

Joel leans back on his stool, scratching the back of his head as if in thought, his eyes darting back to your chest as he considers his options.

“Not so sure, sweetheart. Could get in heaps of trouble for shit like this.”

“What if…” You start off, a hand drifting up to your neckline and curling around it just above your right breast, pulling it down just a smidge. Not revealing anything yet, only an indication that you might. “What if I give you something a little better than that picture,” You proposition, luring his eyes down to the dirty magazine with your gaze, and then heading right back to him.

You see his tongue run over his top teeth behind his lip as he studies the topless model on the page, and then glances back up at you through his eyelashes with a skeevy tilt to his mouth. “Go on, then.”

You give him a sexy little smirk, checking the front door with a cursory glance. When you confirm the coast is clear, you bite your lip and start to lower your top.

Joel bows forward with his forearms against his thighs, eyes transfixed on every inch of skin being unveiled.

You bring your collar down coquettishly, your mouth popping in faux surprise when one hardened nipple slips free. “Oops,” You say with a cheeky smile.

A veiny hand comes up to stroke at his beard as he wets his lips. “Don’t be shy now. Give her sister a little breather too.”

“Greedy,” You scold with mock offense. But you’re already this far and you might as fucking well. You do a swift check of the door again as your other hand tugs your dress down on the other side.

“Go-lly,” Joel rasps accompanied by a low whistle. “Put that damn model to shame, sweetheart.” He adjusts himself in his jeans and you see a sizeable bulge at his crotch, plain as day.

His fingers twitch where they rest on his knee like they’re itching to touch.

“Thank you,” You purr, giving them both a single squeeze in your palms and pressing them together for good measure with your nipples peeking through your fingers before sliding your dress back in place. “And thank you for your sacrifice,” You tease, wrapping your hand around the handle of the seltzers.

“Now, hold on there, sweetheart,” Joel protests with a furrowed brow, slipping off his seat and slamming a hand down over yours on the case. “I didn’t say I’d let you have it for that.”

Your face drops. “Excuse me? You said—”

“I didn’t say jack shit,” Joel corrects. “You flashed your tits at me of your own accord. Not my fault you assumed.”

“That’s fucked up, dude!” You shout back. “I just gave you Girls Gone Wild Live, is that really not enough for you?”

Joel snorts a laugh.“ Shit, maybe for a fuckin’ tallboy or two, but not a whole goddamn case.” Joel cocks a hip and balances his arm across the seltzer. “Gonna need more’n a little peep show to haggle for a twelver.”

You’re absolutely positive you’re going to regret it, but you ask, “And what exactly would that entail?”

A filthy grin bleeds across his face, and he half-heartedly masks it with a hand over his mouth, wiping at the corners with the pads of his pudgy fingers. With his stemmed smile, he drops his palm to the counter, raking his eyes salaciously up the lines of your body. “How’s about you slip into the back with me and find out?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t think so, dude.”

The tip of his tongue creeps out to lick the corner of his mouth. “Throw in a pack o’ smokes too, ‘f that’s up your alley.”

You shift your weight and pout your lips to the side, crossing your arms again. “Marlboros?”

You don’t know why you’re asking. There’s no way you’re going anywhere with him. Right? You wouldn’t do that. No matter how…unexpectedly sexy this sleazy guy is. No matter how the sleeves of his shirt are straining around his biceps. Or how the little gold cross dangles in that unexplainably trashy-hot kind of way. Or how he is—no question—packing a fucking missile in his pants.

Shit.

“Whatever kind you want, for the right price, darlin’,” He winks.

You nibble your lower lip, weighing the situation. You know you’re being stupid. But you’re pissed off, maybe a little heartbroken, sufficiently horny, and newly bereft of your dick-on-demand as of a couple hours ago.

And Jesus, could you really fucking use a drink and a smoke right now. For free, nonetheless. Or, at least, not at the cost of anything you’d lament losing. Surely your dignity can withstand a meaningless fuck in a back room for your personal benefit, right?

Fuck it.

“Alright, fine,” You relent, leaning onto the counter again. “But let me spell things out this time. I let you take me in the back and fuck me—pussy only,” You dictate with a pointed finger, “And I leave with this case of seltzer and two packs of Marlboros, no charge.”

“I didn’t say two, I said—”

“Two packs of Marlboros,” You repeat with emphasis, jabbing your finger towards the back wall of tobacco products. “And we never fucking mention this again.”

“Jesus, bleedin’ me fuckin’ dry over here,” Joel mutters, his eyes dipping to the counter and then up to your tits. “Better be a sweet fuckin’ pussy.”

“Sweetest you’ll have till you kick the bucket next week, old man.”

“You got some fuckin’ spirit, I’ll give ya that,” Joel chuckles. He holds a hand out and you eye it tentatively for a brief moment before clasping it and giving it a solid shake. “We got a deal, sweetheart.”

Joel pushes himself off the counter and lifts the hinged countertop to pass through. He sticks his head out the door, looking left then right, and shuts it. He flips a sign on the glass to read “Be back in 10!” and bolts the lock, testing the door to ensure it holds.

“Come on then, darlin’. Better make it quick.”

He guides you to the back of the store and through a locked door labeled “Employees Only”, rushing you in with a hand on your lower back. The room is bursting with boxes, stacked near the ceiling in some places. Unsettling stains are splattered on nearly all visible floor space, some looking stickier than others. You gingerly set your purse down on a box by the door.

“Leave the dress on, but take those beautiful titties back out, sweetheart,” Joel directs, already working on unfastening his pants.

You roll your eyes a little, but oblige, dipping your dress down underneath your tits again. You back up against the door and toy with them absentmindedly as you watch Joel’s cock spring free from his boxers and holy shit.

“Woah,” is all you manage to vocalize.

Joel looks at you with a smirk, his wide hand stroking down the full length of him and dipping a thumb into the wet slit. “Biggest cock you’re gonna take ‘til you kick your own bucket, darlin’,” He chides, stepping toward you. “‘N you’ve got a hell of a lot longer to go than I do.”

“Yeah, no shit,” You breathe out, feeling your pussy gush into your panties at the thought of that inside of you. You idly reach between your legs and ruck up your dress, pulling your panties to the side and running a finger through your already-soaked folds.

“That’s a pretty little cunt, sweetheart,” Joel says with a voracious look in his eyes, laying a palm against the door level with your head. He’s so fucking large when he’s up this close, it makes your breath hitch. Even with your hips apart, you feel the tip of his cock graze the backs of your fingers where they’re playing with your pussy. Joel’s head dips down between your tits, nose tracing the curves before he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

You press your eyes shut for a moment to clear your head with a steadying breath. “Condom,” You order as the raised bud pops out of his mouth and he locks eyes with you.

“Ah, fresh out. Sorry, darlin’,” Joel says with a tone and expression that belies his complete lack of real remorse.

“You literally sell them. Right outside this door. Probably even have some in this room,” You argue back.

“I can’t be givin’ you any more of my stock, kid. You’re already cleanin’ me out.”

You roll your eyes and push off from the door, ducking under his arm and digging through the inner zipper pocket of your purse. You spin back around to him, holding a condom packet between your fingers with raised brows.

“Well, aren’t you a regular fuckin’ Girl Scout,” He mumbles with a tinge of irritation in his voice, snatching it from you. “Not a chance in hell this is gonna fit.”

“Oh fuck off with that bullshit,” You scoff. “You’ll be just fine.”

He rips the packet with his teeth and spits the strip onto the floor, the remainder of the foil following a moment later. He winces as he pinches the tip of the condom and rolls it down. “Fuckin’ hate these things.”

“You wanna fuck me or not?” You ask, your ass leaning against a smaller stack of boxes. “That’s my stipulation. Clock’s ticking, old man. Someone’s gonna be banging on that glass door sooner or later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel mutters, pulling on his cock lewdly, “Bend over, little bitch. Let Daddy Joel take what he’s owed.”

“Jesus Christ,” You say under your breath incredulously, actively fighting the urge to roll your eyes again. You turn around and bend over the boxes, tucking your cheek into the loop of your arms and sticking your ass out.

“That’a girl,” He croons, pushing the hem of your dress up over your hips. He whistles at you for a second time, palming your ass with both hands and landing a sudden smack to your flesh that makes you jump. “That’s an ass fit for Playboy for sure.”

His thumb traces the strap of your thong down the crack of your ass, stopping at your blooming wet spot. “Look at that pussy. All drenched and waitin’ for me.”

You feel his hands slide into the gusset of your panties, and they tear apart under his fists with nothing more than a grunt and a tug. “There we go.”

“Hey!” You shout back, your head whipping around. “What the fuck, dude? Those aren’t cheap.”

Joel just shrugs, pressing a hand between your shoulder blades to bend you back over. “Should’ve taken ‘em off.”

Another tug at your waist and your panties fall from your body completely.

Joel’s hand nestles between your shoulders again as the other guides the fat head of his cock through your slick pussy. Your hips jolt when he catches on your clit, and he gives a satisfied breathy laugh.

“Oh, she’s creamin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You cringe internally at his phrasing—so fucking unsexy, but somehow making you wetter at the same time.

“God, just fuck me,” You moan, flexing onto your tiptoes to try and guide him where you want him.

“Mmm, needy little thing,” He rumbles, but sits his cock at your entrance. Joel flattens himself against your spine and nuzzles into the back of your neck as he rolls his hips into you, the head of his cock stretching you open.

You gasp out a pained whine, biting into the flesh of your arm as Joel continues to push his way through.

“Shit, this little pussy fucks right open, don’t it,” He grunts, securing a hand onto your hip as he slides all the way inside. His panting breaths waft over your skin, tickling the hairs at the nape of your neck. His other hand comes up to grope at your breast, tweaking the nipple between his pointer and middle knuckles.

It feels like he’s ripping you open from the inside, like he’s shifting your organs as he makes room for himself inside your body. You squeak out a quiet, “Ow,” as his hips collide flush with your ass and his length bottoms out, stretching you more than you could even fathom before.

“Yeah,” Joel moans in your ear, pulling out a few inches and slamming back in as you cry out. “Bet you like it when it hurts, don’t ya, sweetheart.”

You squeal when he pulls out further and fills you completely again, setting a languid pace as he retreats slowly and then rams all of him back inside you at once. The sting of him fades into the background, but the overwhelming size of him, the all-encompassing fullness that you feel just gets more intense.

You muffle your cries into your arm as he whispers filth into your ear.

“Splittin’ you open just right, isn’t it, sweetheart? Daddy Joel knows just how to give it to you. Make you scream for it. Make them legs shake. That’s right, baby, take it good for Daddy.”

And you can’t do anything but take it. Take his huge cock pounding into you, take his disgusting words spilling in your ear, take the sound of slapping reverberating around the stockroom as your ass crashes against his hips.

“Yeah, you like Daddy Joel’s big cock, don’t ya?” His voice rasps over the crude slap of his skin against yours. Your brain feels scrambled, only spluttering out a strained whimper in response.

A hand slides down your thigh and hooks around the back of your knee, hauling it up onto the top of the box and spreading you wide open for him as your sandal clatters to the ground.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Joel groans obscenely loud in the small, crowded space as he sinks even deeper into you, pulling a noise from you that’s so foreign you’re not entirely sure you’ve ever made it before. Somewhere between a moan, a scream, and a gasp shredding your throat at the impossibility of him filling you any more than he already had.

“Fuck, I can’t—I can’t—” You cry out, tears welling in your eyes, hands scratching for purchase on the edges of the box.

“Yes you can, darlin’. Takin’ it so good,” He grunts, gripping your shoulder for leverage as his relentless thrusts devastate your very core and lick at your cervix.

“Too—too fucking big, please. Please hurry,” You whimper, your hand flying back to push back against his hips. He slaps your hand away and grabs at your wrist, bending your arm and locking it at your back as he ceaselessly fucks into your clenching hole.

“Daddy’s too fucking big, huh?” He teases with laughter in his voice. “‘F it’s too big, why’s your pussy takin’ it so easy? It’s fuckin’ squeezin’ me, darlin’. It don’t want me to leave.”

You sob into your arm as your one leg remaining on the floor starts to quiver beneath you.

“Mmm, fuck, that’s right. Want you shiverin’ and shakin’ on Daddy’s cock. Fuckin’ you so wide open, y’could probably fit one of them seltzer cans up your snatch after this no problem,” Joel grits out.

Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head as sweat gathers at your temples and your body feels like it’s buzzing. “I fuck—I fucking can’t—t-t-too much, too big,” You stutter, feeling your pussy shuddering around him in what you think is an orgasm but you can’t even fucking tell from how foggy your brain is, how overstimulated every cell in your body feels.

Joel grunts loudly as your cunt pulses around him, jerking his hips faster into you as you constantly strain to catch your breath. “Fuckin’ take it, bitch. Fuck your Daddy for your booze, and he’ll let you have it,” He growls out, before you distinctly hear him spit, and then feel a splash of saliva hit the crack of your ass and drip down between your cheeks.

“Goddamn, wish I could coat this fuckin’ pussy with my load. Pump you full of my come, watch it drip outta ya,” He moans, his voice becoming increasingly unsteady as his hips snap into you faster and faster. “Gonna bust inside this little cunt, darlin’. Fuck, take it, take it, take it, bitch,” He grunts with one last obliterating thrust inside you, and then he’s coming with a guttural moan. You can feel his cock pulse with how tight your walls are choking it out of him, even with the condom.

Your mouth is dry and your thighs are soaked as Joel pulls out of you gingerly. You startle when he smacks your ass with a heavy hand again.

“Some good fuckin’ pussy,” He pants out, making quiet little noises of sensitivity as he slips the condom off his softening cock and ties it off, tossing it in a nearby trash can.

You lower your leg back down to the ground carefully, and you somehow become less balanced, your legs collapsing out from under you as you crumple to the floor onto your hands and knees.

You hear Joel chuckle in time with the zipper on his jeans. “Take your time. Gotta open back up.”

You hear the door shut after him, and you just breathe, limbs still vibrating as you kneel on the tacky floor.

What the fuck just happened to you, You think.

You just got fucked within an inch of your life by a sleazy gas station clerk, that’s what happened. And you have no fucking idea how to process it.

When you’re pretty sure you can tolerate it, you muscle yourself up off the ground and stuff your tits back into your dress. The panties are a lost cause, so you leave them littering the floor. Fuck, he can have the souvenir. He deserves it.

You ruffle your hair, slip your lost flip flop back on, grab your purse, and stumble out into the store. A couple haggard souls browse the aisles with glazed eyes as you make your way to the front, oblivious to your presence or from where you just exited from. You approach the counter where your case of Truly still sits. Joel is back up on his perch with his ragged boots propped on the bottom rung of the stool, the Playboy suitably stashed away from sight.

“Get everything you need?” He asks coolly, a coy smile playing at his lips.

“Um, two packs of Marlboro Reds, please,” You answer softly, your voice cracking slightly and prompting you to clear your throat.

Joel nods with that grin still in place, spinning on his seat and snagging the cigarettes. He tilts the cartons to and from his head in some semblance of a saluting gesture and places them on top of the seltzers. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, darlin’. Come back anytime.”

Your eyes involuntarily flit toward his crotch and back up. A spark lights back up in your chest and you grant him a playful smirk. “I just might.”

Part 2

Taglist Update: I have decided to decommission my taglist in favor of an updates blog! Please follow @atticrissfinchupdates and opt in for notifications to get notified when I post a new fic!

Feel free to reply or message me to get on my taglist <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller fic

3K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 11 months ago

Text

Tide

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Frankie Morales is capable of almost anything... except not cumming in his jeans when he thinks about you, the pretty clerk at the grocery store he always buys his giant jugs of laundry detergent at. Warnings: Smut thoughts, Frankie's POV and internal monologue, premature ejaculation, so much cum talk, addiction recovery, laundry detergent, this is so ridiculous but I also tried to make it super sweet. Words: 1,200

A/N: I'd probably classify this as a crack fic... but with heart. This is SOOOOO indulgent and ridiculous. I don't know what @luxurychristmaspudding unlocked in me but this is what's released. I know this is my *4th* story in a week, but I couldn't help myself. Also, shout out to the JM Discord and all of the tenants who join in the luxuriousness of this level of depravity.

Masterlist

🚁👖🤍Frankie🤍👖🚁

It keeps happening to Frankie over and over and over again. Recovery has been a challenge, abstaining from all of his previous vices means he’s no longer numbing his mind… and body.

Nobody should ever cum during a prescription commercial and yet… he does. The swimsuit hugged the woman’s curves a little too close, plus she had the same color hair as you. His mind couldn’t help floating to thinking about you in a swimsuit.

Aye dios mio, get a hold of yourself man.

He’s too embarrassed to bring it up to his doctor. The notion of ever mentioning it to the Delta Force boys terrifies him, although he knows deep down they’d lend a sympathetic ear. They’ve killed, fought wars, and climbed out of the lowest points of their lives together… but the thought of letting his secret out? Awful. He shudders at the thought of telling his fellow Narcotics Anonymous attendees: “Hi, my name is Frankie, I’m an addict and I can’t stop cumming in my pants.”

He tries to think of the worst things, mental images that should scar even the scariest of humans, thoughts about death, rotting produce, weird looking insects, and yet, it still happens.

___

“Hi, how’d you find everything today?”

He blinks towards your tag though he’s already memorized your name, it repeats through his mind whenever he climaxes… he wonders to himself how your sweet voice would sound repeating his name.

Uh oh, quick, think of a bee sting, everyone’s going to die, burnt pizza.

He shakes his head, the thoughts of you wrapped around him flying out of his head with each subtle knock.

“Sir, are you okay?”

Fuuuuuuck, you really had to call me sir, didn’t you?

“Y-yeah, sorry, long day. My name’s Frankie by the way.”

Focus, don’t look at how her hand wraps around the shampoo bottle, soldier.

“Hi Frankie, nice to finally have a name to the face.”

Of course you say his name in the sweetest way. He presses his fingers into the flesh of his palm as hard as he can withstand, he prays you don’t see the way his nostrils flare.

Be strong.

He’s been captivated ever since he first saw you working in the mom and pop market across the street from his apartment. You’re always friendly and smiling, he swears he feels your eyes on him every time he leaves yet he’s too scared to look back and confirm for himself. He wishes he knew how to small talk and somehow step over the threshold of this case of shyness he has with you.

Why bother? I’ll just end up disappointing you, never leaving you fulfilled.

He’s so ashamed.

“That’s a big bottle of detergent, you must do a lot of laundry. You have kids?”

“I do… a four year old, but she lives with her mom,” he answers, lifting the giant jug into his cart, his cock twitches when he feels your eyes on his biceps.

Stay cool, you can do this, you’ve literally overcome worse… and cummed over less.

He wonders if you notice just how much laundry soap he buys… he’s confident that you have no clue you're the only reason why his washing machine is constantly working overtime.

“Oh, I love that age,” you mindlessly muse scanning a cereal box. “Is she as cute as her dad?”

His spine turns to jelly… he feels the phantom getting closer.

Trash compactors, mom and dad’s divorce, elephant seals.

“Everyone says she has my eyes.”

“Then she must be,” you wink.

Not a wink, not a wink, not a goddamn wiiiiink.

He quickly pulls his head down, sticking his card in the chip reader, resisting the urge to think of his now aching cock pushing into you.

STOP. STOP. STOP THINKING FRANKIE.

Focusing on the pin pad breaks his spiral. Relief spreads through his tense body knowing this run in will be over soon, he can go home in peace, his pants surviving this moment.

Your fingers brush against his hand when you hand him the receipt, his favorite part of buying groceries. He’ll stand in your checkout lane no matter the size of the line for the split second of skin to skin contact. It’s all he can afford to let himself have, any more would surely stain his jeans.

___

“Hey Frankie!”

He turns at your voice, his breath hitching when you walk over to him while removing your name tag.

“Want to go next door and grab a drink?”

“I’d love to… but I, uh,” he lifts his hat nervously tussling his hair, “I’m in recovery.”

“Oh,” your voice and face falter, “I’m sorry, um–”

Don’t let this moment pass, you can do it.

“I know a really good ice cream place, a few blocks down, I can meet you there?”

Ice cream means licking. Frankie, you're an idiot.

“Oh, um, that sounds amazing but I don’t drive.”

“I can take you… if you’d like.”

“Yeah?” your smile grows wider. “That sounds amazing.”

“I just need to drop these off, and then I’ll meet you outside in twenty?”

“Awesome!” You squeeze his hand wrapped around the cart handle. “I’ll see you soon.”

Your touch scorches his skin, he blinks watching your ass sway while walking through the doors to the backroom.

1-2-3, a gush of hot liquid releases against his jeans, his knuckles turn white as they clutch the cart handle.

Jesus Christ.

Frankie picks up his bags, holding them close to his crotch and leaves the grocery store. He better hurry. Thank god he just bought more detergent.

___

In hindsight, he’s thankful for his little grocery store indiscretion. He’s carefree and relaxed as he falls even harder for you over chocolate sundaes. You ask for extra rainbow sprinkles and laugh at all of his jokes.

This must be what it’s like to live normally.

___

“That’s me,” you point to a small bungalow unbuckling your seatbelt. “Thanks for the ice cream Frankie."

“This was really fun,” he turns towards you, shocked at how close you’re leaning towards him.

Kiss her. No, wait, don’t kiss her. Yeah, definitely don’t kiss her.

“It was,” you lick your lips and lean even closer.

He can smell you now, you smell divine. Like ice cream and floral perfume.

You place a soft kiss against his lips and pull away.

Frankie’s body tenses, a pathetic whimper escapes his mouth, he spurts against the cotton of his briefs. Doe eyes rounded with embarrassment stare at you.

“Sorry,” whispers out of his downturned lips.

“Oh,” your face fails at hiding a smile, “Frankie, it’s okay. Really.”

His head knocks against the headrest, face frozen in a grimace, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Frankie,” your hand clasps his chin forcing him to look at you. “Honestly, it’s okay. It’s actually… kinda hot.”

Right then and there he knows he’ll never shop at another grocery store again.

669 notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 11 months ago

Text

NSFW

Pt 1(you’re here)

Pt 2

warning: dubcon, somno, size difference(big time)

A/N: my requests are closed for the foreseeable future, but my commissions are open! Consider reading my commission info and helping me out! Slots are limited(2 left), so get a commission while you still can~

Having thoughts about a fairy that’s the last of his kind.

He usually spends his days lounging around in flowers or by the lakeside, sometimes visited by woodland creatures.

After his species died out, he's been quite lonely. Being the last of your kind was a fate worse than death, and all he wanted was someone to call his own.

And then he sees you, a normal human woman walking home through his forest.

Usually fairies would play tricks on wandering humans or even curse them for entering their forest, but he couldn’t take being alone anymore, so he followed you home instead.

He just planned to take up residence in your garden, maybe help your plants grow if he felt like it… but one night he ended up flying by your window.

The sight of you undressing made his wings flap in excitement. Your ample breasts, soft belly, and plump thighs were a lot to take in, but he sat in the windowsill, his eyes fixated on your body as he stroked his cock.

He’d never seen a fairy that looked like you, they were all so little and dainty. You had such soft features, all he wanted to do was bury his face in your breasts and fuck that fat pussy of yours.

But alas, he was too small, barely the size of your hand. Never before had he wanted to be the side of a human. Their bodies seemed so clumsy and cumbersome… but now the only thing on his mind was finding a way to grow to your size.

As you slept, he flew in through your cracked window, settling on your chest. It was softer than he imagined, like lying atop two doughy mountains. The fairy couldn’t help but marvel at your hard nipple poking through the fabric of your top.

He held your perky bud in both of his hands, marveling at the way you whimpered under his touch.

Before he knew what he was doing, the little fairy pulled out his cock. He pushed up the fabric of your shirt just enough so he could rub the tip of his sensitive, needy cock on that pretty nipple of yours.

“Mmph…”

He stopped rutting against your nipple when he spotted your soft, plump lips, glistening in the moonlight. The fairy’s shimmering wings fluttered as he gently walked between the valleys of your breasts and climbed up your face.

He positioned his cock between your slightly parted lips, gently pressing the tip against your tongue, testing the waters.

When you didn’t wake up, he began to slowly fuck your mouth, glancing up to your eyes every once in a while before picking up speed.

It was like heaven for him, fucking into your warm, wet mouth, imagining you tasting his cum on your tongue come morning time.

He lost count of how many times he was pushed over the edge by your soft tongue, and ended up passing out on your breasts. He looked like the cutest little thing, all curled up in your cleavage…

When you woke up the next morning, everything was the same as usual. You just had this weird taste in your mouth…

After a nice breakfast, you went to water your plants, only to find out your vegetables had doubled in size over night! As you stared on in awe, your little fairy admirer sat on your windowsill, his cheeks pink as he watched you smile and harvest the plants he had tended to.

You were his lover now, after all… and he didn’t want you going hungry, did he? Especially not when he was planning to find a growth spell and fill that chubby belly of yours full of his young so he could rebuild his species.

You’d need lots of nutrients to carry his young, and he was a good little mate~

part 2?

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @screaming-crying-screamingagain @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljr @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @buckoothecow @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143

#cw dubcon #cw somnophilia #size difference #cw breeding #cw size kink #fairy x human #fairy smut #fairy x reader #monster fucker #monster lover

4K notes · View notes

daddydindjarin-reads · 11 months ago

Text

NSFW

Fairy x Reader PT2

PT1

warning: somno, dubcon to consensual, size difference, aphrodisiac, tentacles(?)(vines😩)

Your little fairy friend became more enamored with you as time went on. Every night he came into your home and fucked your soft, plump lips.

And recently, he had gotten brave. Tonight he flew to the middle of the bed, standing over your lower belly and peeking down at your panties.

He had been waiting for a night hot enough for you to sleep in your underwear since the blanket was too heavy to lift.

He reached out his hand and felt your damp panties, his wings fluttering in excitement as he pressed down, biting his lip when his hand met your clit.

He could tell it was your clit when your hips bucked slightly, causing him to be tossed in the air before landing on your chubby belly.

The fairy shook off the fall before returning to his task, this time sticking out his tongue to get a taste of your pussy for the first time.

Licking the damp fabric made his wings twitch, his cock rising to attention from your taste alone.

How could he go back to being a good little fairy when you were so tempting?

For the first time he, he was finally able to pull back the fabric off your pussy, revealing it to him.

It was so pretty, smelling so sweet and when he touched it, the fairy noticed how soft and wet you were.

He chittered in excitement, some of his fairy dust landing on your cunt, causing you to whimper softly in your sleep.

The fairy purred, positioning his pretty little cock at your entrance, trying so hard to fuck you. It frustrated him, not being able to fill you up and make you cry out in pleasure.

As he focused on fucking you, the opening of your eyes and shifting of you upper body went unnoticed by the little fae.

He out a squeak, his wings flapping in distress as he was picked up by his tunic, held in the air. The fairy’s face turned beet red when he spotted your sleepy face looking at him.

It looked like he had been caught.

“So you’re the one that’s been giving me wet dreams every night…”

His face turned red, and a little jingle could be heard as he shook his head and held up his hands to try and act innocent.

“Don’t lie, I caught you, you little-“

You lifted his tunic, causing him to squeak and squirm, his cock still hard and at attention.

“Here’s the proof, you’re covered in my cum…”

He whimpered when you brought him closer to your face, his pointed ears twitching as he pouted apologetically. He reached out his hand to touch your nose, hoping you wouldn’t be too angry with him.

“You should have just introduced yourself. Hmph, better than leaving me all wet and needy every night.”

The fairy nearly yelped when you poked out your tongue, touching it to his tip. “Ahh… it’s really sweet…”

He held onto your chubby cheeks as your tongue twirled around his leaking cock, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.

His little hips bucked and his wings fluttered pathetically while you looked into his eyes.

You teased the poor thing, giving his flat tummy kisses and toying with his cock until he was crying and begging you through tears to give him a break. Once he had cum all he could, you sat him down on your breasts, watching as he panted and buried his head into your cleavage.

“There, is that what you wanted, little fairy?” the feeling of your finger petting his head made him coo and reach out to pull your hand closer.

The fairy was completely attached to you now, wrapping his legs around your hand and clinging to you desperately.

In the following months you and the fairy grew closer, and he was eventually able to communicate his name. It was Fern, and the fairy seemed very adamant that you know his name.

“Fern, are you coming in for lunch?”

You always called out to him through the window by the garden, and he always came flying in, hovering in front of your face and planting a kiss on your lips before settling on your shoulder to accompany you wherever you went.

Fern kept your garden alive, making sure your vegetables grew large and your fruit stayed fresh and sweet. He always came when he heard you…

But today, he hadn’t answered when you called.

You donned your coat and stepped into your shoes before walking out into the forest, calling his name ever so often.

Through rumors you had heard trolls and evil spirits lived in the forest, but before you met Fern you haven’t believed in such things. Now that you knew fairies existed, was it that much of a stretch to say evil creatures existed as well?

It made you worry that something had hurt or captured him! He had told you a few things about his people, communicating through writing. Although you knew he could take care of himself and knew the ways of the forest far better than you did, you still wanted to find him as quickly as possible.

“Fern? Are you here?”

A rustling noise to your left made you jump, and before you could reach you were being lifted up and carried away by a humanoid figure. A scream left your throat, but your mouth was quickly covered, a familiar scent making you pause.

“Shh, shh, my love. It’s just me.”

You blinked rapidly, looking up to see… Fern!?

He was nearly six feet tall now, his glimmering wings shining as he ran through the forest. The sound of trees being crushed and stomped on had gone unnoticed by you until now.

You were being chased!

“Ahh, I hadn’t expected them to be that angry…” Fern said, holding you to his chest as his wings began to flap. You caught sight of a few trolls charging towards you, their mossy, rock like bodies making easy work of the trees around them.

“Hold on tight, dear. We’ll leave for a bit until they calm down…”

He launched into the sky, his face nuzzling you softly to keep you calm as the two of you flew away just before the trolls could reach you.

“W-what did you do to make them so angry with you!?” you yelled over the wind as he dipped closer to the ground, landing in a field of flowers.

“Stole a growth potion.”

“WHAT!?”

He smiled, peppering kisses on your neck. “I had to… can’t you understand how unbearable it is being unable to properly mate with my lover?”

He set you down on a bed of flowers, and their vines tickled your body, wrapping around your legs and pulling at your underwear. “Now that my body is bigger, my control over nature is much stronger…”

The vines pulled your legs apart, keeping them spread open so he could watch the vines rub against your clit.

“F-Fern…”

Noticing your flustered expression, Fern purred in satisfaction, his wings fluttering as he lined up his cock with your tight hole, pressing on it. “Tight… might have to stretch you out…”

He pulled back, and the vines slowly pushed into your warm cunt, stretching and growing inside of you. You cried out in pleasure, whimpering while he rubbed circles into your clit.

Something was pumped into your body, making your mind grow hazy and your body hot. All that was on your mind was getting fucked stupid by these vines, taking them into your holes like a good girl…

One entered your ass, pumping in and out as it lubricated you with the aphrodisiac it produced. It was enough to have you drooling and clinging to your lover, unable to do anything but babble and beg for more.

“You can’t comprehend how badly I’ve wanted this… how much I need you…”

The feeling of his soft, lithe fingers grabbing your fat was overpowered by the vines pulling out, making you whine needily. “P-Please, fern…”

One look at your hazy eyes had his cock drooling with need.

“Shh, shh, love… I’ll fill you back up, don’t you worry…”

He cooed, his shimmering wings flapping uncontrollably as he finally pushed his cock into you, his entire body shaking. “Oh gods, oh my love..”

It was better than he could have ever imagined. You were so warm and tight, and looking down as your fat pussy swallowed his cock was enough to have him flushing red.

You looked so good, fucked out of your mind and holding onto him like a lifeline. It made home feel like a proper mate to have you in this state, dependent on him for pleasure.

“That’s it, darling, my precious flower… cum for me again, just like that…”

He pressed against your cervix, biting down on your neck. You would have never thought he was capable of this, dominating you in such a primal way.

The tables had really turned…

But he was still the sweet fairy you had come to love, burying his face into your neck and letting out the prettiest of moans, tears of pleasure pooling down his cheeks…

It was nearly nightfall when the effects of the aphrodisiac finally wore off, leaving you exhausted and a bit sore. Fern seemed tired too, but he quickly scooped you up, flying back home with you.

“I don’t have much time left before the potion wears off… and I want to spend all of the remaining time holding you…”

He settled down on the bed with you, gently brushing back your hair and kissing your forehead. It felt so good, getting to hold your plump form on his lap and grab fistfuls of your fat with his hands. Fern had wanted this for so long, yearned to touch and feel your warmth with the body of a man.

“Fern… you know I love you no matter what form you take, right?”

You caressed his cheek, leaning forward to muzzle him softly. He sighed and pulled you closer so he could rest his chin on your head.

“I know… that doesn’t mean the knowledge of being too small to give you what you need doesn’t hurt any less…”

The two of you stayed like that, curling up together in bed, too exhausted to stay sitting up.

“… I enjoyed today, Fern…”

He blushed when you kissed his cheek, your body pressed against his. “I did too… more than you could ever know.”

“We should do it again sometime…”

The two of you held hands, his eyes softening as his wings fluttered gently. “… yes…”

He couldn’t help but look at your chubby belly, knowing he’d bred you so full of his seed that it was slightly distended.

Fern began to think of ways he could make the potion more… permanent. Now that he had a taste of life as a human… he wanted more.

When you woke up the next morning, Fern was sitting on your pillow, his form returned back to that of a fairy. All you could do was hold him close, kissing the top of his head to comfort him as his wings drooped.

He wanted you… and he’d find a way to be with you…

part 3?

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @buckoothecow @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans

#fairy x reader #fairy x human #fairy smut #monster fucker #monster lover #monster fudger #monster boyfriend #monster fic #chubby!reader #chubby reader

6K notes · View notes