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meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.  “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

[fartcloudfartcloud]

posting your fic on AO3 like

[fartcloudfartcloud]

Not the real deal.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: +18, NSFW, MDNI Summary: Joel convinces you that there’s nothing wrong with a bit of grinding. Words count: 382, all dirty. Tags/Warnings: POV second person, cheating, implied but unspecified age gap, grinding, dry humping, I am not adding any more tags so as not to spoil a detail so you choose whether to read or not. A/N: no proofreading, English is not my first language and I'm sorry for any mistake. Look, I'm ovulating and I'm FERAL, this is why I wrote this. LOL

Thanks to anyone who will read this, I really hope you’ll like it!

You're straddling Joel with your panties on.

Grinding your pussy along his length flat on his tummy.

Whining, rocking your hips back and forth, your panties drenched in his and your essence.

Your hands cup your tits, your fingers pinch your nipples.

He’s hard against your core, hot, his velvety skin slides easily on the fabric, your clit more puffy and swollen with each stroke.

Warm waves make your body vibrate, rising from your tummy to your chest, setting your face on fire.

Again and again.

You can't stop, it's a vertigo that blinds your mind, it doesn't let you think about anything else.

“Just like that, baby, go on, take what you need” he groans

His big, calloused hands rest on the curve of your soft thighs, grasping and squeezing, pulling you down on his groin, his gaze moving from your half-open lips moaning his name and your tits bouncing before his eyes.

You want more.

You need more.

You move your panties to one side, you can't be bothered to take them off.

Your pussy aches and cries and screams for him.

His cock is cocooned in your folds, stiff and leaking precum, the veins of his shaft pulsing against your center.

You anchor yourself to his legs to bend your back slightly and find an angle that stimulates your clit even more.

He snarls like a feral animal.

Your hips continue their lewd dance, your juices mixing, merging, dripping onto his balls and your thighs. The tight, thin skin on his uncut cock retracts and covers his engorged, angry tip in rhythm with your thrusts.

Your muffled moans bounce off the walls as he urges you on with a broken, hoarse voice that seems to come from deep within him.

You come, throwing your head back, eyes shut.

His name dies on your lips, strangled by your wails.

“It's nothing,” he had told you, ”it's not the real deal unless I put it in you.”

You let yourself be convinced by his words, naive and willing.

You undressed for him. “You can leave your panties on baby, it's okay.”

You got on the bed with him. The bed you share with another person.

It may not be real sex, but this is a real orgasm. Wet, desperate, annihilating.

Your husband will be home any minute now. Yeah, your husband. The son of the man who is still between your thighs.

Tag list: @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @baronessvonglitter @joelmillerisapunk @thundermartini @probablyreadinsmut @almostempty @harriedandharassed

Archive tag: @pedrostories

If you want to be added or removed just let me know and I’ll do it right away.

[fartcloudfartcloud]

silly little thought of trying to bait a reaction out of simon because even though monogamy is inferred with the both of you, he seems to not give a damn if you actually are. (your privacy became nonexistent the moment you invited him into your home. he knows you turn anyone interested down and those that can't take a hint, take one from him.)

and that stings. that he isn't even wondering just who could be texting you so late at night when his cum is still warm between your thighs stings. you'd like the chance to tell him that you're your own person at least once.

so you make the terrible, awful decision of batting your lashes at his friend, johnny— the overly friendly (borderline invasive) scottish man who could talk paint off a wall.

(he didn't even try to seem like he wasn't interested. one small curl of your lip shot his way and he was already sliding in the barstool next to yours, clever fingers warm around your thigh.)

what had meant to be a not-so-innocent flirt here and there ended up with your skirt rucked up to your waist and your ankles crossed around his. that after the fact, johnny casually brings up how simon and he have shared guns, bandages and spit before so simon oughta not mind sharing you either had you speechless.

(being so guilt-ridden you 'fess up to simon and he instead asks you how many times did johnny make you come.)

[fartcloudfartcloud]

I just wanna cuddle

[fartcloudfartcloud]

THE F*CK IT LIST: MASTERLIST

During work at your father’s construction company, you’re inspired by your sexually liberated bestie to create a F*ck-It List of sexy experiences you’ve always wanted to try. But when the list accidentally ends up in the hands of Joel Miller— your dad’s best friend, the company’s co-CEO, and your immediate supervisor—things take an unexpected turn. Initially shocked by the discovery, Joel eventually agrees to help you tackle the list, leading to sexual adventures and undeniable chemistry.  However as you begin to fall for Joel the complications of your relationship come into focus, leading you both to realize that love may be one item you won’t be able to check off your list.

tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining and more Smut.

rating: 18+

Chapter One: Manifesting

Chapter Two: # Eight

Chapter 3: # Four

Chapter 4: coming soon

[fartcloudfartcloud]

The F*ck-It List | part III | Number Four

story summary: During work at your father’s construction company, you’re inspired by your sexually liberated bestie to create a F*ck-It List of sexy experiences you’ve always wanted to try. But when the list accidentally ends up in the hands of Joel Miller— your dad’s best friend, the company’s co-CEO, and your immediate supervisor—things take an unexpected turn. Initially shocked by the discovery, Joel eventually agrees to help you tackle the list, leading to sexual adventures and undeniable chemistry.  However as you begin to fall for Joel the complications of your relationship come into focus, leading you both to realize that love may be one item you won’t be able to check off your list.

tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.

rating: 18+

a/n: The support on this story has been unreal so far! I honestly cannot believe the comments (which I read over and over so pls don't stop!) and just the general hype! I have been writing like mad. Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates

F*ck-It List masterlist here

Your ears are ringing. Surely Joel Miller didn't just offer what you think he offered. Joel Miller; your dad's best friend, Joel Miller; your boss didn’t just offer to help you complete your sexual bucket list. There’s no way.

"What?"

Joel's lips curl to one side, barely hiding his amusement at your shock.

"I said I wanna help you with your list."

You feel like you're feet are glued to the ground. You try to lift them to shift in your seat but you are stuck in place, your jaw hinging open. 

"You... Wanna.... Help me..." you repeat slowly, eyes boring into his between slow blinks. 

Help you with your list like... Disposing of it? 

"Yeah," he replies silkily, his dark eyes sweep up your body before settling on your mouth. "I do."

"Okay."

Okay? Okay?! You're nodding like a dope and just going along with this? 

Joel pauses, gauging your reaction. You don't give him much to go on, you're still in shock. 

"But you don't have to say yes," he says seriously. "This isn't a blackmail situation. More an offer of services."

There is a pause as you absorb what he's saying to you. He curves his head until he can catch your eyes again. He arches his brow ever so slightly. 

"Do you want me to go on?"

You can only nod, still dazed. 

He reaches into his top desk drawer, retrieving a pale blue folder and tossing it onto the desk between you both.  It sits there facing you like some pastel bomb just waiting to go off. You make no move to open it; you just stare blankly at it. 

"There are ground rules of course," Joel says seriously, as if you're both discussing a challenging business deal. 

"Okay."

"And since I'm more comfortable with things in writing, I made this up for us to sign," he says indicating the folder on his desk. "This could get real messy if we don't have clear guidelines."

"Paperwork?"

"Mhm."

"Both of us need to sign?"

"Yeah. You and me."  

A part of you is convinced it's a prank and Joel will burst out laughing telling you it's a joke. 

But he doesn't look at you like this is a prank. For the first time since you've known him he's looking at you... Differently. His eyes are subtly scanning your face, occasionally darting to your chest. 

Your eyes flit from the contract back up to Joel's rugged face. 

"Why do you want to help me?"

Joel seems to appraise this question as if it never occurred to him before this moment. 

"You're my best friend’s kid," Joel shrugs. "Some of these things on your list could be... Dangerous. I think I'd feel better knowin' you're doin' 'em with someone trustworthy."

His answer feels like bullshit but at the same time, there are some serious upsides to this offer. Joel is sexy. He's got the Mr Darcy brooding thing down pat and since he's older he's more experienced. Plus his shoulders are so broad and his hands are so wide... Who gives a shit what his motivations are? Maybe he just wants to get his rocks off with a younger woman. Who are you to judge?

Joel opens the folder, his long fingers tapping the first page of what looks like a contract, drawing your attention back to the present. 

"It's pretty standard boilerplate, but I've got some specifics outlined." 

Your eyes finally draw to the contract on the desk, reading quickly your name and Joel's at the top. You've seen things like this before, you've filed them away for your dad and Joel when they've had the occasional offsite architect come in; a severe non disclosure.

"First thing you need to know if If at any point you want to terminate this arrangement, you say the word. It doesn't matter if we're in the middle of somethin', you say it's over then it's over." 

He waits for your nod before he continues. 

"But that means if there's somethin' that needs to be discussed then we talk it out right then and there," He tilts his head to regard you. "No more hiding in empty crates just to avoid me."

Oh for fucks sake. 

"Yep, got it."

"This cannot and will not affect our working relationship. The second it comes even close to that, this is over."

"I'll keep it professional," you agree, still not quite believing that this conversation is taking place. It feels surreal that you're in Joel's office, sitting across from him, listening to him relay a sex contract for the two of you. 

"Your consent is required for any and all activities," Joel continues as if he's reading off a cue card. "On video."

"Sure. Okay."

A thrill goes through you at the idea of actually fucking Joel. The things on your list were some of your deepest desires. To think you'll be acting them out with a man you find incredibly sexy makes every hair on your body stand on end. 

And the best part is you don't actually like Joel as a person. He's got no empathy if how he treated Brian is anything to go on. 

Joel is recalcitrant, he's serious, he expects a lot from his employees. But you could never be truly attracted to a man who would fire a man whose wife has terminal cancer. It means things won't get messy. It means it'll be easy not to blur the lines. It means this could actually work. 

"Anything you wanna add?"

"I don't think we should kiss," you finally land on. "It feels a bit too intimate."

Joel looks satisfied with this, hastily scribbling in this amendment to the contract. 

"Fine by me." 

"And you?"

He tilts back in his chair, lower lip pursed in thought before deciding.

"Behind closed doors when it's just you and me, I want you calling me Joel. No sir or Mister Miller." 

"Okay." 

Joel slides another piece of paper out of the folder and despite everything your cheeks flame.  Your list sits there, clearly retrieved from the trash by Joel. You don't know whether to thank him or cringe. 

"There are ten items on this list and I can help you with... Eight of 'em, I think unless...Except, Roller Coasters," Joel darts a glance your way, nose wrinkled. "S'at some kinda new sex thing?" 

You exhale a brief laugh at that, nervous and giggly at the absurdity of the moment. You stop when the the elevens deepen between Joel's brows. 

"Not everything on there is for uh, sex," you explain shyly. "I was making a list of things I really want to do. Things that'll push me outside my comfort zone. And, uh, on that note number eight is done."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Jacob took me last night." 

Jacob, that's right. Joel feels his mood dimming as he recalls the handsome man you're usually in the company of. Is this a lost venture? 

"And you're not completing this list with him because?"

"He's just my friend." 

Your answer is quick and Joel notices the agitated way you shift in your seat. 

"Its not like that," you add. 

"Mhm." 

You don't know if Joel believes you, but he's not pushing it. 

"And yet I see here in the number five spot, Stop fantasizing about JM." 

Your heart stops, you're sure of it because the room goes eerily quiet. You can't even hear the tick of his clock on the wall anymore. 

"I can't help you to stop fantasizing about Jacob," Joel says almost apologetically. "You're on your own for that one. But I think I can help with most of the others."

What the fuck? Why is Joel mentioning Jacob? Does he really think you're obsessed with Jacob? How could Joel think you're talking about...

... Wait. 

Your eyes go back to the list. 

Jacob Milne.  Joel Miller. 

Same initials. 

You silently thank all the angels of heaven for coming through in this way. Yes, the list was humiliating for sure, but thank Christ Joel will never know he was number five.  Joel scans your face before his eyes go back to the paper. 

"Sunshine days? Whats-"

Your smile drops and you wave your hand in a sweeping gesture over the list. 

"That's nothing. Just, don't worry about it. It's something I have to do on my own." 

"Alright," Joel nods. "So in summation, you and I will be checking off number one, four five, seven and nine. And I'll throw in roller coaster's too."

Images of you and Joel on a roller coaster together makes you amused enough to give a barking laugh that draws Joel's brows up high. You motion for the pen beside him, signing away after barely scanning it.

"I can make you a copy if you want."

"No. That's okay."

You’re too excited. You watch as Joel signs as well before sliding the contract into his file cabinet. His broad back faces you, muscles rippling under the fabric.

This is really happening.

You wish you could chill the fuck out, but your body is buzzing at the fantasy of what could come next. A frisson of excitement and terror because holy shit, fucking Joel Miller? You take a moment to enjoy the muscles that band in his neck as he turns to the side, casting his profile in relief. You savor the strong nose and the complete contradiction of his supple mouth. 

His jaw is defined, but not overly so. His eyes naturally squint, giving him the appearance of being unapproachable. His beard is neatly trimmed, his dark curls threaded with silver. He's an attractive man by normal standards, but combine that with the dimple you see pop in his cheek when he's amused and its game over for you. 

Joel repeats your name with an irritated tone that you realize you've been zoning out. 

"Like I was askin’, which do you wanna start with?" Joel prompts, turning the list to face you. You curl over the desk, eyes drifting to your scratchy penmanship. 

Come during sex. Waking up with oral. You look at the numbers, wishing you chose items that were less daunting on your list. 

You can't fuck him right now, can't have him actually see your bare boobs and pussy! No, that feels too soon. Too intense. Something less sexy? You scan the list twice more before deciding you don't want him to see you crying on a roller coaster either. 

C'mon. Stop being a little bitch and go for it. What is Jacob always saying? 

Tell yourself over and over you deserve to feel good things.

"Maybe ... Number four?"

Joel peruses the list, reading number four aloud. You can only watch his mouth move, plump and appealing. 

"Dirty text and or phone call." His eyes flit from the paper to your face, no doubt seeing the hesitancy there. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, he brings out his cell phone, sliding it across his desk to stop in front of you. 

"Put your number in there."

You can't stop your fingers from shaking as you enter your contact info into his phone. 

"Put your name as Fiona," he murmurs, watching as your fingers fly over the screen. "Just in case someone sees my phone. Better to be safe."

"Good idea." 

You push the phone back across the desk, very aware that you're going to great lengths not to make contact with his fingers.  You've never touched Joel nor has he touched you and for not the first time since you started at the company, you wonder what his fingers would feel like grasping yours. 

Joel slides his phone into his large hand, sliding his thumb across the screen. 

"Now the consent video."

You swallow, sitting up a little straighter. "Uh, yeah, what do I say?" 

"Name and date and that you're consenting to what we're gonna do."

"Right," you say with a nod before visibly faltering, your eyes narrowing in thought as you gaze into the distance. "It's just..."

Joel exhales gently, watching you. 

"What?" 

"It's just, I don't know exactly what we're gonna do."

Joel folds his arms on his desk and you don't miss how the muscles bulge, the fabric of his flannel straining over his wide shoulders. 

"I'm gonna send you dirty texts and then if you wanna I'm gonna call you."

Oh shit. Oh shit. His voice is so sexy right now. Your thighs clench together almost violently. 

"Right," you say slowly, your pulse pounding in your veins. 

Joel raises his phone, holding it at eye level. You hear the bing sound of the recording starting. Absently you smooth down your hair and attempt to give the camera a charming smile.

Be calm. Be cool. 

However your smile comes out as a tight grimace and you hold your body stiffly as your mind races with how you appear on camera. 

"Hello," you offer robotically, mind going blank, "I consent to-oh shit, wait, uh, my name is-"

Joel immediately lowers the phone, turning the video feature off. He stares at you in utter confusion as you frown. 

"The fuck was that?"

"The..." You wrinkle your nose at him. "I thought you said the consent..."

"You look like you're in a fuckin' hostage video." Joel's amusement is faint. "Just relax. This is supposed to be fun, right?" 

"Right."

You know that what he's saying is the truth, and yet your body is still held as rigid as a marble statue.  Joel must sense your lingering nerves because the subtle humor has fled from his face. 

"You're sure you still wanna do this? I was serious when I said we can stop at any time." Joel asks you this with his tone solemn and his eyes soft "We can tear up the contract right now and forget the whole thing."

"No!" You say a fraction too loud and far too quickly. "No, I don't want to end things. I wanna do this. With you."

Your face flames at your admission but Joel seems relieved by your answer. 

"Alright then." He raises his phone once more. "Let's try this again."

The button is pressed and you give a smile now, a real one as you imagine the debauched acts you'll commit with this sexy man across from you. You say your name and the date, your voice clear. 

"I'm consenting to receive and send, um, sexually suggestive texts and phone calls from Joel Miller as per our contract. I do this out of my own free will." 

Joel nods before lowering his phone.  Your mouth feels dry and your voice comes out as a croak.

"So when will... How..."

"You wanna know?" Joel's eyes sneak from his phone to you. His mouth pulls to one side to give you the barest hint of a smirk. 

"Or do you want it to be a surprise?" 

///

Joel sits uneasily across from your father Monday morning in a nearby cafe going over paperwork, two forgotten coffees at their elbows. 

Your dad is droning on about hiring Tess but all Joel can fixate on is the guilt that brews in his belly. 

What was he thinking offering to do your list with you? His best friend’s daughter? He'd acted rashly and now more clear headed he could see how wrong it was. Your dad would never forgive him and Joel wouldn't blame him.

He'd made no attempts to contact you since your last meeting. The one you left with a flush on your cheeks. All that anger for your dad seemed to simmer before dying off completely this weekend. 

What the fuck was I thinkin'? 

He'll talk to you tomorrow morning when he's in the office. He'll explain that it was a bad idea. He'll ask your forgiveness and hopefully you can all move on without it getting out. 

"Miller, are you listening?" Your dad breaks into his thoughts. "I said we'd give her Brian's old office. Thoughts?" 

Joel is trying his best not to scowl but it's not easy. He never wanted to hire Tess in the first place and this proposed lunch just feels like salt in the wound. 

Twenty years ago when Joel was still a young man desperate to pay for Tommy's latest rehab stint he'd gone to the nearby construction firm, hat in hand to see if there were any decently paying jobs. 

He was bright and he was pleasant and he made it through the first round of interviews without issue.  It wasn't until he was brought before the CEO, a Herb Servopolous that things went sour. 

"I knew your daddy," Mr Servopolous said with a cruel sneer. "Rumor is it your brother is followin' in his footsteps." 

Miller men weren't exactly known for their calm temperament. It has taken all of four seconds before Joel was on his feet, calling Mr Servopolous an asshole before striding out the door, never looking back. 

It was Brian, an up and coming architect at a local firm that saw Joel's potential. Without Brian Joel never would have made it this far. 

So when Tess came sniffing around for a job it was an automatic no from Joel. He didn't want any Servopolous working for or with him, ever. 

But your father, ever the businessman saw potential in the hiring. And today he's planned an on boarding lunch for her at the local steakhouse. 

"I thought we were supposed to be talkin' about all expenditures together," Joel sneers across the table from your dad. "Seems shortsighted to hire her at that salary."

"Consider us even for Brian," your dad offers, trying to lighten the mood. 

Joel leans back in his chair, muscled arms crossing over his chest. 

"It's not the same and you know it."

"Just think. If Tess does well we could be looking at a possible merger in the future," your dad says excitedly. "Her daddy is set to retire in the next few years and then who do you think will be in charge?"

"Then why is she here?" Joel demanded, brows raised. "If she's gonna take over for her dad-"

"Because she wants to prove herself," your father defended. "She's only ever worked for her daddy. She needs to show that she's capable outside of him if she wants the board to approve of her taking over."

Joel places a hand on the table, fingers tapping angrily.

"She won't even be here long. She doesn't have a horse in this race. So why bother takin' her on at all?"

"Two year minimum contract," your dad reasons, pushing the paperwork over. "Heavy penalty if she leaves early."

"How heavy?"

Your dad taps an obscene amount on the paperwork as he surveys Joel's face. 

"And even if she just does okay here do you know how much cache for the company it'll bring to have a Servopolous working for us? His golden child? You know how much she brought in for his company last year alone?"

Joel is quiet, eyes downcast. Your dad taps the paperwork impatiently. 

"I don't know what it is with you lately, Joel. Seems you wanna fight about every little thing."

"These aren't little things," Joel snaps. "It's our fucking company."

"Yeah, our company," your dad replies smoothly. "And I don't know about you, but I want it to make money."

"Not at the cost of our dignity."

"Joel what are you on about?"

"You know how her father treated me that day. How he's always takin' little jabs at us when he can." Joel exhales, his cheeks pink. "Taking Tess on is like us sayin' that's just fine." 

"Joel-

"That we'll just roll over and take his scraps."

"Joel that's not what-" your dad tries to interrupt, but Joel is too agitated. 

"It's spitting on all that we've built here."

"That's not true." Your dad's face is an ugly red, a sign that his temper is at its limit. But Joel doesn't notice, too entrenched in memories he's always tried to suppress. 

"This company is supposed to be our legacy!"

"Our company is just a company, Joel! My kids are my legacy," your dad snaps before he stops abruptly, eyes widening. "Fuck, I didn't mean it like that-"

Joel's eyes are flinty as he shrugs in on his jacket. Your dad is scrambling to stand, moving to follow. 

"Joel, I didn't-"

"I'll see you at lunch." 

"Do I want to know why we're hitting up a lingerie store on our lunch break?"

Jacob trails behind you in the Victoria's Secret, his shining shoes tapping against the floor impatiently.  You stand in the aisle, fingers trailing over a ruffled pink teddy. After your meeting with Joel you returned home to an empty house and threw yourself into bed. 

Your fingers were barely under your panties before you started arching into them groaning Joel's name, imagining his wide hands on your body. You came in quick succession, breathing heavy and your heart throbbing in your ribcage.  

Prompted by the memory of your meeting with Joel you dug in your purse for your phone. 

No missed calls. No new texts.  That was fine. It's going to be a surprise. You told him you wanted it to be a surprise before you left. 

That was Friday. 

It's now Monday. A full two days since you both made the plans and not only has Joel not even been into the office yet, but be sure as hell hasn't made any attempts at contact. 

And you? You were pathetically excited the entire weekend waiting for a text that never came. And since you didn't have his number yet you couldn't exactly prompt him. Every text from a friend or alert on an app had you lurching to check your phone. 

You did it so often that your dad asked you if you were waiting for a package. You'd choked on your coffee. 

Still you arrived anticipatory this morning, eyes scanning the schedule to see that you'd be Joel-less today.  It wasn't until you were at your desk answering emails and forwarding contact information that you realized you could easily retrieve Joel's phone number from the staff directory. 

You hurriedly typed it into your phone, fingers flying as your heart rabbit-ed behind your sternum. And in the end you decided on something simple for a name: MJ.

Not exactly creative but innocuous and could easily be a man or woman if someone looked. You snuck looks at your phone the entire morning, fingers itching to send something off. 

Maybe I'll just text:  wanted to make sure my texts are going through. 

But that felt desperate. So by lunch you were wound up tighter than a two dollar watch and insisted that you and Jacob hit the mall for lunch. Which has led you to this moment of wandering around the Victoria's Secret store with your coworker sighing heavily behind you. 

“Hello? Are you listening? Why are we here?”

You keep your voice neutral, eyes averted. 

"I've got a date this weekend and I thought I should get something cute." You turn, smiling. "And you've got great taste."

Jacob preens at that, his handsome face turning from irritation to glee. "A date? With who?"

There's no way you can tell him it's Joel. That would never end well. He'd tell you all the things you don't want to think about, he'd question Joel's motivation and for once you don't want to do that. You just want to enjoy. 

"Dating app." You pause to take a deep breath, eyes moving to Jacob. "He says he wants to do the list with me."

Jacob's jaw actually drops and he shrieks out your name in shock, drawing murmurs and looks from the other women shopping for overpriced lingerie. 

"Are you serious?"

You nod, moving down the aisle towards the two piece sets. There are some that have delicate chains or ruffles but nothing that screams you. Or at least not the persona you're trying to project. 

"How is that safe?" Jacob whispers fiercely, his voice dropping. "You just told some stranger about your list and he agreed before even meeting you? Do you know how big a red flag that is?"

"It's not like that."

"It's not? How?"

You stretch your head to the side as you search your mind for something plausible. 

"I've actually known him for a while. He knew me when I was in college. I found him on the app and we reconnected." You give Jacob a reassuring smile. "So I appreciate the concern but this guy is trustworthy, trust me." 

Jacobs eyes ping pong between yours, trying to ascertain if you're full of it. But finally his shoulders relax and he nods. 

"You promise?"

"Promise. And if it helps we're starting with dirty texts first so it's totally low danger."  You stem your hands on your hips. “And I need your help picking out something really good. That’s why I asked you.”

"That does help," Jacob relents, pursuing his mouth as he scans your body. "Let's get you something really good then."

You scroll the store, eyes searching for just the right thing. But of course it's Jacob who finds it minutes later, tugging it from the hanger and demanding you purchase it immediately. 

You look at the black and dark grey items, eyes moving over the cross straps over the bust, the see through lace cups. It's sexy without being cheap and you smile broadly. 

It's perfect.

///

Across town Joel sits with your father and Tess in the booth of an overpriced steakhouse. They've been there thirty minutes and Tess hasn't stopped gushing about how much she respects the Mill Group. 

"When I was reading your interview last month and you touched on the concept of brutalism and how it offers honesty through its functionality like the Unité d'Habitation? My God! I knew I had so much to learn from you both," she says with a bright smile. 

Joel knows what she's referencing - the big Mill Group spotlight in Austin Way magazine, the ultimate get in the architecture community.  

"Surprised by that," Joel snarks, arms crossed over his chest, every part of his body telling this woman to back off. "Not like your firm's exactly an up and come-r. Feel like you're father would've taught you plenty." 

"My father's company is respectable, but it's stuck in the past," Tess says, almost shyly. "I want to be a part of something new, something with fresh blood and bold takes. As you know you've established a very good reputation within the community."

"Worked hard to do it," Joel says coolly. "Didn't have anything handed to us."

Joel winces when he feels your dad kick his shin under the table. 

"But you've set yourself apart as well, built quite the reputation for yourself," your dad says with a charming smile. "I mean, your work on the Du'vell home was inspired."

Oh for fucks sake. 

Joel feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and normally he'd ignore it, but this blatant ass-kissing doesn't hold his attention long. He welcomes the diversion. 

Discreetly he pulls the cell from his jeans, leaning back a bit to retrieve it. He brings his bottle of beer to his lips as he slides open the text. 

You're dad and Tess are still deep in conversation so they don't notice when he casually opens the message, not even registering that it's coming from "Fiona". 

But they sure as hell notice when an image pops up and Joel violently chokes on a mouthful of beer. 

"Jesus, Miller!" Your dad laughs, patting him on the back harshly. "You okay?"

"Fine," Joel says rasping, s still sputtering a cough as Tess looks on, worried. 

Joel feels the back of his neck flaming as he quickly flips the phone face down on the seat next to him. 

"Sorry about that," he says with a sheepish smile their way. "Must've just gone down the wrong tube. 'Scuse me."

Joel jerks to a stand, grabbing the phone on his way out of the booth and sliding it into his front pocket.  

He hears the murmur of Tess and your dad behind him as he makes his way to the front door, almost throwing himself against the brick facade outside. 

The air outdoors serves to fan his heated cheeks still pink from the spectacle he just caused as well as the photo that he plans on looking at, shielded from the restaurant.  He smiles politely at an older couple who walk by him, headed for lunch, waiting for them to pass by before allowing himself to turn on the phone and take in the photo.  

It's your hand holding a Victoria's Secret shopping bag in front of the shop that boasts a half naked woman in skimpy lingerie. He can see in the text bubble:

ready when you are

It's a simple photo, not even really lascivious. But the fact that you sent it to him caught him off guard. And the fact that it's lingerie store. And the fact that suddenly he can't stop from imagining it's you instead of that model wearing that outfit. 

Arousal licks low in his belly at the thought that you bought something in preparation. You obviously still want ,this that much is clear. 

I should cut it off now, he tells himself again.

But then he thinks about the way your dad talked to him in the office that day, the things he said this morning and the way he's kissing Tess' ass and anger mingles with the arousal there inside him. 

I can't do this to my friend. 

His phone buzzes again but it's not a message from you. It's from your dad. 

The fuck are you??? You may not have wanted to hire her Joel but it's not just your choice. We're supposed to put our company ahead of old grudges. 

Joel and your dad have always had a blunt way of speaking to one another, no subtext, no hidden agendas. It's what bonded them in the first place, their inability to suffer fools. But something about this message sets Joel's teeth on edge. 

Any lingering doubts and guilt he may have carried are erased as clenches his jaw, slipping the phone back into his pocket and rejoining the group. 

///

Joel never got back to you. You waited the entire fucking day with your phone on the desk, pouncing on it every time it so much as buzzed.  But it was only Starbucks reminding you it was double stars day or Tony sending you a possum gif or Jacob pestering you for more details about your date. 

 But it was never Joel. 

You ignored every single one of the messages, your attention in the realm of Joel's deep voice. By the time you return home that evening with your purse on one shoulder and the Victoria's Secret bag on the other you feel deflated. 

Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he regretted everything. But then couldn't he at least do the decent thing and let you know? You stride into the house, frowning as you slide off your shoes at the front door. Your dad won't be back until late, he told you earlier that morning. At least you have the place to yourself. 

You take advantage, thinking about running yourself a bath when the phone buzzes at your hip. You pull it from your pocket, expecting another Jacob message. You nearly drop it when you realize it's from Joel. 

MJ: You around?

Fuck him for being so casual. And fuck him for not saying anything about your purchase and... Well, just fuck him.  It's on the tip of your tongue to call and give Joel a verbal telling off when you remind yourself that he's doing this as a favor to you.

He's risking a lot and while you don't completely trust all his motivations, he's the best option for you at present. 

You take your bag and scurry to your room, flinging your clothes off and pulling on your lingerie with a breathless giggle.  You fiddle with the straps at the top and attach the garter before moving to the floor length mirror on your wall. You turn to the side, sure to see yourself from all angles.

Part of you wishes you hit the gym more, but the louder part reminds you how much you love banana bread. You twist, arching your back and are surprised at just how luscious your ass looks in this outfit. 

"Fuck, I look good," you murmur to yourself, admiring the plush curve of your ass. 

The phone buzzes again from your bed and you gulp, bringing it to eye level. 

MJ: Lemme know if you still wanna do this. 

A small curl starts at the corner of your mouth because Joel's message has betrayed that maybe he's worried you're no longer into this. Is that a slit in his armor?

Maybe you should make him suffer like he did to you today. Make him wait for it. But then you catch sight of yourself in the mirror doing a little hip wiggle and decide that you can't wait any longer. 

I'm ready. 

You sit on the bed, hands on your knees and the phone beside you. You're so excited and so anxious you feel like throwing up. 

You look around your bedroom as you wait, struck by how juvenile it looks. The band posters from your teen years, the trophies from your volleyball team on the shelves. When you moved back home you didn't bother unpacking much. That was a year ago.  Now you wish you'd at least attempted to update the room your father had seemingly kept as a shrine to you. 

You stand up, going to pull some candles from the multitude on your desk before placing them beside the bed.  You light them and are pleased when the flickering flame casts the room in a sensual glow, lightly scented with magnolia and spice. 

The phone sounds out you're ringtone and a nervous gasp escapes you. You can't even look at it you're suddenly so terrified. You have to manually remind yourself to slow your breathing before you take the phone in hand.  

"Calm the fuck down." 

Closing your eyes you raise the phone to your ear and adopt your most seductive purr.

"Hope you're gonna make this worth my wait."

"Please tell me you're not going to use that voice."

Your eyes blow open, horrified. 

"Jacob why the fuck are you calling me right now?"

You can hear the amusement in his voice when he replies. 

"I was checking to see if your dad had the Sanderson meeting tomorrow but apparently I've interrupted something." His voice drops. "Or.... Almost something. Has it officially started yet?" 

You're about to reply when another call sends its alert and you curse Jacob aloud. 

"You fucker, Jacob. He's calling right now. Do not call me again tonight." 

"Understood. Good luck, babe. I want all the dirty details tomorrow."

"Bye."

You press the button to swap to Joel's call before attempting to adopt that same sexy purr as before. 

"Hey handsome." 

"Seriously? Not that voice again! You sound like you're trying to do a bad Kathleen Turner impression."

"Jacob?" You jerk the phone away from your ear with a growl. "What the fuck?" 

"Did you hit the call waiting button?"

"Yes."

"Obviously not," Jacob sighs. "It's still me."

You attempt to press the button with Joel's flashing name on it again. 

"Hello?"

"Still me," Jacob replies, amused. Your fingers slide frantically across the name on your phone. 

"Now?"

"Still here."

You're overwhelmed, getting sweaty and growing more and more furious at every wrong move.

"Fucking piece of shit" You shriek furiously, your thumb sliding over the screen in agitation. "Fuck this whole stupid fucking thing."

"S'not exactly the kind of dirty talk I thought we'd be engagin' in," croons a deep voice. 

You go still.

"Mister Mill-Joel?"

"Mhm." 

You want to hide in your bed for a week after that faux pas. So much for setting a sexy mood. 

"Oh right, I just had some technical difficulties," you explain trying not to stammer.

 "It's just it's a new phone and I'm still learning all the, uh, apps and stuff and it was giving me trouble and-" You take a deep breath aware that you're starting to ramble. "Anyway how was your day?"

Joel is quiet for a moment, likely coming out of the whiplash your diatribe caused him. 

"Was fine."

"That's good," you say nervously. "I know you had that big meeting an-"

"You in bed?"

You stop speaking when Joel asks you that, stunned into silence. 

"Um, yes. I am."

"Good," Joel murmurs and you think you can hear the clink of glass. 

"What are you doing?"

"Pouring myself a bit of whiskey," he tells you calmly before you hear him settle onto something soft. 

"Aren't you gonna ask what I'm wearing?" You blurt out 

There's a moment of silence on the line and then Joel's confused voice, a little raspy and tight like he's trying not to laugh.

"Do you want me to ask what you're wearin'?"

"I kinda thought that's how these things go."

"They can go however we want."

You pause, looking down at your outfit. You finger the lace on the lingerie, frowning. 

"It's just, you know I bought something sexy for this whole thing and I feel like if we don't talk about it it'll have been a waste." 

More silence on Joel's end and then just as you think about hanging up in humiliation, his voice reaches out to you lower and slower than before. 

"Tell me what you're wearin', baby."

Baby? Holy shit. Just that word alone has your nipples tightening in the lace cups of your lingerie. You fight very hard not to giggle nervously before your eyes fly down to your outfit. 

"It's.... Lace and... Is black uh with a little strappy thing over the top of the cup -" you try to find the words but they won't come, resulting in you trailing off. 

You hear Joel's steady breathing on the other end of the phone and you hold your own breath, anxious about what to say. 

"Do you wanna send me a picture? Would that make it easier?"

His voice is creamy and deep and your brain has to buffer before you realize what he's asked. It takes you a full moment of heavy breathing to collect your thoughts. 

"I think you wanna send me a picture," he murmurs and you hear him shift on the other end of the line. "I think you wanna show off that sexy little number you got on."

Yeah, you do want to send him the photo. You've never wanted a man to see you in lingerie more. But you need a moment to find the right angle and lighting. 

"Just a sex. Uh, a sec," you correct feeling flustered. "I'll call you back."

---

Joel realizes you've abruptly ended the call and looks at his phone, baffled. 

What the fuck? Did you seriously just hang up on him? 

He stares at his phone a few minutes, completely flummoxed when you don't call him back.  

"What the fuck am I doin'?" Joel mutters, tossing his phone onto the cushion beside him. 

This was a terrible idea. You are way too inexperienced at phone sex for him to even attempt this. He's expecting you to burst out laughing at any moment when he mentions the words tits or cock. 

Speaking of which...

Joel glances between his legs to see his cock still throbbing in his sweatpants. It's been like that since he heard your voice. It's not because it's you, it's because he can't remember the last time he did something this illicit. He shouldn't be this hard. 

His phone beeps and with a sigh he lifts the phone to eye level.

"Holy shit."

For a minute it takes him by surprise, all the straps pulled taut, and your curves on display for him. You've propped the phone  up somewhere high, giving him an eyeful.

Your body is laid out on your bed, the pale blue sheet underneath you. Your arms are raised above your head and out of the shot. You've obviously gone to great lengths to keep your head out of the picture and he secretly thanks you for that foresight. 

You rest there like some gift waiting to be unwrapped. One knee is crooked, your hips softly tilted to the side. You look fucking amazing. 

Joel's breath hitches as he takes in the delicate gauzy fabric that barely covers your breasts. He can see your nipples through it, hard and waiting.  He looks at the lacy belt around your waist leading to a garter holding up black silk. Your pussy is shielded from the pose but he can tell it's barely covered a scrap of fabric. 

Joel feels his cock hardening further as he stares. He can't stop. This isn't what he pictured when he thinks of you. He pictured teddies in pastel colors, ruffles and bows. Not black lace and sexy straps tightening over your chest and leading behind your neck. 

He nearly drops the phone when a buzz sounds and a message from you pops up. 

FIONA: Did you get it?

Oh yeah, he got it.  

---

Your phone rings and you fumble to open the call, bringing the phone to your ear. Before you can say anything, Joel's voice sounds out all syrupy and low. 

"You bought that just for this phone call?"

"Yeah." 

Joel makes a small, appreciative noise in the back of his throat. 

"S'good," he tells you softly. "Real pretty."

This was worth the price alone. Hearing Joel respond like this has you preening. You hear Joel shifting and you wonder where he's sitting to have this very intense conversation.

"Are you in your bed?"

"The couch." 

"Oh. Is it comfy?" 

"S'alright." 

You never been to Joel's house, and part of you is curious about how he furnishes it. You can imagine his couch now: a buttery leather in front of a large fireplace. 

"Is it leather?"

"You wanna talk home design or do you wanna hear how hard that photo made me?"

Anything you wanted to say dies in your throat. Your body feels electric at his words and you fall silent. 

"I couldn't stop looking at it," his voice drops and you hear movement, flesh over fabric. "I'm rubbing my cock through my pants. Seein' that sexy body got me so hard, baby."

Joel Miller is far too good at this. He must have countless women who've gotten off to his voice and his words. You know this because he talks with the casual confidence of a man who knows his voice gets women wet. 

"You like knowin' how hard you make me?"

You manage to squeak out a soft "mhm."

"Ask me what I'm thinking about," Joel says quietly, his breathing more elevated. 

"What are you thinking about?"

"How it'd feel to have you here in my lap," he continues slowly, his voice like honey. "Wearing that sweet set you have on now."

You breathe deeply before exhaling shakily. 

"Thinking about pulling down the straps and pushing those beautiful tits out so I can see em properly," he continues. "I know I'd need to lick those pretty nipples, maybe nibble em until I hear you whimper, beggin' me for more."

You let out a small squeak before clapping your hand over your mouth. You can't help it. You don't know if it's from the absurdity of the situation or hearing Joel say the word tits. Whatever it is, it breaks the spell he's trying to weave. 

"You okay?"

"Fine." 

Joel is quiet for a moment and you think you hear a sigh. But instead he must be thinking of a new angle because when he speaks next, he's still calm. 

"How about you take that sexy little outfit off." Joel's voice is like gravel wrapped in silk. "Would you do that for me?"

"Yes!" 

Your enthusiastic reply is partially muffled as your hands go to reach behind for the clasp. 

"Slow," Joel tells you over the phone. "Don't rush it. First lower the straps drag your fingernails down lightly as you do it." 

You do as he says, taking your time to lower the straps, body breaking out into goose bumps as the brush of your finger drags along your skin. Your body prickles in anticipation.

"Feel good?"

"Mhm." 

"Now I want you to pull down the cups. Don't undo the clasp or anythin'. Just tug em down," Joel instructs carefully. "Because if I was there with you, baby, that's the first thing I'd do."

You swallow, curving the phone between your ear and shoulder before tugging the bra down, exposing your breasts to the air. Your nipples go hard immediately, puckering in the chill. 

"Wish I was there," Joel whispers.

Your stomach bottoms out and you sit there stunned, your eyes wide and your breathing loud over the phone. 

"Are you still layin' down?"

"No."

"Go on and relax." 

You do as he instructs, curving back onto your sheets. After a moment’s hesitation you decide on popping your ear buds in. 

"I want you to rub em real gently for me. Close your eyes and just feel your palm brushing against em."

You immediately sigh when Joel's voice comes through clearer. When you close your eyes it's almost like he's in the room with you. You close your eyes, thankful that Joel is good with a slow build up. Your hands rise over your bared chest, slowly hovering your palm over the soft skin there. 

"Now I want you to lick the tip of your thumb and forefinger on each hand," Joel commands gently.

You do as he says and he must hear the wet sound of your mouth. 

"Now I want you to pinch your nipples," he rasps, "soft at first."

You do and you let out a soft and stuttering exhale at the sensation. You never build yourself up like this, you're always in such a rush to come, the vibrator doing the work for you. 

"Harder now."

You comply, spine curving as lightning shoots it's way through your body. You can't help but whimper, front teeth pressed into the flesh of your lower lip. 

"How's that feel?"

"Good," you gasp. Shocked at how turned on you are. 

"Sounds like it."

"Are you touching yourself?" You ask breathily, suddenly insecure about all the attention. 

"Mhm." The hair on the back of your neck stands up at the low groan that emanates from the phone. "Fuckin' cock throbs every time you make those little noises." 

Oh wow. Joel Miller is hard and touching himself because of you. Your head swims in arousal. 

"Want you to drag those hands down your body slowly," he continues huskily. "Then you're gonna rub between your legs, real gently to start." 

You do as ordered, shocked to find your cunt is already soaking the thin fabric. You glance down between your legs, brows raised.

"I'm so wet," you blurt out before stopping yourself. 

Joel gives another groan on the end of the line and you hear the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh. 

"Are you-"

"Stroking my cock thinking about you playing with yourself?" He grunts, his voice choppy. "Mhm."

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. 

"Under the panties now," Joel rasps, all pretense of slowly building you up gone. You don't even hesitate, sliding your fingers under the fabric and into your welcoming heat. 

"Oh," you gasp out. How does it feel so much better? Joel isn't even here in the same room and your pussy is throbbing and so deliciously sensitive. You can hear the smile in Joel's response. 

"Okay, baby. Lemme hear you make yourself feel good."

Your eyes roll back at those words, Joel's own stroking continuing in earnest. You begin to play with yourself, splaying your fingers on either side of your clit and rubbing.

Baby. Baby.

You feel waves of bliss overtaking you and are really starting to relax into this, shocked at how good it all feels.  

"I-I wanna sit on your lap," you confess suddenly, your hesitancy lost in the haze of your arousal. "Wanna bounce on it."

"Fuck," Joel groans low and long. "Yeah, I want that. Can  picture it right now." 

"I just know you'd feel so good," you continue babbling, your fingers working furiously between your thighs. "I just know you have a gorgeous co-"

The last word is lost to the ether as the front door of your home slams shut. 

You suddenly jerk up in bed, eyes wide. Did you imagine it? 

"You home? I brought dinner," your dad's voice rings through the house calling your name. 

"Fuck." 

Joel is too lost to his own pleasure; you can hear the fever pitch of his jerking, his groans spilling into your ears. You panic, thrusting your phone under your pillow when a knock sounds. 

"Hey Trix, you in there?"

You pop one of the ear buds out, Joel still groaning and jerking himself off in the other. 

"I'll be out in a sec," you tell him shakily, praying he doesn't open the door to see his daughter in slutty lingerie getting off to his friend on the phone. 

"Fuck I'm gettin' close," Joel groans, totally lost and unaware of what's going on at your place. 

You can hear the sound of his cock being rubbed and tugged so quickly it smacks loudly over the phone. 

"I got us sushi from that place you like," your dad continues, the sound of a paper bag being rustled. You gasp in horror, terrified when you see the doorknob turn. 

"You like that? Knowing how close I am? Knowing you got me this fucking hard?"

Joel's words are barely registering to you, you’re so terrified your dad is going to catch on. You jump up, tugging on your robe and flying to the bedroom door. 

"You're gonna make me come, pretty girl."

You jerk the door open to see your dad smiling at you holding a large brown paper bag.

"I can't remember if you liked the dragon roll or-"

"Not now!" Your voice comes out choppy and breathless as you point at the ear bud still lodged in your left ear. 

"Yes, now," Joel groans, mistaking your shout at your dad as directed at him. "Right fuckin' now."

"Oop, sorry to interrupt," your dad says with a sheepish smile. "Dinners here when you're finished."

You feel everything tighten in you as Joel lets out the most delicious sounding groan just as you manage to slam the door in your father's face. 

[fartcloudfartcloud]

plus size reader x logan who doesn't give a shit

it's all so easy for him, he's so big and strong and shameless, so obsessed with every soft curve and round edge of you.

Not just your actual body, but every tick that comes with it. He thinks there's something so sexy and sweet about watching you adjust before taking you out, enamored by the way you pull your boobs up to sit nicer in your bra, the way you pull the seems of the tight dress up and down to try and maintain some dignity despite your curves desperately trying to spill out.

None of it would matter to him, he think you look best with that dress rolled up over your hips and bent over with his face in your pussy anyways.

God, don't even get him started on your pussy. The weight on your hips lends you to have the most perfect, puffy lips that he can't pull himself away from. Let's you coat every inch of his face, nose and tongue nestled deep while his hands grope your thick thighs pressed to his sideburns.

Hes so strong, he's grabbing a hand full of your hips and manhandling you, effortlessly moving you where he wants you, he's got your hips a few inches off the mattress and he's pounding into you like you're a toy. It has all of you shaking, your legs helplessly wrapped around his waste as the sound of his naval and thighs pounding into your bottom filling the room, his eyes locked on the way your round tits bounce around in response to his thrusts.

He doesn't care, you're so pretty and he's so strong, why would he ever waste a second doing anything but enjoying you.

[fartcloudfartcloud]

*flirting with an older man* when i was born you had already attempted suicide once

[fartcloudfartcloud]

My first post so i’m so sorry if it sucks :(

Basically the gist of this is that I’ve been collecting imagines in my drafts of Roomate!Simon Riley x F!Reader and all of a sudden this actual full blown fic happened. So yeah, welcome to Roomate!Simon Riley taking your virginity.

Warnings: Minor DNI 18+, Oral F!Receiving, Fingering, Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it folks), Size kink if you put on glasses and squint, an over usage of the word baby, attagirl, etc. (i like pet names), possibly dirty talking i dunno, no use of Y/N, tried super hard not to describe what exactly you were wearing or looked like so, um talk of shitty guys, virginity taking (obvi), mentions of overstimulation but it’s not a big part or nothin, I don’t know what else but if I’m missing something I apologize!

P.S. this was supposed to be dirtier but i don’t know what happened. Simon just became a whore for your pussy.

Word count: 4k and some change

Roommate!Simon Riley who finally gets to fuck you

He knew you were a virgin, you’d told him in a game of truth or dare during a particularly bad storm. The power was out, you’d had some wine, it wasn’t like he’d care anyway, but he did. He thought about it every night when he was alone, hand wrapped around his aching cock as he fantasized milking you dry.

And now, here you were, splayed out in front of him.

It was accidental. You’d just gone on your fifth absolutely atrocious date of the month and walked into the apartment practically sobbing. Ghost pried and pried until you told him what had happened.

“He kept feeding me alcohol and I didn’t care cause I just wanted to fucking do something, anything.”

He’d furrowed his brows, hanging your jacket on its hooks. “What do you mean, do something?”

“I’m so tired of being the only fucking girl that’s a virgin. It’s humiliating. The second a guy finds out they just fucking drop me like some bitch ass pussy.” You always had a potty mouth when you were angry. He normally found it funny, cute even, but all it did right then was make his heart clench. “And of course he was getting me tipsy so it slipped out and he literally said ‘fuck, why’d you have to say that,’ then told me to ‘please get out of his car.’ He said he didn’t want that to be on his conscience, that it wasn’t his responsibility. Like how is that even fair to me?”

He tried to open his mouth to console you, to try and make things better, but his dick was getting harder by the minute and you just kept rambling.

“All I want is for someone to want me. To want to touch me and for just a minute I wanna feel something, I wanna feel good.” You were too worked up to feel embarrassed, but the shame was there, rearing its ugly head and leaving you a weeping mess.

“I’m sorry, I-you don’t need to know this.” Little did you know he was standing there with the world’s biggest boner. He tried to be chivalrous, took your purse and sat it on the table and grabbed you an ice-cold bottle of water, he let you cry and rant while the whole time all he could think about was fucking that virgin cunt senseless until you were writhing on the bed screaming his name.

“Maybe it’s my fault ya know,” He froze at that, snapping back to reality. “I mean I’m the one who decided to keep myself pure or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. Maybe I’m too needy now or too desperate. Maybe I need to just give up and back off and accept the fact that I’m forever and always going to be-” He couldn’t stand it anymore. In three quick steps he was rounding the table and by your side, grasping your face and placing hungry lips against your own.

He pulled you flush against him, taking satisfaction in the way you yelped at the feeling of his bulge against your lower stomach. He kissed you fervently, tongue absolutely stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving your body limp. It was like a starving man having his first meal. His grip on your hip was rough as he squeezed the skin, no doubt leaving marks, while his other hand was behind your head, holding you close to him until he was satisfied.

Eventually, when you were shoving your hands against his chest, he pulled back, gasping into your mouth. His forehead laid against yours, eyes closing as he heaved in greedy gulps of air.

“Stop. fucking. talking.” The next kiss was soft, thumb rubbing circles where the bruises would form. “ ‘m gonna take care of you okay,” Another soft kiss. “Gonna give you exactly what you need, yeah?

The air is knocked out of your lungs and all you can do is nod. He bites your bottom lip at your lack of noise, hand moving down to paw at your ass. “Use your fucking words.”

“Yeah-yes.”

“Attagirl.” Both hands were on your thighs now, tugging you up and forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He’s kissing you again, moving swiftly down the hall to his room. You’re not as quick as him, inexperienced lips moving slower around his mouth, and your trembling hands grasping at his neck and jawline.

He practically kicks the door down, slamming it shut with his foot before laying you down softly against the bed. “Gonna take these off,”

Another nod, heat pooling in your stomach at the deep, desperate rasp in his voice. He works quick, and by the time your bottoms are off, the nerves begin to kick in. Your breathing grows uneven when he reaches for your underwear.

“Anybody ever touched your pussy before, baby?” He knew you were a virgin, but that didn’t mean you hadn’t played around before.

“Just-just me.” He can feel the precum dripping from his throbbing cock.

“Fuck don’t say that to me.” He closes his eyes, groaning as he hooks his fingers into the waistline of your panties and pulling them off your body. He doesn’t throw them down with your pants, instead he sticks them in his back pocket, fingers rubbing the cotton back and forth at the feeling of the slick coating their inside. He starts kissing up your legs, hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide as his warm lips leave open-mouthed kisses against the inner part of your knees.

You’re not breathing at this point, instead just gripping the sheets in silent anticipation. You thought you’d be more excited, but instead there’s just anxiety and insecurity coating every part of your body.

He can feel the tension in your thighs, can feel it even more as he runs his hands up to your stomach, kneading the soft skin of your belly. “Relax sweet’art, got nothing to be scared of.”

His lips are now just above your pussy, tongue swooping down to run across your clit. You’d touched yourself before, you knew what it felt like, but this was different, very very different.

He groans at your soft whimper, moving down toward your wet slit and beginning to kiss there too.

“Fuck can you just-just do it.” You’re rubbing your hands down your face at this point, trying to fight away the roaming thoughts as the warmth of his tongue teases your pussy lips.

“Gotta take my time, get you opened up.”

“But-”

He looks up, eyes soft and filled with understanding. “Jus’ trust me.” He squeezes your skin for emphasis, smiling that familiar smile and easing some of the stress in your gut. You’re now able to recognize the intense heat pooling there.

Once his tongue finally starts moving inside and his nose begins bumping your clit, your head falls back on the bed, quiet mewls coming from your trembling lips.

He didn’t like that you were so quiet, no, he wanted to hear you fucking sing.

“C’mon baby, tell me what you need. Lemme help.” You wanted to, but the problem was, you yourself had no idea what it was that you needed him to do.

“I don’t know-I just-I don’t know.”

He kept lapping anyway, moving up to sucking your clit. That pulled a sound from you, one he’d never heard before. He loved it.

“B-better, that’s better.”

Your fingers were grasping onto whatever they could find, the pillow, the sheets, your own top, but you still weren’t where he wanted you to be.

“Breathe,” He mumbles the words against your core, leaving you shivering. “You ever had your fingers inside you?”

You’d tried once or twice, but it never felt right, just too uncomfortable and too hard to try more than a few minutes. “Yes.” The weight of your honesty lays heavy on your shoulders. “I didn’t like it.”

He was lazily kissing your clit, leaving strained whines coming from your throat. “Gimme your hands.” You obeyed immediately, letting him take your fingers and guide them to his hair. “I’m gonna try, if you don’t like it, you tell me and I’ll stop right then.”

“Okay,” Your voice is weak, nerves making your body feel on fire. You awaited the uncomfortable intrusion, but instead just felt his mouth again. Felt his lips wrapping around your clit, felt his tongue gathering your slick and spreading it wherever he pleased. It made you forget, only for a moment, made your body relax and fingers go lax on his scalp.

He took that opportunity to put a finger in. His were so much bigger and wider than yours, and that once uncomfortable feeling now kind of hurt.

You couldn’t help but hiss, fingernails scratching at his scalp, but you didn’t tell him to stop, and so he didn’t. He kept scissoring you, until eventually the feeling of his finger was more pleasurable than anything. He could sense the relaxation in the walls of your pussy and in turn added another. This time you let out a moan, hips now grinding up to try and get more from him.

“Attagirl,” He whispered softly, curling his fingers in this spot you’d never even known existed.

Now you were fucking singing.

He moaned in response, who wouldn’t want this right in front of them?

“S-Simon.” You’re saying his name, pleading whines coming from your lips. There was a tightening in your belly you’d only felt a few times before, almost like this coil that could snap at any given moment.

He was a feral man now. Fingers squelching in and out of your wet folds, tongue going down on your clit like it was a fucking ice cream cone. Round and around in circles, sucking, biting, kissing, the mixture of that and the movement of his fingers had you writhing, cunt making movie-style noises as your orgasm grew closer and closer.

He could feel your walls start to flutter around him and knew you were almost there. Just a little more.

“Fuck fuckkk Simon,” He’d added a third finger, doing what you thought was filling you to the brim. You tugged, hard, on his hair, pushing his face down as far into your pussy as it could go.

Suddenly that coil snapped, and you let out a to-loud moan, chanting his name like a mantra in between shallow breaths.

“Simon.” Your voice was high pitched and needy, whimpers coming loose as your body shivered with overstimulation.

Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon. He could cum in his pants at the simple sound of your voice.

“Please oh god please, st-” He pulled away immediately, licking up every drop of release you’d given him and letting it rest on his lips. You didn’t have to tell him twice, if you were done then he could be done too, despite how badly he wanted to keep his mouth on your pussy for the rest of his life. The sounds you made, the way you smelled, his dick twitched in response.

“Did so fucking good for me. Sweetest pussy I ever tasted.” He kissed his way up your body, loving the aftershocks that shook your limbs.

He pushed up your shirt with his nose, slipping deft fingers beneath the top and slipping it over your head.

“C’mon, come back to me now.” He was kissing your lips softly, rubbing the sides of your waist to draw you back to reality.

“M’here.”

“Yeah baby, there we go.” He was caressing your skin, drawing you back to his face, his body, back to every part of his being that you felt you were truly seeing for the first time.

“You’re beautiful,” Your voice was a soft whisper as you reached your fingers up to trace his face.

He couldn’t help but to smile, seeing you like this, eyes lidded and face flushed with the post-orgasm glaze, it made him want to fuck you over and over for the rest of his life, but with it there was also a dull ache inside to think that maybe you’d let somebody else see you this way.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Your words make him choke on his breath, the thoughts reeling in his brain pausing for a split second. “I wouldn’t-It couldn’t have been anyone else. Only you.”

Ghost blinked slowly, turning your speech in circles over and over until it made him nauseous. “Glad I can be of assistance.”

“No, no Simon, it's more than that. I only want it to be you.” His lips turned to meet the palm of your hand as he peppered kisses down your wrist, eventually coming back around to touch your lips. He shoves his nose against yours, one hand moving to grab ahold of your face.

“Always gonna be me.” A small kiss as his free hand fumbles for his belt. “‘M always gonna take care of you, always gonna look out for ya.” He was kicking his jeans off now, bulge more prominent within the tight strain of his boxers. “Nobody’s ever gonna touch you again, nobody but me.”

You nod, squeezing his neck softly as you bring his head down to meet yours. “I love you,” The words have been said a million times before. After his deployments, a long day, in between stirring dinner on the stove. You’d both been saying it all along, but no one was brave enough to admit that it was more than surface level, more than just three words in the dictionary.

He found his tongue heavy, brain completely empty as he watched your every move. “Yeah love,” Finally he could speak, he could speak as his fingers unhooked your bra. He could speak as he wanted to see every single part of you, wanted to see you bare and vulnerable in front of him, and then he wanted to hold you like that until you felt like nothing would ever hurt you again. “I love you too.”

You slammed your lips into his as he removed his boxers, his cock standing strong and proud, the red tip leaking precum.

The nerves were back, stomach and pussy tensing at the mere thought of him trying to put it inside you. You didn’t know what the average penis looked like, but his looked fucking big.

Simon could sense the anxiety, could see it as your eyes grew wide and as your forehead creased with worry. “Relax, breathe.” He lifted your legs to rest against his hips, one hand beginning to line up his cock between your folds.

“Simon,”

“If you want to stop, we’ll stop, I promise.”

“No, I-no.”

He kissed you softly, dropping his length to grab your hand and place it against his bicep. “You hold that and you don’t let go. You can squeeze, claw, bite, whatever you need to do, you got it?”

“Yeah,” It was a whimper, a whisper in the wind.

“Look at me alright, keep those pretty eyes on me.” He started to push in, slowly, but the stretch of just his tip already had you crying, eyebrows pinched up and body so tense it felt like you could be snapped in half.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, you gotta-you gotta relax baby, just-nngh-just breathe.” His eyes were shut too, the feeling of your tight fucking pussy and nails clawing at his arms like he was a scratching post had him so worked up he swore he wouldn’t even last a minute.

“You can keep going, just keep going please.” Your voice was trembling, eyes pouring out tears as he pushed in a little further. He was barely halfway inside and already his orgasm was right there in front of him.

“Ta-mm-Talk to me baby. Tell me about-tell me about your favorite song.”

You laughed slightly, the sting starting to make way for pleasure. “You know my favorite song.” Each word was strained, but it was there, and you were pushing through.

“Okay then-fuck baby I can’t-you’re so fucking tight, you gotta ease up. Squeezing me so hard I’m gonna bust like a fucking twelve year old in a sock.”

The moment you giggled he sheathed himself in fully, laying his forehead against yours when you let out a pained cry. “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He was peppering your face with kisses, trying not to moan as loud as fucking possible. He hated that you were in so much pain, hated that he could feel cool liquid between your thighs that was anything but arousal.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, it’s gonna get better, just try to -mm-” He whimpered unintentionally, and it sent something ablaze inside your stomach.

It took a moment, but, eventually, it stopped hurting so badly, and you were able to open your eyes, removing your nails from his arm only to leave deep indents that had even drawn blood. “There ya go, fuck yeah baby, there ya go.”

“You can-ah-you can move.” He was frantically rubbing your skin with his hands, kissing everywhere his mouth would reach.

“You sure, love are you sure?” He was a writhing mess on top of you, legs trembling along with his arm as he tried to hold himself up. You just felt so good, so warm.

“Y-yeah. Please.” The first thrust was excruciating, leaving you groaning against his lips, but the next one was better, and then better and better and better.

Now you were moaning, singing like the songbird he knew you were. “Fuck yeah baby-jus’ like that, keeping squeezing me like that.”

His voice, so high-pitched and needy, unlike anything you’d ever heard him say. It had you practically yelling with pleasure. He was moving too slowly, it was agonizing the way you were feeling.

“More Si-I need more, please.” He whimpered at your words, hooking his arms underneath your knees and pushing them up to your chest. He started pounding into you, hitting this sweet spot over and over again.

“Oh my god Simonnn, Simon, Simon,” There it was again.

“Ohhhh baby oh baby keep singing, fuck, keeping singing songbird.”

He swore he’d never had pussy this good in his life, and it was his, all his. No woman had ever made him whine like a needy teenager, never made him beg for release because of how badly he just wanted to fill you to the brim with his fucking cum.

“‘M close, I’m so close fuck,” He couldn’t help how fast his orgasm built up. You just took him so well, so warm and soft.

You were getting there, that coil coming back more intensely than last time, but you knew he wouldn’t last that long. “Go ahead Simon-you can-you can cum honey. Please, please cum inside me.”

With a grunt he stopped, absolutely losing his shit inside of you as he shook with the force of his orgasm, moaning so loudly into your ear it made them ring. He was getting after shocks himself, twitching on top of you as it hit him full force.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” He was chanting your name now. The sound made you whine as you laid there, cold and throbbing with need. When he caught his breath, he sat up, kissing your lips tenderly.

“C’mere.” With a whimper he turned over onto his back, leaving your walls wrapped around him.

“Fucking use me baby, do what you need, I got you.” You’d never ridden anything before, had not a single idea how to even begin, but he grabbed your hips, guiding you up and down.

“Set your own pace, do what feels good.” You nodded, closing your eyes as you bounced up and down, rolling your hips forward which drew a porn-worthy moan from your chest.

Ghost threw his head back, thumb fumbling to rub your clit. “Attagirl, you fucking ride my dick baby.” Every time he spoke to you, you could feel your pussy clench, and it’d clench tight. You knew this because every time it did, Ghost would whimper so loudly you swore he was a wounded puppy.

You’d never heard noises like this, never heard of another man being so obsessed with a pussy like this. He wouldn’t stop talking about it, mumbling beneath his breath as you continued to ride him.

You finally found a solid rhythm, and when Ghost began putting pressure on your puffy clit you swore you saw stars.

“Fuck Simon, oh fuck I’m so close,”

“Yeah I know I know, just let it go baby, let it happen.” One more roll of your hips and you were falling forward, clenching around him so tightly he came again. You were both moaning, loudly, bodies trembling against each other as you came down from your highs.

It took you longer, mind fuzzy as you grew more and more sensitive by the second. Ghost noticed the difference in your sounds and pulled out, lifting your hips and laying them back down against his pelvis.

His hands started rubbing up and down your back, soothing the vibrating skin. He was planting kisses all over your face, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“Did so good for me, so so good.”

You couldn’t help but smile, fingers moving to prod at the fingernail indents on his arm. “‘M sorry.”

“Nah, don’t ever fucking apologize for that.” You closed your eyes as his gruff, burly tone came out of hiding, the deep baritone sending shivers down your spine.

“Is that-was I-” You could feel your brain whirring with a million thoughts, and even though you knew none of them were true, you couldn’t help but feel a pit forming in your stomach anyway.

“What?” His tone was tender, one hand moving up to caress your cheeks.

A part of you wanted to spill every thought you were thinking, let him know every doubt and every worry, but the other part of you wanted to keep this sacred, to keep it this beautiful fever dream that could never be tainted.

“C’mon love, talk to me.”

You heaved in a deep breath, angling your head to look up at him. He met your eyes immediately, holding your face to stay staring at him.

“Was that okay?” You watched as confusion etched into his features.

“I don’t know what you mean baby.”

“Was I-ugh-I’ve never done this before okay I don’t-I didn’t even suck your dick.”

Now he was really confused. “This isn’t about me, this was about taking care of you.”

“Yeah but every time-”

“If you’re gonna say some stupid shit about another guy I’m gonna lose my mind alright. Are you seriously sitting here right now and telling me that you’ve been sucking dick and not once have they got you off?”

You shrug, shame flushing your cheeks and making you turn away, but his grip was strong, keeping you facing him.

“Sweet’art you were fucking perfect. Did you not hear me?”

A shy smile tries to sneak through. “I did but-”

“Nobody’s ever made me feel that way, nobody.”

You let out a sigh, laying back down into his warm skin. “I just don’t want you to get bored Simon.”

The belly laugh that escaped was nothing like you’d ever heard from him before. It shook your body, the loud, deep rumble of a snicker echoing off the walls.

“Bloody fucking hell, I’ve lived with you for four years, if I was bored love, I’d be long fucking gone.” He grunted when you slapped him on the chest, holding his hands up in surrender.

“No need to be sassy Riley.”

“ ‘M sorry, ‘m sorry,” He was showering you with kisses again, fingers trying to tickle your sides.

“Ow ow, no no no, I’m to sore, Simon fucking Riley!” He was chuckling again, rolling you over so you were on your back once more.

He wanted to slot himself inside you again, feel your warmth resting around his cock, but he opted instead to just hold you, to listen to what you had to say rather than combat it with sex.

“Listen here Riley. I’m being serious, okay.”

“ ‘m all ears baby.”

There was a fuzzy feeling in your stomach but you pushed it aside, trying to form the courage to draw out your words. “This was amazing, and I’d do it over and over again, but I can’t-if you don’t wanna be with me I need to know. I can’t do the friends with benefits thing okay, it’s not-I don’t have that in me.”

You opened you mouth to speak, and he could see the downward spiral lighting a fire inside your eyes.

“Listen to me and listen to me good. I have spent the last four years thinking about spending the next four years with you. I wake up and I think about you, I go to bed and I think about you. I dream about you, everyone at work fucking hates me cause all I do is talk about you. You’re everything I have. I fucking love you, more than anything on this Earth I love you. You hearin’ me?” His words were firm, tucking themselves inside your heart and making their own home there.

It was all you’d ever wanted to hear from him, all you ever needed.

You took a moment to analyze his features, the scrunch of his eyebrows, the softness laid in his eyes, he was everything. With a shake of your head, you kissed him ever so softly. “Yeah, I hear you.”

He broke out into a wide smile, lips landing on yours tenderly. It wasn’t a feverish need this time, just one person melding with the other until you felt whole again, complete.

He stopped only to breathe, pushing a sweaty strand of hair out of your eyes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” You agreed, blinking lidded eyes as he stood up and lifted your weak body from the bed.

“Not a thing I wouldn’t do for you, you know that right?”

“Yeah Riley,” You touched his scruff, four years worth of evidence to his words flashing through your mind. “I know.”

[fartcloudfartcloud]

cw: choking, mentions of hickeys, p in v, some submission from Simon, creampie, very slight mention of death, hinted rough sex? mentions of sweat, mentions of drool

Simon choking you and this, Simon choking you and that but what about you choking Simon? His veiny monster cock fucking so deep inside of you it was twattish, penetrating and destroying you with such vigour and need you had nothing to defend yourself with- nothing to hold onto to and stable yourself.

Snatching your hands up to his thick neck and placing your soft palms around his sweaty, hickey-scattered skin. Your pretty, little fingertips not able to wrap around him fully from how big and muscular he was, but with the amount of pressure you applied, you choked him anyway. Feeling his rapid pulse against your hand, making your sticky cunt tighten around him helplessly.

He couldn’t refrain himself from going harder than before, the loud creak of your bed echoing the quiet house and you were sure your neighbours were going to kill you-but how were you supposed to stop now? You fucking couldn’t; you didn't want to.

Watching as his flushed cheeks turned a dark mahogany, feeling the tremble and twitch of his body against yours, pinning you down and you suddenly realised what you had done. A shameless gasp leaving his throat pathetically as you quickly let go. Sexy body sinking into the mattress as you wished the material could swallow you- capture you and shield you from the memories of what you just did. It was irrational- a stupid action done without thinking- it was embarrassing.

How could you let yourself get out of control like that? Choking Simon Riley- a fucking military Lieutenant- you were lucky he didnt slap you across the face. Were you stupid? Your head spiralled in regret but before your thoughts could pester and consume you fully his own scarred hand snatched yours back. Dragging your arm and jolting your body up as held you in place, reuniting your with the warm flesh of his neck.

Brown, hazy, eyes pleading you to strangle him again, suffocate him, make him pass out deep inside your pussy. He liked how you made him feel, his heart pounding with adrenaline from the sudden rush it gave him and his mind melting with submission. Grab his fucking throat and make him your bitch. Make him cry, make him wheeze and cough once you let go.

You hesitantly choked him again, your body overcoming with pleasure as you forgot about what you were doing and where your hands were. Fucking yourself against him and fingers tightening as your eyes shut about to cum. Losing it as you heard a strained ‘Fuck’ fall from his lips: He couldn’t fucking breathe. He was seeing stars.

Unapologetically flooding you with warmth, filling you up before crushing you with his big body. So tired and worn out from the sex, chasing back the breaths you’d stolen from him. Oh god, it felt like heaven to him, his brain feeling so tight and achy- lightheaded with ecstasy. Next time you had do it with your thighs instead- leave him with as little air as possible, leave him with nothing to do but pant and dribble over your pussy when you loosen your hold. Choke him until his lungs give out, let him breath from the air you accompany him with- he didn’t deserve you.

You could kill him like that and he’d thank you in the afterlife.

[fartcloudfartcloud]

dying to eat pussy rn

[fartcloudfartcloud]

professor perversion

warning(s): explicit 18+, filth, blowjobs, size kink, super vague age difference (college vs prof) wet and messy, questionable dynamics, grinding, dirty talk, name calling, cum kink, cock worship

more random unedited unprompted stuff, might make this a series of little dirty stuff cause i like how much of a freak i made him lol

-

Joel. Tonight he tells her to start calling him Joel—a deviation from what she regularly knew him as.

Their coincidental first night alone together could’ve gone a million different ways— and it wasn’t everyday that someone as rugged and handsome as him got to open his home up to her.

The night they spent together went remarkably well, polite and professional while Joel gave her more guidance on subjects and things she needed more clarification on. She bit her lip and laughed at his every joke and move. Whether it was how clumsily he goes down the steps after a glass of whiskey, or the flush dusting his cheeks and his neck — but she was unequivocally attracted to him. And undeniably stared at the seemingly ever-growing bulge that had laid on his left leg almost all night before it twitched and moved the more she flirted.

After dark, it was like a switch had gone off.

The blue sky seemed to hold Joel in a headlock, while the black night sky seemed to bring everything out and onto the table.

The couch was the setting where it all began to snowball, that bulge in those slacks creasing and filling up his underwear. She’s sure it’s pressed against his zipper by now.

Her glass of whiskey now emptied along with any thought of consequence, she stops hiding the fact that her eyes are stuck on the fat outline of that cock of his.

He’d noticed, because he’d be an idiot at this point not to.

The teasing that followed had tortured her, the not so subtle canting upwards of his hips while he adjusts on the couch cushion. Manspreading. Growing more and filling his erection like whiskey dick was nothing but an urban legend for him.

Soon enough, Joel is blatantly, tentatively rubbing his palm right on the outside of his pants, right on his ever growing cock head as his erection tries peeking out of his waistband. A hairy tussle of bush starts at his navel. That thick, tempting cock still filling up like a rapid balloon, showing off the girth of that impressive, growing to borderline terrifying size. It’s gorgeous, the way he’s somehow combined being a grower and a shower.

He breathes heavily, only little moans popping out when he’s rubbing a tender part of his dick or balls. God, his balls looked already so plump and full, ready to get his rocks off just to lighten the load of that gorgeous, heavenly heavy sac.

“Mm, he’s been tryna come out.. come out to you,” he raises a brow and fucks his hip up, showing off the evidence of that undeniable hard rock of a cock. Stuffed in those tightening boxers, pulsing to get out. A dot, evergrowing into a thick bead of ooze stains the fabric right at the mushroom head of his dick.

She wondered why he was talking about his cock like it were merely a floppy pet attached to his crotch he happened to be the lifelong owner of, but any thoughts left in her brain were trashed as soon as Joel’s hips start to thrust that fat, out of control length out, bulging and flushing with sweat and veins. He’s quick and eager to take the thing in his grasp and slapping it against his thigh. The ripple of his thick skin when it hits impact on those meaty thighs…. She sees it’s so long that it’s even reached inches past his inner thighs, intimidating and angry like it needed to be tamed with a long good stroke and release.

The sound of the weight of his giant slab of skin makes her pussy tingle even more, clit undeniably interested in what it’d feel like to grind the juicy lips of her pussy up and down that ridiculous length of his. Feel that fuzzy hair grinding against her mound, the warm slick skin of his cock.

Joel’s now moaning like a whore as he slowly begins stroking the leaky slit, precumming deliciously in sticky long webs. The sound of his cock skin getting massaged fuels the tension in the air.

“Y’don’t know how much we’ve craved your pretty pussy, thought ‘bout taking real good care of that wet little thing…. Mmm, treat you and your pussy so good!”

Joel’s cock weeps in his palm, still getting slick build up with every other stroke. She feels like Joel and his cock are both separately attentive toward her, that thick head pointing at her, Joel’s lazy half lidded stare stuck on her and her body. Hands staying busy. Stroking the handful of cock, along with a cocky look in his eye like he’s packing a tasty thick apple and is waiting for her to give in and just take a fucking bite.

He wags that needy slab of dick with his hips toward her, taking the base and slapping it aggressively at his palm. Wet filthy noise only adds to the tension, her locking eyes with that dick, licking her lips, squeezing her thighs together in a desperate attempt to feel the same sensations he is.

“I… I’ve thought about your cock so much, Joel. Wondered how big it is…. How good it’d feel while it’s thrusting itself inside me. Those big balls slapping against me while we fuck…” she confessed in a whisper, hypnotized by his cock as he speeds up and gets harsher with his strokes and his grip. His cock, a separate entity, wiggles around for more as it gets milkier at the top. Flopping around when he takes his hands off of it, getting cream smeared on the hair of his belly.

Joel’s half lids watch her drool as she intently watches it bob around back and forth, hungry and thirsty as it thrashes around searching and sniffing for a wet hole. Her wet hole, wrapped around him.

Joel’s cock can sense how wet that pussy of hers is, how she wants to strip down naked and join him in rubbing herself on him. Maybe sit in his lap and do a little grind, or just put the tip in. Joel’s cock is gonna cum a ridiculous load either way, feeling how touchy and swollen his ballsack has become. He humps his hips forward teasingly, watching her eyes follow his hard cock look so stiff and focused as it thrusts forward into nothing but air, balls flopping around underneath. She’s fucking drooling watching him do nothing but wag his cock around like a toy to play with.

“Yeah I see that. Payin’ good close attention to this dick are we? That pussy wetting those panties up yet? Can take her out whenever she wants. Give her a breather. I know the feelin,” he pants, gesturing down to his brick hard cock, oozing like a fountain now and slowly dripping down in mini streams down his girth. Making it wetter.

“Thinking about doing anything to it, angel? Like suck it or touch it? I know you wanna slide your pussy on it, baby, we both wanna know what that’ll feel like sometime,” he says, gesturing to the cock in his lap nearly bursting at the seams. It’s still standing straight up, only rolling against his belly and getting messier by the minute.

She wants to taste the salty tang around his pubic hair, around the head of his cock. Wants to tongue both the globes of his delicate balls, feel how much of a man he is. How sexy he’s built, and how he uses that fucking horse cock. How he pleases himself, makes himself cum like a geyser every load he busts.

“Can I taste it? Suck on it?” she asks him, still entranced by its mere existence in her presence.

“Yeah, princess. Kiss it for me first, baby, I know it’s big,” he reassures.

She nods and laughs in agreement, taking a whiff of his flushed crotch as she gears up to taste him, taste the cock she’s dreamed of. It bobs for her, eager for saliva and attention as it wiggles around. “Don’t gotta take all of it down to make em cum good. Just slurp on the tip, real gentle and messy. Riiight there like that baby, we like that.”

After a few prep kisses on the bulbous pink head, her tongue gets bold and starts experiments, tasting and appreciating the feel of his warm skin on her tastebuds. Her muscle smoothly zig-zagging his girth up at the tip, circling for a moment. Until she trails down and targets those balls, wasting no time to gulp one whole up into her mouth and nestled into her cheek.

His ball bulges like a jawbreaker through her cheek, and she can feel his rapid heartbeat thumping through the sagged skin. More precum oozes uncontrollably, smearing more of a mess as she starts to jack his cock gently, get a feel for how heavy he is in her hand. It must feel like a workout to jerk all of it every night, she imagines.

Her tongue of course goes right back to that fat mushroom of a tip, taste its goodness as he moans up above. Hissing and sighing at that mouth and those hands on him. He doesn’t know how else to wallow in the heavenly pleasure other than talk his filth.

“Oohh, sucking my cock so good. Slut like you needs this nut like medicine. Gonna cum from this pretty mouth licking on me, make you fucking gargle it,” he groans, canting his hips up unstoppably and letting more precum flow. He’s in the danger zone. “I’ll flip you over and drill it in your pussy right now, don’t test me.”

The suction noises and the slurping noises could be enough to keep Joel up at night jerking his cock. How her tongue seems to drool more spit for him, lubing up his member as she sucks the tip vacuum style.

“MMMM, shit, darlin! Suck it down just like that, rub those fucking balls now, squeeze em. You startin to cry already hunny? Fat dick like this too much for your cute little mouth?”

She sloppily pulls off of the head, puffy lips and gargling salty spit. Kisses along down the drenched skin of his length, twinkle in her eye. “I rub my clit thinking about riding and sucking cocks as big as yours, Joel. Got a massive fucker in those boxers, all the time just waiting to get licked and rubbed and rode by me, by both my lips.”

Joel’s mouth has fallen open, visibly strained and white knuckling below as his cock bobs in her mouth. Obviously getting more aroused by the word.

“Rubbin’ that clit like a dirty girl, pleasing those fantasies that little pussy gets. Jesus, darlin’ m’gonna nut all over those pretty lips. Cum a couple spurts on that tongue, on those tits. Fffffuck, got plenty a ropes of cum to spread around,” he rasps, gulping as his hips find rhythm fucking into the warmth tunnel of her throat.

Her wet mouth salivates and wets his cock more, mixing the fluid of his precum with her spit. Fueling the filthy tension, so thick and surreal as she grabs the skin of his balls as gently as she can with her teeth, tugging only so far before giving them a kiss and sucking on them some more. Like a pacifier, they go in her mouth and soothe her, soothe him.

His cock is filled with blood and lust and pent up arousal, desperate in its attempt to enjoy the path of sensuality that tongue draws out on the inches of his cock without spitting his load early.

“Mmm, that mouth making love to this cock so good.”

She slurps obnoxiously taking her mouth off of him to speak, jerking him wetly in the meantime.

“Wanna spread your cum in me and on me, right baby?”

A hiss leaves him without permission, helpless as his poor cock gets used to the cold air again. “Shit, shit, I’ll cum in your fucking eye if you’re not careful,” he proclaims, breathing heavily as his dick continues thumping like a desperate vessel. Beautiful with pulsing purple veins, so filled up and ready to spurt a pool of seed. It’s hard not marveling at his cock with her eyes, so she must do it with her tongue.

She spits a long glob on the already soaking wet member. The slippery sound of skin stroking skin is upped in volume, Joel’s heavy panting becoming more impatient by the mere second before she takes the fat girth in both her hands and smothers the head with her tongue. He fucks his hips up, rising them up and down pathetically before officially announcing his close proximity to orgasm.

“He’s close, s’gonna fucking cum all over that slutty little mouth, just w-watch—ooohhhh, fuck!”

The suction of her mouth drove his cock crashing over the edge, bursting in thick milky strings seemingly lasting forever as he empties the contents of his balls onto her tastebuds. Mixing with her saliva, messily almost choking her with the sheer amount—fourteen spurts she counted. Watching the rigorous twitch his fat cock would do with every rope of release. She’s being a good little sucker, just slurping along and admiring the look on his face and the movement of his giant cock.

His balls felt relieved of a glooming weight, the skin significantly less plump and tense as she strokes the exhausted sack, withering with every touch. Her pussy clenched the entire time she witnessed, observed, and participated in his awaited orgasm. It felt like an honor to get to see a cock like his, make a sexy man like Joel nut all down the back of her throat.

“Mmmhm. Oh damn… you like em real big, don’t ya?” He chuckles, watching her swallow a little over half his load. She surprises him by bringing two fingers to her used and abused mouth, sliming her fingers with remnants of his cum and quickly flicking her clit with the lubricated fingers. Joel’s thumb travels down to her vulva and spreading a lip open, exposing the gooey wet center.

“She seems to love a big load, a big cock…. what’re you doin’ touchin her with fingers? Rub her on him. C’mon. Slide her up and down, back and forth,” he encourages her, man handling her so that her pussy hovers his lap. “No pussy should be wet and lonely…. rubbing that clit thinkin’ about this dick, might as well grind on em.”

Her soaking wet lips softly part around the bulging girth. She takes no more time to hump her clit on his cock.

“J-Joel my pussy’s getting too wet….. I’m gonna finish on your cock!”

Joel smirks and doesn’t let his hips falter, helping the smooth rhythm of the sloppy friction.

“Cream on that dick, get that shit wet, yeahhhh. Ride it out on me sweetheart. Can feel that pretty hole cummin for me.”

The pussy grinding ferociously on the fat cock between her legs starts to leak and convulse as she whines and continuously humps.

Joel’s cock unexpectedly lets out another pearl of cum as she grinds it out on him, sweaty and out of breath while her sweet pussy recovers. It clenches and weeps on his cum covered cock, drippy and creamy and sticky as they ride it out together and keep a gentle rub.

Their milky cum squishes and sloshes between their parts audibly, reminding them of the dirty act they’d just completed.

“D’you like cummin’ on this dick? Could put it in next time, or whenever you want,” he laughs, feeling her grind their sloppy parts together even more. A whimper follows another murmur of “…or right now.”

“Packing a big stubborn one, aren’t you Mister M?”

He hides his distaste for the official title with a roll of his eyes and another hump of his hips. With his cock slowly filling up for her again, he shakes his head at the timing of his ever impending erection.

“Callin’ me that with your cum all over me….”

“Does this mean extra credit, professor?” She jokes, trailing her hands down to grasp both of them onto that thick girth, stroking the veiny beast with the help of her cum.

“It means if you don’t knock it off I’ll fuck you with this dick ‘til you’re crying and wetting the bed.”

She clicks her tongue and exaggerated when spreading her puffy pussy lips apart, hissing as if it hurts not to have her insides filled with the cream of his cum.

“Professor I recall you promising to get all of some of your cum inside me, and yet my pussy’s still all empty.”

It didn’t take long until the alpha within was torn open from the sass as he snaps his fingers towards his bedroom and tries ignoring how his cock rolls up towards his belly as he speaks—

“Get your fucking ass in that bed and keep that pussy spread. Right now.”

—

—

thank uuu for all the love on everything i read it all and appreciate and love it all so much:)

[fartcloudfartcloud]

something about being so high and helpless as he takes you?? so good

(Following this) I know, ugh. Everything is really hazy and warm, and you’re lying there, loopy and mesmerized by his voice, head lolling to the side a little bit. You feel so good, cotton candy spinning between your ears. “Everything looks great sweetheart, perfect for eight weeks,” the words slip through your fingers, leaving a happy little glow in your heart.

“That’s good,” you slur and Dr Price chuckles. You’re boneless on the table, feet together, knees fallen down and to the side, totally exposed to where he stands directly in front of you.

“How have you been feeling? Any morning sickness?” He’s rubbing the inside of your thigh, kneading, stroking, and it feels so nice. Soft.

“No… dunno.” Your tongue weighs a thousand pounds, you’re practically choking on it. “It’s s’warm in here.”

“We’ll get you some prenatal vitamins today, on our way home,” you crack an eyelid, trying to look at him, but your vision swims. Something isn’t quite right, something doesn’t add up, but you can’t focus, can’t figure it out.

You barely realize he’s touching you, pleasure sparking up your spine as pressure circles your clit, but still, nothing adds up, and all you can do is make a little noise, something akin to a grunt.

“Are you excited to be a mama?” There’s more pressure, now inside you, big and burning, but you still can’t open your eyes.

“Yeeeeah… yeah, unh-“ The table is moving, jostling, a hinge creaking, and you’re full, so incredibly, painfully full. “T-too much,” you whine.

“I know,” he cups your stomach, “that’s a big cock in your belly huh?” Beard burns your cheek, and you chase it with your mouth. “It just takes time to get used to honey, that’s all. Be still.” You hadn’t realized you were moving, because you’re on a boat, rocking back and forth, waves crashing overtop you again and again.

“You… you’re inside me?” You still can’t open your eyes.

“I’m going to give you some medicine sweetheart. Gotta keep you healthy for the baby.”

“Oh.” Pleasure is building up inside you, an ache blooming into ecstasy, and you moan. “Think I’m gonna come.”

“Good girl, that’s just what we need. Come nice and big for me okay? And then you can have your medicine.” You’re trembling, stars exploding behind your eyes, an orgasm bigger than the ocean pulling you into its expanse, and off in the distance, you hear obscene moaning and grunting.

“Fuck, that’s- that’s it,” he pants, holding your hips, warmth spreading out beneath your legs.

Time becomes scattered, nonlinear, and before you know it, you’re in his arms, being buckled into a front seat. He kisses your temple afterwards, and murmurs in your ear. “Close your eyes honey, I’ll wake you up when we get home.”

[fartcloudfartcloud]

Still thinking about this and how everything starts so normally, and yeah okay, you’re taken aback by how good looking he is. A little bit older, bright blue eyes looking you over with clinical professionalism, hands the size of dinner plates. You’re suddenly really embarrassed because you’re in the gown but you didn’t take your baby blue socks off and they look so silly capping off your unshaven legs.

“Nervous?” His smile is so handsome, so genuine, it puts you more at ease, and you nod.

“It’s not like I haven’t don’t this before,” you joke and he hums, a deep, rich timbre tumbling through your bones.

“Alright, go ahead and lay back, we’ll pull the end of the table out here,” the bottom slides forward, allowing your legs to lay comfortably. No stirrups, you guess. “You’re going to put your feet together, and then let your knees fall open,” you follow his instructions, letting your legs fall wide like a butterfly, and he smiles again, “just like that. Perfect.” Gloves snap at his wrists and rolls closer on the stool. “We’re going to do a pelvic exam first, okay? I’ll talk you through everything I’m doing.”

“Okay.” The ceiling has a painting on it. Monet water lilies. It’s tranquil, soothing.

“You’re going to feel my touch here,” the back of his hand brushes the inside of your thigh, “and then here,” Gloved fingers spread your labia, and your cheeks flood, heat washing through you. Two fingers push inside you upward, and your breath goes with it, drawing inward in a short burst. “Alright?”

“Yep.” You squeak. He places his palm over your lower belly and presses.

“Just feeling your uterus,” he murmurs, glancing over to you. Even on the table and him on the stool, he has leverage on you. “And now your ovaries,” there’s more palpating, pushing, and he peers down between your legs. “You’re doing great sweetheart.” Sweetheart? The thump of your heart rings in your ears.

“T-thanks.” He pulls back and tugs off his gloves, chucking them the trash. The silver tray rolls to the side of the table. You try not to look at the instruments, and warmth folds over your calf, thick thumb rubbing circles into your skin.

“I’m going to look at your cervix now, okay?” You nod, the sight of the speculum has sweat starting to bead along your spine. Once it’s in, the telltale clicking starts, the sound of being spread open, and you gulp as it becomes more and more uncomfortable. “I know, I know. I’ll try to be quick.” You’re staring at the lilies again, studying each stroke, each decision. So many small choices, perfect choices, coming together for a masterpiece. “Just try to relax, I know it’s uncomfortable. Breathe.” There’s more movement, some sort of wiggling, and your jaw tightens. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is small, though it shouldn’t be. You’re an adult, you’ve had a lot of doctor’s visits, but every time, you get a little shaky.

“You have a perfect, healthy cervix.” He says, looking at you from between where your thighs are splayed open.

“Great,” you grit between clenched teeth as the speculum slides out of your body. Your instinct is to close your legs immediately, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your knee.

“Just one more thing,” a little plastic packet of medical grade lube rips open and then disappears from your view as he palms your mound, the l of his finger and thumb holding just above your clit. “Deep breath,” a slick finger circles your hole and then slides in. You offer no resistance, waiting for this last part to be over so you can finally get up and get out of this gown, still staring at the ceiling. “Stay nice and relaxed for me, good girl.” He strokes upward, grazing something that makes you squirm and gasp.

“I- I’m sorry.” You’re mortified, and he chuckles.

“It’s okay.” He grazes it again and you clench around his finger, panting. It feels… wrong, because it feels good, and you shouldn’t feel this way at your doctor’s appointment. “Does that feel okay?”

“Uhh…” he’s rocking his hand back and forth, pressing harder on that spot as his thumb slowly slips over your clit. Your toes curl where they’re pressed together, stomach clenching at the fluttering that’s building in your body. You push up onto your elbows as he stands, still working his hand against and inside your pussy. At full height, he has to lean at an angle to be inside you, but he still towers over the table. “Is this… should you b-be-“

“I’m your doctor honey, I need to take care of your body. It’s alright now, just lay back.” You take the command like a puppy, slobbering and eager, nerve endings smashing together into a jumble of pleasure. He works your clit, brushing against that soft spot inside you, and your legs start to tremble, your chest heaving.

“Oh, ah- I…” it’s hard to reconcile what’s happening, that you might come, on your doctor, with your doctor, and you feel like you’re floating, gone off somewhere else.

“You’re doing so good. Just let it come, that’s it…” You’re on fire, rapidly climbing to the top of the mountain, scrambling up a scree laced slope, clenching around your doctor’s finger, pushing yourself against his ministrations on your clit. It’s too much, way too much, and you start to whine, fingers digging into the leather. “It’s going to be big, isn’t it? I know, all those butterflies are going crazy in your belly.” Your hips are starting to jerk, and you stare at him with wide doe eyes, half glazed over.

“I c-can’t…” what the fuck are you doing?

“Yes you can, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” Your clit is throbbing, gown shoved well past your hips, and he steps closer, tendons in his forearm flexing as he pushes you towards an explosion. You’re squeezing so tight now, rattling on crinkling paper, wet slick of your pussy crying on his hand.

It slams into you, cold water in your lungs, back bowing off the table. “There it is- oh that’s it honey, there you go. That feels better, doesn’t it?” You ride it out with your eyes rolled into the back of your head, falling to pieces as he wrings every last drop from your body. “Did so good,” He kisses your knee where it’s been drawn up against his forearm, finger still inside you, “such a good girl.” You mewl, lost somewhere in space, drifting away and into the clouds.

You’re still floating when the sound of his zipper echoes in the room.

[fartcloudfartcloud]

Thank you Anon for this request!

A Deeper Purpose

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader one-shot

Summary: Living in Jackson during the apocalypse doesn't do anything to curb your desire to have a child. The problem is, most of the men in town are unavailable... except for one.

Warnings: smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, breeding kink (given the request, obv), language, friends to lovers, mentions of anxiety, infertility, pregnancy, angst, pining, alcohol

WC: 3.4K

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you first asked him, he thought you were crazy.

He stared at you in complete disbelief, his gaze flickering down to the drink in your hand, trying to recall how many you had to propose something so insane. But it was only one.

"Are you fuckin' serious?"

"Mhmm," you said confidently. "I've thought about it for a long time. I want a baby and the men in this town are either taken or have the mental fortitude of a child," you joked nervously. "You're neither of those things. Besides... I trust you."

His eyes softened for a moment and he dropped his gaze to the table. You had known Joel for the better part of five years, and while at first he was brash and gruff, throughout countless patrols and fights against infected where you had to have each other's backs, you had grown rather close. Neither of you ever crossed the line past friendship, and you had never even thought about it until recently when your anxiety was keeping you up late at night, wondering if you would ever find a man and settle down to start a family.

It was a luxury in this life, to be sure. The population of Jackson wasn't very large, but in five years you had come to get a good read on most of its citizens. And you kept coming back to the same conclusion: the man for you was not there.

So after much thought and self-reflection, you worked up enough courage to get a drink with Joel after your route and ask him if he would be willing to give you a baby.

You followed up by telling him you would be solely responsible, that you would do all the work and he could be as involved in the child's life as much as he wanted to be, if at all, while he sat there dumbstruck.

Now he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck nervously as he weighed your proposal.

"Can I think 'bout it?" he finally asked.

"Oh, god, of course!" you exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise that he was considering it at all. "However much time you need."

But that was almost a month ago. Each day that passed you became more anxious, more impatient, and it was beginning to sour your mood.

On that particular day you were checking out the park rangers outpost hidden deep within the Wyoming forest. The building was up within the trees, providing the park rangers in the past a bird's eye view of the forest, and now it gives Jackson the same.

Joel was scribbling something in the log book while you strolled aimlessly around the cabin, opening and shutting drawers loudly, already knowing what was in them but just looking for something to do.

"Somethin' on your mind?" he mumbled over his shoulder, his focus still on the book.

"No," you said defensively, but when you angrily began to struggle with a window that refused to open, it became clear you were lying.

"Here, lemme help," he offered, dropping the pencil and walking to your side of the room.

"I'm fine, I don't need your help," you snapped, though you obviously did.

His hands gripped your shoulders and forcibly moved you out of the way before he took hold of the window and gave it a quick jerk, loosening the window in it's frame and finally allowing fresh air in.

He smirked at you and you rolled your eyes before breezing past him.

"This attitude 'bout the window or 'bout what you asked me?" he challenged, stopping you dead in your tracks. Slowly, you spun around, unsure what to say.

"The window," you finally answered, then shifted your weight and shrugged. "Okay, maybe a little of both."

"Mhmm," he said, advancing toward you. "Thought so."

"Well... have you thought about it or are you just trying to come up with a nice way to say no?"

He frowned and propped his hands on his hips. "Now why d'you think it's a no?"

"Because you haven't said a single word about it in a month," you told him like the answer was obvious.

"Well maybe the answer's yes but I don't know how to casually bring up into polite conversation that I'm ready to knock up my goddamn friend!" he argued.

You stared at him, jaw hanging open in disbelief.

"Wait, really?" you whispered.

He nodded and scrubbed his palms over his face. "Yeah, I mean... if you still wanna or... whatever," he grumbled.

The first time was bad, to put it mildly. Your kisses were all teeth, chins and noses bumped together awkwardly. You had hoped once you got down to it that it would have gotten better, but you were wrong. Your rhythms were all off, you hit your head on the end table, and Joel nearly fell off the couch at one point. Needless to say, you didn't come. It was a miracle he did by the end of it.

Afterwards, you both sat there, catching your breaths and wondering if you made a huge mistake.

No, it wasn't a mistake. It was always a means to an end. Ultimately, it didn't really matter if the sex was good or not, the end result would be the same.

Still...

"I'm not usually that bad," you finally said, breaking the thick silence. He groaned and tipped his head back to rest on the couch.

"Me either. I swear, I ain't lyin'. I never usually..." he trailed off, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. "We'll try again. Back home. In a bed. That's the problem. It's gotta be, right?"

"Yeah," you nodded, not fully believing him but at that point, what could it hurt?

The next time was the following day at your home. It was a little better than the first time, but not by much.

"It doesn't matter, Joel," you assured him, tugging your blanket over your chest.

"Matters to me," he said defensively. "I'm too in my head or somethin'. It's still weird, don't you think?"

"Yeah, it's weird," you agreed.

"It's too planned out. Maybe it's gotta be more natural. More... spontaneous."

"Yeah," you agreed.

A couple evenings later one of the other men on patrol was having a bonfire at his home and invited a handful of others, you and Joel included.

Ten or so people sat around a roaring fire, tossing back whiskey and playing cards or swapping war stories. The alcohol made you feel warm and relaxed, your limbs as loose as your tongue when you joked around with the others, joining in on the teasing when a seasoned patrolman admitted to shooting off a crossbow at a leaf that fell just a little too loudly in the woods.

Then you felt a hand on the small of your back and you turned, your eyes glassy and face warm from the booze and the laughs. Joel stood beside you looking just as at ease as you and he gave you a knowing look.

For once, you were on the same page. Neither of you said a word.

You made your excuses, said your goodbyes, and slipped into the night. It was quiet, the rest of the town asleep, so it was easy to hear Joel's voice carry over the wind a few minutes later when he announced his departure, your heart skipping an excited beat in your chest.

He didn't hurry to catch up with you and you were glad. It helped. The anticipation built up on the walk home, and for the first time you felt a warmth bloom between your legs. Your fingers shakily worked your front door when you heard his steps growing closer, the crunching of gravel growing louder and louder until your door swung open and the squeak of old wood under his boots as he walked up your stairs echoed in your ears.

You didn't bother to turn the lights on. His hands were on your waist instantly, kicking the door closed behind him as his mouth crashed against yours with a groan. All you could hear was your shared breath and the rustling of fabric, each of you working to strip the other of their clothes as quickly as possible.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the spontaneity of it. Whatever it was, it was better. Oh, so much better.

Somehow you had made it to your bed and you had never been more grateful to have a small ranch home in your life. When he first pushed inside, you moaned and arched your back off the mattress and his teeth gently grazed your collarbone, sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin. Instantly, you found a rhythm. Your hips rolled to meet his at the perfect time, his hands squeezed and pinched your breasts while his tongue invaded your mouth, only sliding down to cup your ass when he sensed it was becoming too much.

"More," you moaned into his mouth, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He alternated between snapping and grinding his hips, the mix of sensations quickly bringing you over the edge.

You could feel the excitement in his body when he finally made you come. Like he was reenergized and focused, like he had finally accomplished what he set out to do.

"Come for me, Joel," you whispered in his ear before nipping at his earlobe. You could tell he was close by the way his muscles tensed and the deep groans emanating from his chest.

"Yeah? Want me to come in this tight little pussy?" he growled, the dirty talk sending a jolt of surprise through you. Before, he had been so quiet. This was new.

"Yeah," you whispered back, "want you to fuck a baby in me. I want everyone to see what you did to me."

He groaned so loudly you wondered if it could be heard from outside. His teeth sunk down into your shoulder when he came, muffled words being spoken into your skin as he shot thick ropes of his seed deep into your womb, only slowing when his legs began to shake and he collapsed on top of you with a huff.

"Fuck," he gasped, still trying to catch his breath on top of you. "That was..." he trailed off with a chuckle and you felt him swallow tightly. "That was much better."

"Yeah," you whispered, your eyes sliding shut as your fingers gently raked through his hair. You didn't even realize you were doing it or how intimate it seemed considering your arrangement, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he leaned into it a bit as he waited for his heartrate to slow.

Once he collected himself, he propped himself up on his hands and slowly eased out of you with a hiss.

"Can you hand me-"

"Yeah," he said, already knowing you were asking for the small, firm pillow you used last time to prop your hips up, and gave it to you. With a groan, he got to his feet and went to your bathroom while you tucked your knees against your chest, hoping you were getting the angle right.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he handed you a wet washcloth to use when you were done, then began to dress.

He glanced at your face, then your hips propped up in the air.

"You need anythin' else?"

"No, I think this'll do," you joked, and he chuckled before he stood.

"Alright then. See you tomorrow?"

"Yep," you said with a smile, then watched him as he left your bedroom and listened while he slid his boots back on and quietly shut the door behind him, leaving you all alone.

"Fuck, it better work this time," you muttered as you bounced up and down on Joel's lap, your hands digging into his shoulders for support as you slid up and down on his cock. His hands held your waist, guiding you while you rode him on his couch, his eyes transfixed on where you were connected.

"Gotta relax. I told you, it ain't gonna work if you stress yourself out," he replied, eyes still glued to the way his cock emerged from your clutch even wetter than before.

"It's been six months, Joel," you whined, but he shushed you by slanting his mouth over yours. He didn't want to admit it, but he didn't mind when you came to him each month with a look of dejection when your efforts inevitably failed. He felt bad for you, don't get him wrong, but he had grown very fond of the one week every month you found yourself wrapped around his cock.

His thumb found your clit and he felt you tense and your mind went blank. Perfect.

"'S'right," he murmured, watching your face go slack, "just turn off that pretty little head of yours for a minute and lemme take care of you."

You nodded, eyes sliding shut as your hips began to work faster, rolling and grinding down on him until your nails dug into his skin and you cried out his name. Fuck, he loved hearing that. It didn't take much more for him to come, his hands gripping your sides so tight, he was afraid he might leave bruises as he thrusted up into you, giving you every last drop of his release.

"Goddamn," he whispered, head falling back onto the couch as he panted for air.

"Shit," you gasped, voice a little cracked. "Shoulda finished with me laying down. It's gonna leak out when -"

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you and, still plugging you with his cock, twisted around so you were laying flat on the couch and he was hovering above you.

"Better?"

"Much," you giggled, playing with a stray curl over his ear. You gazed warmly at one another, neither of you saying a word as your pulse slowed and his cock softened.

"Thank you for doing this for me, Joel," you whispered, your eyes drifting all over his face, taking in every little detail.

He nodded and swallowed then forced himself to look away. If he didn't, he was worried you would see too much.

He slid out of you and grabbed a pillow, handing it to you blindly before standing and strolling to his bathroom. After he cleaned up, he leaned over his sink, hands curled around the cracked vanity, and stared at his reflection in the mirror with a pit in his stomach.

How did he let this happen?

He should have known. The morning before you came over, he had a bad feeling. Like something had shifted in the air, something had changed without his permission and it left an empty feeling in his chest.

The overly excited knock on his door as he sipped his coffee almost made him want to pretend he wasn't home, that you weren't about to bounce into his kitchen holding two white sticks with a huge grin plastered across your face. But he didn't, and you did.

Either he really sold his reaction to your news well or you were too elated to notice his heart being ripped from his chest.

It was over. You were pregnant, and you no longer needed him. You would no longer come by every month and keep his bed warm. You would no longer share breakfast with him or talk to him about the books you were reading. He would go back to being utterly and completely alone.

It took a good month or two, but he adjusted back to his normal life. You still did patrol runs with him, which he protested, but when you finally began to show around five months, you agreed to stop and found a different job in town, instead.

That made his chest crack back open. Now he hardly ever saw you. It was bad enough he didn't get to be with you, taste you, fuck you anymore, but now he didn't even get to hear your voice. Occasionally he would see you in the dining hall or in the street and you would always talk to him, but it wasn't the same. Meanwhile, you walked around Jackson with his child growing in your belly, your shirts straining against the swell of your womb, the life he put inside you blooming before everyone's eyes. And all he wanted to do was claim you, right there in the center of town for everyone to see. For everyone to look in awe at what the two of you had created together.

One evening he was sitting alone in front of his fire, sipping whiskey and staring blankly into the flames. He had a decent life, considering the circumstances. So why couldn't he just be happy?

Then a rap came at his door. Urgent and loud. He placed his tumbler down and quickly went to open it, surprised to find you waiting on the other side.

"Hey," you said breathlessly, one hand over your round stomach. His eyes dropped down to take you in before he met your gaze again.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you replied with a look on your face that told him you didn't realize he would obviously panic about your wellbeing at this point in your pregnancy. "Sorry, I just - can I come in?"

"Yeah, 'course," he said, stepping aside to open the door wider. You toed off your boots and shrugged off your jacket, allowing him to take it from you and hang it up before you wandered into his living room. Your eyes fell on his abandoned glass and you smiled.

"I miss drinking," you said longingly. He grinned and, leaving the whiskey where it was so as not to tempt you, sat on the couch.

"What're you doin' here so late? Is the baby okay?"

"Yeah," you nodded, tearing your eyes away from the glass and sitting down near him on the sofa. "Baby's good. I just was thinking about you and I wanted to see you."

He perked up at that, he couldn't help himself. "Oh, yeah?"

You grinned and bit your lip shyly before looking away. "I miss you, I guess."

A smile spread wide across his face. "Aw, how sweet."

You swatted an arm out to smack him on the shoulder and he laughed, his heart finally feeling like it was mending a bit.

"Jerk," you muttered, and he laughed again.

"I missed you, too," he finally admitted, his cheeks rosy from the fire and the whiskey as he gazed at you, the reflection from the flames making your skin glow. Maybe it was that pregnancy glow that everyone used to talk about. Or maybe you always glowed and he just never allowed himself to notice until it was too late.

He watched your throat work, swallowing dryly while your fingers fidgeted in your lap and he realized you were nervous.

"What if I told you I missed you as more than just friends?" you whispered, your eyes pinned to the floor, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze.

His breath caught in his throat. Surely, he must have misheard you. But then you finally turned to look at him, tears welling in your eyes, and his heart lurched in his chest.

"What if I told you I'm in love with you?" he bravely whispered back.

Your eyebrows pinched together and your face crumpled before you reached forward, curling your arms around his neck and pulling him close, your lips pressing together earnestly before opening your mouth and letting his tongue lick behind your teeth.

He wasn't sure how you both made it upstairs and into his bed. He couldn't remember peeling your clothes off, one by one, revealing more and more of your changing body to him for the first time. But he did remember seeing your bare, swollen belly underneath him while his hand slowly slid across your skin in wonder. And then he felt it. A little flutter. A little jolt. And he looked up at you in surprise.

"She's kicking," you explained, and his eyes fell back to your stomach.

"She?"

You nodded, placing your hand over his lovingly. "I think it's a girl."

He smiled as tears began to cloud his vision, then bent forward to press a kiss against your stomach, letting his lips linger so hopefully his unborn daughter could feel him there and feel the love he had for her.

You had to pull him away by his shoulders, the both of you laughing softly, unable to believe how much things had changed in just a year.

Because not only were you a couple months away from finally being a mother, but you also realized you were very, very wrong all those months ago.

The man for you was, in fact, right there all along.

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[fartcloudfartcloud]

On the Right Track

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You board the train to Chicago to find your sleeper cabin has been double booked.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. No outbreak AU, meet-cute, forced proximity-ish, use of pet names (darlin’, baby), oral sex (m&f), unprotected PiV. no use of Y/N.

a/n: the idea of getting “stuck” in a sleeper cabin during a long ass train ride with Joel Miller rotted my brain. So, here I am dumping it onto you. I hope you enjoy it! big time thank you to @80ssong for the beta 😘

word count: 5,442

ao3 | ml

The wheels of your suitcase emit a low, steady rumble as you drag it behind you, weaving through the crowd rushing past in the opposite direction. You're stopped short when one of the wheels gets caught in a crack in the concrete train platform. You breathe out a huff of frustration, "Goddammit!" and try to shimmy your suitcase loose.

You can't miss your train; you’ve been looking forward to this trip for the last year, another check on your “travel the country by train” bucket list. Mercifully, the wheel shakes loose, and you resume your quickened pace. Even with the extra time you allowed yourself to pack and get ready this morning, you didn’t account for the rush hour traffic. One of the many perks of working from home is not dealing with that nonsense. If only you had left your house 15 minutes earlier. You hate feeling rushed when you travel. A booming voice from the PA system bellows, “Final boarding call for Texas Eagle! ALL ABOARD!”

Shit! You pick up the pace; quick steps turn into a jog to make your train. You’re out of breath by the time you approach the entrance of your sleeper car. The conductor takes notice of your struggle, grabs your suitcase, and assists you up the steps. You navigate through the hallway of the sleeper car to find your cabin, your breath slowly returning to normal.

This trip from Austin to Chicago is over twenty-eight hours, so sparing the extra expense of a sleeper cabin was a no-brainer. You scan each door as you pass, looking for cabin 101. When you reach the correct door, looking forward to sitting and relaxing after your cardio session, you swing it open to find your cabin is not empty.

It has been two months since Sarah moved to Chicago for school. Joel has had a hard time adjusting to an empty nest. He's been able to occupy his time by taking on contracting jobs on the side and putting in more overtime. The extra money he's been able to bank has allowed him to take a week off work to visit Sarah.

Since childhood, he’s wanted to travel by train to see more of the country and for the experience. Due to the length of the trip and his back, he decided to spring for a sleeper cabin with some of his extra cash. Thankful he won't have to worry about engaging in awkward conversation with a chatty seatmate in one of the passenger cars.

Joel wasn't sure what to expect with train travel, so he arrived at the station an hour before departure. He was able to board and settle into the cabin without issue. He's in the middle of texting Sarah to let her know he boarded the train when the cabin door abruptly swings open. 

You're surprised to see someone in your cabin. You double-check the number on the door’s plaque, compare it to your ticket, and look suspiciously at the annoyingly handsome, broad-shouldered man sitting on the bench seat, who looks equally perplexed. You booked a solo sleeper. What is this guy doing here? 

“Um, there seems to be a mistake. I had booked this as a solo sleeper.”

“Yeah, I did too,” Joel sighs, “paid a pretty penny for it.” 

You ask to see his ticket and see that he’s been assigned the same cabin number as you. Well, isn’t this your luck? You huff in annoyance, lean past the threshold into the corridor, and spot the conductor checking passenger tickets. He approaches when you grab his attention with a friendly wave. Hopefully, this is an unfortunate mix-up and can be resolved quickly. 

“Welcome aboard the Texas Eagle. How can I help you, ma’am?”

“Hi, um," trying to shake out any annoyance in your voice, "There seems to be a mix-up. Our tickets are for cabin 101, but we booked a solo cabin separately.”

The conductor asks to see your tickets. He twitches his jaw in concentration as he looks over both tickets. He excuses himself to consult with the chief conductor. His return ends the twenty minutes of awkward silence between you and this handsome stranger, where avoiding eye contact felt like a full-time job.

“Thank you for your patience. Unfortunately, our sleepers have been overbooked for this trip. We apologize for the inconvenience." You and Joel sigh in unison, "I can move one of you to a passenger car, or you could share this cabin, and Amtrak will compensate you for the error.”

Joel looks up at you with a raised eyebrow. He studies your face to gauge which option you're leaning toward. Moving to a seat in the passenger car is not appealing to him, but if you were not keen on sharing a sleeper with a stranger, he’d concede. He wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. But if he’s honest with himself, he would be disappointed. You are a beautiful woman, and he wouldn’t mind getting to know you better, even if it is not under ideal circumstances.

You take a few minutes to consider your options. Shifting your eyes around the cabin, trying to avoid Joel’s gaze. A seat in the passenger car is the least desirable of the two options. Fortunately, the cabin has two beds, so it’s not a total loss. There are far worse things than being stuck in a sleeper cabin with an attractive stranger. You’re a pretty good judge of character; he has kind eyes, and he hasn’t given off any creepy vibes in the brief time you've been in his presence. Could this be one of those meet-cutes you see in your favorite rom-coms? 

Joel waits patiently for you to make the final call. You glance at him and then back at the conductor. “I’m fine with sharing the cabin.”

“Sounds good. Again, we’re so sorry for the inconvenience. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.” 

When the conductor departs, you move further into the cabin and take in the cramped space. You start to lift your bag into the overhead bin, and Joel notices your struggle. He springs up from his seat to assist you. "Let me help ya there."

You feel the warmth of his body pressed against you as he lifts his arms above you. When he shoves your suitcase into the bin, you inhale his scent, a mix of fresh soap, sandalwood, and mint. You feel heat travel up your neck and hope he doesn’t notice.

Joel steps back when the bag is secured in the bin, and the vestiges of his warm body begin to cool on your back. A sense of disappointment washes over you. You liked the way his body felt against you. He felt safe.  

When you turn around, you're met with his extended hand, and he introduces himself, “I’m Joel.”

You take his hand, so large it swallows yours, and introduce yourself with a firm handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sorry, it had to be under these circumstances.”

“You t—“ The jolt of the train cuts you off as it lurches forward and throws you off balance and into Joel’s broad chest. 

He grabs at you, careful not to place his hands anywhere inappropriately to keep you upright. You’ve now felt his sturdy form from your back and front sides, and it’s unnerving. You stare down at the dated carpet as you try to gain your composure before you look up at him shyly, “Sorry about that. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all.”

You return a soft smile and nod as you move to sit down. The morning's events have you completely frazzled, and you hope you can finally relax. You settle into your seat and pull out your book, locating the dog-eared page where you left off. The cabin is quiet except for the rumble of the train and the occasional announcement of the next stop, followed by its arrival. Neither you nor Joel was ready to cut through the silence just yet.

The tension of being in this tight space is distracting, and you're unable to focus on your reading. You peek up from your book and observe Joel. He’s staring out the cabin window, watching the blur of the Texas landscape speed by with his chin resting on the heel of his hand. It’s been a while since Joel has been out of Austin. He wants to see as much as possible during this ride. 

You take in his profile. Admiring the strong, sharp jaw covered in a patchwork of dark scruff sprinkled with grey and a full mustache over a pair of pillowy lips. His furrowed brow sits atop a set of rich, chocolate eyes. Eyes that express a softness and warmth. You watch as the reflection of the country landscape flickers across his orbs. Shadows fall over the curve of his aquiline nose. It's as if the Romans chiseled his face out of travertine. 

“Is everythin’ alright?!” 

You shake out of your haze at Joel’s inquiry. Busted. You’ve never been good at subtlety, so you’re not surprised he’s caught you staring. 

“Yeah, yeah…everything’s fine.” You clear your throat, trying to buy yourself some time to come up with an explanation for your ogling, “I…I was trying to remember if I locked my doors before I left this morning.”

Joel grins. He doesn’t entirely believe you. He’s pretty sure he caught you staring at him. It felt nice. A sense of pride that a woman as beautiful as you would give him the time of day. “Oh, I know that feeling.”

You nod in response, and the silence returns as you resume your activities. The tension thickens as the awkwardness continues for a couple more stops. A silent internal debate over who would break the silence first wars between you. Unable to bear it any longer, you finally squeak out, “So, what’s in Chicago?”

Joel is surprised by the question, not the question itself, but that you were more confident than him to break the silence. “My daughter, Sarah, she’s at Northwestern.”

“Oh, wow, that’s impressive.” You see Joel light up with pride at your praise. 

“Yeah, I’m not sure where she gets it. Certainly not from me.” Joel scoffs.

You let out a short laugh. Not fully believing his self-deprecation. You've only known him briefly, but Joel strikes you as a smart guy.

Joel continues, “I haven’t seen her since she left for school two months ago. I can’t wait to see her.”

Joel’s excitement is palpable. His smile reaches his eyes as he talks about his daughter. My god, this man is handsome. You're not sure how you'll survive the rest of this trip, sharing a cabin with him.

“And how about you?” Joel inquires, “What’s the reason for your trip?”

“It’s kind of silly.” You flash Joel a sheepish smile. “I’ve always wanted to travel the country by train. I have taken a different route each time for the last few years. Only eight more to go to hit all states! It’s been a fun experience, and I’ve met many interesting people.” 

Joel is intrigued. "That doesn't sound silly to me."

He admires your independence and courage to travel on your own. Charming, beautiful, and a sense of adventure. There’s no way you could be single. But wouldn’t they be on this trip with you if you had a significant other? He hesitates to ask but decides to go for it. “Is there anyone who would miss you while you're on this trip?”

A warmth spreads up your neck, reaching your cheeks. You answer Joel bashfully, “If my silver pothos counts, then…yes.” 

Joel huffs a laugh. His confidence grows with the confirmation that you're single. “Darlin’, that’s a shame. You seem like a real catch.” 

Could this be happening? Is this annoyingly handsome and charming man showing an interest in you? Darlin’? You’ve been in Texas long enough to know “darlin’” is used as frequently as “ma’am.” But this sounds different. Maybe you are experiencing a real-life meet-cute. It's been a year since you and your ex broke up. You’ve had time to heal but haven’t yet dipped your toe back into dating, but you'd be willing to take the plunge with this man.

Joel hasn’t had a serious relationship in a while. He prioritized raising Sarah and growing his contracting business. Sarah has encouraged him to put himself out there and meet someone. She's worried about him alone at home now that she’s off at school. It’s been an adjustment for Joel, getting used to an empty nest. He misses the stomps of Sarah’s footsteps as she races down the stairs each morning, the sound of pop music blasting through the stereo in her room, and late nights on the couch watching Curtis and Viper—Sarah falling asleep with her head on Joel's shoulder. Finding someone warm, caring, and beautiful to spend time with would be nice—someone like you. 

As the train rolls on, you and Joel learn more about each other. Your comfort level and attraction to each other grow with each stop. You learn that he runs his own construction business with his brother. How he’s raised his daughter on his own, Sarah’s mother having left the both of them when she was still a baby. You tell him about your job and how it brought you to Austin. A place that is finally starting to feel like home.

It’s been over ten hours since you rushed to board the train. Ten hours filled with embarrassing mishaps, awkward silences, and engaging conversation. Ten hours of proximity to one of the most gorgeous men you’ve ever met. And ten hours later, he asks you to have dinner with him in the dining car—a date. 

You could tell that Joel was nervous when he asked. It was sweet. His eyes focused on the carpet’s intricate pattern; his hand rubbed the back of his neck before he looked over at you. “Would you...would you like to have dinner with me?”

“I’d love to, Joel!” 

The food was pretty decent for being served on a train. If Joel plays his cards right, he might have a chance to take you on a proper dinner date without the rattling silverware. Joel admires you from across the table. He watches your fidgety fingers wrapped around the stem of your wine glass, rotating it in a circle on the white tablecloth.

You may still be nervous, but talking to Joel is easy. He’s warm and confident, with a great sense of humor. You feel the attraction between you continue to grow. You’ve even caught his eyes land on your lips a few times.  

Joel can’t recall the last time he was on a proper date. He didn't last long on the dating app Sarah downloaded and set up his profile. After two weeks of confusion about which direction to swipe, easily bored by the rote introductory messages, he deleted it. He resigned that he’d have to meet someone in the wild. Did that even happen anymore? But here he is, with you, never imagined he would meet someone on the train. Grateful for the inconvenient cabin mix-up that led you to him.

Joel pays the tab, and you thank him for dinner with a kiss on his cheek. It was the best date you’ve ever had. He grabs your hand and walks you back to your shared cabin. As you open the door, you feel Joel’s hand lightly pressed against the small of your back, his pinky teasing the waistband of your jeans. The warmth of his hand through your top sends a thrill up your spine. He guides you into the space and closes the door behind him. 

Once the door is locked, his palms are at your waist to spin you around to face him. "You're so beautiful."

"You're not so bad yourself, handsome." Your palms pressed flat against him, feeling the warmth of his chest and the low beat of his heart pulsating through the soft cotton of his shirt.

Your breath quickens as his eyes map the delicate features of your face. He holds your gaze with his warm brown eyes, then trails down to your pillowy lips, returning to your eyes, seeking permission to kiss you. You grant it with a subtle nod, and he leans in; your heart pulsates with each inch he draws nearer. A needy moan emits from you as his lips finally press against yours. Soft, wet, warm. You invite him further with an open mouth and tease of your tongue along his lower lip. You've wanted to feel his lips against yours since he introduced himself.

His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt before he lifts it above your head and off. Discarded to the floor in one swift motion. He stares at your perfect tits caged in by black lace. He cups them gently in his palm while his index finger and thumb tweak your nipples to attention. A pleasurable hiss escapes your lips. His hands traipse down your supple skin until they reach your waist. With his fingers threaded in the belt loops of your jeans, his body looms large, and he guides you until the backs of your legs meet the bench.

He leans into you and seals your lips with his as his hands roam over the plane of your back. His fingers tease over the clasp of your bra, and he unfastens it in a swift motion releasing your tits from their lace confines. His other hand trails downward and slips into the back of your jeans, and squeezes your ass. Your body shudders at his grip.

He squats down to place his mouth over your tit. Kissing, licking, and sucking out sweet moans from you. His hands move to the front of your pants to unfasten them as he continues to distract you with his ministrations across your chest. In one pull, your bottom half is bare to him.

He nudges you gently to sit as he lowers to his knees; a creak of his joints echoes in the small room. His cock is painfully hard, pressing against the zipper of his jeans. He wraps his forearms around your thighs and pulls you in closer to his face. His sharp nose trails over your mound, and he inhales, moaning at your scent. He drapes your legs over his broad shoulders and lathes a slow swipe of his tongue through your folds, the tip brushing against your clit. "Fuck!" You manage to blurt out.

With a firm grip on your thighs, he continues to eat at you. He latches onto your clit and sucks, causing you to buck your hips into his face. Unphased, Joel continues his relentless pursuit of your pussy. He wants to lap up every drop of arousal that is leaking out of you. A strong desire to bring you over the edge with just his lips and tongue. He can feel you're close when your walls tighten around his tongue. Your breathy moans increase and become louder as he inches you toward your release.

Joel rises from the floor as you catch your breath. In a haze of euphoric bliss, you paw at his jeans, pleading for him to get undressed and switch places with you on the bench. "Joel," you whimper, "I need you inside me. Now."

With that, Joel hurriedly pulls off his shirt and strips his jeans and boxers in one fell swoop. He offers his hand to assist you up from the bench, legs still wobbly from your first orgasm. He sits down and pats one palm on his meaty thigh while the other lazily strokes his cock. "C'mere baby."

Eagerly, you situate yourself to straddle Joel’s lap, knees pressed against the back cushion. You tease kisses over his face and trail down to where his neck meets his shoulder. He moans when you leave a soft bite and then soothe the area with your tongue. You rub the wet folds of your pussy up and down his length, whimpering when the tip of his cock brushes against your clit.

A gasp escapes you when the head teases at your entrance, seeking further access. You slowly sink onto his cock until he’s fully sheathed inside your warm pussy. “Fuck,” Joel exhales, “this pussy is so fucking wet, just swallowing my cock.”

The vibration of the train as it moves over the tracks heightens the sensation as you bounce on his cock and he mouths at your tits. His thumb teases your bottom lip, and you suck the digit into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the salty tip. Desperate to make you come again, he removes his thumb and lowers his hand between your bodies. The pressure, as he circles your clit, ignites a fire in your core, bringing you closer to the edge. He can feel your pussy clench around his cock; he knows you’re close, “I need you to come, darlin’.” 

With his permission, you explode around his length. Your head is thrown back in ecstasy, feeling confident you can be as loud as you want with the roaring drone of the train; you wail out his name. With your neck bare to Joel, he leans forward to lick a trail upwards to leave light nips along your jaw before his mouth overtakes yours in an all-consuming kiss. 

You squeal when Joel stands up from the bench in one fluid motion, still inside you. His palms squeeze your ass, and your arms are tight around his thick neck, keeping you secure as he shuffles over to the fold-down table. He moves one of his arms to wrap around your back and gently lays you on the cold surface, leaning forward to place kisses across the valley between your tits. As he straightens, his hands tighten around your hips, pulling you closer to meet his thrusts, which begin at a steady pace. 

Your desire for him is overwhelming. The need for him has you in a daze as your body shifts back and forth against the tabletop. “Fuck me harder, Joel.” 

Joel doesn’t need to be told twice—his speed quickens. The sound of his pelvis slapping into your ass reverberates around the small space. Your body is slick with sweat, and your mind is buzzing as your walls clamp around his length. The intense pleasure coils in your core, ready to snap. He watches your tits bounce in tandem with his thrusts, mesmerized by the heavy weight of them jostling back and forth. 

“Joel…ah…” you spit out, “fuck!”

“I know, baby. I know.”

He gazes down in between your bodies, focused on where his cock meets your wet folds. Entranced by your pussy, lips stretched around his shaft coated in your arousal. “She’s choking me, baby.” He breathes out,  “She’s so fucking tight. Perfect pussy taking me like a good girl.”

A cacophony of moans and grunts swirls around the two of you. He’s on the precipice of his orgasm, but he needs you to come again for him. He needs to feel your walls spasm around him a second time. He leans forward to kiss you, whispers into your lips how beautiful you are wrapped around his cock, how gorgeous you look when you come. “Give me one more. Be a good girl for me, and give me one more.”

On his command, your walls flutter around him as your release takes over. Thighs shake as their grip tightens around his hips, and you cry out his name. “That’s it…that’s it.” 

He pulls out of you, hand wrapped around his base, and he strokes his cock, slick with your arousal. Grunting as he covers your mound and lower belly with his come. He collapses over you, kissing your cheeks and lips. “You’re incredible. That was incredible.”

You can only respond with a nod and pull his face to yours for another blistering kiss. 

While you clean up in the bathroom, Joel turns down one of the beds. No longer a need for two separate beds. You crawl under the covers to join him, back pressed against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, and he pulls you in tight. His hot breath wafts against your neck before he peppers kisses along the column of your neck and down your shoulder. You relax into him with a low hum. You’re quickly lulled to sleep by the beat of his heart and the drone of the train's movement along the tracks.

You wake up in Joel’s warm embrace, the sun’s rays leaking through the curtains. His fingers traverse your bare arm, easing you awake. "How'd you sleep, darlin'?" his gruff morning voice breaking into the space.

"Perfect. I had a furnace behind me that kept me nice and warm." You feel Joel smile against your hair.

You expected it would be awkward this morning, but everything felt right. Comfortable. Safe. Perfect. Like this was meant to be. You can't recall ever feeling this way about someone, especially not someone you've only known for little more than a day. Your mind wanders to the "what ifs," starting to get into your head about whether Joel feels the same. What if he doesn't? What then?

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Joel interrupts your spiral.

"About how good this feels. How right…how…and how fucking terrifying that is."

Your hair rustles when Joel huffs a chuckle. "It does, and it is. But we can be terrified together. If you want?"

You turn in his arms to face him with a wide, beautiful smile. It squeezes at Joel's heart; his affection for you is overpowering. He's never felt this way with anyone. He'll be devastated if you say "no." Thankfully, you don't make him wait too long for your response. The seconds that have passed tormented him enough. He sweeps a loose tendril behind your ear and softly trails his palm down your cheek, fingertips teasing your jawline while he waits for your reply.

"I would love nothing more than to be terrified with you." you tease.

Joel smirks and tilts your face toward him with a finger under your chin. He presses his plush lips over yours. Teasing your seam with his tongue, pleading for entry. Your lips slot open, welcoming him into your mouth. Tangled tongues, heated breath, an all-consuming passionate kiss.

When he pulls away, the both of you desperately try to catch your breath. You feel his hardness against your thigh. Your soft hand wraps around his thickness, offering slow strokes and teases over the slit swirling the precum around the head with your thumb. Joel lets out a breathy moan and thrusts into your palm. You don't want to leave him without getting a taste of his cock, so you begin your descent down his firm chest leaving kisses in your wake. "Baby, you don't have to…"

Your eyes meet his as your lips approach his cock. "I know. But I want to."

You wink as you take him in your mouth. His fingers weave through the hair at the back of your skull. Gently moving you further down his shaft, your nose brushing against the tuft of hair above his base. With the tip of his cock meeting the back of your throat, you delicately caress his balls in your palm.

"Fuck, baby," Joel grunts. "Yes, take it all. Your perfect lips wrapped around my cock. A goddamn dream."

At his praise and encouragement, you bob up and down his length. Swirling your tongue around the tip when you release him with a pop to catch your breath, only to return to a steady pace. His hands grip the root of your hair, and you feel his balls tighten in your hands. He's close. "Just like that…that's it. hnnnghhh, I'm going to come."

He tries to pull you off of him, but you take him even deeper with a strong grip on the back of his thighs. You want him to come in your mouth. Feel his warm seed spurt across your tongue. Lap up every drop, savor his taste, and swallow it down. You moan along his length, which reverberates up Joel's spine. His orgasm takes hold, and with a deep, guttural groan, his arousal pours into your mouth.

"Fuckin' hell, darlin'." You smile up at him, satisfied. He watches you as you wipe the corners of your mouth and suck the cum off the tip of your thumb with a moan. "You're amazing at that."

"Yeah?"

He pulls you up by your forearms until your face is level with his. His lips brush along the tip of your nose, to your cheeks, and then to your lips. Hovering over them with hot breath, "Yeah," he nods and seals your lips with his, tasting himself on your tongue.

He breaks the kiss with a smirk, "So…how about a second date?"

You laugh into his shoulder. Still unbelieving that all of this happened. "Absolutely. Just don't expect me to put out."

He responds with a booming laugh. You could get used to this sound. "I would never," as he squeezes you into him and kisses your forehead.

After you both are dressed, you settle in together on the bench to spend the last hours of the trip as close to each other as possible. Your back against the wall and legs strewn over his thighs. His thumbs circle your calves in a soothing motion as you read your book in contented silence. You didn't get to read as much as you wanted, but you're not complaining.

The train’s PA system crackles, “Last stop, Chicago.” 

You look at Joel apprehensively, the realization that this time is quickly coming to an end. He squeezes your hand reassuringly as you both move to stand. Joel pulls your bag out of the bin and insists on carrying it off the train for you. You both walk through the narrow hall, you in front, because “ladies first.” When you glance over your shoulder, you catch Joel staring at your ass. You tease with a coy smile and a wink, “Eyes up here, Joel.” 

You watch as a smirk grows into a sly grin across his face, the dimple on his right cheek making an appearance along with a glint in his eyes. Fuck, you’re in trouble.

As you exit the train, the conductor gives you both a knowing look with the tip of his hat. Your cheeks heat with embarrassment. Joel wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side, and plants a kiss on your temple.

Joel freely gives this PDA while completely unaware that his daughter is watching it all transpire from afar. She arrived at the station early because she was so excited to see her dad, not expecting that she'd witness his uninhibited affection so publicly.

“Thanks for the ride, Joel.” He erupts in laughter.

“Anytime, darlin’. Any time.” He embraces you in his strong arms and leaves you with a chaste, parting kiss. “I'll see you soon.”

“You better!” You turn and walk away, Joel watching intently at the sway of your hips, once again admiring the curve of your ass. 

Joel runs his hand over his face in disbelief. The last twenty-eight hours were something. He shakes it off to look for Sarah in the crowd. When he finds her, she's barreling toward him to meet him halfway and wraps him in a huge hug. The impact almost knocks him off balance. With a chortle, "Hey, baby girl! I missed you!"

“I missed you, too!" With one eyebrow quirked, "So, dad…how was the trip?” Joel watches as Sarah's eyes shift across the platform in your direction. Your back towards them.

Joel smiles sheepishly, “It was good,” suddenly interested in watching a small bug crawl across the station platform to avoid Sarah's interrogating gaze. " It was really good."

Not one to let him off easy, she senses something different about her father. He has a glow in his eyes; he looks happy. Sarah knows it’s more than just seeing her. “Aw, come on, dad. Who was that woman I saw you with?”

Busted. “Oh,” he feels the flush creeping up his neck. “Funny story…” He drapes his arm over Sarah's shoulder, "I'll tell you in the car."

Joel pulls his phone from his pocket and climbs into Sarah’s car. 

[Joel] I can’t wait to see you again

[you] Same. I hope you have a great trip 😘

[Joel] You too, darlin'

Thank you so much for reading! I’d love to know what you think. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 🫶🏼

npt for folks who engaged in my WIP fic covers post (let me know if you’d like to be removed): @ak-vintage @baronessvonglitter @almostempty @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @nerdieforpedro @everybodylovedcontractors @inept-the-magnificent