sarahsardines

[sarahsardines]

men

[sarahsardines]

#for science 

bonus: 

[sarahsardines]

#for science 

bonus:

[sarahsardines]

day after tomorrow

joel miller x reader

summary: joel drops you off and picks you up from the airport. you are definitely falling in love with him. 

warnings: modern no outbreak au, game!joel or hbo!joel, fluff, really just a fluff fest honestly, new-ish relationship, falling in love, sweet enough to make your teeth ache | 2.7k

A/N: this is a christmas gift for my dear friend @strangerfreaks who makes my life better in every way possible. i love you! hope you enjoy this <3

___

He's leaning on the side of the truck when you hurry outside with your stuff. 

"Morning," you call. It's barely that, sky still dark and air still carrying the bite of the night's chill. 

Joel straightens up and gives you a tired smile. Most of his smiles are tired but they're always genuine when directed at you. He tugs the backpack from your shoulder and presses his lips to your cheek, beard scratching your skin gently. 

"Howdy," he says in your ear before pulling away.

The travel mug Joel pushes into your hands is warm to the touch. 

"Tea," he says before you can tell him it's too early for coffee. His voice is deeper than usual, still warming up from sleep. It's not a cup from the local shop -- they're not open yet -- so he must have made it at home. "No caffeine before flights." 

"You remembered?" 

He gives you an unimpressed look and grabs your bags. They go in the backseat of his truck and he jerks his chin at the passenger door. "Get in. S'chilly."

It's also early. So early you were not going to ask him to drive you to the airport but when you mentioned you had to go on a work trip he offered. Insisted, actually, once he found out what time you needed to get there.

"You ain't takin' a cab that early," he had said. "Hell, you ain't takin' a cab home, neither. I'll pick you up."

This thing between you isn't new anymore, not exactly, but it's not solid yet. It doesn't have a name. But it's been a few months and you know what his sheets smell like and the feel of him pressed against you in the middle of the night and how he laughs with his head thrown back, mouth wide and eyes creased at the corners. He likes to take you on long walks around the lake a few towns over and you know all about his daughters even if you haven't met them yet. Your life feels a little more solid with Joel in it and the swell of your heart in your chest when you talk to him, when you see him, when he looks at you, is a welcome feeling. It's nice to want and be wanted in return. 

The inside of his truck is warm, your seat heater already turned on. The radio is down to a low hum and there's a silver cup similar to your own in the holder between the seats. Joel gets back into the truck with a slight groan and glances at you to see if you've got your seatbelt on before he clicks his. 

"Ready?" he asks. You nod. He settles his hand on your headrest and looks out the back windshield as he reverses the truck out of the driveway. "Shouldn't hit much traffic," he says. 

You take a sip of your tea and watch him as he drives out of your neighborhood and towards the highway. Part of you wishes you would hit traffic so you could look at him longer. Even in the dark you know his face pretty well by now. His hair is getting a little long, the dark threaded through with some grey and falling over his perpetually lined forehead. The scar on the bridge of his nose that you love to run your finger across and the bruises under his eyes from too many nights up late working on site plans and employee schedules. You don't think you've met a man who works as hard as Joel, and yet here he is driving you to the airport when he could be sleeping. 

Maybe it's because he's tired or maybe it's because it's dark or maybe it's because you're leaving for a few days but Joel lets you look without teasing. His eyes catch yours for just a second and he smirks.

"Why don't you drink coffee before a flight?" He takes a sip of his own thermos. You watch his throat work as he swallows and look away this time. The sky is starting to look purple out your window, the trees and fields and occasional buildings flying by too fast for your eyes to settle on anything. Joel drinks coffee like it's water. You're still leaning things about each other -- most days you find yourself thinking that you want to be learning things about him for the rest of your life -- and this is a new topic of conversation. You haven't had to be on a plane since you met him.

"I don't really like flying," you say. "Makes me nervous. I figure caffeine will just make it worse."

"Don't like it much either." You look at him again and find see smirk turn to a frown as he merges onto the nearly empty highway. "You gonna be okay?"

He asks like it's within his power to make flying something enjoyable, to cancel your work trip, to squash everything in this world that makes you nervous. Mostly you're just glad he's not teasing you about it. Maybe someday you can take a trip and be grumpy about it together.

"I'll be fine, Joel."

"Hm."

He rests an elbow against the window and rakes his hand through his hair.

"What are you up to this week?" you ask. 

He sighs. "Not much," he says. "Lumber shipment but Tommy's handlin' it. Ellie says her shower head is actin' funny so I'll go to her place and look at that. Probably sit my ass on the couch and try to watch a damn football game or somethin'."

"So what I'm hearing is you're going to miss me." It's meant to be a tease but it comes out a bit more earnest than you'd like. 

He sends you that unamused look of his but the mirth in his eyes betrays him, tells you he sees through it. You're learning that he's good at that -- seeing what you really mean, what you really want, who you really are, all the way down to the core. "Course I will," he says. "What man wouldn't miss cold hands bein' stuck up his shirt when he gets in bed?"

You scoff and Joel snickers. You could remind him how he usually catches your hands in his before you make it to his hemline on the rare nights he does wear a shirt, how he cradles your fingers and blows on them softly while rubbing them with his perpetually warm palms. The memory makes your breath hitch just a bit. 

It's only three days. Some conference your boss wanted you to go to in his stead. It won't require much of you -- you just have to attend a few panels, a dinner or two, and schmooze a little bit. You'll be back before you know it. You tell yourself it's silly to feel this apprehension at the distance, the time apart. But you're used to Joel by now and damn if you won't miss him. Used to him taking up space in your kitchen, used to his arm around you on the couch, used to his short texts and heavy gaze. You know by now that it's only a matter of time before you love him.  

"I'll miss you, too," you say softly. Joel eyes you, smirk turned soft again and reaches for you. He settles his palm on your thigh and you cover your hand with his. 

When you get to the airport aren't many cars around and you're pretty sure the attendants won't yell at you for idling. Joel seems to think the same thing as he gets out of the truck to set your luggage on the ground. You leave your now-empty to-go mug in his car and throw your arms around him when he gets to the curb with your suitcase. His chest rumbles in amusement but he hugs you back, one palm rubbing between your shoulder blades until you pull away. 

"Thank you for --"

"Nope," he interrupts you. "No thanks allowed." He hands you your backpack and you shoulder it. "I'll pick you up on Wednesday," he says. 

You wave him off. "I get in way too late, don't worry about it --"

His hand cups your cheek and the words sputter out in your throat. "I'll be here," he says again. 

"I'll call you," you say. "When I get there." It sounds like a question.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Please do."

"Thanks for the tea --"

"Now, what did I just say?"

You wrinkle your nose at him and he rolls his eyes before leaning in to press his lips to yours. You sigh into the kiss just a little though it remains chaste, mouths closed as his thumb strokes your cheek once, twice, before he pulls away. It's the kind of kiss that feels fond, feels familiar. A kiss that becomes routine and for a second you imgaine the press of your mouths a thousand times over just like this. 

"Safe flight, sweetheart."

You smile at him and grab your suitcase before you stand here kissing him all day. "Bye, Joel." 

6:04 am: you make it to your gate okay?

You send him a picture of your breakfast sandwich and the sun rising through the window, painting the sky purple and orange. 

6:05 am: don't text and drive!

He replies with a photo of a full mug of coffee on his counter. It's a silly one, a dinosaur wearing a Santa hat. You think Sarah got it for him as a gag gift. 

6:05 am: home already. let me know when you land

6:06 am: will do. have a good day!

The flight is pretty okay. You spend the bumpy moments thinking about Joel's hand on your leg and get through it just fine. A shuttle takes you to your hotel and you have to hurry a bit to be ready for your first panel. 

You're busy all day. So tired by the time you get back to your room that you flop on the bed with a groan. 

"Ugh," you say, face smushed into the sheets. You're tired and hungry and...you miss Joel and feel a little silly about it.

That sense of puppy love, as most people would call it, hasn't faded. Your feelings for Joel are more than the crush they were when you first started seeing each other but they still linger in the realm of infatuation. You like to look at him, to feel the solid warmth of him beside you, above you, underneath you. You like being near him. But you're also starting to love things. You love the way his voice sounds when he wakes up, the way he says your name over the phone, the way he asks you what you want, how you are, how your day was. You love to see him on your couch, in your kitchen, in your bed. You've started to miss him when he's not around. 

And what you said to him in his truck is true. You do miss him. It's an ache that sits in the center of your chest, an ache that feels like the best kind of bruise -- because it comes from something good. And because you know it'll be soothed soon enough. 

But, because you're only human, you doubt that it's as serious for him. Joel keeps his cards close to his chest and while you feel like you know him pretty well by now you also have so much to learn. So, though you really want to, you don't pick up the phone and call him. Maybe the next time you're away. 

7:54 pm: day 1 done! ready to get in bed. why do men talk so much?

He texts back immediately. 

7:54 pm: god knows. don't forget to order room service on the company dime. sweet dreams.

You laugh and do as he says. 

The rest of the conference goes the same. By day three you're exhausted and your face hurts from smiling at so many people. Your shoes are no longer comfortable and as soon as the closing keynote ends you're out of there, changing into soft clothes and taking the shuttle to the airport. You text Joel a picture of your airport dinner and then your eye bags and he replies with a cute that has you giggling a little too loudly in public. 

You just want to get home to him. Your own bed is a bonus. 

But then your flight gets delayed. Twice. Joel tells you not to worry, he'll pick you up in the middle of the night if he has to. Once you board you get stuck on the tarmac for another half hour before finally taking off. It's a decidedly less relaxing experience because you're so anxious to be home but you make it. When you land it feels like you're sitting in your seat for ages. You're tired and feel gross and you want to go to bed. Your phone turns back on and you've got one text waiting for you.

10:34 pm: i'll be by baggage claim

That was 15 minutes ago. He must have been checking your flight in the air to get here at a reasonable time. God, you want to touch him. You want to stick your nose in his neck and inhale. 

You try very hard not to run through the terminal to the escalator that goes down to arrivals. It seems to move really fucking slowly once you're on it. As soon as it gets far enough for you to see the baggage claim level and everyone waiting there your eyes search for him. You see some families, a few tired children sleeping in arms that hold them tenderly. A group of girls with a sign that reads WELCOME HOME RACHEL!

And then there's Joel.

Once you spot him it's hard to keep a smile from your face. He's standing there with his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the escalator. Jeans, jacket, boots, and a firm set to his jaw that might be intimidating to anyone else but to you it's familiar. It's him. Once he sees you he stands a little taller and you see his cheek twitch. If someone wasn't in front of you you'd be down the steps in seconds but you wait until you're at the bottom to race forward. 

It's probably a bit dramatic. You drop your suitcase and backpack at your feet in front of him.

"Hi," you say, and then you throw your arms around his shoulders. Joel laughs. 

"S'like you're comin' home from war, or somethin'," he says, though his hugs you back just as tightly. "Should'a made a sign."

"Feels like it." Your words are muffled by his shoulder. 

"That bad, huh?" His palm drags up and down your spine. "Let's get you home, then."

Neither of you pull away. "I missed you," you say softly. 

Joel breathes deep and pulls away, hand on the back of your head as he makes sure you're looking at him. 

"Missed you, too," he says gruffly. Then he kisses you. It's less chaste than your goodbye kiss but still perfectly acceptable for airport arrivals, you think. 

"You hungry?"

"I sent you a picture of my dinner!"

"Not what I asked." You shrug and tangle your fingers with his. His thumb strokes the back of your hand. "We'll get you somethin' on the way home."

"Do you want to stay over?" you ask in a rush, realizing too late he's got no reason to want to. It's late and tomorrow is a workday. "I'm just gonna shower and go to bed but I--"

Joel's nostrils flare. "If you want me to I will." Simple as that. 

"Okay," you say. He squeezes your hand.

You walk in easy silence for a few moments. Once you're in the car you'll ask how his week was, tell him about the gossip you learned at the conference. You'll look at him the entire drive to your place, drinking your fill of him after three days without. Yeah, you're going to love him. It's just a matter of time.

"Thank you for coming to get me," you say. 

Joel looks like he wants to argue but he allows it.

"Anytime," he says. It sounds like a promise. 

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[sarahsardines]

PEDRO PASCAL as LUCIEN FLORES in THE UNINVITED dir. Nadia Conners

[sarahsardines]

#he's such a dad

[sarahsardines]

Cream

Summary: (horny husband!joel x reader) Joel is insatiable. He convinces you to get it on at his aunt's house on Thanksgiving. He's also got a lot of dirty Thanksgiving jokes he thought of last year that he's been saving to annoy you.

Tags: Whipped cream play, unexpected breeding kink, unexpected daddy kink, unexpected praise kink, biting, (this fic was very unexpected as a whole) piv, creampie, smut, oral (f receiving), joel is your husband but that doesn’t stop him from relentlessly flirting with you, dirty thanksgiving jokes, fear of getting caught

It’s Thanksgiving. A truly underrated holiday. Yeah, you’re at your husband Joel’s eccentric Aunt Jackie’s house, and yeah, the kids are screaming and it’s loud as hell, but you’re happy. A full belly and your jeans undone to accommodate. Sarah and some of her cousins are in another room playing video games, and you’re with Tommy in the living room, dozing off to the sound of distant cheering on the TV as the football game plays. Tommy had noticed you falling asleep, so he laid a blanket on you and turned the volume down. Such a gentleman. 

Unlike Joel. 

It would seem that Joel is a gentleman, but you know better. Joel loves to get under your skin, and has a habit of being unable to keep his hands to himself. Earlier in the kitchen, Aunt Jackie was preparing sides for dinner and you were at the oven, basting the turkey and enjoying a nice conversation with her when Joel snuck up behind you and squeezed your ass. You yelped and felt your cheeks warm, embarrassed that he chose that moment out of the entire day to grope you. “You really are the master baster, honey,” he whispered. He tried to keep his voice low, but his aunt had heard his dirty mouth. She glared at Joel. “Really, Joel? It’s Thanksgivin’.”

“What’d I do now? Why am I always in trouble?” Joel wasn’t exaggerating. He really was always in trouble with Aunt Jackie, and rightfully so. She used to babysit him and Tommy when they were boys, and Joel was always a troublemaker. That trait has lasted well into adulthood. 

“I’m gonna wash that mouth of yours out with soap,” Jackie chastised Joel, who rolled his eyes. When Joel dipped his finger into the bowl of mashed potatoes you made to steal a taste, Jackie smacked him in the arm with a wooden spoon. “Go bother someone else, you animal. Leave us girls alone,” Joel raised his arms in surrender before giving you a kiss on the cheek and stealing another bite of potatoes. You shooed him away and when he left, Jackie turned to you and said, “They’re dogs. All of them. Tommy’s a good boy, though.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Tommy is a good boy.”

-

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in your food coma, curled up on the couch and resting your head on a pillow. You’re in that half asleep, half awake sort of state where you’re slightly aware of your surroundings, but not entirely. You wake up a little when you feel a weight by your feet. It’s Joel. “Hey, sleepy,” he whispers. “You want some pie? S’blueberry. Got it before everyone else.” 

Ooh, that’s your favorite. “Yes, please,” you say groggily. 

“Where’s my piece, Joel?” Tommy asks. 

“You ain’t my bride. You’re the younger brother I never wanted,” Joel taunts, though his tone is a little more spiteful than joking. “Go get it your own damn self.”

“I’ll get you a piece, Tommy,” you offer. Joel looks offended, and Tommy smiles at you with kind eyes.

“You’re too nice, sweetheart,” Tommy tells you, stretching out on his chair and rubbing his belly. “Don’t worry about it. Could use the extra steps after all that turkey, anyway.” 

Tommy leaves to go into the kitchen, and you’re left with Joel and your slice of pie. He looks so handsome today. Facial hair neatly trimmed, but the hair on his head a little longer and curlier than usual. He likes to grow it out in the colder months. He’s wearing a plain green flannel, many years old and somehow both softer and scratchier than all the other flannels he owns. 

Joel hands you your plate. He knows you so well, knows your perfect pie to whipped cream ratio. And then you look at Joel’s plate and just sigh. Oh, Joel. His slice of pie is paper thin, nearly translucent. You could hold it up to a lamp and see light through it, probably. The rest of his plate is filled with ribbons and ribbons of whipped cream. 

“What?” Joel asks you. 

“Joel, maybe have some pie with your whipped cream,” you tease. 

“I do have pie,” Joel argues, gesturing to his plate. “See?” He takes a bite, and you’re not even sure there was any pie on that fork. You wipe some whipped cream from his lip with your finger, then bring it to your mouth and lick it clean. Joel smirks, wiggling his eyebrows, “Got somethin’ else you could lick if you like cream.” 

You roll your eyes, then take a bite of your own pie. “Classy, Joel.”

“Yeah, you want it,” he purrs seductively. 

You roll your eyes, but you do. You can’t lie to yourself. You really made out like a bandit, marrying Joel. Not only is he handsome, generous, and a wonderful man, he’s an excellent lover. You read once in a magazine that some 40% of women in heterosexual relationships don’t have orgasms with their partners. Those poor, poor women. Hopefully Santa gives them some vibrators in their stockings for Christmas. This Thanksgiving, you’re grateful you’re not part of that 40%. This Thanksgiving, you’re thankful for the never-ending orgasms so eagerly given to you by your absolute horndog of a loving husband.

Joel’s mindlessly eating his whipped cream and watching the game. He smiles when he hears Sarah giggling with her baby cousin, and you smile too. “So I’ve been thinkin’,” Joel starts. 

“Oh no. That’s not good,” you say. 

“Yeah, usually ain’t. But I think this is one of my better ideas,” You take a bite of pie and motion for him to go on. “Well, Sarah’d be a good big sister, don’t you think?”

You know exactly where this is going. “I do,” you smile. 

“And you’d look so sexy with a bump,” he whispers. 

“I would,” you agree. 

“...All swollen with my baby,” Joel continues, biting his lip. Somehow his plate is already licked clean. You have to laugh, he’s a bottomless pit. “C’mon,” he says, grabbing your thigh. “Let’s go make one. Now.”

“Now? At Jackie’s house?”

“Now,” Joel confirms.

You scoff and remove his hand from your thigh. “No way. Not here.” 

“Yeah,” he encourages you, putting his hand back on your thigh, it creeps upward. “Yeah, we can do it here. Quick an’ dirty. And I know Jackie wants more babies in the family. What do you think, nice Christmas gift for Auntie, huh?” You giggle, trying to remove his hand again. He keeps it firm on your thigh. “We could at least practice.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I thought I married a nice man.”

“You knew what you were gettin’.” 

True as that may be, you politely decline his offer. “Pass,” you say. “Go master baste your own turkey.” Joel chuckles, and turns his attention to the game. You cut off a big piece of pie with your fork and bring it to your mouth– 

“Aw, fuck!” 

“What?” Joel turns to you, concern in his eyes before he smiles. The pie fell off your fork, with some of it falling down your cleavage and the rest falling on your nice sweater. And you love this sweater. It’s your favorite. Fuuuuuuck. 

Joel follows you as you get up from your place on the couch and find Jackie. Jackie helps you to the bathroom and gives you some cleaners to try and work out the purple blueberry stains, then gives you one of her favorite Christmas sweaters to wear so your own sweater can dry. “It’s okay, honey. Just wear this,” she tells you. It’s a hideous sweater, but an incredibly sweet gesture. “Shit happens!” Jackie laughs. 

Joel had planned to follow you into the bathroom, but his Aunt Jackie whisked you away so quickly he couldn’t keep up. The sound of whipped cream coming out of the can caught his attention instead. 

Joel walks over to Tommy, who has the same habit of making his plate 90% whipped cream and 10% pie. They come by it honestly.

“Gimme that,” Joel mumbles as he rips the can of whipped cream from Tommy’s hand. “I need this more than you.” 

“What the hell?” Tommy’s baffled as Joel takes off in your direction, then it clicks for him. What exactly Joel’s planning on doing with the whipped cream. “Oh Jackie,” Tommy draws out in a singing tone.

Joel shakes the can in Tommy’s direction. He whispers, “If you snitch, I snitch.”

Tommy scoffs, “You don’t got any dirt on me, brother.” 

“Jackie’s Chevy. Sophomore year.”

Tommy turns bright red, stutters a little, and Joel walks away confidently. He doesn’t know how exactly Tommy fooled Jackie into thinking he was a good kid, but Joel knows for a fact Tommy was just as bad if not worse than Joel.

Joel knocks on the closed bathroom door. “S’me,” he says. 

You open the door just a crack, and Joel shimmies in. You’re in just your bra with your sweater laid out on the counter of the bathroom sink, aggressively rubbing the fabric together. “Fucking sweater is stained,” you complain. “Trying to get it out.” 

“We can just toss it in the wash, hm?”

“No, Joel, we cannot just toss it in the wash,” you huff. “It’s not–fuck, it’s not coming off.”

Joel leans over your shoulder, his large, warm hands finding their way to your waist where he rubs his thumbs back and forth. “You’re stressed,” he whispers, pressing kisses into your shoulder and neck. Desire flutters through your insides when you feel his hard bulge pressed against your ass. “Don’t be. We’ll get it out.” 

“Joel, it’s my favorite–”

“I know it is, sweet girl,” he kisses higher on your neck, behind your ear. Your breath hitches and you try to push him away, but he remains right where he is.

“Need to get the stain out, before it—”

Kshhhhh

Joel squirts a ribbon of whipped cream across one of your shoulders and begins to lick it up. You stop working the stain out of the fabric and look up at his reflection in the mirror. You have so many questions. Why does he have a can of whipped cream? Why is he doing this now, of all times? And how in god’s name is he still able to stuff his face? 

You open your mouth to speak, and in a swift motion Joel spins you around and fills your mouth with whipped cream. He dots it on your shoulders, your chest, between your breasts, where he finds that piece of pie you dropped. He picks it out of your bra and eats it without a second though. “Mmmm,” he hums, licking up the cream dotted over your body. 

You swallow the whipped cream, “Joel, what are you doing? Someone’s gonna hear us and my sweater–”

Kshhhhh

“No one’s gonna hear us,” he purrs. “And I’ll buy you more sweaters. Just not tomorrow. Fuckin’ hate Black Friday.” 

Oh, he’s such an ass. Shutting you up with whipped cream. You try to argue, but he’s undoing your bra and dotting your nipples with the cream, then a long curved line on your tummy. A smiley face. You married a middle school aged boy in an adult man’s body. 

He kneels before you, sucking one of your nipples and moaning at the way it hardens beneath his tongue and the sweet taste of the whipped cream, then repeating the action with the other. He drags his tongue over the curved stripe on your tummy, then unbuttons your jeans and pulls them down your thighs, helping each leg out of the clothing.  

“Joel,” you whine, “Joel, serio–ohh, god,” as he pulls your panties down too, tosses a leg over his shoulder and licks a long, fat stripe up your slit. 

“M’done with the whipped cream now,” he breathes, his hot breath tickling your core. “S’is…much better.”

Your fingers find his head and tug on his salt and pepper curls, your eyes fluttering shut as he eats you like a man starved. Which, he probably is. For both food and your body, he has a voracious appetite. 

He drags his tongue through your velvety folds, dipping at your core and tasting your arousal. He circles and sucks your clit, holding your standing leg tight with his arm as you wobble. You’re a shaking mess of crying and moaning. 

You whine as he pulls away, “Had this all under control,” he tells you, “But you’re bein’ too loud. We are gonna get caught,” You drop your mouth open in shock. Joel’s not one to leave you high and dry. But quickly, he rectifies your displeasure by stuffing your mouth full of whipped cream again. “Quiet.”

You nod and cover your mouth, sitting on the sink countertop and spreading your legs wide for Joel. “So thankful for you. My beautiful wife,” he coos. “S’thankful for this pussy. So fuckin’ good t’me.” 

“I love you, Joel,” you breathe. 

“Love you more, honey.”

His knees pop as they press into his aunt’s hideous mauve rug covering the floral tile floor. He dives right back in, licking and tasting your wetness, savoring the feeling of your soft folds under his tongue. He inserts one, then two fingers into your pussy, curling his fingers repeatedly into your sweet spot that he knows so well. With his free hand, he reaches for yours and holds it tight. He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, teases the sensitive area with the tip of his tongue. You do your best to keep yourself quiet.  

You come undone, short, breathy whimpers stifled by your hand. With his tongue and fingers, he works you through it until you’re shaking, clamping your thighs around his head. He loves this part. Loves to play with you until you’re a writhing, squirming mess under his tongue. 

Joel stands up to meet you, holds your face into his hands and kisses you in a way that is so very Joel. Rough, but gentle. Urgent yet slow. Biting your lips softly and tasting the sweet combination of whipped cream and your arousal. 

His hands leave their place on your jaw to unbuckle his belt and pull out his member, already fully hard and leaking precum. At any other time than now, your mouth would be watering. You’d love to return the favor. But you just can’t right now. 

“Joel,” you place your hand on his to stop him.

“Yeah, you want my wishbone”

Oh, Jesus Christ. You bite your lip to hide your smile, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of making you laugh at one of his dirty Thanksgiving jokes. The man doesn’t have an off switch. “Joel, seriously, I’m bloated and full and–”

Joel ignores your protests and pulls you off the counter, turns you around and spreads your legs wide. His eyes are soft and warm in the mirror’s reflection. “So am I. Don’t worry about it. We’re fat an’ happy, right?” he asks, “Why don’t you just stay pretty like this f’me, and I’ll fuck you real nice, hm? Ya won’t have to lift a finger. Let me burn off some calories.”

You don’t need much convincing. “Yeah, I want that,” you agree.

“Good. Turkey’s not the only thing getting stuffed this Thanksgivin’.”

Oh. dear. lord. 

“I’m divorcing you for that.”

“S’fine,” Joel grunts as he adjusts your hips, pushes your chest down a little and lines up with your center. He drags his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick. “Just marry you again. Wasn’t too hard the first time. Now how about I give ya some baby gravy.”

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you giggle, “Gross.” 

“Yeah, that–that wasn’t great. M’sorry.” 

With a low chuckle, Joel enters you in one swift motion. You watch his face in the mirror, that look of euphoria on his face, how his brows knit together and he groans softly. He runs his hands up and down your spine, squeezing your ass and sides before finding a comfortable place at your waist. 

“Oh,” you moan, “Mmm, yeah.” 

“Yeah, sweetheart. Love those pretty noises you make f’me.”

Joel lets you get used to him for a moment, kissing and biting at your neck. When you’re ready, he pulls out of you again and pushes right back in. “S’it,” he murmurs. “Such a good pussy.”

When Joel finds a steady pace, not too fast, you back your hips into him. You watch him in the mirror, his lips parted, tongue peeking out as he focuses. Eyes darting from your face, contorted in pleasure, down to your bouncing breasts and back to your face. You’re so beautiful like this and you’re all his. 

Joel adjusts your stained sweater on the sink countertop and presses down on your head gently, lowering you so you can just relax while he fucks you, just like he promised. Your eyes flutter shut as you try to control your noises, biting your bottom lip to keep your moans muffled. You don’t even realize the words fall from your lips, but they do. “Yeah, daddy,” you moan. 

“So that’s who I am, huh? Daddy?” Joel pants, and you feel your cheeks heat up. “I can be daddy if that’s what ya want. Y’want that, sweetheart?”

You nod shyly. “Please,” you whisper.

“Yeah, daddy’ll take good care of ya. I always do, don’t I?” 

“Yeah,” you agree in a breathy tone.

“Attagirl,” he praises you, “Just relax for daddy. That’s it, now. Gonna look so pretty with my baby in ya.” 

You don’t have enough energy to move with him, back your hips into him like you usually would. So you lie there, bent over the counter and just take him. You’re lost in him, lost in Joel, the way he makes you feel, the noises he makes. His thighs hitting your ass, jeans at his knees and his belt buckle hitting your legs, his balls slapping against your clit. One of his hands on your waist, holding you steady. “You feel good, s’good, mama.”

Joel lets out choked and quiet groans, trying to keep himself quiet. You can hear his sharp and unsteady breathing through his gritted teeth, and you know exactly how he looks in the mirror. His messy curls bouncing with each of his thrusts and his brow furrowed, his attention all focused on you, fucking you just how you need.

He wriggles a hand under your torso, then holds your jaw in his hand and guides you to look in the mirror. “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” he coos, but you can only look at Joel. His neck and cheeks are flushed and he’s got that hungry look in his eyes, a crooked smile on his lips. “You look real pretty with Daddy’s cock in ya, baby,” His hand trails back down your torso before he reaches between your thighs and finds your clit, tracing you those circles he’s perfected.

“M’close, Joel,” you whine. 

“Alright, now,” he breathes, “Keep lookin at us when you come,” as if you could peel your eyes from the sight in front of you. He rubs your clit expertly as his once calculated and steady thrusts turn frenzied and he begins to lose his rhythm. He’s close too.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Joel,” you gasp, feeling your walls begin to pulse and squeeze him. “Right there, right there, fuck.”

“Go on, let go f’me,” he pants. “Let go f’me, sweet girl.” 

Within moments, you fall apart on him. Joel covers your mouth before you can moan, his hand feels damp and warm on your face. Your orgasm is deep and powerful and so satisfying like you didn’t realize how much you needed this. Joel fucks you through it, chasing his own release. The sensation becomes overwhelming. “Too much,” you try to say, but the words hardly come out.

Your frantic moaning is muffled by his hand, “I know, mama. I know,” he groans. “Quit squirmin’, need t’fuck you deep. Gotta fill you - ohh, fill you up,” as he thrusts into you deep, his hard cock kissing your cervix and making you ache. He speeds up before he leans forward, his teeth biting softly into your shoulder as hespills into you with quiet shuddering breaths and grunts, filling you deep with his spend. He soothes the bite marks with his tongue as he comes down from his high. 

His come is warm as it drips from your pussy and down your thighs when he pulls out of you. You turn around to face Joel, both of you panting as you catch your breath. He wears a mischievous smile and wiggles his eyebrows at you, like he’s taunting you. He won. He fucked you at his aunt’s house. On Thanksgiving. He wears that goofy smile as he bends down to clean you up a little and dress you back in your clothes and his aunt’s spare sweater, green with a little embroidered snowman on it. Yeah, that stain isn’t gonna come out of your sweater. 

Joel opens the bathroom door and guides you to exit first. “Absolutely not,” you hiss, wiggling yourself between Joel and the door. “You first. We can’t walk out together. Everyone’s gonna know what we did,” you say as you push him. “And here–take this,” as you shove the now room temperature can of whipped cream into his hand. 

“Yeah, alright,” Joel rolls his eyes. “But wait, I gotta tell ya somethin’.” 

“What?”

“On a turkey I do love dark meat, but when it comes to you I’m a breast man through and through,” he teases as he gropes your tits. You swat his hand away, but Joel looks proud of himself.

Middle schooler. In an adult man’s body.

“How long have you been saving that one, Joel?” you taunt. Joel shrugs and kisses your cheek, then leaves.

When you come downstairs after counting to 100, ‘one Mississippi, two Missisippi…”Tommy wears a disappointed frown as he tries to squirt ribbons of whipped cream onto another slice of pie. Hardly anything comes out. You notice Joel wearing a sly smirk, and Tommy glares at Joel. 

“There you are. Been lookin’ for you,” Jackie startles Joel and grabs him by his bicep, marching him to her kitchen sink. “I’m putin’ you to work. You’re doin’ dishes,” Joel protests but gets to work anyway, he knows his place. Jackie makes her way back to you.

“What can I help you with?” you ask her, eager to assist this sweet lady with whatever she needs. 

“Nothin’, sweetheart. You just take it easy. You got enough on your plate, dealin’ with that husband of yours.” 

“Yeah,” you agree with a chuckle, “He’s a handful.” 

“But do let me know when you see those two little lines on that stick, hmm?” she winks, a knowing look in her eyes.

Busted.

please comment, reblog, send me asks! i love you and your words keep me going

Follow @strang3stories for notifs!

[sarahsardines]

Lather

(Inspired by our curly, long-haired Pedro with his broken wing) When Joel injures his shoulder, he needs your help washing his hair and getting off 🧴🧻💦🧼🚿🛀(4k)

Part one of a new mini series!!

Tags- shoulder injury, forced proximity, hair washing, handjobs, blowjobs, Joel finishes little too early, sexual tension, masturbation, pissed off joel, impish reader as per ushe. Joel starts out soft and gentle, this will not last long. Just you wait for part two, mwahahahahah!!

A/N- This new series is written for and inspired by my very dear friend @noxturnalpascal , please do not eat Pedro’s fucking hair. I’m begging you. And thank you @tightjeansjavi for the title name!!

Generously edited by my dear friend, the lovely @papipascalispunk

You’re at the dinner table, watching Joel awkwardly cut his chicken and potatoes with the side of his fork, held by his left hand. He brings the food to his mouth kind of slowly, deliberately, like he has to consciously think about where his fork will end up. He catches your watchful gaze and looks at you, “What?”, he scowls.

You shrug, “Nothing.”

“Quit lookin’ at me,” he huffs, “Creep.”

You’ve been living in Jackson with Joel and Ellie for quite some time now. Ellie’s got the garage and the downstairs bathroom to herself, you and Joel live in separate bedrooms upstairs. It works out. Kind of. The stairs are an issue. They’re old and steep, kind of slippery. It was only a matter of time before someone slipped and fell, and last week, that’s exactly what Joel did. Early one morning, he had misstepped and totally ate shit, landing hard on his right shoulder. You rushed to help him, but Joel shrugged you off, insisting he was fine. But you could hear in his voice he wasn’t, how he strained to speak. And in the following days, you noticed how his routine changed in the aftermath of his injury. He’s been favoring his right arm heavily, eating, cooking, opening doors, picking things up all with his left hand, rarely his right. 

Ellie gets up from the table to rinse her plate. When she passes you and Joel on her way back to the garage, she stops next to Joel and just stares at him, a look of confusion and disgust on her face. She reaches her hand forward, pushing her fingers slowly through his hair and watching the curls stand up straight. Joel freezes before turning to look at her, perplexed and irritated. “What’s the matter with you?”, he asks. 

“Gross,” Ellie giggles, still playing with his hair. He swats her hand away. 

“Yeah, shut up,” Joel grumbles, “You’ll have gray hair one day too. It ain’t that funny.”

“I’m not talking about the color. Your hair is disgusting, Joel. It’s like, sticking straight up. Are you hydrophobic or something?”

“Leave me alone,” Joel tells her, “Go do something. Go play in traffic.”

“You smell like you’re hydrophobic,” Ellie retorts as she continues towards her room. 

You turn your attention back to Joel, who looks insulted. Subtly, he turns his nose to his armpit to smell himself and then checks his reflection in the window, using his left hand to mess with his curls. He notices you staring at his reflection as well, “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”, he asks defensively as he messes with his hair a little more, flipping the mess to one side of his head, then to the other, rubbing the strands between his fingers. Joel sighs deeply then, gets up from his seat, and – using his left arm – he drags his chair across the kitchen and sets it in front of the kitchen sink. “I need help,” he confesses in a tone hardly audible, like he’s sheepish and uncomfortable. Disappointed, too. 

“What?”

“Washin’ my hair,” he speaks louder this time, “It’s hard with my uh…shoulder. I need your help.” 

“Took you long enough to as–”

“Knock it off,” he interrupts. It was probably around day four post-staircase incident that you noticed Joel’s hair taking on a more dirty appearance. You stare at his hair a lot lately now that he’s growing it out for winter. His hair curls in all sorts of directions, little cowlicks all over his head. The ringlets at the bottom of his neck are your favorite part. How gorgeous they look with the multitude of colors on his head. Deep, chocolatey brown with highlights of caramel and silvery gray streaks. With resources being fairly scarce even in Jackson, Joel doesn’t wash his hair every day, which is honestly fine for him. However, the days that he does wash his hair, he struggles to scrub his scalp properly with just his left hand, hence the dirty and greasy appearance. And really, it doesn’t look that bad. Probably feels worse for him, though, all that schmutz built up. Probably itchy and uncomfortable. 

You take your plate to the kitchen sink and give it a quick wash before drying it and putting it away. Joel sits in the chair he’s placed in front of the sink, and reaches behind himself for the dish soap, then kind of just puts it in your hand. You look at Joel, tilting your head in confusion. Sure, it's slim pickings for resources, but there’s a reason you’re close with the soapmaker here in Jackson. It’s the little things that keep you going; one of the little things being fruity scented shampoo that the soapmaker hooks you up with. 

You place the soap back on the kitchen counter and leave quickly to grab your shampoo, then come back to meet Joel at the sink. Joel looks at the bottle of shampoo in your hand, “What the hell is that?”, he asks. 

“My shampoo. It smells kinda like strawberries, see?”, you open the cap and squeeze the bottle to waft the scent towards him.

 Joel scrunches his nose, “It’s too girly.”

“You’re too girly,” you taunt, and Joel rolls his eyes. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m washing your hair, so I get to pick the shampoo. It’s like a spa night,” you chirp happily. 

“Nope, not a spa night,” he replies harshly, “Just wash my damn hair. No funny business.” When you stare down at him, unimpressed with his attitude, Joel backtracks, “Please,” he begs. 

“Spa night.”

“Fine,” Joel sighs in defeat and leans his head back into the sink, scooting down the chair. He looks deeply uncomfortable already, putting his weight on the left side of his body and raising his shoulder up and away from resting on the sink. Poor guy. You turn on the sink and begin to run the water over his scalp with the detachable faucet, but Joel yelps in pain. “Hot, s’ way too hot,” he says loudly, craning his neck away from the stream. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, quickly turning the faucet lever in the other direction. 

“Cold, cold, Christ—cold,” Joel hisses as he reaches behind himself to try to haphazardly adjust the lever himself, swatting his hand violently. He ends up hitting your hand instead, resulting in you dropping the faucet on his forehead. He yelps again and quickly sits up straight, water flinging across the room from his wet hair. “This isn’t gonna work,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Think we need to get this over with in the shower.”

“I think that’d work better,” you agree. 

So, you and Joel make your way upstairs, you’ve got your fruity shampoo in your hand. Joel’s wet hair drips down his neck and back as you follow him towards the bathroom where he turns on the shower, letting the water warm up. He shuts and locks the bathroom door before unbuttoning his flannel, again with his left hand only. Turning away from you, you watch Joel twitch and wince in pain as he tries to take off his undershirt. It kind of makes you sad, seeing him struggle like this. You wish he would have asked for help before now. “Joel?”, you tap his back. 

“Hm?”, Joel turns around and you reach his right arm. “Oh,” he says. Carefully, you do your best to painlessly help him out of his shirt, pulling his sleeve towards your body and keeping his arm as low as can be. You pull the rest of the shirt off of his body, catching a glimpse of his torso, his soft, pillowy belly. “Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“No problem.”

“I uh–,” Joel begins, turning away from you again and undoing his belt, “I’m gettin’ undressed and gettin’ in, okay?”

“Am I getting in there with you?”

“I’d reckon that’s probably easiest, yeah. And if ya don't wanna get your clothes wet, then you can take 'em off too,” Joel offers, “I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, so I'm keepin’ my eyes shut and facin’ the shower head the whole time so I don’t see anything I'm not ‘sposed to.”

“I appreciate that,” you reply. You’ve been through a lot with Joel, and truth be told, you’re both past the point of modesty, all that you’ve been through together. You have endless trust and respect for each other. Still though, you appreciate what he’s doing to keep you feeling safe and comfortable with him. A lot can be said about Joel, but he’s never been anything but respectful and considerate towards your safety and comfort. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’ll undress. Just give me a minute.”

“Not a problem,” Joel says. You face away from him as he takes off his belt, it lands with a clatter on the floor. Next his jeans and boxers, then each of his socks. You hear the sound of the shower curtain moving and his heavy footsteps in the bathtub. “M’done. Eyes stayin’ closed now.”

“Okay,” you say as you look at Joel through the shower curtain, unable to see much. You have no doubt he is, in fact, squeezing his eyes shut, but you smile to yourself when you notice where his arms lie. They’re resting across his body, his hands cupping his member securely. Oh, Joel. He’s a grump, but a gentleman nonetheless. 

After taking off your own clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor, you move the shower curtain aside and step inside of the tub. It’s a tight fit, despite being relatively spacious. There’s a built-in bench to the side of the shower where your soaps sit. Joel always complains you have too many lotions and potions taking up space, that they always fall on his toes when he bathes. Dramatic. 

 Immediately you’re in awe of Joel’s beauty. You can’t see his face, but you can see his back, freckled and scarred and striped with stretch marks here and there. Water trails down his neck and his spine. You can’t help but steal a peek of his ass, so firm and plump. He’s blessed, truly. 

“Doin’ okay?”, Joel interrupts your thoughts. 

“Oh– yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Gonna shampoo you now.”

“Get to it,” he tells you. 

You reach for your strawberry shampoo and squeeze a small amount into the palm of your hand, then reach up to lather it into Joel’s scalp. “I need you–”, using your hands to guide Joel to tilt his head back, “Yeah, like that. Thanks.”

“Mm,” he hums in response.  

You begin to wash Joel’s hair, building up a thick lather of bubbles. You pay special attention to the sides of his head, down towards his neck, scratching and massaging his scalp. It’s almost imperceptible, but you hear a slight groan, a soft exhale of relief as you scrub Joel’s head. Washing the hair near his neck, you toy with his curls, wrapping them around your fingers and watching them bounce and swing when you pull your hands away. You’re about to reach for more shampoo when you really see it– the bruise on his shoulder. It’s yellowing now, but there are still purple and blue splotches of his skin. “Fuck, Joel,” you mumble, tracing your fingers lightly over his bruise.

“Yeah, yeah.”

It was an accident. You know this, so you’ll spare Joel from your long-winded lecturing about taking care of himself. Instead, you just press a soft kiss to his bruise. 

“You– I um–”, Joel clears his throat, a little bashful now, “Need you to wash up by my hairline, f’ya wanna come up front here.”

“Yeah, of course,” you speak softly. You begin to scoot past Joel, but the tight fit of the two of you in the shower makes it difficult to move. You slip and reach for Joel’s arm. 

“Careful,” he warns you softly, “Here, I gotcha.” Joel, still keeping his eyes shut, holds your waist and helps guide you to stand in front of him. When you’re situated, he quickly protects his modesty once again.

You grab some more shampoo and reach for the front of his scalp. This time, you can admire more of him. His face, eyes scrunched tightly shut. Careful not to look at what he’s not supposed to. That little line between his eyebrows is more deep and prominent than usual. Water drips down the slope of his aquiline nose and his plump, rosy lips. Droplets cling to his wiry salt and pepper facial hair. He’s a work of fucking art. When Joel’s properly shampooed, you reach for the detachable shower head and start to rinse his hair, watching the strands fall on his forehead. 

You’re not sure exactly what happens, but in an instant, Joel is unexpectedly groaning and reaching for the shower head from your hand. You step back and watch him scramble to wipe his eyes and blink quickly. “Fuckin’, ahh,” he hisses, “Got soap in my eyes. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“S’okay, was an accident. Fuck,” Joel hands you the shower head and then wipes his eyes a few more times before he stops and stares at you before him, not even thinking about his rule. Fuck. He shuts his eyes quickly, but the damage is done. His mind is swimming with images of your body, the drops of water rolling down the curves of your breasts, your hips, thighs. His cock hardens almost instantly, and he hurries to cover himself again. “Fuck. I’m sorry. It’s not cause of you.”

“Okay, Joel,” you reply calmly. 

Joel groans. “No, it’s not like that, you– you’re– it’s…My shoulder’s been hurtin’, y’know how it’s been.” 

 “Mhm,” you hum, knowing where he’s going with this, “It’s okay.”

“Haven’t been able to take care of myself, uh…in that regard,” Joel clears his throat before continuing, “So I’m just a little wound up– oh–”

Joel’s interrupted when you step forward, reaching for his wrists to pull them away from his member. “I get it,” you whisper, “I can help with that too, if you’d like.”

“Jesus, fuck–”, Joel hisses as you touch his hips, his thighs, skating your fingers along his skin. He moans softly when your fingers lightly touch his heavy balls, the base of his cock, then trailing them up his shaft. “Quit– fuck – quit teasing me, hon. Not a smart idea.”

“I’m not teasing you, Joel.” 

Except Joel’s not listening. All he can think about is how fucking good it feels to be touched where he needs it most. He reaches for your hand, but doesn’t pull it away. Like he’s at battle with himself, doing what he thinks he’s supposed to do, not that he actually wants to. He wraps his fingers around yours, encouraging you to grip his cock tightly. But with his brow furrowed, he looks conflicted. “Don’t know what’s gotten into ya, but–”, he says shakily, “Hon– you gotta stop cause, fuck–”, he breathes, “Don’t think I have it in me– fuck – to walk away from you.”

“You don’t have to, Joel,” you coo quietly as you grip his cock tighter. You lean closer to Joel, wrapping one of your arms around his waist. Joel opens his eyes then, and you kiss his cheek, still stroking his cock. His thick head is nudging your hip as you work him, “Why don’t you let me help you with this?”

Joel nods, sighing in relief as he gives into you, gives into pleasure.  He’s been hard as a rock all week. Left hand just doesn’t do the trick, but yours, your hand does just fine. “Lord have mercy,” he gasps, “Thank you.” Rubbing your hand up and down his cock, you kiss his neck, then lower, his collarbones and his chest. Lower still, sinking to your knees as you kiss down that soft and pillowy tummy of his, trailing your tongue along that patch of hair that leads to his cock. You take his thick base in one hand and his ass in the other, then press sloppy kisses to his blushed tip, flicking your tongue over his soft skin. “Sweetheart,” he warns softly, “Doin’ too much for me.” 

“I don’t think so,” you tell him innocently before trailing your tongue along a prominent vein of his cock. 

“I disagree,” he mumbles quietly. Oh, Joel. Silly Joel. As if you’d satisfy him with just your hands. But this is as much for you as it is for Joel. You’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about him, kissing him and fucking him. He’s who you think about at night with your hand between your thighs. So no, taking him in your mouth is not too much. It’s what you both need. 

Joel hums sweetly as you guide him to your mouth, his thick head parting your lips. You toy with him, swirling, flicking your tongue, alternating between taking him deeply and more shallow in your mouth. He’s warm and thick, just like you imagined. His cock feels heavy in your mouth as you take him deeper and deeper, hollowing your cheeks to massage him. You love his smooth skin, how he squirms and his hips stutter when you slide his cock to the back of your throat. As he gains more confidence, he begins to draw in and out of your mouth slowly, an action encouraging to both you and himself. 

��Good god,” Joel groans as you work his shaft, one hand still squeezing his ass cheek, the other now fondling his balls, cupping and squeezing them gently. You hum against him, sending vibrations down his shaft. He reaches down, stroking your cheek with soft and warm eyes as you work him. His hand finds the back of your head, grunting as he inches you forward to take him deeper. 

 “Not lastin’ long the way you–”, he  chokes out, a stuttered string of profanities following as you feel his cock stiffen and twitch under your tongue, spurting hot ropes of his spend down your throat. It’s salty and warm and masculine, taking you by surprise. His orgasm surprises himself, too. You don’t mind, though. In fact, it’s flattering the way he’s come undone for you so quickly, so desperately. Poor Joel, so worked up and bent out of shape all week. Probably part of the reason he’s been so cranky.

He takes heaving breaths above you, his chest rising and falling steadily as he stares down at you in admiration. He’s got the kindest eyes. When you pull off of his cock, he offers his hand to you, helping you back to your feet. He thanks you again, then apologizes for finishing how he did. You assure him that you don’t mind a bit. “M’not gonna leave ya high and dry, you know,” he says, “You just give me a few days to get myself right and I’ll take good care of you. Return the favor and all that good stuff. Hm?”

Sure, Joel, you think, nodding to him. He nods back at you, feeling good and satisfied, already dreaming about getting you off in a few short days. How soft and wet your pussy will be, pulsing around his cock, all for him. He’ll make you come just as hard as he did, if not harder. He can see it now, he’ll have you falling to pieces under his tongue and his fingers. He just needs to fucking heal first. While Joel’s been favoring his right arm quite a bit, he still hasn’t been taking it as easy as he should have been. But he’s got a woman waiting on him now, and healing is his top priority. 

Joel smiles, you smile sweetly back at him as you wrap an arm around his waist for stability and set one of your feet on the ledge of the bathtub. His smile contorts into a confused frown as he watches you take your free hand and snake it between yours and Joel’s bodies, your fingers toying with your center. “Whatcha doin’?”, Joel asks. 

“Oh, you know,” you reply plainly. You sigh softly, tilting your head back as one of your fingers circles your hole. 

“No, no, no, no,” Joel protests, “No, thought you were gonna wait your turn.” 

“My turn’s right now,” you breathe, now dipping a finger into your entrance, curling it and swirling it around. “You’re not the only one with needs.”

“I know you got needs, hon, thought we just agreed I’d be the one to take care of ‘em,” he tries, “Right?”

“It’s alright,” you purr, “I got it.”

It’s almost cartoonish, how Joel’s expression turns from one of satisfaction and bliss to betrayal and astonishment. “I don’t like this,” he mutters, “It’s teasin’ me, you know.”

“Oh, Joel,” you whimper softly, your fingers now rubbing over your clit, “What don’t you like?”

“Uh, that,” he spits, “Don’t like hearin’ you moanin’ my name when I’m not the one touchin’ ya. Don’t like that at all.”

You pout, “Oh, you can touch me,” you offer as you take his left hand into your own, sliding it up your body. He thumbs the plump underside of your breast and glides his fingers over your nipple, feeling it harden beneath his touch. 

“Oh, real nice. You’re playin’ dirty,” he accuses, “You’re nothin’ but trouble. Shoulda known.”

You don’t bother replying as you begin to trace steady circles into your clit, dipping your fingers at your entrance to collect more of your arousal. Your fingers slip and slide through your folds with such ease. 

Joel growls, squeezing your breast harshly one last time before his arm finds your waist and he pulls you flush against his body. With your head still tilted back as you whimper quietly, Joel takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, biting and nipping at your hot, dampened skin. It only fuels you. “Joel,” you cry, “Fuck, oh my god,” as that warm, sticky feeling deep in your gut is beginning to build.

Joel watches you, conflicted. How sweet his name sounds falling from your lips with your broken, honeyed moans, but Jesus, he needs to be the one touching you like that, not you. He should have known it’d turn out this way, that you’d revel in having this one-up on him. Your fucking audacity. I made you come so hard you saw stars, and I’m doing the same thing to myself. And you can’t do a single thing about it. Ha. Ha. 

Joel holds you tighter when your cries begin to get louder as you reach your peak, your knees beginning to buckle. You moan frantically, loudly, and Joel watches you knit your brows together and your mouth drops open as you begin to fall apart. Your fingers massage your clit faster, harder, feeling that tension in your gut snap and splinter as waves of pleasure overtake you, washing over your body. With your eyes shut, you feel it deep in your stomach, down the back of your thighs, riding out your orgasm on your own fingers as Joel holds you close to his body.

When you finally open your eyes, Joel’s glaring at you. He says nothing. Deep down, he knew you’d probably end up taking care of yourself tonight, but in front of him? You’ve got some fucking nerve. 

When your breathing slows, Joel lets you go. He stares at you, unimpressed, mouth slightly agape. You take the opportunity to slide two of your fingers past his lips, letting him taste your sweet arousal on his tongue. His brows furrow and his eyes flutter shut as he groans deeply, hungrily. “Seriously?”

You nod with a smile, then press a quick kiss on his lips before shimmying past him to reach for your towel. You dry off and step out of the tub, and when you look back at Joel, he wears a scowl. 

“You’re the fuckin’ devil.” 

[sarahsardines]

NARCOS (2015-2017) 3.07 “Sin Salida” THE LAST OF US (2023-) 1.02 “Infected”

[sarahsardines]

twinkle [frankie morales x f!reader]

summary: when his daughter starts preschool, frankie needs a little help with after school care. enter you--and much to his dismay, frankie cannot stop thinking about you. ratings/warnings: E [smut, so much yearning, me making stuff about nannying and childcare, POV switch toward the end, frankie is kind of a perv but in a respectful way, PIV, male masturbation, frankie pussy eating king, subby Frankie, bossy reader, praise kink, kind of a housewife kink, I truly don’t know what got into me with some of this] wc: 8.3k [i maybe got carried away] a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! shout out to my love @mothandpidgeon for betaing! so this is @haylzcyon's christmas present, and i may or may not have used that as an excuse to make frankie look sweaty and pretty and wild in front of the christmas tree. also i always wanted to do frankie fucks the babysitter, so. happy holidays, babes! dividers by @saradika-graphics.

masterlist | frankie morales masterlist

Time moves faster since Francesca arrived, squalling and twisting her way from her mother as Frankie looked on in terrified fascination. Since her birth, he’s barely had a second to breathe. He thinks he wouldn’t mind the world moving so fast if the price of it was anything but her getting older at exponential speeds.

It feels like yesterday she was in diapers, and now she walks and talks and has her own opinions. Wherever she got this big brain of hers hadn’t come from him, of that he was sure. Now she’s old enough to notice; to be affected by his shitty moods or arguments with her mother or even when he’s late to pick her up. 

This year, though, there’s you.

You are a complication he couldn’t have foreseen in his wildest fucking dreams, but you’re here, and he’s tried his best for months not to let his feelings affect you or Franny. 

None of it’s your fault, of course; you’ve done nothing but be professional and caring and kind toward his daughter, and it makes this distant asshole act of his even more difficult. 

And goddamn, the holidays do not help. 

It’s his own goddamn fault he hired someone he was attracted to the second you came into his life. He’s tortured himself with this crush for months now; this totally inappropriate crush that haunts his every waking moment, despite his best attempts at distancing himself.

Frankie had been reluctant to get a nanny. Nannies were for wealthy families with four kids and vacation homes, not single fathers in two bedroom apartments and a preschooler. 

It was easier when she was in daycare—he could drop her off there in the morning and pick her up at six, but preschool threw the whole damn thing off. Preschool ends at noon, and he couldn’t leave work every day to go get her. He didn’t want to ask Franny’s mother for help, too afraid she might use that as some kind of evidence that he wasn’t stable enough for 50/50 custody. 

He didn’t think she’d be that vindictive, but it was a possibility. So he’d sucked it up and asked around, taking your number from Franny’s very enthusiastic preschool teacher who said you’d worked for a number of families in her classes. 

He was, of course, fucked the moment you’d walked into that coffee shop around the corner from his building, smiling brightly as you sat down and stuck your hand out to introduce yourself. You’d worn a suit, clearly tailored to your form, and handed him what he was sure was an impressive resume from a leather portfolio. He’s more than ashamed to say that he’d barely glanced at it, hiring you just a few minutes later. 

“Parents usually want to run a background check first,” you’d said, a little alarmed.

“Oh, uh—it’s okay. Franny’s teacher told me how highly recommended you are by all the parents from her class. The ones you worked for,” he’d said, tongue twisting over every word, but praying he’d covered his blunder. “And I need someone soon.”

“If you insist, Mr. Morales,” you’d said. “But I should meet her first.”

With that, he’d completely agreed.

He tried to stay as cool and calm and professional as you were, giving himself a stern talking to in his truck on the way home from work, and it took him all of three fucking days to cave.

You greeted him at the door on your third day, and he wondered if that was a normal part of having a nanny. It felt wrong, being ushered into his own home, but he’d liked seeing you there looking so soft and comfortable with Franny.

“Pick up went great, she knew exactly where to go. Miss Nicole and I are friends, obviously, so she’d have gotten her to me anyway. We ate all our veggies at lunch—”

He liked the way you said “we” instead of “she,” but he’d be damned if he could explain why.

In the middle of your report, you swooped down to pick Franny up and away from her puzzle to hand her off to Frankie, whose arrival she was wholly uninterested in. It wasn’t the first time you’d done it—you said it made for a good transition; a signal to her that the day was over and it was Daddy’s time with her now. 

Frankie’d been working on his impulse control over the last few years, but all that progress seemed to fly out of the window the moment the v-neck of your t-shirt gaped just enough to see a lacy black bra. He bit the tip of his tongue just to keep himself from groaning. 

“Daddy!” Franny admonished, reaching for him from your arms. “You not listening!” 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m a little tired. What’d I miss?”

You shrugged, and he kept his eyes firmly on your face. “She’s got some sniffles,” you said. “I didn’t wanna give her anything for it without you here, but I thought you might wanna keep an eye on it.”

He nodded, taking in the rest of what you had to say as you gathered your things to go home. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to start dinner, but I can certainly do that going forward,” you’d said, and his mouth had gone dry as he imagined you in his kitchen cooking for him.

For Franny, he had to remind himself.

“I…sure, I mean, you can—uh, I don’t usually plan ahead?” He stuttered, too focused on not choking on his own spit. 

“No problem. I’m happy to do meal plans for you two,” you said. Does he pay you enough to do meal plans? “Just let me know.”

You were on your way out the door when he found his voice. 

“Did you have, um—how was your day?” He asked. You stopped and turned back, a shy smile on your lips.

“It was really good, Mr. Morales. Franny’s a good kid. Thank you for asking,” you said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He watched you walk out, eyes glued the sway of your hips. 

During your second week, a heat wave hit. Franny was miserable stuck inside, all the excessive heat warnings making it too dangerous to play at the park after lunch. Even the balcony wasn’t shaded enough, and you had to bring her inside after twenty minutes. 

“She’s been a handful,” you told him that Friday. “But that’s hardly her fault. She’s just restless.”

He could tell you were tired, though, and he worried you’d decide not to come back in two weeks when Franny came back from her mom’s. 

It was so hot outside it crept into the apartment despite the central air, and your shirt clung to you, damp with sweat. 

He wanted to do something for you.

“Do you like ice cream?” He asked, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his damp hair as he watched you microwave Franny’s dinner.

“Sure. Why?” 

“I thought—if you’re not busy—after she eats, maybe we could get ice cream?”

You crossed your arms and grinned at him. “Is this some kind of bribe?” 

“Not a bribe,” he said. “I…just want to take you for ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Franny’s voice came from the living room, and you laughed.

“What you think, mija?” Frankie asked. “We all get some ice cream after you have your dinner?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands. 

“Guess that settles it,” you giggled. “Come eat your dinner, Franny.”

“Er—you don’t have plans, right? No boyfriend I’m keeping you from?” Frankie asked, settling her into her booster seat.

“Not these days. My social calendar is pretty dry lately. Ice cream sounds good. I won’t even charge you for my time,” you grinned, and Frankie’s heart thudded in his chest.

No boyfriend.

The ice cream shop was just around the corner, right next to the coffee place he’d interviewed you, but he almost regretted walking there in the goddamn heat. The air conditioner was on full blast, and he had to force himself to look away from your now-stiff nipples. 

Franny chattered about something he couldn’t pay attention to and you entertained her in between slurps of your ice cream cone. The outside heat infiltrated the small shop every time the door opened, despite the frigid air conditioning, and the vanilla ice cream slid between your fingers. 

Frankie watched your tongue dance across your knuckles, not wanting to waste your treat. He couldn’t help but imagine what else you might lick up so enthusiastically, regardless of how fucking wrong it was. 

All you were doing was eating. He shouldn’t have been so fucking turned on by something so mundane. Not here in public, not by the woman who cares for his daughter. 

The ice cream kept melting, messy and sticky and dripping down your fist, and he gritted his teeth, nodding every now and then to the words coming from your gorgeous, hot mouth.

Deep breaths, in and out, it’s fine, just eat your ice cream—

Something crunched in his fist, and he looked down to see his stretched-white knuckles covered in chocolate ice cream, his grip so tight he’d crushed the cone. Franny laughed, and you laughed, and he laughed, too, praying his scarlet cheeks weren’t too noticeable as you grabbed napkins and cleaned the mess before he could even react.

He loved that, though, the way you take charge; how you know exactly what to do.  

“Hold still,” you ordered. He obeyed, watching you throw the crushed cone away and wiping his hand down with a wet wipe from your bag. You dried him off with a napkin, running your fingers over his skin to make sure you got everything.

 “Thank you,” he murmured and you smiled, squeezing his hand and lingering there for a second longer than he expected. Electricity jolted through his body at your caress, and on the way back, he racked his brain for reasons for you to stay. 

He found none, of course, other than the real reason—to make you come as many times as you’ll let him—so he let you go home. 

Later that night, when Franny was asleep and he found a second of peace in the shower, he braced the tile wall with his forearm and wrapped his hand around his aching cock, pumping himself as he thought of you and the ice cream dripping down your knuckles and your stiff nipples and the way your soft hands felt on his. He let himself imagine your taste, what you’d sound like as he devoured you, what your hot, wet pussy would feel like on his face, around his cock—anywhere, he wasn’t picky.

He hadn’t wanted anyone like this in years. Not that he hadn’t had flings or attempts at relationships since he and his ex split, but his desire wasn’t like this. Frankie closed his eyes and imagined what your tits looked like under your shirt, if you knew he could see how cold you were. He choked back a loud groan at the thought of you wearing some thin little bra on purpose, just to fuck with him, just to see if he’d get on his knees for you.

Frankie squeezed the base of his cock, desperate to draw this little fantasy out a bit longer, but his body betrayed him. He came too quickly, breathing hard and murmuring your name as his spend spattered against the tile. As he pushed himself off the wall, the guilt washed over him while he watched his come circle the shower drain. 

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

Two weeks later, he’d  told himself he was over it. Franny was with her mom, so he hadn’t seen you, and it was just a fluke—you were beautiful and new, and he just got overexcited. It wouldn’t be a problem now that he’d gotten over his little crush. 

Sure, the first week consisted of him jerking off all over his apartment when he looked too long at something you touched or sat on, or when he scrolled your socials for a while, or thought about you, but that didn’t mean anything. Guys jerk off a lot anyway. 

The second week he slowed down, only touching himself once while he listened to a voicemail you left about needing to leave a few minutes early one day next week. And then again after he called you to let you know that was fine. 

He was starting to wonder if he could run out of come. He hadn’t masturbated this much since he first discovered he could do it. 

On the Monday you returned, he was much too tired from work to be nervous about seeing you again on the way home. It wasn’t until he pushed open his front door to find you in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot, barefoot in a pair of leggings with Franny on your hip, that he remembered how fucking out of his mind you made him. His mouth watered.

You turned around at the sound of the front door, setting Franny down so she could run to him. He greeted the both of you, your bright smile disarming him as he scooped Franny up.

All that progress he told himself he made on his stupid, ridiculous crush evaporated

“Hi, Mr. Morales,” you said, tapping the side of some spice jar into the pot. 

“Frankie,” he said, against his better judgment. “Just Frankie is fine.”

“Frankie,” you said, testing the word in your mouth. “I like that name, you know.”

“Thank you,” he said, fighting the strong urge to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss the back of your neck. 

You declined his invitation to stay and eat the dinner you’d made.

“I have a date,” you explained, and something ugly clawed at the inside of his chest. He ignored it because you were allowed to have dates, and he couldn’t say a fucking word about that.

Franny calls him out the moment you leave. 

“You love herrrrr,” she said from her booster seat, artfully arranging the broccoli on her plate. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, little miss?” He asked. She looks up at him, exasperated, as though it’s a hassle to repeat herself. 

“She’s pretty, so she’s the princess,” she said. “And you supposed to love the princess.”

Frankie laughs, always impressed with the perception of his three-and-a-half-year-old. “All right,” he says. “Eat your broccoli, mija, it’s almost bath time.”

She was not as excited about that. 

“Do you need me Monday?” You asked him Friday evening. “It’s Labor Day, so—”

“Oh! I guess it is, isn’t it?” Frankie laughed, suddenly pleased about his three-day weekend, as if he hadn’t known about it before. That quickly turned to concern for you, though, because that certainly meant your pay would be short, and Frankie knew all too well what that was like. “Technically, no. Do you have plans?”

“No,” you sighed. “Just hoping I can pick up a shift at my other job.”

“You have another job?” He asked, but it seemed silly as soon as he said it. 

“Well, of course,” she grinned. “You pay well, Frankie, but there’s two whole weeks I gotta supplement.”

“What’s your other job?” He asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You winked, and God, were you flirting with him? 

You were flirting with him.

“What if, uh—we’re going to the lake with some of my friends. What if you come with us and watch after Franny, and I’ll pay you double for hazard pay.”

You raised your eyebrows. “What’s the hazard pay for?” You asked. 

“Putting up with my idiot friends,” he said, and you laughed. He really loved making you laugh. 

You chewed your lip, thinking it over as you put your shoes on. He told himself it would be a big help to have someone to help with Franny, and ignored the fact that she had three overprotective uncles with plenty of experience reining her in. 

In the end you agreed, and he was mostly successful at keeping himself from seeming too excited about having you with him at the lake where he could, maybe, get to know you a little better.

And it all went well. It went beautifully. The guys loved you, he learned where you went to school, where you grew up, how you got into nannying, what your second job was. 

He learned that he was your favorite client, and you weren’t just flattering him. He wasn’t as stuffy as the others, you told him, which was nice. He made you feel less anxious. 

His chest warmed at that—he wanted you to feel comfortable.

But then there was the fucking sunscreen. 

He forgot all about it, of course, but you let them use yours. You slathered yourself in it on the way there, some fancy organic SPF 100 shit that smells fucking heavenly, adding a second coat to Franny halfway there and asking him, so politely, to put it on your back when the three of you arrived. 

Your skin was so soft—he felt like such a fucking creep as he lingered over the base of your neck, stroking you with his thumb and squeezing your shoulder when he’d finished. You were so beautiful that day—you always were, of course, but in the sun, splashing around the lake with his friends and his baby, it felt right. 

Like you were supposed to be there; like you should have been there all along. 

He dropped you off that evening and you kissed his cheek, and he grinned like an idiot all the way home. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, but what if he wasn’t? 

What if you liked him? 

For the rest of the week his truck smelled like that sunscreen. He’d get to work, completely unable to concentrate and tucking a boner into his waistband, contemplating asking you where you’d bought it just so he could get some and jack off with it. 

He was losing it over you.

This was bad. It was bad.

He saw how much Franny loved you and how much you loved Franny, and he had to figure something out. What if he made you uncomfortable enough that you left? Even if you were friendly, even a little flirty, what if he crossed a line? A month and a half in, he couldn’t lose you. 

That Friday, when he got home and found you making Franny eat carrots—she’d never eaten carrots before—he made himself put a stop to it before he did something completely stupid. 

“Frankie!” You called from the little breakfast table. “Did you have a good day at work?”

“Yeah, uh, can we talk? Over here?” He motioned to a further corner of the living room, away from Franny’s ears. 

“Everything okay?” You asked, stretching your arms over your head. He almost lost his way then. 

“Fine, fine. Look, uh, I think—” He cleared his throat. Why was he so fucking nervous? He’d killed people; how was giving the babysitter instructions so difficult? “I was thinking, we maybe should go back to some less informal interaction. I’d like for you to call me Mr. Morales from now on, please, and we should probably not be so…casual.”

Hurt ghosted over your features, confusion following them for the briefest second. Your posture changed; you stood straighter, your arms down by your sides as you pulled your shirt to cover yourself more. 

He wasn’t expecting that. 

“Oh! Sure,” you said, swallowing harshly. 

“It’s nothing—”

“Personal. I understand. No problem at all, Mr. Morales,” you said, looking away from him as you gathered your bags. “I should probably get going then. I’ll see you Monday, sir. Bye, Franny!” 

You scurried out of the door like you couldn’t leave fast enough, and he stood there as Franny chomped on her carrots, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.

This wall he’d put up is the best thing for his daughter, though, and you’d taken it in stride. He counts himself lucky—thinking with his dick could’ve led to him hiring someone much less professional. But not you. Your recommendations hadn’t been so glowing for no reason. 

You always look nervous when he comes home now, though, like you’re waiting for him to find something to be upset about. It weighs on him sometimes—you’d told him he made you feel comfortable, less anxious, and he’d pulled the proverbial rug out from under you just a few days later. 

But it’s right. Overall, it’s the right thing to do. 

It doesn’t mean he’s over you, though, and this current situation he’s found himself in might be the death of him. Or your job. Maybe both.

The logistics of equal custody can get a little tricky around the holidays. Franny’s with her mom this year for Christmas, and Frankie’s leaving early to visit with some family. His flight leaves at six in the morning, and his ex couldn’t get the day off. 

It was like a word problem on a standardized test, and he’d been bad at those in school.

You’d come up with the solution on your own—you’ll just stay the night and through the next day until her mother gets off work, and that way he gets to spend as much time with Franny as he can before she leaves for a week longer than usual. 

It makes sense. 

He’s behaved himself for months now, but here you are in his apartment, having a mini-Christmas with Franny. You’d pulled him aside when you arrived, looking more nervous than he’d ever seen you—he thought you were about to tell him you were quitting after this. 

“I just wanted to check and make sure before I give it to her, but I got Franny a present. It’s nothing big or noisy, I promise,” you assure him. “But would that be okay, Mr. Morales? I didn’t wanna cross any lines.”

You take better care of his kid than he does, and he’s made you feel like you can’t even get her a Christmas present. He wonders if that was the norm in the other families you worked for, the ones you’d told him that day at the lake that it was nice to have a break from. 

“Of course it’s fine,” he says softly. “She’ll love that. Thank you.”

You give him a sort of lop-sided smile as you open your bag and pull out a neatly wrapped box with a big silver bow on top. 

Franny squeals over her early present—a pink camera with a unicorn on the front, small enough for her little hands to hold and simple enough for her to figure out how to use within a few minutes. She runs around the apartment for a long while until Frankie tells her it’s time for dinner. At the table, she takes several pictures of her macaroni and cheese, of him, of you making silly faces. 

He didn’t even know Franny liked taking pictures so much. 

“How’d you know she wanted that?” He asks later as you empty the dishwasher. 

“Oh, she’s always stealing my phone and using the camera. I keep finding pictures of Barbie dolls and tea parties. I thought she might want one of her own,” you say. “And I won’t panic about my missing phone, like, five times a day.”

“That little thief,” he says, and you laugh. 

“She’s just curious. Much better than my last charge, who flushed my phone down the toilet twice.”

Frankie’s mouth falls open, aghast. “On purpose?”

“On purpose,” you smile. “Franny’s been a breeze.”

Frankie leans against the kitchen island, and when you turn around you’re dangerously close to him. He should move, he thinks, get away from you, but the lights from the Christmas tree are dancing in your eyes. 

You clear your throat. “Should we make some cookies? Franny was asking earlier.”

Frankie clicks his tongue, looking at the refrigerator. “I don’t know if I even have cookie dough.”

“I can make cookie dough,” you say, standing on your toes to rifle through the cabinets. “Bet you have everything in here.” He takes you in like this, greedy for you as your ass jiggles every time you jump a little to grab something else you need. A sliver of skin shows between your jeans and top, and his hands twitch as he tries to keep himself from curling a finger through your belt loop and pulling you against him. 

“Butter, sugar, flour, baking soda, salt, hmmm…oh! An egg. Are these eggs good?” You ask over your shoulder, and he pulls his gaze from your ass. 

“Should be,” he says, the back of his neck burning like he’d been caught ogling you. “Made eggs this morning.”

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Franny sidles up next to him, peering at you with interest. “What you doing, Daddy?” She asks. 

“We’re making some cookies,” he says. “You want some?”

“Yes, please!” She says, snapping another picture and toddling off to the living room to take pictures of the TV screen.

You pull out a mixing bowl and a cookie sheet, setting them gently on the little island. “Hand me the measuring cups,” you order, and he does without a second thought. 

“And the flour?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says.

He watches you work, waiting for any instructions you might give. It all feels so natural, slipping into this rhythm with you, and his cock stirs every time you nod at him with approval. You’re more relaxed than you’ve ever been around him. 

Everything you do turns him on, and it’s a fucking nightmare he doens’t want to wake up from. By the time you get the cookies in the oven, you’re covered in flour and the kitchen’s a mess again. He catches you before you start cleaning up, insisting you go take a shower and let him do it. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he says. 

“Thanks, Fran—um, Mr. Morales,” you say, and his heart thuds at the slip up. You slip away before he can change his mind again and tell you to disregard what he’d said before, call him Frankie, or Frank, or Francisco, call him whatever the fuck you want to call him. 

He almost chokes when you walk out in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, a fluffy robe thrown over your shoulders. He takes a deep breath, his attention now on making sure Franny doesn’t try to eat every cookie on the plate. 

They’re amazing—obviously they are, because you made them, and everything you do is amazing, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without telling you that maybe he doesn’t just have a crush, maybe he isn’t just a pervert, maybe he just really, really, really fucking likes you. 

But it won’t be tonight, so he needs to relax. 

He gets Franny to bed by eight, miraculously, and when he comes back to the living room it’s just the two of you. It’s almost never the two of you, and he can’t tell if he’s just imagining it or if the air in the room’s gotten thicker. 

You’re wrapped in that fluffy robe, legs tucked under you as you scroll your phone, so comfortable on his couch, in his home—goddammit, he wants you in his home all the time. How can you make him hard just sitting there, just existing?

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he says, and you nod, not looking up. “You’re welcome to watch whatever you want.”

“Okay, Mr. Morales,” you say. 

He is a weak, weak man. 

“You can—look, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think the Mr. Morales thing is necessary anymore. Just…call me Frankie.”

You smile softly. “Not gonna change your mind again?” You ask, and he can hear the uncertainty in your voice. “I don’t mind…I’m used to strict boundaries. It’s okay.”

“I won’t change my mind,” he says, and you nod. You don’t call him Frankie, but you don’t argue with him, either. 

He’s proud to say that he doesn’t jerk off in the shower, not with you right on the other side of the wall, no matter how insistent his cock is. 

Frankie digs out the one pair of pajama pants he owns and a white t-shirt, foregoing his usual tank top and boxers, tucking his dick under his waistband and hoping you don’t notice anything. 

“Great British Bake Off?” He asks, nodding toward the tv as he sits on the other side of the worn leather couch. You’re stretched out over the other cushions, a blanket covering your bare legs. He wonders what you’d do if he pulled it off of you and crawled between your legs. 

He doesn’t.

“Mmhmm. Old episode, though,” you say, getting up to hand him the remote. “I’ll just—”

“You going to bed already?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I didn’t wanna be all in your space, you know?”

But he really, really wants you to be all in his space.

“We could watch a movie. If you want.”

You smile. 

Frankie tosses and turns on the couch—this’ll be hell on his back in the morning, but he’d wanted you to be comfortable.�� And it’s not just the position keeping him in discomfort—he’s so fucking horny he thinks he might die.

He rolls over on his stomach, smushing his cheek into the pillow and sighing. He tries not to think of you asleep in his bed, all vulnerable and soft. He tries not to think of your tits spilling from that tank top, of the shorts riding up your thighs and exposing your pussy. He tries not to think of you having a dirty dream, whimpering in his bed and rubbing your thighs together, hips moving on their own and searching out friction in your sleep. 

Fuck.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s doing that—moving his hips in search of friction, pressing down into the worn leather couch. It feels…good. 

Frankie picks his head up, peeking around the room to make sure all the doors are closed. He turns the volume up on the tv to cancel out any noise and grinds his hips down.

His fist clenches around the pillow under his head as he presses up and down, back and forth, his foreskin doing most of the work. He should stop this, but he doesn’t know how he’ll get to sleep without some relief. He pulls his pants down and shirt up, trapping his cock between the soft leather and his belly. You were sitting right where he’s rubbing, and he can almost smell your soap. Precome pours from him as a hard shudder runs through his body, biting on the pillow to keep himself quiet.

It feels so good, so wrong—he shouldn't be doing this out here where you could walk right out and catch him. It would be humiliating, wouldn’t it, if you found him like this, fucking against the couch that smells like you?

But that only spurs him on, sweat accumulating on his temple as he rocks back and forth, grunting as quietly as he can. He keeps his eyes open, scanning the room, wishing now that you’d find him like this. He can almost hear that quiet giggle of yours as he humps faster, his eyes finally closing as he feels himself nearing his peak. 

How wet would your pretty little cunt get, watching him humiliate himself for you? Would you like that? Would you spank him, ride his cock, put your fingers inside of him—what would you do?

His eyes fly open at a sudden noise, and there you are, standing still, your mouth slack and eyes wide open. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You can’t sleep. 

Of course you can’t sleep, not in Frankie’s bed, even with the sheets smelling like fresh laundry. The scent of him is still embedded into the mattress, baked into the fibers of his pillow. You try not to think about what he does in here when he’s alone, or even when he’s not—how many people have felt the scratch of his patchy beard between their thighs; his thick, calloused fingers roaming their bodies? How many people have fallen apart around his cock? Was he rough? Was he soft? Did he talk them through their orgasm?

Did he let them talk him through his?

You’re not sure which would be better, but you’ll take whatever he’s willing to give. 

Not that he’s willing to give you anything.

This was stupid, falling in love with a client. It complicates everything, makes it so much harder to be objective. And it’s not permanent—one day they won’t need you anymore. Leaving a kid is always hard, but this one? This one’ll hurt if you don’t get it under control.

Sometimes you think there might be something there, but it’s always a fleeting glance here or there, a touch that lingers a little too long. He’d made it very clear months ago he wanted a professional relationship only, and that was totally fine. He didn’t want anything else.

Right?

You toss and turn a little longer, the TV on the other side of the wall a bit too loud for comfort. Surely he’d fallen asleep by now.

The door opens without a quiet creak, and your eyes adjust to the relative brightness of the living room. The tree lights are still on, twinkling like little stars. Movement from the other side of the room catches your attention, and it takes a moment to work out what’s happening on the other side of the room.

Frankie’s all lit up by the tree lights bouncing off his warm olive skin, but it’s his hips you're mesmerized by. His eyes are closed, a thin sheen of sweat glimmering from his exertion as he grinds himself against the couch—the exact spot you’d been sitting in earlier—panting quietly, allowing himself a weak whine every few seconds. 

Holy shit.

It briefly occurs to you that you should turn around, afford him this private moment he might desperately need before a stressful trip, but how private is he being, really? How’s this your fault?

You could’ve come out at any time, but here he is. In the middle of the living room, doing…that. Wetness pools between your legs, as if you weren’t already aroused enough, wrapped in his sheets and fighting with yourself about stealing one of his shirts.

He looks so beautiful in those lights. His mouth hangs open, hushed groans starting to pour out with each new thrust of his hips. A particularly bright flash comes from the TV screen and you catch a glimpse of his cock trapped under his belly, and you’ve never wanted to be a couch so badly in your life. 

Frankie Morales has a huge dick.

You knew it.

When his eyes finally open, he blinks a few times, and everything moves in slow motion—his eyes go wide and panicked as he stills, pushing himself up to stop the cant of his hips, but his cock doesn’t seem to care what’s happening. 

In fact, his cock seems to like it an awful lot. 

He tries to cover himself but seizes up before his hands make it to his waistband; instead he gasps, crouching over and grabbing the back of the couch; he squeezes the cushion with one hand as his eyes close again and lets out soft, needy grunts. Your eyes slide back down to his throbbing cock, unable to look away from the ropes of thick, pearlescent come splattering onto the couch, his hips thrusting into nothing.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, and you have never, ever seen anything hotter in your life. The sound of it landing rings in your ears; you can barely hear his apologies. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You hover in the hallway for a moment, trying to decide if you should go to him or disappear, but he’s looking at you with his big eyes, his chest still heaving with effort. 

“It’s okay, Frankie,” you say, taking a chance. “I’m not upset.”

He frantically stuffs himself back into his pants, pausing as he takes in what you’ve said.

“You’re not?” He asks through ragged breaths, looking around for something to clean up his mess. 

“No,” you murmur, grabbing the remote on your way to him and turning off the TV. “Not at all. I…liked it.”

Frankie doesn’t move as you settle in front of him, doesn’t recoil at your fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging up. He raises his arms up and lets you pull it over his head.

“You made a mess,” you whisper, and he nods, transfixed as you use his shirt to clean it up. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, looking up at you through long lashes and groaning as you run your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You liked it?”

Frankie puts his hands on your hips, a shaky finger curling into your waistband and tugging. With the TV off, the lights glitter in his eyes, and the little halos bouncing off his glistening chest are angelic and sinful at once.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sit back.” He listens, no questions, and you straddle him, both knees planted firmly against his outer thighs. “What were you thinking about, baby?”

He sighs, squeezing your hips as you explore the breadth of his chest all the way down the swell of his belly. 

“You,” he admits. “Always you. I think about you all the fucking time, I’m so sorry, I know it’s not—”

“Shh,” you soothe. “It’s all right, Frankie. I think about you, too. All the time.”

He runs his hands over your waist, hovering at the hem of your shirt and searching your eyes for permission. You nod, and he slides his hands up your shirt, thumbing at the sides of your breasts. You rock gently against him, waiting for his answer. 

“You don’t think I’m a…pervert or something?” He asks.

“I didn't say that, did I? I think you were being a bad, bad boy out here. Thinking about me, fucking yourself where I could walk right in here,” you chastise, and he shudders underneath you. 

“I’m so—”

“Why don’t you apologize properly, hm?” You purr. “We can get comfortable in your room. If you’d like.”

He nods eagerly, but before you climb off, he wraps his big hand around the back of your neck and presses a kiss against your lips, pulling a soft squeak from you. You melt against him, almost forgetting you’re in charge, but his lips are so soft and needy you haven’t lost any control.

How long has he wanted to do this?

Why hadn’t he done it before?

“Frankie,” you murmur against his lips, and he pulls back, letting you guide him to the bedroom. 

You lean against the pillows, his eyes darkening as you spread your legs. He makes himself at home between them, pulling off your tank top and stripping your shorts in two quick motions. 

“You were bad,” you murmur again, and you don’t just mean earlier. 

“How can I fix it, bebita?” He asks, eyes softening, and you think he gets the message.

“You wanna make me come?” You ask, and he nods eagerly, pressing himself against you. He’s already stiff again.

“I’ll give you anything. Please,” he begs.

“You can eat my pussy to apologize,” you order and he whines, crashing his mouth to yours in a sloppy kiss. He trails down your chest, licking and sucking little marks until he gets to your cunt, tweaking your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. 

You thread your fingers through his hair and tug; he shudders and buries his face in your cunt, teasing your clit with his tongue. 

“Fuck, I knew you’d taste good, I knew you’d taste so fucking good,” he growls. “Open your legs a little more for me, please, baby, lemme see you.”

He inhales, nudging your clit with his nose and circling your hole with his tongue. “Smell so fucking good, too, goddamn. Knew this little pussy would be so—fucking—good—”

Frankie Morales is relentless with his tongue, grunting like an animal as he takes his time to figure out what feels good and moaning in satisfaction when he finds something you like. 

Pressing firmly with the flat of his tongue, he licks long, languid circles as his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs. It feels like heaven, like you’ve needed this your whole life, and you clench around nothing as your orgasm nears. 

He notices.

“You want my fingers, bebita?”

“Please,” you sob, forgetting you’re supposed to be in charge. All you can think about is his soft, wet tongue and the way his hair feels between your fingers. He slides one thick finger inside of you, hooking it upward and curling, brushing against something that makes your toes curl. Your hips thrust up so high he has to lay his forearm across your belly to hold you still.

“Think you can take another one, baby, gonna give you one more,” he says, and you have to bite your fist to keep from crying out as he pushes the second finger in. He strokes you insistently, fingers working in tandem with his persistent tongue and your whole body tremors as you inch closer and closer. 

“Frankie,” you whimper. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, please—”

“That’s it, just let it happen, come on, don’t fight it, baby, come for me, come f—” You fall apart around his fingers, mouth open as you gush so hard you push his fingers out of you, and he lets out a long, guttural moan, praising you with soft murmurs. “Oh fuck, fuck yeah, so good, baby, did so fucking good, look at all that you gave me—”

You throw your arm over your face, sobbing quietly as it just keeps going, your legs shaking and twitching as he rubs your outer thighs. “Fuck, Frankie, Frankie, feels so good, feels so good,” is all you can manage.

You lift your arm to find him looking up at you, eyes glazed over and his face dripping with you and he’s so, so beautiful. You don’t think he knows how beautiful he is, and you wonder if anyone’s ever told him that. 

He crawls up your body to meet you, kissing you fiercely, still hungry for you. “Am I forgiven?” He asks. You smile and slide your thumb over his bottom lip. 

“No,” you murmur, and his sweet, eager face falls with disappointment. Your reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock, closing your eyes to savor the way it pulses in your hand. “You still need to fuck me, don’t you? Because I still need your cock, Frankie.”

“R-really?” He asks.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you say, giving him an out. “But I would really love you to fuck me with that big, pretty cock.”

“Yeah. Yes, ma’am, please, let me—”

He clamors for his bedside drawer, fishing out a condom.

Responsible. You like that. 

He rolls it down that pretty cock of his and starts to line himself up with you, but you have something else in mind.

“Wanna ride you,” you say, switching positions with him. His eyes rove over your body as you swing your legs over his thighs, and he scoots up to a sitting position against the pillows. 

“Wanna kiss you,” he says, groaning as you sink onto him. “Think about this all the time.”

You breathe as you adjust to his size, the slight stretch disappearing quickly as you start to move. You wish you could feel his cock without the barrier, wish he could come inside of you and watch it leak out of your spent pussy, but the way he’s looking at you, worshipful and earnest, more than makes up for it. He pulls you to him, all teeth and tongue and need as he pants into your mouth. 

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, I don’t know—don’t know how long I’ll last. You feel so fucking good. Wanted this for so long.”

You moan at his confession, your pussy clenching around him and pulling another groan from him. “You gonna come that fast, baby? When you just came? My pussy feels that good?” It’s too easy to tease him. He wraps his arms around you, like can’t get close enough to you, and whimpers and holy fucking shit, you love that noise. 

So you keep talking. 

“It’s okay, Frankie. I won’t be mad. You’ll still be a good boy for me if you come fast, you can’t help it if it feels good, right?”

He shakes his head, grunting something that sounds like “no” as he starts to thrust up into you. He slots his arms under yours, his fingers anchoring over your shoulders from behind, and all you can do is hold on. Not exactly riding him, but this is really fucking good, too.

“Fuck me like you need to, baby. Wish you could come inside me, Frankie. Wish you could make a mess inside me, I’d make you clean it up, lick it out of—”

“Wanna come in you, wanna come in you so bad,” he says. “Wanna keep you, wanna—fuck—wanna make you my little woman, want you to boss me around, please, baby, fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Frankie lets out a long, quiet groan, shuddering like he had in the living room, and you whisper encouragement in his ear.

“Sorry,” he moans. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” you murmur, not entirely sure what he’s sorry about. He doesn’t let you move from him, your foreheads pressed together, lips molded as he comes back to Earth. 

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

“I’m…oh, fuck,” he says, kissing you all over your face. “I’m amazing.” He kisses your nose. “You’re amazing.”

“Yeah?”

After he takes some time to breathe, you’re able to move from his lap, his softening cock slipping from you. You could’ve kept him in there all night, you think. 

He ties off the condom and throws it away, throwing on boxers and says he’s going to check and make sure Franny’s still asleep. 

You make your way into his bathroom to clean up, putting your clothes back on and dreading whatever post-orgasm clarity conversation was about to happen. His mumbled apologies seemed like a bad sign, and your stomach churns. 

He’d also said nice stuff, things you know better than to take seriously if men were in the heat of the moment, but you don’t think you’d mind bossing him around if he let you. As you open the door, you take a deep breath and find him sitting on the bed with a glass of water on the nightstand. 

Dammit, he’s so pretty. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “We should probably talk—”

“Look, I get it,” you cut him off, trying to get ahead of him. “I’m still fine to stay here through the day tomorrow. I can give you some good referrals to other sitters—”

“What do you mean?” He asks, frowning. “Why would I need that? Are…you’re quitting?”

“No, I mean—I thought you’d want to remove any complications,” you explain. 

“You’re not a complication,” he says, holding his hand out. You look at it warily, taking it with suspicion. “I wanted to tell you I’m rescheduling my flight so I don’t have to leave tomorrow.”

“Really?” You ask, and he nods, handing you the glass of water. 

“You thought I was gonna fire you? After…that? Right before Christmas?” He asks. 

“I’ve heard plenty of stories, Frankie,” you murmur, taking a drink of water.

“I wanted to spend time with you. I want to take you on a date, if you’ll let me.”

“I’d love that,” you say, the constriction in your chest dissipating with his sweet smile. “I just…”

“What?” He asks, cupping your cheek. “You can tell me.”

“You don’t like me,” you say. 

“What?” 

“You don’t like me! You did, and then—and then you didn’t anymore, back in September. And you were apologizing when we—”

“I was being an idiot. I wanted to do what was best for Franny and I thought if I came onto you it would fuck everything up,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck and gives you a sheepish grin. “And I was apologizing because I came so fast. You just felt so good.”

“Oh,” you say, letting this information wash over you with another swig of water. 

“Oh?” He asks, his eyes all big and round and worried and sweet and how can a grown man be so cute?

“It’s a good ‘oh’. I’m glad I know. I like you, Frankie. I always have.”

“I like you, too.”

You fall asleep tangled in his arms, talking late into the night, and in the morning you wake up to the noise of a camera shuttering and several bright flashes. 

“Why you both in here?” Franny asks, clicking away like a miniature paparazzo. Your mouth opens and closes with all the grace of a land-dwelling bass fish, and blessedly, Frankie wakes up before you can answer. 

“Come here, mija, let me see that,” he says, and Franny climbs in bed with the two of you, presenting her camera to Frankie for inspection and successfully distracting her as you slip out to put your robe back and start breakfast. 

They come out of his room a few minutes later, and Frankie comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing the back of your neck. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

“Close enough,” he says.

[sarahsardines]

need that charles dickens

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

word count: ~1.9k

summary: “What do you say, have I been a good elf for Santa?”

“Am I Santa in that scenario?”

“Sure,” you grin mischievously, “if you come down my chimney.”

tags: explicit smut -> 18+!, pre/no outbreak, established relationship, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), praise kink, use of restraints, mention of a safeword, dom/sub dynamic, dom!Joel, sub!reader, questionable christmas dirty talk (don’t look at me), mention of alcohol consumption, no use of y/n

a/n: I don’t have anything to say for myself. I listened to A Nonsense Christmas by Sabrina Carpenter one million times today and then felt the need to write this. Please don’t take it seriously. Merry Christmas my loves 🫶🏻

dividers by @/saradika-graphics who is amazing!

full masterlist here / follow @janaispunknotifs and turn on notifications for fic updates!

You and Joel are sitting on his living room floor in front of the Christmas tree and its twinkling lights, wrapping the gifts for Sarah while she’s spending the evening at Tommy’s. You’ve shared a bottle of wine and a bunch of cookies and now you’re wrapping the last gift, placing a bow at the top and putting it next to the other gifts. You gather them up and place them prettily under the tree, looking at Joel for appreciation.

“What do you say, have I been a good elf for Santa?”

Under other circumstances you’d probably cringe at yourself, but the glass of wine has you feeling bold and Joel is looking even more handsome than he usually does in the soft light, accentuating his scruffy beard and the wild curls on his head that you want to run your hands through. He chuckles and shoots you a warm look with his deep brown eyes.

“Am I Santa in that scenario?”

“Sure,” you grin mischievously, “if you come down my chimney.”

Joel huffs at your tone and stands up, pulling you to your feet along with him and resting his large hands on your hips, your body flush against his and your faces so close that you can feel his soft breath against your lips.

“Yeah?” he asks in a low voice, “you want me to fill your stocking?”

There’s a hungry glint in his eyes and you’re delighted that he’s joining in your antics. You wrap your arms around his neck and nod eagerly, trying your best to give him a convincing pout and to not break into giggles.

“Mhm. With all those presents in your big sack, Santa.”

“Fuck’s sake…”

Joel shakes his head, then lets his hands trail down until he grabs at your ass and pulls you closer, so close that you can feel his cock hardening as he grinds against you. You capture his lips in a hungry kiss, tugging at the curls that you had eyed earlier.

“Bedroom,” you whisper and he hums in agreement, letting you lead him up the stairs with his hand tightly held in yours.

He tugs at your clothes as soon as you’re over the threshold, his hands running over the bare skin under your sweater before he pulls it over your head and quickly unclasps your bra. He kneads your breasts for a minute, placing messy kisses on your neck and nipping at the skin there, then moves on to slide your jeans down your legs.

Joel crowds you against the bed and you sink down, watching eagerly as he rids himself of his shirt. You can never get enough of the sight of his body, the wide shoulders and the muscular arms, the softness of his belly and the dark hairs that trail down under the waistband of his pants.

He pushes you up the bed until your head is resting against the pillows and his mouth is back on your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin and causing arousal to pool between your legs.

“Hands above your head, sweetheart,” he demands, his voice soft but firm in your ear. You can’t help letting out a whine.

“Please Joel, I want to touch you.”

He clicks his tongue, his fingers harshly pinching at your nipple.

“No, you want to be a good girl for Santa, remember? Hands above your head. Now.”

You huff, but slowly raise your hands towards the headboard.

“Never should’ve started that Santa shit,” you grumble and he chuckles.

“No, this is fun.”

You watch in disbelief as he produces a piece of the red gift ribbon that you had used earlier from his back pocket and proceeds to tie your wrists to the headboard with it, a smirk dancing around his lips.

He keeps hovering over you, his broad body spreading your legs and he searches your face for a moment before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“Such a pretty present for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “What’s the color, sweetheart?”

You arch an eyebrow at him.

“Of that ribbon or how I’m feeling?”

“Don’t be smart with me,” he warns you, his harsh fingers finding your nipple once more and causing your breath to stutter as your hips buck upwards against him. He smirks but doesn’t comment on it, waiting for your answer.

“As green as that fucking tree downstairs,” you grumble and he laughs, his lips finding yours again and his tongue licking into your mouth, caressing yours until you’re breathless and writhing under him.

He grinds his hips into yours, the bulge in his pants rubbing against your already soaked underwear and you let out a breathless moan.

“Joel, please.”

He pulls back until he’s standing and you’re immediately missing his weight on top of you, your eyes glued to his frame as he shoves his jeans and underwear down in one go. Your eyes fly to his cock, taking in the size of him and you subconsciously bite your lips. He strokes himself slowly, watching your expression.

“Was this on your wishlist, sweetheart?”

You can’t believe that he’s still going on with the bit, but you nod and give him your best expression of innocence.

“It was, but I’m afraid that package is too big to gift wrap, Santa.”

“You think?” he growls as he lowers himself back on the bed and hooks his fingers under your panties, pulling them down in a swift motion and leaving you bare before him. His fingers tease at your folds, gliding through the wetness that has collected there and up to rub at your clit gently, causing you to whine and your hips to buck upwards again.

“You’re drenched already, darlin’,” Joel smirks, “let’s see just how well Santa can fill your stocking, hm?”

You’re too far gone to say something about the ridiculous dirty talk and just throw your head back, a breathy “please” falling from your lips when he touches your clit with more pressure and and pushes two fingers into you.

“There you go, you’re such a good girl, so wet for me already.”

He leans down between your legs until his breath fans over your pussy, his shoulders pushing your legs apart and his arms wrapped around them, holding them in position. You're almost trembling beneath him, desperate for more.

“Please Joel,” you whine helplessly and you rather feel his laugh against your skin than you hear it.

His teeth find the soft skin of your inner thigh and he nips at it, making your leg twitch in his grasp.

“Patience, baby. Good girls take what’s given to them, when it’s given to them, don’t they?”

He looks up at your face from between your legs, his eyes dark and glinting in the dimly lit room. You helplessly tug at the restraints and he bites your other thigh, hard enough to make you cry out this time.

“I said, be patient.”

You bite your lip again and try to relax your body while holding his burning gaze until he’s satisfied and presses a kiss to the skin he just bit.

“Good girl, I knew you could do it.”

He finally lowers his mouth to your pussy, starting with gentle licks against your clit that leave you whimpering while his fingers are thrusting into you. You can feel yourself getting closer to your release, your walls fluttering around his fingers and he starts sucking on your bundle of nerves while curling his fingers upwards. Your legs start trembling and you push your hips into his face as you cry out his name, pulsing around him when the tension inside of you snaps and bliss starts flooding your body.

Joel works you through your orgasm, then slowly pulls his fingers out of you and places a gentle kiss on your clit that makes you shiver with a mix of overstimulation and new anticipation. He pushes himself up until he’s on top of you and you smile up at him.

“Thank you,” you whisper, lifting your head to meet his lips as he’s leaning down to you. You taste yourself on his lips and his tongue and moan into his mouth, your body writhing beneath him, desperate for friction once more. He cups your breasts, toying with your nipples and you feel a new wave of arousal flood your pussy.

“You want more?” he asks and you nod eagerly.

“Needy girl,” he smiles, reaching down between your bodies and nudging his cock at your dripping entrance, “let me fill you up.”

He pushes into you slowly, stretching your walls and you moan out a garbled version of his name when he bottoms out inside of you, his own groan catching in his throat.

“I know sweetheart,” he coos, kissing your cheek, “it’s a lot to take, isn’t it? You’re doing so good for me.”

His praise makes you keen and you want nothing more than to run your hands over his strong shoulders and down his back, desperate to feel his hot skin under your fingertips.

He stills inside of you, taking in your face and the hungry look in your eyes.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Good,” you whisper, trailing off into another moan, “g-green. Harder, Joel, please.”

“Good girl, asking so politely.”

He presses his lips against yours once more, then he straightens up and lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, pulling out until only his tip is wedged inside of you and forcefully thrusting back into you. Your mouth falls open at the new angle and you all but shout his name, making him groan.

“Yeah baby, let me hear you. Tell me who makes you feel this good. Tell me who this pretty fucking pussy belongs to.”

The harsh rhythm he’s setting with his thrusts pushes the air out of your lungs and he grabs your face, forcing you to look at him.

“Tell me who, sweetheart.”

“Y-you Joel, fuck, feels so good,” you stutter, already feeling the tension building up again.

“Taking it so well, good fucking girl. Let me feel you come again, come on.”

He pounds into you harder, reaching down to rub at your clit again and you whine, your back arching off the bed as you’re desperately chasing your high, his cock dragging against your walls and hitting deep inside of you.

“Give it to me sweetheart, I know you can do it,” Joel pants, giving you another particular hard thrust and you clench down around him, breathless moans falling from your lips and your vision swimming as your orgasm crashes over you.

“Fuck,” he groans, stilling with his hips pressed against yours, his hands digging into your thighs as he pulses and releases his cum deep inside of you.

He stays like this for a few seconds, catching his breath, then lowers himself onto his elbows and kisses you deeply before he releases your wrists and gathers you in his arms.

“You did so well for me,” he whispers, peppering your face with kisses and holding you close against his chest.

“I guess Christmas came early,” you giggle, feeling happy and warm in his embrace, basking in your post orgasm haze. Joel huffs out a laugh and holds you tighter.

thank you so much for reading! if you liked it, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment - nothing would make me happier 🫶🏻

[sarahsardines]

"I understand. If my, uh... If mine, brought strangers into our situation, I wouldn't be happy either."

insp | anonymous asked: joel/tess or tommy/maria

[sarahsardines]

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, until he becomes my enemy again. When that happens, God help them."

@pedgito asked: joel miller or javier peña

[sarahsardines]

Showing off my tits in Joel’s flannel idgaf

I fucking love my fiancé I’m gonna take a bunch of nudes for him now

[sarahsardines]

just kill me already.

Pharmacy

Summary: (mall rats 6) Surrounded by medical supplies is a convenient time to slice your hand open. Joel wrestles your stubborn ass to treat your wound, then fucks you how you like.

Tags: Jar Jar Binks, Star Wars opinions, manhandling, descriptions of injuries (I tried to keep it as short and sweet as I could, bc I myself am a squeamish girl!! I was squirming the whole time writing this!!!) blowjobs, f masturbation, kinda rough unprotected PIV, creampie, dirty talk, reader and Joel have googly eyes for each other

A/N: as always thank you so much @papipascalispunk for editing. Thank you all for your continued patience with my writing, I am a busy busy lady and you may not get another fic from me for two weeks or more with the whole finals thing, but I do have lots of shit planned! One thing at a time bug one thing at a time. I wish I could write smut for my history of Indiana final essay but I don’t think that would fly with my nun-obsessed professor. Also, thank you @noxturnalpascal and @speckledemerald for hyping me up ❤️❤️

Joel is standing in front of a map of the mall, studying it intently. It’s been a while since you’ve been at the mall with Joel, actually. With the weather getting worse with more and more snow, Tommy is trying to keep travel limited to patrol. Supply runs for necessities only, and Jackson is in need of medical supplies. Rubbing alcohol, gauze, bandages, first aid supplies. There’s actually a medical building not far from Jackson, but it’s pretty well picked over at this point. 

“Mall has a pharmacy. A CVS or Walgreens, somethin’ like that. I’ll go,” Joel had volunteered in Tommy’s office. 

“I’ll come too,” you added as you were helping Tommy fill out patrol logs.

Joel sighed, “No.” 

“Why not?”

“Supposed to be a quick trip. In and out. Don’t need you gettin’ distracted by lotions and perfumes again.”

“Those are necessities,” you argue, “Besides, buddy system. It’s important for us to stick together.” 

“We are not buddies,” Joel scoffed. Tommy raised his eyebrows in amusement.

“No? What are we, then?” 

Joel opened his mouth as if to answer with something sharp and argumentative, but no words came out. His cheeks turned rosy as you both shared an odd look, with Joel’s hands frozen on the buttons of his coat. The pencil you wrote with felt heavy in your hand, held awkwardly on the paper as you stared at Joel. You didn’t mean for that question to come out the way it did. What was the answer to the question, anyway? 

Tommy filled the silence with his own answer. “I know what y’all are,” he smirked. 

Joel shot Tommy a warning look, then took your jacket from behind your chair and held it open for you. “Let’s go, then,” he said. You put your arms through the sleeves, zipped yourself up and left. You could hear Tommy chuckling to himself as you walked out with Joel.

You rode horseback to the mall. Still feeling awkward from the interaction at Tommy’s, you both stayed silent, but the ride wasn’t uncomfortable. You hugged Joel tightly, and Joel savored the warmth of your cheek on his back. 

“Found it,” Joel taps the map, “I remember now. It’s downstairs.”

“Ha!” you brag, “I told you. I knew it was downstairs. I was right.” 

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll throw a party when we get home,” Joel replied, taking off towards the dilapidated staircase. You follow close behind, dragging your fingers against the railing, letting your hand tap each of the thin rods that support it. One breaks off and falls with a clatter. Joel doesn’t bother turning around to see what it was. “You break these stairs, you find us a new way out of here,” he warns. Dramatic. You pick up the thin rail and twirl it as you walk behind Joel, then poke his ass with the piece of metal. Already exhausted by you, he sighs, “What’d you find now, trouble?”

“Lightsaber,” you answer. 

“What?” Joel tilts his head and turns around to finally see what all the noise and clattering was. You’re holding one of the thin rods from the railing, still twirling it. “No, put that down,” he tells you, “You’re gonna give yourself tetanus. Put it down, sweetheart.”

“Ellie lent me this DVD. Did you ever see this old movie, Star Wars?”

“Quit while you’re ahead,” Joel grumbles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, “Ain’t that old, smartass. And of course I’ve watched Star Wars, who do you think introduced it to her?”

“Oh,” you reply, “Well, there was this character, Jar Jar–”

“Nope,” Joel cuts you off, “You’re done. Lost your talkin’ privileges. Drop your lightsaber and zip it.”

Still twirling the rod you ask, “You don’t like Star Wars?”

“I like Star Wars. What you watched is not Star Wars.”

“Yes it is, Joel. It was on the DVD.” 

Joel turns back around and keeps walking, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yeah I do. Mesa–”

Joel interrupts, “Do not finish that sentence,” he warns, “God, that movie was so stupid. Took Sarah to see it when it came out, we ended up leavin’ halfway through and gettin’ ice cream instead.” You watch Joel smile at the memory as you approach the pharmacy and he holds the door open for you. You smile with him. Joel doesn’t talk about Sarah much with you, but he mentions her now and then, at least more than he used to.

You and Joel find the first aid aisle of the pharmacy. He knows what to look for, so he peruses the aisles and stuffs his bag full of supplies. Watching him bend over, you can’t help but poke his ass again. “Knock it off, space cadet,” he says, annoyed.

You giggle to yourself and toss the rod aside. You hadn’t realized the end that you were holding was damaged when you broke it off the railing. Fuck. It’s sharp, jagged, and slices your palm all the way across. The rod clangs on the ground and startles Joel. 

Joel turns around to see the rod on the ground, and you clutching your fist tightly. “What’s in your hand?”

“Nothing,” you answer, feeling your hand become warm and wet. 

Joel connects the dots. He bends over and checks the rod for rust and there’s none, thank god. But the end is very jagged, almost serrated like a knife. “Open your hand.”

“No,” pressing your lips together, you lower your gaze and open your fist slightly to check your hand, then quickly shut it. Joel watches your eyes go wide and the color draining from your face. “It’s n–mmm,” you hum, your voice shaky, “I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine,” Joel reaches for your hand, “You’re hurt. Need to see how deep that cut is, clean it and–”

You shove Joel backward with your free hand, and he looks momentarily taken aback. There was a lot more strength behind that shove than he would have anticipated. You’re not playing, not teasing like usual. “Do you wanna try that again?” he asks, his voice firm.

“Don’t touch me.” 

Joel takes in your expression. You’re not trying to start a fight with him, you look worried, anxious, and defensive with pale lips and trembling hands. You had mentioned not handling blood or pain well before, but he didn’t know you were this squeamish, you poor thing. “I have to, hon.”

“Joel…”

Joel raises a hand in your direction, “Don’t argue with me on this. You need to sit down, I can tell you’re gettin’ freaked.”

“Joel,” you say his name again in a warning tone, much sharper than before. 

“I know,” he says softly, as he steps closer to you, and you step back, your feet hitting the wall behind you. You’re feeling more amped up now. “Just let me look,” as he reaches for your wrist and pulls you closer, his grip tightening when you struggle against him and try to pull your arm away. “Quit squrimin’,” he grits his teeth as he fights against your strength. Minding his own strength, and with one hand gripping your wrist, he moves the other to your shoulder and forces you to the ground as gently as he can. A sliced hand is bad enough, he doesn’t need you fainting and cracking your skull open. You kick your legs and punch against him, but he pins his body on top of yours, your free hand between your body and his leg.

“Get the fuck off me, Joel,” you spit, “Get off, get off, get–”

“Hey. Hey,” he says, his voice firm yet gentle, “Breathe, sweetheart. I know you’re nervous.”

You stare at Joel with fiery eyes, breathing heavily through your nose. Shallow breaths, probably not getting enough oxygen to your brain, but at least you’re breathing. Joel gives you a moment to settle down.

“I need you to listen to me,” he tells you, “I don’t know how deep your cut is. I need you to let me look.”

“Please,” you beg, “Please don’t.”

“I’m gonna be gentle,” Joel promises as he flips your wrist up, gently beginning to pry your fingers open, “You look at me. Don’t look at your hand. Just look at me. Will you trust me?” 

Nodding apprehensively, you keep your focus on Joel. He nods in response, then examines your palm. He bites his cheek and frowns. 

“Is it bad?” you ask shakily.

“Uhh,” he hums, “It’s not good,” he answers you honestly. You’re cut in multiple areas and by the looks of it, the gashes go pretty deep. “You might need stitches.”

Fuck that. You squirm under Joel with all of your might to force him off of you. 

“Stop thrashin’. Stop it,” he says, holding your jaw firmly and looking into your eyes, “I’m not gonna stitch ya. We can cross that bridge when we get to Jackson. But you are risking infection. So I’m going to stop the bleeding, wash it, disinfect, then wrap your hand. That’s all.”

He has a tendency to get frustrated with you, and you’re sure he’s beyond frustrated with you right now, but he’s not showing it. He looks sincere, but you’re still on edge and lacking assurance. “Promise?” you whisper.

“I swear,” he assures softly, rubbing your jaw gently with his thumb. When you nod in response, Joel takes his coat off and folds it, then slides it under your head. He needs you as comfortable as you can be. 

“We are gonna have to amputate, though,” he jokes as he pulls out a rag from his bag and presses it into your hand. You give him a dirty look. “Kidding,” he says. 

Joel removes the rag to see if your hand is still bleeding. You catch a glimpse of the cut and the blood in your palm, running down your wrist, “Oh god, my hand, Joel–”

“Don’t look,” he repeats, “Just keep lookin’ at me, sweetheart.”

But you don’t. You can’t seem to peel your eyes away, and you feel lightheaded. Joel notices.

“Tell me somethin’ new,” he says, distracting you from the pain.

“Joel, please,” you whine.

“Somethin’ new,” he reminds you.

“I saw a cat yesterday.”

Joel nods in response. “What color?” he asks.

“Uh, calico,” you reply. He’s reaching into his bag, pulling out his canteen and rinsing your hand out with his water. The cool water feels soothing on your palm. 

“What’s calico?”

“It’s when a cat has three colors, Joel,” you answer impatiently, as if the answer should be glaringly obvious to him. “Fuck,”  you hiss, as he pats the wound dry. The fabric feels irritating and painful against you. 

“Tell me more. Tell me good things.”

Following his instructions, you begin rambling. It’s not hard once you start. “I saw a cat and I kicked Tommy’s ass in a board game and his baby is so cute, by the way. Almost as cute as the cat.”

“You think cats are cuter than babies?”

“Obviously. Babies are gross and they’re noisy and I finished the sweater I was crocheting for Maria and the snow looks pretty and I love you and I…” 

Joel pauses his work on your hand momentarily. He doesn't hear anything else you say after those three words. I love you. It’s a fuzzy sort of quiet, he’s in disbelief. I love you. When your hand twitches, he pulls his focus back to you.

“...And I watched Star Wars.”

“Yeah,” he replies quietly, “You said that already, you said–”

“I did? Oh yeah. I guess I did.”

You’re clearly delirious, in panic mode, and not thinking straight. You don’t remember talking about Star Wars an hour ago, you don’t even realize what just slipped your lips a second ago. Joel smiles to himself. He’s suspected it for a while. He loves you too. But that’s a conversation for later. There’s a more pressing issue at hand, quite literally.

Joel clears his throat and blinks a couple of times. “Uhm,” he hums, thinking of something to say, “And you said you got that movie from Ellie? The Phantom Menace?” 

“Star Wars.”

“Yeah, Star Wars Episode I, The Phantom Menace,” he corrects you. You shrug. “Unbelievable,” Joel says, “Thought I taught that girl better.” He reaches for a bottle of rubbing alcohol and keeps your hand open in his. “Alright, deep breath in and out. This is the worst part, then we’re done.” 

Before you have time to breathe in and out as instructed, before you have time to argue, Joel dumps the alcohol in your palm. You yelp and tug your hand away, but he holds it still.

“I know, I know, I know, baby,” he coos, “Almost done.”

“Joel,” you cry.

“Look, all done,” he whispers as tears off a piece of gauze and lays it over your gash. “See? All done. Just need to wrap it,” Joel prepares more gauze, “Makes sense you’ve identified with Jar Jar, of all characters.” 

“What do you mean?”

Joel begins to wrap the bandage tightly around your hand. “Clumsy,” he murmurs, “Troublemakin’... accident prone.” 

“I don’t think you like Star Wars,” you tell him.

“Not the prequels,” Joel replies, “Only good thing about the outbreak is that they couldn’t finish that godforsaken mess of a trilogy.”

“What do you mean, ‘prequels’?”

“There was an original trilogy that came out before that movie you watched. Ellie didn’t show you them?”, and you shake your head no, “So you don’t know Han Solo or Princess Leia. That means nothin’ to ya?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus Christ. What about C-3PO? R2-D2?”

“Oh, yeah. I know them. They were in that movie.”

“No,” Joel disagrees, then looking baffled for a second before nodding his head as he remembers the hour he spent watching that movie with Sarah years and years ago. “Mm, yeah, you’re right. Guess they were,” Joel concedes, “We’ll have to rectify this, you know. Have a movie night sometime.” 

“Yeah,” you agree, “You can make me popcorn.” 

“I’ll make you popcorn,” Joel says, watching a smile form on your lips. “There it is,” he praises, “Missed that smile. Don’t like seein’ you upset like that,” he murmurs, finishing your bandage wrap and securing it in place. “What am I gonna do with you?” he asks as he presses a kiss to your palm before he lets your hand go. You can still feel the warmth of his touch on your skin as he watches you and your cheeks begin to warm.

“I know what you’re gonna do with me,” you whisper. 

I’m gonna kiss you, and I’ll tell you that I love you too. That’s what I’m gonna do with you, Joel thinks, his heart beginning to race.

“Tell me, sweetheart.” 

“You’re gonna listen to my Jar Jar impression.”

Joel sighs. He watches you with adoration, and he wants nothing more than to express that adoration for you. It’ll happen when it happens. He decides to let it go for now and play along with you instead, however you want to. You deserve it, after all. He’ll put up a facade like you drive him crazy and he’ll let you believe you’re really getting under his skin, just to watch you smile and hear you laugh like you really got him this time. And he’ll tease you back, at least once more. 

“Please spare me until I lose my hearing in my other ear.” 

You oblige, smiling and rolling your eyes. Still holding eye contact with Joel, you become acutely aware of the position you’re in, that all too familiar position. Faces close, bodies closer and staring into his sparkly, warm brown eyes with his weight pressing into you. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the way he took care of you, who knows. Out of the blue, you’re turned on and Joel knows. Joel cocks an eyebrow when your breath hitches, when you bite your lip and begin to squirm underneath him, seemingly now uncomfortable, aroused no doubt. “Time and place, hon,” he smirks smugly.

Heat rises up your neck and your cheeks at his accusation, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yeah, you do. I know how you operate,” he asserts. “What’s got ya all worked up all of a sudden?” Joel asks, his hand caressing your cheek, your jaw.

“Nothing,” you lie. Your skin burns where his fingers trace.

“I think you’re lyin’. I know you like when I get rough with ya, just wasn’t expectin’ ya to like it now of all times, when I had to wrestle you down to fix that gash in your hand,” Joel taunts, “You’re very stubborn sometimes, you know that?” 

“Challenging,” you counter his claim, “And I wasn’t being stubborn. I could have taken care of my hand myself. I didn’t really need your help.”

Joel knows that’s a lie. You did, in fact, need his help. Badly. 

“That right there is stubborn.”

“No,” you argue, “And I’m not worked up right now, either.” Joel makes an amused face at you, and you wince internally. 

Shit. You fucked that up. Overcompensated.

“Right. Course not.” 

Against your better judgment, you open your mouth to argue further but Joel hushes you. “What do I get if you’re wet right now, sweetheart?” he whispers, unbuttoning your jeans. Your tummy flutters with desire as his fingertips skate across your skin. “You’re more than welcome to stop me right now,” he purrs. He’s giving you an out, a moment to make a choice, but you don’t dare stop him. And Joel grins. He snakes his hand down your pants, underneath your thin cotton panties. The anticipation builds with the tickle of his fingers lightly dragging over your mound, his middle and ring fingers tracing over your lips. You gasp quietly when he dips his fingers at your core, his fingertips collecting your arousal. You stifle a whine as he pulls his hand away from your body, showing you his two fingers glistening with your slick. Joel clicks his tongue, “Can’t be comfortable,” he murmurs, his tone sarcastic and sympathetic all at the same time. “This all for me?”

“No,” you breathe shakily. Yes. 

“You’re lyin’ to me,” he mumbles, bringing his two fingers to his lips. His mouth makes obscene noises as he sucks them clean of your arousal, humming at the sweet taste. Before you can think, he’s pulling your pants and underwear down in one fell swoop, his fingers finding their place back at your pussy. “You could tell me the truth and I’d go easy on ya,” he offers, his thumb pressing against your clit.

You love the thrill, that feeling in your stomach. Joel gives you a moment to answer, but you don’t. “No?”  he asks before situating himself on the ground with you, backing himself against a wall and pulling you into his lap. “Gonna make it worse for yourself,” he says, spreading your legs apart and hiking up your shirt, one hand playing with your pussy and the other kneading your breasts, teasing your nipples, “Why don’t you tell me how much ya needed this, hm? How you want me to make it all better.”

You sigh, a soft Joel falling from your lips as you become wetter, more sensitive as Joel’s fingers dance through your slick folds. He pushes two fingers inside you, fingers curling into that spot that he so loves. His thumb rubs tight, steady circles around your clit and he flicks the thumb of his other hand across your sensitive nipples, the combination of actions filling you with a deep, hot pleasure. You rest your head on his shoulder, the scratchy hairs on his cheek pressing against your forehead. You reach behind yourself to touch him, tangling your fingers in his curls.

“We’ll do this the hard way, then,” Joel shoves you forward, careful not to use too much of his strength but enough to let you know that he’s in charge. He’s always in charge. He takes his folded coat from the ground and positions it in front of himself. He stands up tall, knees popping as he rises. “Since you have nothin’ better to do with your mouth than tellin’ lies…”  Joel snaps and points to his coat, “Might as well keep you quiet instead. Down,” he instructs, “On your knees. Do it now.”

“Yes, Joel,” as you assume the position.

“Ah, now she speaks,” he taunts, the quiet metallic clang of him undoing his belt buckle sending excitement shooting through you. “Open,” is his next command, “Nice n’ wide, hon, you know how,” he instructs as he pulls out his cock, hard and with a pearly bead of precum glistening on his head. You open your mouth for Joel, eyes wide and Joel taps his member on your tongue. “Keep ya from doin’ that stupid fuckin’ impression, too.”

Your eyes light up as you think of something quippy to say, but Joel slides his cock into your mouth to keep you from doing so. “Ah-ah,” he tuts, “Quiet.” He’s delicious, masculine, heady, and intense. He fills your mouth entirely and you swirl your tongue around him, tracing thick veins and salty skin. “Attagirl,” Joel praises you, gripping the back of your head and pushing himself further into your mouth. You nearly gag, pulling back slightly but he holds you right where he wants you, “Right there.”

He pushes you further than you’re used to, but not to the point of discomfort. His tummy nudges your forehead as your nose presses against dark curls at the base of his dick and you use your hand to cup his balls. As you hum against him, you wonder if Joel intends for this to be a punishment. His tone and the way he conducts himself is commanding, but the way he fucks your mouth is gentle. 

“Still not worked up, right? Don’t need me?”, he asks, staring down at you with raised eyebrows. You shake your head no, lying again. “Okay,” he says, “I wanna watch you fuck yourself on your fingers. But don’t come. Not until you tell me what I wanna hear.” 

Your eyes flutter shut as you bring your fingers to your core, feeling your arousal. You push two fingers into your dripping pussy, pumping them in and out and trying to mimic the way it feels when Joel does it.

As you fuck yourself, you hollow your cheeks around his thick cock, letting him feel every inch of your soft and wet mouth. He’s domineering above you, but his hand on your cheek is gentle, caressing your skin softly. He looks down at you through hooded lids and as your eyes flutter shut, you wonder what he’s thinking. 

The way you’re touching your pussy hardly counts as fucking yourself, it’s teasing at best, and excruciating at that. You rub circles around your clit steadily, subtly, needing more than what he’s told you to give yourself. With your fingers working your clit and your mouth working Joel, the familiar pleasure of your climax is just within reach. Feeling yourself reaching your peak, you look up at Joel, “What are you doin’?”, he asks, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t be.

You pull your mouth off of his cock to whisper, “Please, Joel,” which garners an irritated look from him. Joel bends lower to grab you by your bicep and force you to your feet, spinning you around and bending you over an empty shelf of an end cap. He parts your legs and drags his cock through your folds with one hand, the other gripping your hip. 

“Need those magic words, sweetheart. Say it, ‘I need you, Joel’. Go on, now. You got it.”

With the leftover feeling of your ruined orgasm and Joel’s cock teasing your pussy, you fold immediately. “I need you, Joel,” you breathe, “I need you.” 

“Tell me more. How do you need me?” as he continues to tease. 

“Need you to fuck me,” you gasp, “Please.”

“Need me to fuck ya,” he repeats, amused. Joel notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, “How ‘bout that. Tell me somethin’ I didn’t know.” 

It’s a rhetorical question. He doesn’t give you time to answer before he buries himself inside of you. You groan at the sudden intrusion, how deeply he enters you and how full you feel. 

He doesn’t need to experiment with you, doesn’t need to vary how he fucks you. You grip the edge of the end cap with both hands as he finds his pace immediately. His cock hits you right where you need him. 

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, reaching for your bandaged hand, “Don’t hold that. S’gonna hurt your hand. Hold mine instead,” as he wraps his palm around yours. “Better?”

“Better.”

You’re lost in it all, his hand holding yours tightly and his thighs hitting your ass, his balls slapping against your clit. His face is right next to yours, his nose buried in your hair as he nips at your ear. 

“Fuck,” he grunts as he fucks you. He moans softly, his breath feels warm. Each thrust feels deep and intentional. “Good girl. Takin’ my cock so good.”

“Yes, Joel,” you moan. 

He makes stuttering, strangled sort of noises. His breathing is sharp and unsteady through his gritted teeth, and you wish you could see him like this. You can just about picture him perfectly, his messy salt and pepper curls and that deep set line between his brows. 

He fucks you hard and rough, both of you panting and moaning. Soon enough, his rhythm becomes frenetic and stuttering. “Squ– fuck, squeezin’ me too good, I’m not gonna last, sweetheart.”

“Let me come, Joel,” you plead, “Please.”

“I know, I know. Don’t need to beg me, darlin’,” Joel coos. He snakes his hand between your thighs and quickly finds your clit, his thrusts still steady and deep. He expertly paints circles around your clit as he becomes sloppier and frenzied. 

“Oh god, oh fuck, Joel,” you’re gasping, feeling your walls begin to clench and squeeze him, “Right there, right there, fuck.”

“Yeah, s’it, let go for me,” he pants. 

With a few more circles tracing your clit, you fall apart on him. You come with a loud gasp, gripping his hand hard. Even after he helps you ride out your orgasm, he doesn’t yet stop fucking you, and the sensation is becoming all too much. You bite your lip to stifle yourself as he chases his own orgasm, and he spills into you with shuddering breaths and grunts, painting your insides with his seed.

You catch your breath with Joel as he begins to go soft inside you. You feel empty when he pulls out of you, craving the weight of his hand on yours after he lets go. As your breathing slows, turn around to face Joel. His dominant, taunting demeanor is gone and he helps you back into your clothes, then examines the bandage on your hand. He frowns when he sees he’s crumpled it and dampened it with his sweat. “Hang on,” he murmurs, quickly reaching for more gauze to rewrap it. 

You touch his shoulder, “Just– let’s wrap it again at home. It’s just gonna get ruined again.”

“No, I promise I’m not gonna clean it again, I just wanna–” Joel stops talking when you reach for his hand. He looks at where his hand connects with yours, then looks at you. “Okay,” he says. He stares at you intently, as if waiting for you to say more. You look like you want to.

Hand in Joel’s, you walk together out of the mall. The horseback ride home is quiet. You hug Joel tightly, and Joel savors the warmth of your cheek on his back again.

“Joel?” you ask. 

“Yeah, hon.”

“You’re sure you don’t wanna hear my impression?”

“I’m sure,” Joel says, but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

as always, i appreciate all of my readers. please please please leave a comment/reblog/send an ask if you enjoyed, your comments really do mean the world and keep me going <3

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#JOEL MILLER FUCK ME PLS #THE SLOWBURN OH MY GOD. #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller #strang3lov3

[sarahsardines]

I would take Oscar with me anywhere cause he makes me laugh

[sarahsardines]

Massage Chair

Summary: Joel teaches you to massage him, then takes advantage of your new skill. After, he shows his gratitude.

Tags: Lots of joel teasing, malicious compliance, light arguing, smut, fingering, teasing, romantic massaging, creampie, slower and more emotional, joel comforting u after boning.

a/n: thank you for your patience with me! I wanted to have this done last week, but I ended up in the ER which slowed me down a little. But, that gave me more time to write and @papipascalispunk time to beautifully edit this <3 she's such a babe.

(mall rats 5, though can be read as standalone. find more mall rats in my masterlist)

A brown leather chair is flipped on its side, and Joel’s tinkering with the parts inside, cursing and hissing expletives. It’s a broken massage recliner that came with Joel’s house, and he spotted the same model at Macy’s back in the old mall. So he stole bits and pieces, and now he’s attempting to fix the chair. It’s not going too well. 

“God bless it,” Joel grumbles at you, “Quit shinin’ the flashlight on the damn floor. Shine it inside the chair.”

“I am shining it inside the chair, Joel,” you argue, “Why don’t you make Ellie hold the flashlight for you?”

“‘Cause she can’t hold it right either. You girls suck at using flashlights,” Joel grimaces as he sits up off the ground, then reaches for your hand that’s holding the light. He manipulates your position, adjusting the way you’re sitting and how you hold the flashlight and says, “There. Stay like that.”

You smirk, “Oh Joel, it makes me so hot and bothered when you take control of me like that.” 

Joel sighs, frustrated with you. Like always. “Was that really necessary?” 

“Of course it was,” you reply. Moving gingerly, he lays back down on the carpeting. The chair makes small, metallic clanging noises as he works, and you’ve got a perfect view of his ass. So tight and plump in those jeans. What a treat. 

Joel turns on his side, twisting his torso to reach for a different screwdriver. This time, he grunts in pain. He works a little longer, then tosses the screwdriver aside before hoisting himself up. His knees crack and ache as he slowly stands up, carefully pulling the chair upright and plugging it into an outlet. You watch as he sits in the chair, lifts up the armrest to press a few buttons, and the chair comes to life. He keeps his eyes squinted shut, his chest rising and falling heavily with every labored breath he takes. He fidgets with the buttons as the chair makes different mechanical whirring noises, vibrating and pressing into his back. 

“Can I try it?”, you ask. 

“No,” he deadpans, “S’not massagin’ too good anyway – kinda just vibrates. And before you ask – no,” you smirk as he glares at you, “It doesn't vibrate like that. So don’t even think about doin’ that to my chair, you horndog.” He knows you so well.

When Joel is done speaking, he sighs and closes his eyes again. It’s a little awkward, watching Joel sit in his massage chair. He doesn’t seem very comfortable, and it’s making you feel sort of sad. His back has been killing him for weeks. He doesn’t talk about it much, but you can tell it’s getting worse. As he squeezes his eyes shut, those two little lines between his brows grow more prominent than usual. He inhales through his nose and exhales from his mouth, like he’s trying to breathe away the pain. 

Before the outbreak, he found things like heated massage chairs and beds that move up and down to be frivolous and unnecessary. In his twenties and thirties, if his back hurt he’d pop a few Advil and tough it out. Not exactly an option now. So, an old massage chair it is. 

“Have you been icing your back, Joel?”, you ask but Joel opens just one eye and glares at you. You take his silence as a no. “You need to ice it.” 

“My back’s fine,” Joel lies as he rolls his eyes at you, “Go away. Go play in traffic.”

“Are you keeping yourself hydrated?”, you continue.

“Yes.” You look at Joel, then you look next to him. The full glass of water on his end table says otherwise, condensation pooling on the wood. Joel looks there too, then back at you as you stare at him, unimpressed, “Yeah, I drink enough water, dammit. What’s with the third degree?” 

You ignore his question, “Are you getting enough rest?”

“What do you think I’m tryin’ to do right now?” Again, you stare at him with an unimpressed expression. Joel sighs, exasperated, “For the love of god, I rest plenty.” Out of all the ways you could annoy him, this is the most brutal. It’s torturous. He continues, “I’d rest easier if you weren’t here, y’know. So get gone. Quit naggin’ me.”

“Charming, Joel. Like always,” you tell him, your tone sarcastic. Lifting yourself up, you stand in front of him and take his hand in your own. You pull with all of your might to lift him up, and drag him to his feet. He groans the entire time.

“Oh, come on,” Joel complains. He knows that look you’ve got on your face, knows that you’re on a mission and he’s coming with. Of course he’s coming with. He’s always stuck with you, somehow. “What are you signin’ me up for now?”, as you lead him to his room, matching his slow pace as he takes heavy steps, so as not to overwhelm his ancient bones.

“Bed,” you tell him. 

Oh. Joel gets it now. You’re forcing him to take a rest. Could be worse, he supposes, but he always has a flair for the dramatic, so he sighs heavily as he lays down, making sure you know he is not happy that you’re putting his ass to bed. You untie his boots and pull them off his feet, then toss them aside. 

Just as Joel settles on his back, you move to his side of the bed and put your hands under his torso and thigh, then roll him onto his stomach rather harshly. He yelps in pain, “Jesus Christ–”

“Sorry,” you mumble sheepishly. You join him on the bed, straddling his butt, careful not to put too much pressure on him. 

Joel is confused beyond words. Before he can process what you’re doing, he feels you bouncing the sides of your hands down his shoulders and spine, and then you’re pinching and smushing his body haphazardly. “Uhh, what are you doin’ to me?”, he questions now. It is a deeply uncomfortable sensation. 

“Massaging you, because your chair doesn’t work,” you tell him, continuing your work on his back, “It’ll help you rest. I’m feeding two birds with one scone, Joel.”

“That – that’s not how the phrase – fuck, never mind,” Joel relents, baffled as you “massage” him. He lets you continue for a few moments longer before deciding he’s had enough. “Sweetheart, it’s very kind of you, but you are terrible at this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no, this is god awful. You’re gonna break my damn spine in half,” Joel pauses before speaking again, thinking to himself. There’s no way you’ve had or given a massage before now. “Am I your guinea pig?”

“Kinda,” you answer quietly.

“I could tell,” Joel taps you on the leg twice, “Alright, get off and switch me spots.”

“What for?”, you ask. 

“So I can teach ya how it’s done and keep you from committing a fuckin’ felony assault on my back,” he says, “What you’re doin’... it’s inhumane, darlin’.” He’s being very Joel about this. Harsh, a little rude. Dramatic. You climb off him and he scoots off of his bed. “Take off your shirt,” he tells you, “S’rule one of a good massage. You’re supposed to massage a person, not their clothes.”

“Noted,” you say. Joel leaves then, maybe to give you privacy or something, not that you need it. If Joel wants you to strip naked, you’ll strip naked, no questions asked. You’d lay yourself on a silver platter for him, cherries on your ass and an apple in your mouth. Though, you do think it’s sweet he’s trying to keep you feeling comfortable. Joel Miller, always the gentleman.  

You strip nude, then lay on your stomach on the bed, right where Joel was. His sheets feel warm from his body heat and they smell like him too, warm and musky and woody. You’re facing his window, where outside it’s overcast and gloomy. On his bedside table sits his book of crossword puzzles. 

The stairs and floorboards creak as Joel returns to you. He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of you naked and face down in his bed, rolling his eyes at your lack of modesty. Joel places a few things on his dresser, then a little glass container full of oil on his bedside table. “Only had to take your shirt off, hon,” he says. 

“Oh. I thought you wanted me naked.”

“You’ve got selective hearing,” Joel lowers the curtains by his window and lights a few candles on his dresser, “I think you wanted you naked.” In the darkened room, he moves behind you and you hear the sound of fabric moving before he’s draping a blanket over your bum. You shrug, “Sorry, Joel. Guilty as charged.”

“Uh huh,” he mumbles. Joel rolls up his sleeves before beginning. “You ready?”, you nod, and so does he. He takes the container of oil and drizzles it down your spine. It’s warm, a little sweet and fragrant. You feel relaxed already. Joel then pours some of oil into the palm of his hands and rubs them together. “First thing, you always wanna be mindful of any painful or sensitive areas. Anything you need me to be careful about?”

“Uh, no. My back doesn’t usually hurt,” you tell him. 

“Must be nice,” he mumbles. After rubbing his palms together, he places them on your back. He spreads the drizzled oil from your lower back up to your neck and shoulders in long strokes with his palms, so big and strong and warm. You sigh in relief. “The oil makes it easier to glide your hands. Don’t wanna use too much, though. And you’re gonna spread it out, nice and even.” 

You nod, your eyes closed, “What about the candles?”

“Candles don’t make a difference. Just thought you’d like ‘em,” Joel whispers. 

“I do.”

He spends the next couple minutes using wide, gentle strokes of his hands to completely spread the oil over your body. Once he’s satisfied, he places his hands at your shoulders.  He works his thumbs into your traps and up your neck, pushing and sliding them up your skin. “How’s the pressure?”, he asks, “Too much? Not enough?” 

“Little too much,” you tell him. 

Joel lightens the pressure and continues the motion, “Feel nice?”

All you can do is hum in response. It feels incredible. His hands are so firm and gentle, so careful. Your skin is warm and his touch is comforting. He works his way down your body, massaging and rubbing your muscles. He alternates between circular and back and forth movements. 

“Good. Remember that. Be nice and fluid when you massage me,” Joel whispers, “None of that karate choppin’ shit.” 

“None of that karate choppin’ shit,” you repeat, matching his tone. 

Joel massages you everywhere for the next ten minutes. Instructing you to stay away from the spine directly, but focus your pressure next to it. Focus on the muscles. You can dig your thumbs in, use your knuckles, even the heels of your palms. He tells you he’s being more gentle, but he’s gonna need you to use your body weight. 

“You writin’ this down?”, he asks. 

“Mmm, yeah. Got my pen and paper right here,” you murmur. He massages a sensitive spot on your back and you moan softly. 

“Hey,” he warns, “Don’t be enjoyin’ this so much. S’for my benefit, not yours. I’ve got ulterior motives for massagin’ you.”

“Oh?”, you whisper.

“Yeah, oh. You volunteered yourself to fix my back, so I’m gonna take advantage.”

“Joel?”

“What’s that, hon?” he asks quietly. 

“I’m not, fuck, right there,” you breathe, “M’not learning a whole lot. Need some more pointers.”

“Always workin’ an angle,” he retorts, “But I don’t have nothin’ else to tell ya.” Joel massages you quietly for a couple more minutes, generously giving you more massaging than he anticipated. But he likes it, likes knowing you’re feeling good. The soft noises you’re making, how smooth your skin feels. He loves watching the candlelight dance across your skin while he runs his palms up and down your hips, your sides, pouring over your curves. You’re lost in the sensation for a few moments longer before Joel taps your hip, “Alright, time’s up.” 

“No, Joel, come on,” you whine, “Not yet, don’t stop now.” 

“Move it,” he says, tapping your hip harder, “S’my turn. My back hurts, not yours. You said so yourself.” 

You whine again, “Please? Just a little longer.”

“Mmm, nope. Let this be a lesson to ya, don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.” Joel leaves to go to his bathroom then, turns on the hot water in his sink and returns with a warm rag. He gently scrubs your back, removing the excess oil. 

Finally, you sit up in defeat. “Give me that,” you grumble, reaching for the rag. You take it to the bathroom and rinse it out for Joel as he begins undressing. When you return, Joel is shirtless face down in his bed, a blanket draped over his ass, just like how he had you. 

“Alright hon, I’m ready. Show me whatcha got.” 

Standing next to him, you step a little closer to the bed and survey Joel. He’s on his tummy facing you, his eyes shut gently. He looks gorgeous like this, his hair messy, his shoulders thick and broad. You trace the curve of his back with your eyes, curious when you look at his ass. So plump under that blanket. Reaching forward, you lift the blanket. 

“What’re ya doin’,” Joel asks in an annoyed tone. 

“I’m just…”, you trail off, admiring the swell of his ass cheeks. Joel doesn’t seem to mind when you touch his bum, squeezing the flesh gently and watching it move beneath your fingertips.

“You’re snoopin’,” he answers his own question for you. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You look at Joel again, and he’s still got his eyes shut. A small smile on his face that you know wouldn’t be there if he knew you were looking at his face.

“Why don’t you snoop a little higher, dirty bird.” 

“Okay,” you murmur, draping the blanket over his ass. “Can you remind me of step one again?”

“Ah, someone wasn’t payin’ attention,” he teases, “Sure. Ya gotta ask me where it hurts.” 

“Where’s it hurt?”

“Everywhere.” 

You sigh, “Thanks, Joel. That’s helpful.” 

“Wouldn’t hurt to give my neck and shoulders a little extra lovin’, though.” You nod, then reach for his shoulders. “Nuh uh,” he tuts, “Oil first.” You reach for the oil and hover it over Joel’s body. “Easy does it. Little goes a long–”, but Joel is interrupted when he feels a large splash of oil on his back, dripping over his sides and onto his sheets. Definitely gonna stain.

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, “My bad.”

“God bless it,” Joel grumbles, “S’alright. Get the rag and clean me up a little.”

Doing as you’re told, you get the rag from the bathroom and wipe away the oil you don’t need. Then you spread the oil on Joel’s back, using your palms to drag it from the area just above his ass cheeks to his wide shoulders. Joel hums in satisfaction. You lean over him to begin massaging his body, but you’re finding it uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I straddle you again?” you ask, “To reach your back easier.”

“Go for it.”

You hold onto Joel’s shoulders for stability as you straddle yourself over him, sitting on his ass and settling your knees at his sides. This way, you have much more mobility. You place your palms at his lower back, thumbs on either side of his spine and press into him hard, then work your hands up his body. He sighs softly. “How’s that?”, you ask.

“Jury’s still out,” he replies, “Do that again, little harder this time.” When you do, Joel sighs deeper, “S’it. Much better.”

You repeat the general motion, but vary your movements. Sometimes letting your hands explore his sides, making big and small circles, large sweeping motions. Joel groans when you walk your thumbs up his spine. “Yeah, very nice,” he praises. 

Once at his upper back, you focus pressure on his shoulders and neck. You curl your fingers inward and use your knuckles for added pressure. “Little more,” he tells you. You press harder, but his muscles are so tight. “Harder,” he says, “C’mon, use some elbow grease.”

“I’m gonna hurt you, Joel,” you argue. 

“You ain’t gonna hurt me,” he says. “In fact, I want you to try.” 

“Huh?”

“Yeah, hon. Hard as you can. Like you’re tryna squeeze the life outta me.”

Shaking your head, you try it. You squeeze his traps, digging your thumbs into his flesh as hard as you can. You watch his skin turn white under your fingertips. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “There it is. Good girl, doin’ such a good job.” 

Oh dear lord. His words go straight to your pussy. You continue to work his neck and shoulders, listening to Joel breathe and sigh, moan and groan. You admire his back, his freckles and moles and stretch marks here and there. “Good girl,” he praises you again. He whispers it over and over and over. Good girl. 

He’s making all sorts of sinful noises, cursing all kinds of obscenities, and you’re falling to pieces just listening to him, feeling his hot skin. You picture his face, contorted in pleasure. 

You feel warm, your core beginning to ache. You didn’t quite expect to get so worked up over this. As you lean forward over Joel to massage him, you tilt your hips into his back, pressing yourself against him for some sort of relief. Maybe repeating the motion once or twice. 

“I can feel that,” he says. 

“Feel what?”

“You. Drippin’. Rockin’ those hips on me. You’re makin’ a mess all over me, dirty bird.”

Your cheeks heat up and you’re feeling a little bashful at the accusation. 

“Ya gotta finish my massage before we take care of that, hm?”

“Yeah,” you agree. Not like you have much left to do anyway. You’ve been massaging him for half an hour at this point, paid special attention to each area of his back. After massaging him for a few minutes longer, you tap his shoulder blade to let him know you’re done. Joel lifts himself up and begins to twist over, so you lift up to your knees to make room. “Wait, Joel, your sheets–”

“You ruined ‘em already.” He’s right. Oh well. 

Once he’s settled, you sit down on his lap. His cock is half hard already. You reach for it, and he swats your hand away. You balk in confusion. “Ya ain’t done yet,” he tells you.

“What are you talking about?”

“Massage tax,” he says plainly, as if somehow you should have known that’s a thing and you roll your eyes, “It’s the law.”

“That is not a law.” 

“Is now,” he says, taking his cock into his hand. You watch him work himself, swiping his thumb over the blushed tip a couple of times before holding it tightly, restricting your access. 

“Joel,” you whine, “This isn’t– come on, man.”

“I know. I ain’t happy about it either,” he says, though his mischievous smile says differently, 

“Government’s just rife with corruption, ain’t it?”

You can’t say you didn’t have this coming. You’ve tormented Joel for months in a myriad of ways. You deserve this. 

“I don’t deserve this,” you tell him. 

“‘Course not,” he says softly, still holding his member tightly. You try to wriggle his fingers away, but he’s got an iron grip. You sigh in defeat, annoyed. Joel looks all too proud of himself.

“I hate you, Joel.”

“You wound me sweetheart, really. It hurts,” he inhales sharply through his teeth, extending an arm to you, “Hurts almost as much as my arm, you know that? S’been so sore, my hands an’ fingers too.” 

Yeah, yeah. You get the picture. 

Glaring at him, you watch him shimmy into the pillows and wiggle his arm at you again. You’ve still got some oil on your hands, so you don’t bother with the bottle on his nightstand. 

“Start up top,” he instructs you.

You move a little closer, taking his upper arm into your hands. You squeeze the muscles of his biceps and triceps, and as much as this is bothersome, it’s nice too. His muscles are strong, big, and firm. You’ve never really seen them until now. You admire the contours of his arm, the soft lines his muscles make. “And work your way down, down,” he says. And you follow, massaging his forearm. He sighs when you reach his hands, “S’my favorite part,” as you massage his palm, each knuckle of his digits. His hands are worn and calloused. 

You drop his hand once you feel like you’ve done enough, “Done.”  

“Really?” 

“Yep.” 

“Hm,” Joel hums before offering you his other arm, holding his cock now with his other hand, “I’ve got an entire arm you haven’t touched yet.” You stare at him with a blank expression. Joel pouts and acknowledges your disappointment by saying, “I know, hon. I’m so sorry.”

You roll your eyes, taking his other arm into your hands. “No, you aren’t.”

“Yeah, I’m not sorry,” he says, “Not one bit.”

And so again, you repeat the motions, first massaging his biceps and triceps. The hand that holds his cock rests between your thighs, and you begin grinding into it. Eyes shut, he raises one brow in amusement at your arousal. You’re soaked. 

Finally, he lets himself go. His cock springs free, rock hard with protruding veins, and you inch forward so that it sits between your thighs. 

As you massage his forearm now, you rock your hips slightly. Joel surely notices, though he doesn’t mind. You rock yourself quicker, chasing that sweet friction on your clit. Your hands are at his palm now, thumbs urgently rubbing circles into the flesh. You need to be done with this.  

“Slow it down,” he tells you, “S’not a race.”

You groan, but slow down anyway. You screw your eyes shut as you massage his palm sloppily, your focus now concentrated on what's happening between your thighs. Your pussy is slick as you roll your hips, grinding against his hard cock. That familiar coil in your gut is back. “Joel,” you cry, “My hands are sore.”

“Now you know how I feel,” he retorts, and you whine impatiently. “Ya never do any hard work in your life. C’mon, you’re almost done,” he taps your ass, “Lift up a little. I like watchin’ you get yourself all worked up on my cock.” 

As you work Joel’s hand, you lift yourself, hovering just inches above him. With his free hand, he takes his cock and drags himself through your dripping folds, collecting your slick on his tip. It feels good, your pussy is sensitive. He nudges his head against your clit, back and forth and periodically notches himself at your entrance, playing with you, achingly torturing you. “Joel,” you whine as he teases you, “My thighs are aching, hands too, ca— can’t do this anymore.”

“Sure ya can,” he coos. It feels like you’ve been massaging him for hours, way longer than he massaged you. This isn’t fair in the slightest, even with his back pain. 

Truth be told, the hand and arm massage stopped feeling good for Joel a long time ago. You’re aching and tired, and so are your hands, not giving him the proper pressure he needs.  But he’s taking advantage of this opportunity to tease you, drive you insane. He feels it’s warranted. 

And then finally, finally, he pulls his hand away from you. You’re done. 

You flop next to Joel and take his hand back in yours, guiding his fingers to your center. “Please,” you beg him, “Touch me. Do something.”

Joel clicks his tongue, “No can do.”

“What?”

“Yeah, think I just wanna rest now.” You stare at Joel, confused. He shrugs, “And I’m just parched. Need some water. And I’d go and get it, but I don’t want ya to yell at me again. I’m supposed to be resting, like you said.”

“You want me to get you water,” you confirm, annoyed. 

“And some ice, too,” he adds. 

Joel watches with a smirk on his face as you shove his hand away from your thigh and huff, then stomp out of his bedroom and all the way downstairs. After Joel hears the sound of running water and the slamming of cabinets, you return moments later with a glass of water and some ice wrapped in a towel. You mumble, “You can shove this ice right up–”

“Right up my ass, got it,” Joel takes the ice in one hand and the glass of water in his other. Joel drinks a sip of the water, then makes a disgusted face, “You gave me warm water? What is wrong with you?”

“You didn’t specify the temperature.” 

Joel rolls his eyes and sets both the ice and the water on his nightstand. “Fuckin’ psycho,” he mumbles. Even when he thinks he’s one step ahead of you in the never-ending quest to piss one another off, he’s not. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

You smile, “Thanks.”

Joel stares at you for a moment, admiring the mischievous grin on your face and that look in your eye. And then faster than you can blink, he takes your arm in his hand and pulls you back into bed as you giggle. You hear him laughing too, and then he’s situating himself above you. Hovering over you with one arm by your head, he takes his fingers into his mouth and sucks on them before bringing his hand between your thighs. 

You breathe a sigh of relief. You’re so sensitive and he’s finally fucking touching you, fingertips dragging through your slick folds, circling your clit before dipping one, then two fingers inside you. He finds your clit with his thumb, rubbing tight circles into you. “Quit teasing,” you plead. 

Joel laughs breathlessly above you, “M’not teasin’—”

“More,” you interrupt him, “I need more.”

“You got it,” he says, then inserts a third finger. He curls them repeatedly inside you, your pussy gushing and soaking his fingers, making all sorts of wet, sticky noises. 

But it’s still not enough. You’re so fucking needy, so ready for Joel to just fuck you. You push his hand away and reach for his cock, wrapping your legs around him and using your feet on his ass to push him down closer to you.

“Ah, fuck,” Joel hisses when he feels your hand touch his member, “Hey, easy, sweetheart. Let’s slow it down.”

“Slow it down my ass,” you argue, “I want you now, Joel.”

“Now?” 

“Need you now,” you repeat, tilting your hips and bouncing your heels on his ass, “Now, now, now, now–”

Joel smiles at your desperation, at the way he’s managed to torture you. “Didn’t quite catch that, bad hearing and all that. You want me to fuck you when exactly?”, you cry in pure agony and Joel says, “Gotta mark my calendar, set my alarm clock...”

Your groans of frustration quickly turn into a soft sigh of pleasure as Joel takes you by surprise, pushing his cock inside you deeply, inch by inch, in one fluid motion. The stretch feels incredible and you’re so perfectly full of him. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close with one of your hands resting on his shoulder and the other tangled in the soft curls on his head. 

“Been needin’ this, huh?”, Joel asks as he settles inside you, letting you adjust to the stretch. 

You nod, your cheek brushing against his scratchy, salt and pepper facial hair. “You’re such an asshole,” you whisper, “You make me so mad.”

“Ditto, sweetheart,” he mumbles as he kisses your cheek. That’s become a regular thing, now. Always kissing your forehead, your cheeks. It always makes you blush. Joel pulls out of you nearly all the way before pushing back in. Over and over, building to a steady pace, and he makes soft grunts as he fucks you. 

You love how he cages you in, surrounds you, the low light of the candles dancing on his face as he fucks you passionately. And he’s watching you, big brown eyes full of something you can’t quite read. He pulls your hand from his hair and pins it next to your head, his fingers interlaced with your own. It’s sweet and it’s intimate, almost too intimate.

You can’t take this right now. Can’t deal with the way it feels, to be treated so specially by Joel. 

You untangle your fingers from his, and he watches you with a confused expression on his face. Reaching low, you slap his ass, “C’mon, fuck me harder. Use some elbow grease,” you mock his words from earlier, “Or does your old ass back hurt too much?” 

Joel stills and stares at you. You stare back, challenging him. “Why are you bein’ like this?” he asks, “Do y’always have to instigate?”

“Think I just heard your hip crack, too,” you tease, but it gets no reaction from Joel. 

“Quit while you’re ahead,” he warns, then composes himself before speaking again, “Have some faith. You trust me?” 

There’s something different about the way he’s looking at you, watching you. You’re apprehensive, but you nod anyway. 

“I said, we’re gonna slow it down this time,” he whispers, “Gonna go nice and slow.”

Joel pulls out of you then, and you groan in disappointment. He silences your displeasure with a quiet shhhh, then moves lower down your body. He runs his hands over your tummy, up your sides, tracing each and every curve. Kisses one hip bone, “I know I was teasin’ ya,” he says, “And I really put ya to work with that massage. That you offered t’do, mind you,” he adds as he kisses your other hip bone, “Really didn’t think that you were gonna get me ice and a glass of water. Wasn’t surprised when you told me to shove it up my ass, but I wasn’t expectin’ to drink warm water. Was a nice touch, trouble.” 

You begin to speak, but you stammer, struggling to find the right words. You squirm under his touch. He’s being so gentle, so sweet that he’s got you all flustered now. 

“Yeah, I know, sweet girl,” Joel mumbles against your skin. Pressing soft and wet kisses on your body, his fingers leisurely dragging through your dripping folds as he looks up at you, “I want you to know that I appreciate you. I appreciate all the ass backward things you do for me. I really do.”

“Joel, I–fuck,”, you moan. He’s pumping his fingers inside you again, now licking and kissing your nipples, swirling his tongue over the soft skin, worshiping every inch of your body.

“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head. Y’still drive me fuckin’ nuts.” You laugh breathlessly, voice caught in your throat as Joel kisses up your neck, up your jaw, your chin, and stopping just before your lips when he hears your breath hitch. He searches your eyes, sensing your apprehension. He knows the weight of the intimacy that kissing your lips holds, especially since it’s been put off so long.  He’s gonna kiss you. Just not yet. “Now can we try this again?”

When you whisper a quiet yes, he enters you for a second time, burying himself inside of you. He begins to fuck you again, slow and deep, letting you feel every inch of him, parts of him you don’t usually feel. His quiet breaths on your skin, the thick vein of his cock, his soft tummy, so warm against yours.  Usually he fucks you hard, fast. But today, he’s savoring you. You dig your heels into his ass, faster. It has to be faster.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he says, “We can just be nice, pretend you like me and I like you. Just this once. We don’t always have to argue.”

“Joel,” you whine, “Please. I can’t–I want–” 

“I know what you want, ya want what we’re used to. But s’not so bad, I promise,” he purrs above you, “Tell me– fuck, tell me how you feel.”

Exposed, but good. Really good. It’s new and unfamiliar, but so fucking good, but it feels like a crime to admit that. “Joel,” is all you can say, “Joel.”

“I know,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against yours, one hand on your waist holding you tight as he fucks you, “Doin’ so good for me.”

You still can’t bring yourself to say anything, don’t know how to respond to him. You’re at a loss for words, feeling him like this. How warm and protected and loved you feel. Your skin is on fire and you can’t help but close your eyes, retreating inward. But as different as this is, you don’t want him to stop, so you hold him tighter, pulling his face down to yours and burying yourself in his neck. 

Joel fucks you like that for a while. Just like that, with every thrust being intentional, feeling devastatingly good. You lose yourself in the feeling and Joel seemingly does as well. Words are left unspoken as he savors this moment with you. 

Hours could have passed, you wouldn’t know. Joel’s movements are becoming erratic, quicker. “Come with me,” he begs, resting his forearm above your head and moving the other to your center, as he paints tight circles around your clit, “I want you to come with me, sweetheart. Please.” 

It’s not long after that when that familiar heat in the pit of your stomach is back, fluttering and intense. “Oh, god,” you moan, “M’close.”

“That’s it, just let yourself go,” he breathes, “With me, now.” 

His words are all it takes. Your orgasm washes over you slowly, intensely. It’s powerful, the way lava flows from the earth, setting your skin ablaze. It’s overwhelming as Joel fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He makes broken moans and grunts as he comes with you, painting your insides with his hot seed. 

He pants on top of you, catching his breath before pulling out of you, not caring that you’re now dripping his spend onto his bed. He lays next to you, pulling you into his side with your legs tangled between his and your head resting on his shoulder. 

You’re crying, quietly. That’s never happened before. Joel feels your tears dripping down his skin, and he looks at you with concern.

“M’fine, Joel, I was just–It was just–”

Joel speaks to you soothingly, “I know, I know,” he whispers, “I’m right here.”

He just holds you like that, his fingertips trailing over your skin in lazy patterns. When he chuckles to himself, you look at him. “What?” you ask. 

“Warm water,” he says, amused, “You amaze me.”