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Urgh, I need a glass of water.
𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐁𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇
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summary: joel drags you onto his lap and consumes you.
warnings: 18+ mdni. joel miller x afab!reader. no physical descriptions of reader. slight dom!joel. cock riding. calling a pussy she/her. no beta. w.c: 835
author’s note: I saw a different gif of Joel sitting on the ground with his thick body and long legs, had a minor black out and this was the result. hope you enjoy!
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭
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Joel Miller leaning back against the headboard of your bed with his legs spread, completely nude, is a fucking sight.
Somehow, he's still so massive and intimidating in this prone position. He reminds you of a warrior or Viking God who's just come home from slaying in battle. 
Coarse hair covers his broad chest, blanketing his sturdy abdomen, and trails south below his belly button, creating a dark, densely woven path down to his pelvis. His large cock hangs heavy between his burly, spread thighs; his sac is so full and warm that it reaches the sheets. The dusty pink head weeps, dripping pre cum down the girthy shaft as it bobs and flexes at the sight of you on your knees naked before him. 
"C'mere." he husks, fisting his length with a meaty paw while you timidly crawl on hands and knees over to him.   
Your gaze travels up his belly and chest, meeting an untamed, vivid stare as his chocolate eyes bore into you. He makes you feel so small and insignificant, but you know that's a lie when he cups a worn hand along your cheek. He treats you like a goddess; like you formed the moon and stars. He revolves around you. 
"My sweet, sweet girl." he tugs you into his lap, your sensitive cunt brushing against his belly, leaving a trail of shiny arousal in its wake. "Already so wet. Bet I'll slide right in." He purrs.
His words burn wildly through you. All consuming and raging, igniting a searing heat deep in your belly. He taps his crown against your folds, a sharp, sticky 'thwap' bouncing off the walls before he lines his cock up with your tight, fluttering hole tempting a soft whimper to bubble up your throat.
"S'ok, I got you." he consoles you with a deep, soothing voice that slithers into your wary heart.
Joel grips one sturdy hand on your hip and helps you sit on his cock while the other cradles your jaw, fixing his fingers around the back of your neck. "Easy now, slow," he commands with a soft rumble.  
He traces the outline of your ear with his thumb, distracting you from the pressure as your velvet channel molds around him. He sighs, a long, winding breath through his nose, "All the way. Take e'ery inch."
His bearded jaw clenches when he bottoms out and hears your pitiful whines. Your body would loll like a ragdoll if not for his grip as a blissful fervor runs rampant up your spine and his weeping tip presses against your cervix.
Your lips pull into a tiny 'o', brows pinching tight when Joel shifts, withdrawing his cock before slowly, ever so slowly, spearing it back in and splitting you open. He smirks at your glassy eyes, all wide and wild like an animal caught in a trap.
"Thatta girl." he rumbles, thrusting his hips and breaching your cunt again. He tenderly rubs his thumb along your cheek. His cock flexes at the sight of you gradually losing your mind. "so full of cock, ya can't think straight, huh?"
He drives his cock deeper, meaty thighs bracing the backs of your own on every brutal thrust. Slick trickles down his length as he relentlessly sheathes himself in your heat like a sword spearing into its victims.
Your fingers dig into his brawny shoulders, pressing into the dense cords of muscle as they shift with every devastating shove, demonstrating his strength.
"Shh, I'll take care, a'ya." the thumb that framed your ear is now threateningly hooked under your jaw. A blunt nail acutely bites into the underside of your chin. "Always do, don't I?"
When you meet his foreboding stare, a high-pitched cry rattles through your body straight down to your cunt, making your walls clench like a vice around his length.
A chuckle rumbles from the center of his chest. "S'what I thought."
The hand around your hips tightens as his pace quickens. The pads of his fingers dig sweetly into your skin. He slithers his other hand around the back of your neck securing you in a severe grip; the pads of his fingers dig sweetly into your skin, keeping you still and compliant as the rapturous arousal blazing in your core burns brighter and brighter.
You feel him swell, pushing against your insides and forming a new pathway that'll only and always be his.
"Tha's it. Stay with me." he tips your forehead against his own and penetrates your soul with a voracious stare. "Can feel 'er, squrimin'. This sweet pussy gonna come?" 
His torso and balls tighten as you writhe in his hold and hit your peak with an agonizing, blissful cry. "Shit- 'ere ya go." he praises, growling darkly through clenched teeth, watching in awe as you convulse from his unyielding and gluttonous touch. 
He wants you close. So close he can breathe in every needy, angelic breath he punches from of your lungs as he fucks you to the edge over and over again. He wants to watch you fall apart in his arms so he can put your back together. Breath by breath. Whimper by whimper. Orgasm by orgasm.
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feel free to scream at me -> 💌
->reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated!<-
follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!
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I-
𝐊𝐍𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏
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summary: joel fingers you for the first time in his truck.
warnings: 18+ mdni. joel miller x afab!reader. no physical descriptors of reader. fingering (pussy and ass). heavy ass play. Joel being a fucking menace. no beta. w.c: 823
author's note: had this thot for the last few days and had to write it out before i went insane but now i'm taking you all with meeee
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭
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Joel's two knuckles deep in your cunt while an old country tune quietly floats from the radio into his dimly lit truck that's parked on the side of a dusty road. He languidly fucks his thick digits between your sopping folds, each thrust making your breath hitch more than the last. 
He's taking it slow, figuring out what spots make your cunt spasm and quiver for the very first time. It's a mess of limbs in the front seat; your skirt is rucked up your hips, legs bent at the knee, and he's holding you against his side, cradling your head in the crook of his arm.
"Righ' 'ere?" he grits, swallowing hard as you clamp around his fingers. 
You grab at his worn button-up, tightly fisting the material with a needy whine as a wave of pleasure burns deep, and he doubles his efforts with a twist of his wrist. "That's it. Come on, pretty girl, there you go."
Joel curls his fingers, seeking the fleshy spot behind your clit that makes you see stars and forces you to the edge listening with perverted delight to your frantic cries.
He leaves his fingers in your obscenely wet pussy just a bit longer, enjoying the feeling of your cunt convulsing from the aftershocks. He teases his soaked fingers along your slit when he withdraws them, toying with your folds and puffy, hairy outer lips before moving south.
A gasp catches in your throat as he cautiously circles your rosebud.
"Ever been touched 'ere?" Bright moonlight casts off his dark coffee-colored eyes as he searches your face for discomfort.
All you can muster is a broken "No," and he hums a deep rumble. It sounds like the beginning of a summer storm, and the ominous tone sets a blazing fire in your belly.
"s'ok if I keep goin'?" he asks, timidly looking down at you through his lashes. He shifts his hips, grinding his cock against your outer thigh. You mewl upon feeling his hard, throbbing length through his jeans.
You dumbly nod, and a sly grin tugs at the corner of his lips. 
Your mouth drops open, panting, as he slowly presses one thick digit into your ass. He curses at your tightness but keeps moving until his knuckles graze the soft globes of your cheeks. "S'fuckin' tight lil' ass you got there, sweetheart." He croons, nudging his nose along your jaw and tipping your head back before branding you with a searing kiss.
You moan wantonly as he licks into your mouth and starts slowly fucking you. "Tell me how it feels." He husks, breaking the kiss.
His lips latch onto your neck, sucking and nipping his way down to your clavicle as your mind searches for anything remotely resembling words.
A mess of mumbled moans and broken curses stumble from your lips into the small truck cabin. Your hips move on their own, wanting his finger deeper and faster, but he never breaks his steady stride. He chuckles against your skin. "This sweet rose wants more, huh? First time bein' touched, and she's already gettin' greedy."
He leans back, pinning his eyes on where he's stretching you open, and groans at the filthy sight of his syrupy, thick fingers stretching your small, shiny hole. He meets your wild doe eyes with a wolfish grin before pursing his lips and spitting.
The shock of his warm spittle landing on the rim of your sensitive hole makes your insides violently churn, and a yearning, brazen moan spills from your lips.
"Gotta make sure it's nice n' wet," he says while lining up a second finger, still piercing your gaze. "Don't wanna hurt 'er."  
He watches your face twist from the pressure as he slowly glides two sizeable fingers into your snug hole. "S'ok, you can take it," he calmly encourages, kissing the pinched skin between your brows. 
He raises his thumb up and over your pusling, weepy core, and plants the heavy pad on your clit. He suffocates the tiny button, earning himself a full-on quiver and high-pitched wail from your defenseless, blissed-out body. 
"Thatta girl. Feels good, don't it?" he grunts, thrusting his fingers deeper.
A solid buzz blossoms in your veins under his wicked touch. The dual action he's doling out with his insanely massive hand makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. So overcome with the depraved rapture, you can't help but give in to the delirium.  
"Can feel you loosenin' up. S'good girl," he coos, smiling down at you even though your eyes are crossed dumb from the sheer euphoria racing through your veins. 
"Pretty soon, she'll be stretched around my cock." he informs, hissing when he feels you tighten at his words. Your mouth falls open with a silent wail, and your spine bends like a bow ready to strike as he purrs sinfully in your ear. "Tha's righ'. Gonna make this sweet rose take every fuckin' inch."  
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feel free to scream at me -> 💌
->reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated!<-
follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!
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Dave!York x Reader/Babysitter PWP one-shot
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Summary: Dave York's college-aged babysitter (you!) rides him after his wife leaves him high and dry. 
rating: 18+
Words:  1.4k
tags: plot? What plot? , Cheating, Babysitter, Names (slut, whore, babygirl), age gap, poor Carol. Unprotected P in V, Female orgasm, no use of y/n.
A/N: Y'all this is pwp because I'm ovulating okay. There ain't no plot, the characterization is fucking laughable and I had to commit it here. Don't judge okay? 
REBLOGS - COMMENTS - MEAN THE WORLD.
-------------------------
The York home is dark, the only light and sound coming from the flickering television downstairs. Rain moves drunkenly down the large window panes of the suburban home at the end of the street. 
Carol York, mother of two is slipping into her sleep shirt, having just peeked in to see her two darling daughters sleeping soundly before closing their doors. 
Tonight was a long night at her work party. Dave, handsome and charming had wooed everyone he met, having them eating out of the palm of his hand. 
Carol wishes she hadn't drank so much at the open bar so she could have taken up Dave's offer of a deep fuck when they got home, the suggestion whispered in her ear in the back of the taxi home.
Now she perches at the top of the stairs, listening to the sound of the television downstairs murmuring gently. 
"Dave?"
She bellows her husband's name down the stairs, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
"Yeah?" comes his husky disembodied voice from downstairs.
"Is the babysitter still here?" 
You're the best babysitter they've ever had. Their daughters adore you, the house is always spotless when they arrive home and you're so polite with your ma'am and sirs. She feels so lucky to have found you. 
"Dave did you hear me?"
"Yeah, honey." A pause, then his voice a little louder, a curl of amusement in it. "She's just finishing something up."
Carol wrinkles her nose, puzzled. Dave is such a stickler he probably has you cleaning the entire counter because he found a crumb. She rolls her eyes. 
"Dave she's got classes tomorrow!" Carol chides down the stairs at him. "Don't work her too hard!"
She thinks she hears a muffled laugh before your voice sounds out from below. 
"He's not ma'am," you call up cheerfully. "I like doing my job thoroughly." 
Carol smiles, shaking her head at Dave's persistent need to control everything down to how much the babysitter cleans. Oh well, you always come back so that's all she cares about. 
"Are you giving her a ride?" Carol calls down the stairs sleepily. "It's late I don't want her taking the bus at this hour."
"Lemme check if she's wants one," Dave calls back to Carol, but he's unable to stop looking at your face screwed up in ecstasy as you writhe in his lap. 
You've been riding him for the better part of ten minutes, thighs quaking, cunt dripping. 
He's seated comfortably on the couch, legs spread wide and his pants and boxers around his ankles. His dress shirt is still on and you cling to the light blue linen covering his broad shoulders.  
"Yeah, I'm giving her a ride."
Dave calls this up to Carol, his mouth twisted into a mischievous grin. But his eyes are stuck on you, perfect, bouncy, shiny, babysitter you.  You give a breathless laugh in return, brows saddling when his length hits a really good spot. His voice lowers. 
"You like your ride, babygirl?"
He grins up at you, large palms urging your hips to roll over his. 
"Yes sir," you say breathlessly down at him.  
He's holding you by the hips as your breasts bounce inches from his mouth. You're wearing nothing but your plaid skirt and it's ridden up, bunched at your waist.  His hands slide up to cup your breasts as you shift yourself on his lap, tugging at the nipples as you bite back a moan.
His cock is buried within your slick cunt, partially exposed under your skirt. His hands slide back down to cup you’re the meat of your ass in a brutal grip that pulls you up and down along his length. 
"Faster baby," he whispers against your throat. "Faster."
He lifts his own hips, pulling you to a new angle and fucking up into you. His face is pure concentration, teeth gritted and bared, brown eyes blown black, forehead dotted with sweat. You jostle in his lap, your thighs burning as you spread them wider, wanting to feel every inch of him. You gasp as he hits that sweet spot that has your toes curling. 
"Shhh," Dave soothes when you start to whimper. "Don't wanna get caught do we? What would my wife do if she found our sweet, innocent babysitter bouncing on my cock like a little slut?"
At this his fingers slide along your clit, beginning to stroke with measured skill. He grins when he sees your eyes cheat to the back of your head. He glances down, pulling up the front of your skirt to watch your pussy swallowing his cock, gleaming with your arousal.
"Mmmm, like being my little slut, don't you?" 
"Yes...” you breathe. “Yes sir."
It's not long before your breathing is labored and Dave is watching you with rapt fascination. The couch creaks slightly, and he slows his circling within you, wanting to extend the moment. You’re so wet it’s dripping down his balls, sure to stain the fabric of the couch below him.
"Listen to that," he says volume matching that of the television advertising some miracle spot remover. You listen, quickly flushing when you realize he wants you to hear the sound of your copious slick coating his fingers. 
"So fucking wet, babygirl," he purrs up at you, his thumb tapping your clit at the base and making you jolt. He smiles broadly at your reaction, his sweet eyes crinkling in amusement. You  grab his clean-shaven chin, tugging his face up so you can both meet in a ravenous kiss before you suck his tongue into your mouth as he fucks you.
You want to feel him everywhere.
You swallow your moan, biting your lower lip so harshly it drains the blood from it. Dave's free hand comes to cup your left breast, guiding it to his mouth so he can flick his tongue over your straining nipple. He hears your shudder and quickly takes it into his mouth and sucks harshly, sending a pleasured stripe to shoot through your body. 
He can feel you milking his cock when he does that and he presses his face between your breasts, suppressing his moan there as his climax steadily builds.
 He can smell sex and your perfume mixing in the air, making for a heady combination. And the sinful sight of your pussy gliding up and down his rigid cock is something he knows he's going to jerk off to for years to come. He still can’t believe you’re here perched on his lap, body shaking with the force of your mutual grinding, body bared to him.
"Fucking naughty girl," Dave grunts. 
"Yes," you say, hips rolling lazily, your hands going to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over the stiffened peaks. Dave swallows an appreciative groan when you pinch each between your thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently. He sees the flush to your chest and neck and knows you're so close.
"Go on and come for me, college girl," he whispers, slapping your ass before gripping the meat of it in his palm. "Show me why I'm fucking you and not my wife." 
Your motions are frantic and you're hands are back on his shoulders, using it for leverage as you begin to bounce on his lap, watching his head tilt back in pleasure. 
"Bad girl," Dave gasps out, his large palms slamming you up and down on his cock, using you for his pleasure. "Fucking bad... Fucking me.... Such-such a slutty little babysitter... Fuck yourself on my cock."
"I will," you whisper down at him, your face damp. You tilt back slightly, watching his cock slick with your arousal as it begins to piston in and out of you, almost a blur in its speed. 
Dave is similarly transfixed, holding your legs spread wide so he can see the sight of your sticky inner thighs and the way you've made such a mess at the base of his cock. 
"Come now," he tells you in a silken purr. "Show me how good it feels."
Dave begins groaning when you start to bounce up and down in his lap in frenzy, the sound of his cock slamming up into your cunt slick and obscene. 
"Yes sir," you chant barely above a whisper. "Yes sir, yes sir, yes siiiiiiiiiirrrrr."
Your back arches and he continues to hold your ass as your hips start to cant, your body tensing and then releasing as you come. 
"Fuck I can feel that," Dave sighs, watching your pussy soak his cock as he feels your cunt fluttering around his throbbing cock. "So good for me, babygirl." 
You shoot him a lazy smile, face flushed, hair disheveled and Dave feels his own release rapidly approaching. 
"Keep bouncing," Dave instructs. "Gonna-"
But you're not bouncing. You're grinning devilishly down at him before sliding up his still throbbing cock. Dave feels the sweet velvet clench of your pussy being pulled from him and he swallows a whimper. 
“What the fuck?” Dave asks in quiet shock, his hips still circling under you, desperate to prolong the friction. "You're not stopping, are you?"
"I am," you say hopping off his lap and pressing a chaste kiss to the end of his strong nose. 
He sits there on the couch, cock hard and soaked in your slick. He watches you pull on your sweater before sliding your panties up under your skirt. 
"I need to come," he tells you sternly. 
"Sorry sir," you say with a smirk and a wink. "Mrs. York said you weren't supposed to work me too hard. See you next week."  
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honest to god I love that tiktok so much, this just made my day.
DARLINGGG!!!
Prison Boyfriend!Joel x Reader
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Summary: Your boyfriend, Joel, calls you while you’re in an Uber to let you know he’s out of jail.
Word count: 360
Warnings: this is not only a crack fic but it’s also incredibly fucking stupid and probably won’t be funny at all unless you get the reference 😭, roleplay, violent language/possessive behavior, no outbreak AU, pet names, no use of y/n
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You’re sitting in an Uber, face against the cool glass window as you try not to fall asleep. That would be risky. It was a successful night out and even though you’re exhausted, you’re excited to see your boyfriend, Joel. 
Your phone vibrates in your purse so you unstick your cheek from the window and glance at the screen. It’s an incoming call from none other than Joel. You answer it and accidentally put the call on speaker. Huge mistake. 
“DARLINGGG!?!?! Guess who’s back from jail???”
“Oh my God?? You’re free??” you say, scrambling to take the phone off of speaker. 
“That’s right, baby!!! Daddy’s home from prison!!!”
“Yay!! Welcome back, my king!!”
“I’ve been dreaming about this moment for the past sixteen years!”
“Well, you did commit horrendous tortures…”
“Yes. Yes. Yes… And I missed you too, my love!” he says, ignoring your comment about the terrible crimes he committed. 
“DARLING?! What is your location? What are you doing right now?! Tell me right now!!”
“Calm down, you barbarian! I’m in an Uber.”
“Put your Uber driver on the phone!! Put him on the phone!!”
“No, please stop! I won’t let you hurt him.”
“Okay, darling… Your location will do.”
“I oblige, my lord.”
“Okay just know daddy’s back from jail and he’s coming for you,” Joel says before hanging up.
You glance up from your phone and see your Uber driver looking at you in the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow.
“Um… Is everything alright?”
“Don’t worry about him! It’s just some… roleplay.”
“...Got it,” he says. And with that, your driver doesn’t say anything to you on the way home. When he drops you off you make sure to leave him an extra large tip for having to put up with… that. 
Joel opens your front door and greets you on the pathway as you walk to your front door. You playfully slap him on the chest with the back of your hand and say, “Too real that time! Pretty sure I just got banned from Uber…”
You walk past him and head inside. As you’re taking your shoes off you hear Joel say, “Don’t worry, darling… There’s always Lyft!”
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Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist
If you don’t get the reference just search Carrington Uber/Lyft safety on TikTok 😭😭
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kiss it better
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title: kiss it better
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
rating: E, explicit sexual content - 18+ only, mdni
summary: you’re sore, joel asks if daddy needs to kiss it better. 
// for kinktober prompt: day 25 - daddy dom.
warnings: softdom!joel; daddy kink; qz boston!joel; dirty talk; praise kink; like lots of it; body worship; very light pain play; joel presses a bruise because he’s a dick; but he does make up for it; vaginal fingering; vaginal penetration; oral sex (f receiving); rough sex; joel talks you through it; can you believe we’re light on the degradation for once?; cum play; but i feel like i might misuse that – it just has to go somewhere y’know?
word count: 3.9k
[ playlist / ao3 ]
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You grit your teeth. You ball up your fists. You breathe hard and fast through it—but you do not complain.  
You’ve weathered worse, and Joel reminds you of just that when you get home and you’re wincing settling into a chair. It happened so fast, one minute you’re dragging rubble from one side of the yard, and the next the ground is pulled out from right under you.
Landing ass-first on the rocky earth. 
It’s nothing. Really. It’s nothing. All the injuries you’ve acquired in the last few years have been way more concerning than this one.
It’s just…
It’s inconvenient.
And you know it’ll be worse in the morning. 
You won’t let yourself bellyache about it, not out loud at least where Joel can hear you and tut his disapproval. You’ll have to sleep on your side tonight and be cautious squeezing through tight spaces. And you’ll probably have to take extra care getting dressed tomorrow morning.
There’s only one mirror in the apartment.
It’s a luxury, secured to the aging wallpapered and murky. Water stains and dust long settled down its length. 
You nibble on your lower lip. You’d chance it. Chance a quick glance to see if there’s any obvious cuts or…whatever. Besides, Joel’s too immersed fiddling with some old radio he’s found. Rolling your pants and underwear down just enough, you twist around and check your reflection.
But before you get a good look, Joel’s voice breaks through your focus. You don’t catch much of it, just the tailend of “crybaby”.
 You mean to scowl, maybe tell him off. Some biting comment that starts and ends with “not a crybaby”. Except, you can’t form the words. The thought. It’s all knotted up inside you when you tear your gaze away from the mirror to find him staring at you.
Joel’s gaze pins you, eyes sweeping down the length of you until…until it’s fixed to where you’re exposed—half undressed.
“Poor baby,” he says it so slow and low, the register of his voice darkening. You don’t believe the false dulcitude, unsettles you slightly. His gaze flickers back up, finds your eyes, hard and intent before asking. “Want Daddy to kiss it better?”
You ball your hands into fists, if only to quell the sudden sharp spike of need inside you—fearing the shiver working down your spine might’ve been all too noticeable. 
He waits for your answer, arching one eyebrow expectantly…impatiently.
And you know better than to keep him waiting. You make to move toward him. That is, until you watch him raise his hand in a quiet, but firm command.
Stop.
Wait right there. 
“Eager,” there’s arrogance in his quiet observation, and it shouldn’t make you wet. But it does. It does, right down to the corner of his mouth kicking up in the faintest of smirks, humored at your keenness. 
“Undress.”
Your hands are shaking already, peeling your shirt off you, making quick work of your pants, kicking your underwear away from your feet—standing bare and hot under his attention. For a while he just watches you. Slow and purposeful. 
Joel is in no rush.
His gaze lingers at the space between your thighs where you ache for his attention. You can't stop the jittery furling and unfurling of your fists, fighting the urge to cover yourself, knowing that won’t be rewarded kindly.
He leans back into the couch, a strong arm draped across the top. He is cool and patient, not at all how you’re wrestling with a sharp pang of need.
You wait and wait…and wait.
—and he crooks a large finger at you, calling you to him.
You step over your forgotten pile of clothes, moving toward him—until he points at the scoffed floorboards at his feet.
“Kneel.”
You open your mouth to object, but think better of it. Gritting your teeth and wincing, you lower yourself to the ground, knowing the contact with your heel into your bruised backside will sting.
But Joel stops you before you settle back. 
That same large finger that beckoned you swirls lazily in the air.
Turn around.
Your knees are cold against the ground, but you obey regardless—turning until you’re facing the opposite wall, until you can feel Joel’s hungry stare at the skin between your shoulder blades.
Another shiver.
“Bend over.”
There’s something about hearing him so close—smelling him so nearby—but not being able to look at him that coats your inner thighs with fresh arousal.
Again, you follow wordlessly, sinking down to flat palms, but freeze when you feel the warmth of his wide, calloused hand at your lower back (nearly moaning at the sudden, unexpected contact). 
“Down. More—that’s it.”
Forearms flush to the ground, forehead pressing into it—the angle is obscene. Your hips are tilted up and back, spread apart by the touch of his boot. Going, going, going, until he has you spread open just to his liking (hear it in the low fuck he lets out). 
You’re surprised you can hear anything besides the jackhammering of your heart or the pitchy, labored breaths you’re taking. Your senses are heightened now that you can’t see him, zeroing in on the scoffs of the wooden floors, the smell of badly aged cleaner and a musty rug you found, all mingling with your skin and breath.
Fuck. It’s embarrassing.
It’s embarrassing that you feel yourself clench around nothing…and knowing Joel watched it happen. Bared to him, letting him take in every little intimate inch of you. 
—you moan.
Caught off guard once again by his touch, Joel caresses a cheek—your non-injured one. 
Tentatively, he strokes down your bruised one but you tense up instantly. 
“Shh…” Joel pacifies you, clucking his tongue in the most tender way—like you’re some wounded animal that needs soothing, calming. “Poor thing.”
He repeats his previous motion again—
—you harshly suck air through your teeth, pain blooming suddenly then subtly from where you’re most sore. Joel pressed down on the area, humming thoughtfully at your response.
“Here?” He asks brushing a palm, following the curve of your sore cheek. “Want Daddy to kiss you here?”
You whimper with a slow nod. 
Joel urges you forward a little, hearing him shift from the couch to kneel behind you…between your legs. 
You give a small jump at the sudden press of skin. You…you think it’s the tip of his nose, the graze of his skin and breath against yours. 
You wait and wait—
—and he puts his mouth to it. Right where you hurt, a hot kiss and beard tickling. His tongue laves over the spot, rough and wet and strong.
“Joel,” you sigh into the floor.
“How’s that?” he asks, pulling away.
Your skin is so sensitive, cooled where his tongue licked a wet stripe. You’re on fire and Joel’s mouth is just the thing to raze you to nothing.
“Mhmm,” you nod eagerly, eyes squeezing shut. 
“Feelin’ better?”
All you can offer him is more nodding and impatient mewling. 
“Then I should stop,” there it goes again. The slight arrogance in his voice. 
“No,” and you, with your pathetic eagerness. “No. Don’t—please. Keep going.”
You’re not sure what you were expecting, perhaps that your politeness would have earned you exactly what you wanted, but Joel tuts disapprovingly. 
And you feel his thumb press down on the bruised area again.
You jerk up from your forearm and gasp—sharp pain bringing you back to the present. 
“‘Keep going’, what?”
The sudden pinch of pain only just about steals your breath, panting and blinking until the living room comes back into view.
“Please,” you remember yourself, you remember the game. “Keep going, Daddy.”
“Good girl,” and you’re instantly rewarded with another kiss.
Joel drags his tongue across your skin, and then it’s his teeth nipping lightly. The coarse hair of his untidy beard prickles and rubs you delicious. He skims up the back of your thighs, large and warm hands settling to cup you near the undercurve of your backside and legs. Your hips twitch—wiggle, really. It’s all desperation while you seek out relief. 
It hurts. Hurts to be this wet and untouched. Aching for a brush of his finger, the brush of his lips. Just thinking about it makes you twitch again, doing your best to direct Joel’s mouth where you need it most.
“Quit,” he says roughly against your ass, and this time his teeth do pinch your skin. “Or you’ll have two sore ass cheeks if you keep that up.”
 You still immediately, half-garbling an apology you’re not sure makes any sense. But it’s too late. Joel’s pulling away and you’re holding back your disappointment.
You don’t know what’s worse.
Being teased or knowing Joel’s looking at you. At the obscene wetness, the drip from your cunt down—or up, you guess. You wonder if you’re dripping on him, on his jeans, on the floor.
“So fucking pretty like this,” Joel’s voice is gravelly low. “Ass in the air. Pink pussy swollen and wet.”
You keen again, at a total loss for words as your need fights to consume you. Teetering dangerously close to doing something stupid like not following the rules and chasing relief for yourself. 
“Think you just needed some attention,” Joel continues and you’re bowled over by his touch, pressing your forehead into your arms. He runs a finger—no, it’s the thickness of his knuckle—right from your soaked entrance to your clit. You can’t help it. Your hips tip further back into his touch, gasping for more. “Think all that cryin’ and bellyachin’ was just a ruse to get me to make you come.”
You shake your head.
The blood is starting to rush to it, and it’s heightening your arousal. You feel like you took something, limbs light and loose and your senses at their peak. Every pass of his knuckle only leaves you wanting more.
You think you hear the pop of his finger from his mouth.
It’s too much.
The thought of him back there, tasting you off his fingers, while staring at the way you gape for him—squeezing around nothing. 
“But you’ve been sucha brave girl,” another taunt—fuck, you’re too eager, too close to getting everything you want to bite back. “How ‘bout Daddy takes care of it?”
“Mhmm.”
Joel shifts, his jeans brushing the inside of your legs and he’s petting you. He’s…so gentle.
“‘Mhmm’, what?” he repeats. “What do you want?”
“Touch—anything,” you can’t form the words. It’s all butchered sound to you, blood pounding in your ears. 
Joel chuckles, but it’s dry and humorless. 
Yet it makes you squirm, makes you molten from the inside out.
“Need to hear you say it, baby,” Joel ventures too close to your inner thighs—getting close and yet not close enough.
You open your mouth but you don't know where to begin. Every sweep of his hand, every cup of you in his palm makes you blank. 
“Come now. Try,” he starts. “Say, ‘Daddy, want to fuck your hand’.”
You could cry. 
You try to focus on a spot on the floor, where the sun is casting its last shadow of the radio perched up on the window. You follow its outline, try to focus enough to manage the words.
You take a shaky breath. Then two.
When you open your mouth, you realize it’s gone dry. 
“Daddy, want to fuck your hand.” 
“Shit.”
An odd sense of relief floods you that it’s not just you, punched out by crazy desire—that Joel is just as man, craving you the way you’re craving him.
He runs his fingers through your slick slit, tracing your entrance before dipping a single digit in you. You nearly wobble up on your elbows, unsure what to do with the sudden fullness.
“Easy, easy,” and Joel slowly starts to pump his finger in and out of you, but it’s not long before he’s adding another. 
Too full, too soon and stretching around his thick fingers, just on the precipice of uncomfortable but not quite. Joel must sense it because he coos another string of encouragement. His free hand rests along the curve of your ass, keeping you spread open and then you feel it—the gentlest coax, urging you to move. 
To fuck yourself back into his hand.
So you do, moaning and pliant to his every little demand. 
“Atta girl,” he says, sounding so profoundly pleased you think you could come right then. 
You could. You could take your pleasure like this, could easily bear down on his hand from the angle and pace he sets with the hand on your ass. 
But you know better than to let it run away from you—run away from Joel’s instruction.
Your wiggling is starting to get embarrassing. It’s wormy and impatient. Frustrated that you can’t speed up the movement, to get to the place you want to most. 
And—fuck, he’s curling his fingers just right.
You squirm and pant and your tongue feels heavy, face hot from the blood rushing and the heat of what you’re doing, of how you’re getting the fullness of his fingers right at the bundle of nerves inside you. 
Joel’s hot breath meets the inside of your thigh. “What a mess you’re makin’,” and he runs his teeth along the skin there—licks at the wetness that’s starting to get everywhere. “Want Daddy to clean you up?”
“Oh fuck,” a choked out noise from your throat as you fight not to come right there, useless against his filthy mouth. Your shoulders and elbows ache, legs shaking at the intensity of it all.
He stills your sudden jerky movements, withdrawing his fingers and it hurts to lose his touch.
Slick with your wetness, he clutches at the side of your leg as he moves behind you.
“Here,” you feel the puff of hot breath tickling where you’re wettest, the single word ghosting over your pussy. “This where you need to be kissed, baby?”
You nod and twist impatiently, your forehead rolling over the back of your forearms. You’re sure you’ll be sore there tomorrow morning too. He makes those shushing noises again, and you start to feel like some wounded bird he’s come across—powerless and wondering if he’ll put you out of your misery.
“Fuck,” more choked noises from you throat. “Fuck y-yeah. Th-there.”
“Ask nicely.”
You nearly tell him to fuck off, but thankfully all you manage it a gargled sound of frustration. It almost sounds like a growl.  The thing, tight like a fist in your belly, is viscous—unrelenting. Craving, demanding fullness where you flutter and clench.
Fucked out to the point of vexation, it makes you more primal and less you.
“Please.” 
Tears start to prick the corner of your eyes.
“So close,” and you think that’s the arch of his nose nudging your lips apart. “Try again.”
You shake. Tremble. Muscles crying out from the strain. Desire splits you from your body, until you’re rendered to just an aching, hapless thing. A thing that craves, and craves, and craves.
And it craves Joel.
“Repeat after me,” Joel says softly, and this time you can’t sense the arrogance in his tone—no matter how tight you squeeze your eyes shut.
You nod. It’s all you’re going to manage on your own.
“Please, Daddy…”
“P-lea—” you’re cut off by another unexpected moan, but you persist. You try again, angry nails against the wood under you. There’s a drop of something on the floor. A tear? Spit? Sweat? “Plea-please, Daddy.”
“Let me fuck your mouth.”
“Let-let m-me f-f-fuck your mou-mouth,” it comes out in one rushed breath. It takes so much out of you your chest is heaving hard against the floor beneath you, pressing hard into your tits.
“Now…” Joel massages—teases—the muscles nearest your inner thigh. “All together, darlin’.”
You don’t know where you source the strength from, how you manage to get through it.
“Please, Daddy, please—let me, let me fuck your mouth, please. Please, Daddy.”
You think you’ve babbled the same seven words over and over and over, until they fall out of order and turn into a gaudy sound that starts off as a moan but quickly unravels into a scream the moment Joel presses his mouth to your cunt.
His strong tongue runs through your folds, hitting the underside of your clit and pulls another one of those vulgar screams out of you.
You tip your hips back into his face and he encourages it once his tongue finds your entrance. Fucking you with it.
You can’t control the way your hips start moving back against his mouth, his face—the same way you eagerly fucked his fingers.
And the noise…
The noise is fucking lewd.
But you need to hear it.
You muffle your moans and cries into your forearm, drooling against it as the focus point in front of you (the shadow of the radio) blurs and blurs.
You need to hear it, Joel licking through your wetness, at the way he laps at your cunt until you’re closer and closer and—
He pulls away.
And you do collapse a little, unsure how much longer you can keep up with his games. You hear the rushed sound of his belt clicking open and the swift slide of his zipper.
You chance a glance back at him. Tense, tired limbs and blurred vision. You can feel the trail of spit snapping between your arm and sore mouth. 
Fuck.
Maybe you shouldn’t have looked back. Because you’d only seen him like this a few times before.
He looks…drunk. Strung out on the sight of your pussy, mouth and beard wet and darker. You watch as he fishes out his cock—hard, drooling. 
You don’t think you can cant your hips any further in offering.
Joel strokes himself, unhurried and slow while staring at the mess he’s made between your legs. You muffle a moan by biting down on your swollen bottom lip and his eyes find yours. 
“Eyes forward.”
You do as you're told. You do as you're told because you’re so close. So close to getting what you want.
“Good girl. So obedient,” Joel says. “Gonna show me what a good girl you are? Gonna take all of it?”
“God, yes,” your cheek meets the floor, arms bracketing your face. “Yes, yes—want your cock, Daddy—”
The air is punched out of you.
Joel sinks into you with one forceful push, no other choice but to stretch around the size of him—and Joel is not a small man. All broad and strong statured.
You wince through it, doing your best to breathe through it. Trying your hardest, by some sick impulse, to make him proud of how you can take all of him.
 He’s not giving you a second to adjust to the sudden fullness. You writhe back against him, trying to find an angle that doesn’t make you feel like the air is strangled out of you—but Joel doesn’t set a soft and easy pace.
When he slams back into you the second time the line between discomfort and pleasure become so tightly intertwined all you can do is cry for more. Worsens when his hand reaches around and finds your clit, rubbing against his calloused fingers with each powerful stroke.
The angle. The dizziness. The pace. You don’t have much hope you’ll hold out very long.
“That’s Daddy’s good girl—takin’ it so fuckin’ good,” he punctuates each word with a thrust, pressing something so deep and other inside you it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head.
Joel fucks you into the floor, free hand gripping hard at soft flesh of your hips and driving the side of your face against the wood under you. Your forearms, slick with spit and marred in your teeth marks—a feeble attempt to deafen the noise.
The way he’s slamming you back into his hips, the raw rub of denim, you’ve long forgotten about the soreness on your ass. Instead, you hear yourself begging: “Harder”. 
You feel it.
The tense, tight build up. Starting slow and dull, and quickly becoming something sharp and brutal that works to claim all of you. 
You have no way of warning him. 
“Shit, shit,” Joel growls behind you. “Ge-gettin’ wetter—how’re you—s-so fucking wet. Makin’ a mess all over Daddy’s jeans.”
That does it.
It tips you straight over the edge. The free falling feeling crashes all around you. Sucks the air right out of your lungs as you cry out Joel’s name, losing control of your hips, riding out a messy rhythm that serves no purpose other than to prolong your pleasure.
You claw at the floor, nails sinking into the cracks as you cry and sob your way through the orgasm wracking through your body—pussy clenching down on Joel’s cock.
It might be a second. It might be a full minute. But eventually you start coming to, blurry outline of the radio’s shadow in sight. 
Breathless and loose limbed, you fight to keep your balance. But Joel is unforgiving, pounding into you, walls overly sensitive to his deep strokes. 
A little whining noise comes from your raw throat.
“That feel good, baby? Comin’ all over Daddy’s cock?”
You nod into the ground, trembling, another pathetic little noise of affirmation. He makes that thoughtful, tongue-clucking noise again and strokes you from your lower back down the curve of your sore ass. 
Makes you shiver and moan.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop stroking your clit. Doesn’t stop his hips slamming into the fullest part of your ass again and again—and it’s…
Your eyebrows knit tight, face screwed up and hot as you try to let him know—let Joel know that you’re going to—
“Fuckgonnacomegonnacome—”
It’s faster this time, tugged out of you without warning. Your orgasm is ruthless as you pulse around Joel’s cock once more, until you’re rendered to nothing but ragged breathing. 
“Fuckfuckfuck,” Joel grounds out, his voice strained as he picks up the pace. “Gonna come, sweet girl…go-gonna come all over your pretty pussy.”
Nodding, voice hoarse as you whisper “please,” right before Joel pulls out, and the first splashes of hot cum hit your cunt. 
You hear the harsh scrape of his groan as he comes, deep from within his chest, grunting his approval of how good you are, how perfect you’ve been—leaves you sticky and warm between your legs.
Exhausted, muscles cramping and tense from being held in your position for too long, Joel eventually eases you (slowly and carefully) back into him as he settles against the edge of the couch. You nestle into his chest, trying to keep your weight off your sore cheek, his legs on either side of yours. Your let your head fallback against his shoulder, eyes shut tight as a swell of dizziness overcomes you. His heart is hammering in his chest, and so is yours.
The two of you sit there for what feels like hours but is really only a handful of minutes before Joel starts grumbling about something…something about his knees. You grin and tip your face forward, until you can graze your teeth down the edge of his bearded jaw.
“Crybaby,” you croak.
He scoffs. Or, at least he tries despite his exhaustion (and wincing about his knees).
You try for a grin. “Want me to kiss it better?”
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note: omg this was so rushed but booya, i did it. i wrote something for kinktober and proved to myself that i can finish a prompt/fic.
if you liked it, consider being better and more powerful than my meds and give me reblog thanks!!
also i'm so tired, i never say booya...
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coronausa: @pascalispunk Welcome to La Vida Más Fina, fam
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Oh dear lord this is what I need.
for you, for me | joel miller x f!reader
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masterlist | joel masterlist | kofi | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates
pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 4.4k
summary: joel makes a bad day better. warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] porn with basically no plot, a touch of angst, established relationship, no ages mentioned but in my mind joel is in his 50s, reader is whatever legal age you want her to be, hurt/comfort but make it horny, daddy kink, dd/lg vibes (reader is not heavily infantilized), d/s dynamics, risk-aware consensual breath play, choking, implied subspace, needy!reader, soft dom!joel, unprotected p in v sex, finger sucking, cockwarming, creampie, pet names (including use of "little one" and "little girl"), a hint of degradation (joel refers to reader as "dumb" but like, in a romantic + comforting way), dry humping, praise kink, aftercare, reader is described as wearing a skirt, reader has hair, implied anxiety and depression. no use of y/n.
additional notes: this is a work of fiction. joel and reader have pre-established rules and trust surrounding breath play and you should always research the risks before engaging in any kind of edge play irl. additionally, the kinks and dynamics portrayed in this fic are based on a combination of personal experience, research, and wish fulfillment. it is not meant to be read as educational. it is a fantasy.
a/n: no wheel being reinvented here. just some good old comfort sex with daddy!joel. enjoy if this is your thing, scroll on if it's not. thank you to @joelscruff and @5oh5 for reading this over for me and everyone who showed this fic love on ao3.
You should turn on the lights. The lights always help.
The power bar is right there, just out of arm’s reach, tucked between the arm of the couch and the space beneath the windowsill. You could switch it on if you could only convince your muscles to unfurl from the fetal position you’ve been locked in since you got home, if you could blink away the tears in your eyes long enough to see the plug where it’s wedged against the drywall.
But you can’t. So you don’t. You just sit in the dark, still clad in your work clothes and cry. Let the weight of your day consume you. Replay every mistake you made at work, every judgmental side-eye from every uninviting stranger. You can’t control the way it spirals when you get like this. One cruel word from one cruel coworker dredging up a lifetime of failures and anxieties. You just want it to stop.
The lights would help. But they’re silly and childish and you feel stupid for wanting them. And they’re all the way over there.
You need Joel. Joel always makes everything better. 
But when he finally comes through the front door, minutes or hours later, you can’t even find the will to get up and greet him. You tuck your face into the couch cushions and think how pathetic you must look, alone in the dark in his living room, sobs wracking through you for some reason you can’t even remember now. 
“Oh, baby girl,” Joel murmurs. You hear his work bag hit the floor and the rustling sound of his boots coming off. He rounds the couch and you feel him kneel down before you, one big hand cradling the back of your head. The contact, so warm and comforting, makes fat tears well in your eyes. 
“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers gruffly, stroking your skull in a manner almost frantic, still somehow gentle and reassuring. He shifts a bit, and you peek an eye out from where your face is pressed into the couch to see him reaching over to plug in the lights.
They cast the room in a twinkling, warm glow, and it helps. 
“There we go,” he says, resuming the steady petting of his hand on your head, letting his palm drift down the knobs of your spine while he’s at it. You feel him lean in, and you breathe in the welcome smell of him.
“Baby, can you look at me?” he implores. “What’s wrong?”
You sniffle, and think about denying him–but you don’t. You tilt your face to the side, and take in his familiar, beautiful face, brown eyes sparkling in the glow of the fairy lights. In their comforting light, you watch the moment the concerned little furrow in his brows dissolves into sympathy at the sight of your tear-streaked face.
“There’s my pretty girl.” He traces your cheekbone with calloused fingers and you sigh a shuddering breath. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
You shake your head–as much as you can without lifting it off the couch. Everything is wrong, but seeing his face, feeling his touch…it helps. You know what you need, and you think he does too. You need more. You need to let go and you need him to help you do it. 
You clear your throat, reach out and grab at the fabric of his shirt with needy little fingers and almost whimper at the feeling of his solid, warm chest beneath your touch.
“Bad day, daddy,” you tell him. You lace your voice with innocence, and his response is immediate. 
Though infinitesimal, the shift is always noticeable, at least to you. The marginal darkening of his eyes, the slight catch in his breath, the subtle twitch of his jaw. He effortlessly moulds to your needs and you happily sink away in turn.
“Yeah?” he coos, concentrating the tender brushing of his fingers to your face. His voice drops an octave and something comes alive inside of you. “What happened, little one?”
You shiver at the endearment, slip a little further into that smaller, weaker part of you. 
You shake your head, deliberately defiant this time. “Don’t wanna talk about it, daddy.” 
You suspect he already knows that.
His eyebrows shoot up a little, feigning surprise anyway. “No?”
“Mm-mm.”
Joel’s lips twitch a bit, maybe a little amused at your petulant refusal. But there’s still a lingering glint of concern in his eyes. There’s something so paternal about that look. 
“C’mere,” he says suddenly. He grunts a bit as he stands and you start to whine at the loss, but then he’s manhandling you upright with sure, gentle hands and you willingly go with ease. He makes another laboured noise as he sits down into the couch and moves you so you’re straddling him, murmuring a, there you go, baby , as you wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself as close to him as humanly possible.
He rocks you, and it feels like home. He’s so safe. 
“Wanna talk about it now?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head against his shoulder and grab at fistfuls of his curls. 
“No, daddy,” you groan despondently. His hands traverse your back and his breath is warm against your skin and his strong thigh presses deliciously against your clothed pussy and you do not want to talk about anything at all. Unconsciously, you find yourself grinding against his lap, breath catching at the contact where you suddenly need it most. Joel stiffens beneath you in response, his arms tightening around you.
“What do you need, sweet girl?” he presses, soft but stern. He pries you off him and holds your face in his hand, thick fingers cupped firmly under your jaw. “Use your words, please.”
Demanding this of you serves two purposes. His tone implies control, which you and he both know is what you need from him right now. He takes control and you slip a little deeper, go a little foggier and a little dizzier, a little closer to letting go completely. In many ways, though, he is giving you the power, imploring you to clearly communicate even when it feels impossible. He only ever wants to take care of you, and he is always determined to do it right. 
“I need…” You’re cut off by a whimper as your hips move of their accord against him and part of you wishes he’d let you off the hook, just let you chase this feeling instead of forcing you to verbalize it. But he’s still clutching your face and watching you with eyebrows raised, expectant. You pout and force yourself to say it. “Need you to do that thing…”
He bucks his own hips upwards then–just to toy with you, you think–and smirks when it makes you lose your train of thought all over again. 
“What, baby?” he murmurs like he’s done nothing wrong, petting at your cheeks with big, strong hands. “Tell daddy what you want.”
And you can’t argue with that. At last, you sink below the surface and when you next speak, your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. 
“That thing where you make my brain go all fuzzy,” you say, words pouring from you so fast they nearly blur together.
Of course Joel understands at once what you’re asking. A worry line reappears between his brows as he considers your reddened eyes and your already faraway gaze. His hand moves to curl around the side of your neck and you gasp softly. 
“Baby…right now?” he asks. “Are you sure?”
“Please,” you almost sob, craning your neck so his fingers drift that much closer to your throat. You hardly ever ask for this, wouldn’t ask for it now if you didn’t think it would help. “Please, daddy.”
Joel sighs as he softly places his palm at the base of your throat, trailing his touch featherlight upwards until his hand rests just below your jaw. Something carnal takes over. You grind on him faster, your need for him reaching near embarrassing levels. 
“Please, yes–” you beg him as he applies the faintest bit of pressure around the column of your neck. “Please, daddy. Please– please–”
“Sh, alright, it’s okay,” he nods, but then he surprises you. His hand moves right past your throat, up and over your chin to sink his thumb into your open mouth. You close your lips around it at once, eyelids fluttering as you obediently suck with a whimpered sigh. Joel exhales a breathy little laugh. 
“There ya go,” he smiles. “Good girl.”
He pushes his thumb deeper, rough skin all salty and woodsy against your tongue. It silences you so effectively, pulls you down that much deeper when he slowly retracts it all too soon, only to replace it with two thick fingers instead. You clutch at his wrist with both hands, holding him there as you dreamily moan around him.
“Oh, my little girl,” he croons as he languidly pumps his middle and index fingers between your lips. “You want daddy to get rid of all those bad thoughts for you?”
You feel like you could cry all over again at the offer.
“Mhm,” you sigh, swirling your tongue around his fingers just to taste him better. 
Joel hums. 
“Whatever you need, sweetheart.”  
His voice is so sweet in contrast to the third finger he forces between your lips, the stretch almost too much to take now as you slacken your jaw to make him fit. Your eyes pop open and you’re sure you must not be a pretty sight anymore, straining and drooling around his thick, insistent fingers. But Joel looks at you like you’re the most perfect thing in the world, his dark gaze drinking you in as you submit for him fully. 
“Your daddy always takes care of you, don’t he?” he growls. 
You shiver as arousal burns between your legs. 
“Yes,” you say, the sound muffled around his fingers. Joel smiles, tilting his head to the side in wonder. 
“My girl…you’re so sexy,” he marvels, lazily fucking his fingers into your mouth. Your eyes are watering now and spit trickles down your chin, a soreness budding in your jaw as you strain to open wide enough for him. “So goddamn beautiful.” 
At that, you frown, something about his words pulling you back from that perfect, blissful place. The memory of your day floods your brain and even Joel’s adoring gaze can’t chase away the feelings of inadequacy that still linger at the back of your mind. He catches the response.
“Hey,” he admonishes lightly, suddenly yanking his fingers free from your mouth to clutch your face. “What do you say?” 
You pout at the gentle scolding and cast your eyes downward instead of at him. 
“Thank you, daddy.” 
“That’s right,” he insists, forcing you to meet his gaze. His voice is firm, almost angry; he doesn’t like it when you’re mean to yourself. “No arguin’. You’re perfect. You understand?” 
“But I’m–” You start to argue anyway, but the look Joel gives you in response stops you dead in your tracks. Your eyebrows knit together and somewhat reluctantly you grumble, “Okay, daddy.”
Joel nods, seemingly satisfied. Your cheeks hollow as he grips your face a little tighter and you go pliant under his touch, let him nod your head up and down for you, side to side for you, while he offers you his stern command–
“That’s all I wanna hear from now on, alright, babygirl?” he instructs slowly. “‘Yes, daddy.’ ‘Okay, daddy.’ ‘Thank you, daddy.’”
 His voice is so low, so measured and even. It entrances you.
“Okay, daddy,” you promise in a whisper. 
“Good girl,” he praises you lowly, big hand moving to cradle the back of your head and pull your face in closer to his. “No more thinkin’, okay? You just focus on me.”
Through the haze that is slowly beginning to take over your mind, you’re conscious of his other hand wrapping around your waist, gently but assuredly encouraging you to continue rocking on him. You gasp when you feel his hard cock pressing against your pussy through layers and layers of fabric, wetness pooling inside your panties at the steady contact as he coaxes you to ride him. Your eyes flash downwards, but Joel’s hand at the back of your neck holds you in place, leaving you little choice but to lock your stare with his. 
“On me ,” he repeats.
It doesn’t take long for you to lose yourself, Joel’s hand on your waist relaxing as you begin to rock on him in earnest. Your work skirt bunches at your waist and the hard line of his cock feels so big and warm against your core; you don’t even care how obscene you must look. You just rock and grind and chase, lean into the humiliation of it all. You’re no better than a dog in heat for him–and that’s exactly what you want to be right now. There’s not a thought behind your eyes except that of relief as you rub your clothed pussy into his lap and hold his ravenous gaze. 
“Does it feel good?” Joel implores darkly, a delicious hint of mocking underscoring the question. 
A wave of slick gathers at your centre in response and heat smolders in your stomach. You move on him frantically, something like a sob getting caught in your throat. 
“Yes, daddy,” you manage. 
“Do you wanna come?”
You nod so fast it makes him chuckle, even before you breathily beg him,
“Yes, please.”
“Go on n’let go, baby,” he encourages you. Then, in a whisper, “Go on.”
And for him–you do.
You shudder violently above him, the ridges of his jeans catching perfectly on your clothed clit as you come apart. You fall forward into him, bury your face into his shoulder while you come and come, Joel’s hand holding firm around your waist to keep you moving through the waves. He’s whispering praises in your ear and you’re floating floating floating–so far gone you don’t notice him reaching between your bodies to push your panties to the side and free his cock from his jeans. He holds you close against his chest as you come down from your high, barely giving you a chance to breathe before he’s carefully shifting you in his lap and sitting you down onto his length without warning.
It’s too much. It’s perfect.
“Shh s’okay…” he whispers when you gasp and whine at the sudden stretch. “I know, I know, I know, baby, I know.”
He murmurs quiet praise at you until he’s sheathed completely in your warmth, the both of you moaning when you’re fully seated in his lap again, now with his cock nudging at the deepest parts of you. With his arms wrapped around you, he holds you there, chest to chest, his breath warm and all-encompassing at your ear. Your pussy drips and strains around his girth and you are so fucking full you could weep.
“Daddy…” you whimper. “So–fuck–so big, daddy…”
“It’s okay, you’re doin’ so good,” Joel hums quietly, stroking your spine comfortingly. “Takin’ it so well. My perfect little girl.” 
He pulls back far enough to look at your face then and whatever he sees there makes him smile with pride.
“Oh, baby, look at you, huh?” he chuckles, cupping the side of your face with one massive palm, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “So pretty like this. Daddy’s gorgeous girl. What do you say when daddy gives you his cock?”
“Th-thank you, daddy.”
“ That’s right,” he murmurs, shifting beneath you just the slightest bit so his cock hits somewhere dizzying inside of you. Your mind goes beautifully blank, eyes rolling back into your skull. Joel chuckles.
“Daddy’s cock got you feelin’ a little dumb, sweetheart?” Joel sweetly taunts and you nod; he’s not wrong.
“Yes, daddy.”
“Yeah, that’s okay” he grunts, rocking you in his lap as he speaks. The pooled fabric of his boxers rubs against your clit while his cock tickles your insides and already you can feel the urge to come again building in your core. “I know how smart y’are. Work so hard all the time. You can be a little dumb for daddy. Right? You can let go for me.”
Fuck–you want to. You just need more. 
“Daddy, please …” you whine, rather pointedly finding his arm and bringing his hand up to your neck, unable to find the words, knowing Joel will understand. 
He does, of course he does. He groans as his fingers ghost around the base of your throat, his hips bucking up into yours. He pulls himself together with a growl deep in his chest. 
“Okay, alright,” he nods.
It’s a blur then as Joel hastily tears your shirt up and over your shoulders, moving with your pussy still wrapped around his cock so you’re lying flat on your back on the couch and Joel is hovering above you between your legs. 
You feel smaller like this, exposed and open with Joel still fully clothed above you, his thick cock filling you so perfectly. You allow yourself this feeling, let your eyes slip closed and wait for Joel to take away whatever thoughts are left in your mind. 
“How’s that, sweetheart?” he checks in first, softly cupping the side of your face until your eyelids flutter open again. “You comfortable?”
For the first time today, you feel yourself smile. 
“Mhm, yes.”
Joel smiles too, a fleeting little thing that falls once concentration takes over his features. He has to focus now, you know that. 
He only wants to take care of you. 
“Right,” he nods. You start to drift away again but Joel isn’t having it. Not for this. “Nu-uh–eyes right here for me, please.”
You do as he says, infusing your gaze with all the trust and devotion you can muster. Joel steadies himself, his hand moving to curl around your throat. He rests it there, letting you get a feel for it as he dives forward to slant his mouth against yours. 
He kisses you deep and long, lips moving against yours at an unhurried pace, not unlike the way he’s now finally fucking you, cock dragging liesurely through your walls, all sticky-wet and patient. 
“Put your hand on my arm,” he whispers gruffly when he breaks the kiss, pausing the languid thrusting of his hips. You obey at once, touching your fingers to his thickly muscled bicep.
“How many times do you squeeze if you want me to stop?” he asks.
“Two.”
“Lemme feel it.”
Impatient as you are, you know it’s important. You demonstrate squeezing his arm twice in quick succession, repeat it when Joel says again , and only then does he nod his approval. 
“Good girl,” he breathes. Your pussy clenches around him at the praise. “M’only gonna do a couple seconds, alright?”
You nod frantically, heart already hammering with anticipation. You will gladly take whatever he gives you. 
His fingers find that perfect spot around your throat and you involuntarily shiver.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he reminds you. Your eyebrows knit together as your gaze locks with his and then, with just the right amount of force and pressure–he squeezes.
Any hope of keeping your eyes on him dissipates in an instant. Sweet nothing clouds your vision, a blissful sort of fog moving in as Joel restricts your oxygen with careful, steadfast fingers. For a few beautiful seconds, you float away to nowhere, until all too soon, his grip around your neck loosens, and a blinding wave of pleasure washes over you as your lungs refill with air.
“Fuck, good girl,” you hear Joel groan, diving forward to kiss your face, crowding you as you feel him start to fuck you again, thanking you for trusting him with each push of his hips into yours.
“Again, daddy, again– please,” you find yourself begging. “More.”
“Oh, fuck.” Joel pulls away, pistoning into you now with a slightly crazed look in his eyes. You recognize that look. As much as he loves relinquishing you of your power, he also–to some degree–relishes in owning it. When you give in, so does he. He lusts for the control, craves the responsibility of caring for you. 
“Yeah?” he growls. “You want daddy to decide when you get to breathe? My little girl doesn’t wanna think for herself at all, does she?”
“Mm-mm, no, daddy.”
“Fuck.” 
Joel curses under his breath as he works to slow his thrusts again, his fingers retaking their place around your throat. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves and you think he looks like a god. You bite your lip at the sight of him and actually feel his cock twitch inside you. 
Somehow, he remains focused.
“A little longer this time, okay?” he grits.
You nod, a desperate little noise squeaking out from between your parted lips.
Joel takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes trained on your face and for the second time, his fingers close around your airway.
Like he’d promised, he draws it out a little more this time. A slow build before stars burst behind your eyes and your body melts away into the couch as Joel softly presses down down down into your windpipe. You lose sense of time altogether, blinded by euphoria. But then Joel is letting you breathe again and you’re moaning as the blood rushes back to your brain, head lolling dazedly against the cushions as he resumes fucking you, harder now. 
“Christ, yeah , she fuckin’ likes that–you’re so fuckin’ wet, baby,” he marvels. He clutches your face beneath your chin and gently taps your cheek to refocus you. You blink up at him, so large and imposing as he fucks into you and overwhelms every single one of your senses. “You gonna come again? Get daddy's cock all messy?”
You want to–you will. You can feel tension coiling deep in your core, so warm and wet and inviting but–
“Need it…one more time, daddy,” you plead hazily as needy little tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Please.”
Joel groans but works to oblige you, slowing the steady strokes of his cock with a heady, ragged grunt. It seems to take considerable effort for him to hold his composure now, but he does–for you. 
“One more time,” he repeats definitively, eyebrows raised. You whine out a noise that sounds like please and Joel’s fingers find their way around your throat once more. 
“Ready?” he asks. You nod before he’s even finished speaking.
Joel’s chest rises and falls, his thick brows furrowing as he squeezes his deft fingers around your throat one last time. 
And oh –that does it. 
Release builds in you while your mind drifts at the sensation. You can feel him fucking you through it even as his hands make careful work of restricting your airflow, so sure and precise with every move he makes. He lets it go on until that welcome fog passes over you again and you’re sure you’d fall right through the floor if Joel wasn’t holding onto you. When he releases you, ecstasy floods your nerve endings and your orgasm crashes through you with dizzying force. His thumb finds your clit through it all, rubbing you through the peak of your climax so it seems to go on and on and on. Your ears are ringing but you can still hear yourself crying out, voice all hoarse and wanton with daddy daddy daddy thank you daddy.
“There she goes,” Joel hums as you come. He sounds so far away. “That’s right, little one, that’s right. Let it all go. Just like that for me.”
His free hand moves to cradle the back of your neck while you arch and writhe under him and when it ends, your mind is finally–perfectly–empty.
You’re not sure when it happens, but somewhere in the haze, Joel moves so you’re back in his lap. Like muscle memory, you snake your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life, a listless thing in his grasp as he fucks up into you so hard it jostles your entire being. 
“Atta girl, just keep fuckin’ takin’ it like that,” he grunts haggardly into your hair. “Just like that. Daddy’s perfect little doll. This is what you needed, huh?”
Yes. God, yes. This is all you ever want, you think. To just be a mindless little thing with no problems or fears. Only Joel’s. 
A breathless hum of agreement is the most you can offer him in return. Joel groans appreciatively, clutching you tighter as he chases release. 
“I know, baby, I know.” He sounds almost apologetic, like he can hear how tired you are. He knows you love this part just as much as anything else though. It might be your favourite part, actually–to feel so useful to him while doing nothing at all. It’s like a gift. 
He’s just worried about you, you think blissfully, smiling into his neck while he pounds your spent, weeping pussy. He only ever wants to take care of you.  
“M’almost done…almost there,” he promises, thrusts growing erratic. “Tell me where you want daddy’s cum.”
“Come in my pussy, daddy.” You say it like you’re making a wish, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”
“Yeah…yeah, baby, daddy’s gonna come in your tight little pussy,” he rambles. “Gonna give my little girl just what she needs–gonna–”
He’s cut off by his own strangled moan, coming undone with a final few pumps upwards into your wasted hole. His arms envelop you as he fills you with hot release, moving your ragdoll form along his length as he milks himself completely. It feels like he comes forever, cock spasming between your walls until you can feel spend leaking out around his length and dripping down onto his clothes, staining your inner thighs. He holds you there on top of him, even when his shudders subside and he’s filled you as completely as he can, fat pools of slick and cum sticking to your skin at the place your bodies are still connected. 
You can feel your eyes welling with tears again, some mixture of gratitude and grief setting in. Gratitude for finally feeling some semblance of comfort after such a painful day. Grief at the thought of having to come back to reality. Joel lets you stay below the surface a little longer, keeps reality at bay with his softening cock buried inside your pussy and his arms around your body, whispering praises and assurances that daddy’s here, daddy’s got you, you’re okay. 
He only moves to help guide you to the bathroom after several long, steadying moments. You still feel like you’re floating as he meticulously washes you clean in the shower, taking extra care around your neck, dotting sweet kisses there and painting your skin with tender, loving caresses. He offers your aching pussy the same gentle treatment. 
And when he tucks you into bed, he leaves the fairy lights on in the bedroom too, moulding you into his chest under their soft, heavenly glow.
“Tomorrow’ll be better, babygirl,” he whispers. “Okay?”
“Okay, daddy.”
For now, at least, you’ve got the lights. And you’ve got Joel. And that helps. 
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3. heather purple
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter three of do me yourself
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summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.8k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over IG. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used, you do wear a top and jeans tho. minor worrying/nervousness. no use of y/n. an: i love them i love them i love them
prev chapter | frankie's ig
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
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Nervous energy pulsates through you.
It first manifested as a rattle, an annoyance when your eyes opened this morning. Now, it had grown into moving things half an inch and constant tapping—on surfaces, on you, on walls. All restless, practically relentless—vibrating and thrumming.
Then, your teeth began lazily, grazing over your lower lip, eyes flicking to the clock—fingers adjusting your laptop on the counter for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes.
With a catch of your thumb, your phone illuminates, another nervous-tic, another thing you've been doing for the last so many moments.
Even if you know he’s on his way, having told you as much.
Normally, you would find it easy to calm yourself through pacing, the flexing of your fingers, and deep, soothing breaths. But not this time.
This time, it lingers. A persistent knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel and instead attempts to bathe in giddiness—a sensation you’d never imagined, never mind expected.
Suddenly, with another fluttering jolt, you wish you could backtrack the messages you had sent. The ones that had invited him—jovially, before seriously.
Because despite spending several minutes leaning on your cool, kitchen counter, with a glass of water pressed to your neck, warmth is still radiating from your skin.
The thinnest layer of sweat still remains on the base of your spine, sticking; the same as it is around your head—no matter how often you dab it away.
Admittedly, it’s all self-inflicted. Caused by the fact you had tried on a thousand things within the last half an hour. All of the failures were discarded, shoved (all unceremoniously), at the bottom of your closet, the door shoved shut in frustration.
Nothing had felt right. Nothing had looked right.
A mess of worries and overthinking churning in your head, all caused by your friend's echoing voice as you stared at yourself in the mirror:
Do you think he’ll size up your new office and then size you up? Do you think this is a date? Do you think he’s expecting to see your bedroom? Because if you count the coffee, this is the third, which means—
At the time, it had been easy to laugh. Play it down—continue to wash your dishes and clean around the sink.
But, it’s when the goodbyes had been exchanged; when there were no more cups or plates to clean, and you found yourself alone with nothing but the sounds of suds swirling down the drain. That's when your mind began to wander. To weave patterns of concerns, begin concocting.
Do you think…Do you think?
Do you think?
Deep down, you know it doesn't matter. Less so as your hand brushes over your face, heavy sigh exhaled, because he'd be here soon.
In your home.
Frankie would be able to see the poor state of your “remodel” or “flip” or whatever term it is for when you buy a rundown thing and try and make it liveable. He'd be able to see exactly why you'd looked lost in the hardware store he works, because look at your home. The place where you rest, sleep and work.
You could come and see it for yourself, wouldn’t need to keep guessing what I’m dreaming up. Yeah? You sure? Well, it would be easier than me trying to explain the issues I’m faced with because until an hour ago I didn’t know what a wrench was called. What did you use to call it? Tightening-tighty. Fitting name. I thought so too—until your latest “helpful” video ruined it. At least you’re learning now how selfish I am. You are, but I’ll forgive you because you have a nice smile. Is the smile enough to upgrade me from DMs to a phone number? Oh, you are pushing it. Well, to keep on pushing and this is presumptuous, but I can come round tomorrow. After I’ve finished up at work. Luca is back with his mom. Yeah? Send me your address and I’ll be there, rainy. I’ll send you my number too, so you can call when you leave.
And you had.
Then, tomorrow had become today, and you’d found yourself trying to flood the worries from your half-a-job redecorating with cleaning.
Some of it alleviated by decluttering half-empty boxes from around the base of pale walls, but part of it added more issues to your plate because suddenly you wished you had more plants. More colour.
More anything.
Because it’s bare, a barren of nothing. There are marks on the floor not lifted from scrubbing and cracks in the wall that need filling.
Disappointment lands on your shoulders, weighed down with pinched regret—because you realise (once again, having lived in blissful ignorance) that there is so much to do.
Swallowing, you glance around, scents of wood polish and floor spray swirling. You glare at the many holes filled in by the previous owners. The ones not painted over just yet.
Because you hadn’t decided on a shade—no colour scheme having jumped out.
The place is all just pale, off-white or faded magnolia.
"Fuck."
The urge to crawl into a ball rises, a sickening feeling swirling.
Somehow, if the state of your home doesn’t scare him away, a small part of you knows it can find comfort that maybe your humour is enough to keep him around.
A thought that should relax you, but instead makes your stomach twist more. Because you're not actually sure you're that funny. A realisation that forces your palms to become tacky, the thinnest layer of sweat trying to appear there, as well as everywhere else.
Because you like him.
The knowledge of it pricking at you, making you bite the skin from your lip and pick at your nails; it makes you wiggle your toes inside your socks on the wooden floor and fight a smile at something funny he’d said last night.
And then you hear it.
Wheels. Tyres crunch gravel as a black pick-up pulls up outside your home. One you remember from outside the store, from parking several blocks down from yours.
He’s here.
He’s here. He’s here. He’s fucking here—
The thought rotating, spinning—like a whirlpool drenching you in more sweat and making your head dizzy all at once.
You can’t move, can’t unstick yourself from the floorboard you’re on. Watching. Transfixed. Both feeling joy that he has come (as he said he would) and filled with horror because it’s happening, it’s all fucking happening.
With each step he takes up your drive, you want to bolt from your place and hide in your bedroom. Pretend you’re not home. Pretend something came up.
But you can’t lie.
Guilt swallowing that immediate thought. Watching him get closer and closer, until his knuckles wrap on the door, the noise filling your barely-filled home.
Fuck.
You manage to move then. All quiet steps. Delicate in how you cross the room that’s become a poor attempt at a living room.
Wrapping your palm around the handle, you’re surprised at its sudden heaviness—all cold, so cool against your skin it almost makes you hiss. Almost slipping when you turn it, palm so slick with nervousness as your arm tries to vibrate in its socket.
Opening the door, you disguise it. Layer all your worries and unravelling under a mask. Smothering and burying it in a smile—practically instantaneously. As though it’s the easiest thing to do around him.
But then, it is.
Because even if the rest of your body is having some reaction to the idea he could be stepping inside, you find yourself unable to help but grin. Not able to help lighting up like fairy lights hanging in the darkest night.
And, in the milliseconds of the two of you standing there, you actually begin to feel better.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” you reply, grin growing, forcing your cheeks to hurt in a matter of beats.
And you know you should move, let him in. But, what does it mean if you do? That voice, the one growing louder, who speaks nothing but worse cases and negativity, begins to increase in pitch. Smothering the sound of birds and someone cutting their grass several houses down.
Because is he here to measure up, to give recommendations—or will he kiss you again like he did against your car? Will his mouth move to other places, hands busying themselves, peeling? Will he be disappointed by what lies underneath your comfortable t-shirt and—
“You gonna invite me in?”
Pausing, you lower your gaze to the floor, leaning against the door for a moment. Eyes catching spots of purple on his jeans, finding yourself staring, glancing at how they resemble petals scattered in a careless dance.
You know it likely was accidental, a mere mishap, but it looks pretty, intentional. Even if it's likely tarnished an overworn, maybe slightly beloved pair of jeans.
He says your name, forcing your head up. Speaking it all soft—so full of care and intention—it almost makes you swoon and crack. Almost makes you widen the door to let him inside.
“I’m embarrassed. It’s… it’s not even—“
“Hey, hey, look at me.” And you do, like nothing could be simpler. “I know you haven’t long moved in—and, you wouldn’t be askin’ for an opinion if it looked the best it ever could. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, let me in b… Rainy, please.”
You don’t miss it.
Even if you pretend you do.
It circling, playing. Imagination fuelled up and running the show now.
A thing which drowns the worries, holds its head under water as your brain begins to wonder what him calling you baby could sound like, be like.
Slowly, you lift your head from the door and step to the side to let him in.
Thankful you do, because you catch the scent of the hardware store—one you found you’ve actually really, really missed.
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As though picking up on the thousand hints at how on edge you are, Frankie asks to see the dresser.
Makes a comment about needing to see if the paint covered, if butterscotch orange looked as good on wood as it did on walls.
You don’t argue, instead leading the way. Take him past your sofa and armchair right into the kitchen. As you do, he shares his day, weaves in bits on Harry—how he’s nothing but a torment, even if he says it with a grin.
“He asked about you.”
Thankful for the pot boiling, you pour him a cup of coffee, placing it down before clutching your own. Admiring the way he’s squatted down next to the dresser—fingers sliding over the edges.
“And, what did you tell him?”
Shrugging, Frankie looks over his shoulder—a smile there, evident, easily present. “Said I would ask when I saw you tonight—but, that I assumed you were good from how much you made me laugh last night.”
Heat burns your ears, almost making them match the temperature of your palms from being around the mug.
You think, search, and feel desperate for something to say, all aiming to fill the emptiness when you begin explaining what you’ve already done to your 'cheap find'.
Doing so with as many technical terms as you remember from videos—how you’d restored it, sanded it, etc, etc.
It’s only when he looks over his shoulder again, do you realise how not-weird this is. How it doesn’t feel wrong—relaxing at the realisation, the room and house following suit.
Resting the cup to your chest, you clear your throat, “You know, you’re the first person outside of my best friend that’s been here.”
Brows raising, lost under his hat and curls, his smile slides up further into one cheek. “That makes me special, right?”
“Oh, I think you know you’re special, Morales. I’ve read the comments under your videos.”
A bark of laughter leaves him, head shaking, attention turning back to the dresser as he runs his hand over the top.
“You’ve done good.”
Instantly, you grin. Folding your arms, remaining leaning against the side of the kitchen counter as you almost let a ‘yeah?’ escape, that you instead trade for: “You sound surprised.”
“You did imply you were hopeless.”
Shrugging, you watch him stand tall, fingers itching under the front of his hat as he leans against the wall.
“I am still hopeless.”
Shaking his head, he does nothing but grin—gifting you one full of warmth and sunshine. “I think you’ve just not had someone to show you, that’s all.”
“That going to be you?”
His tongue slides into his cheek, giving a half-shrug as he moves closer, pausing at the side of your kitchen counter. “If you want.”
“You don’t mind that I might have Pinterest boards?”
Chewing his cheek, he smirks as broad and as wide as his shoulders—as though it is difficult to contain. “You definitely have them. Wouldn’t believe you if you said you didn’t?”
Heat warms your cheek, and remains there—burning and pulsing as you avert your eyes briefly. “Maybe I have them.”
His laugh escapes quickly, almost loudly, booming and echoing like before. And you want him to do it again, needing to, as soon as it dies down to flood from him and land against the walls again.
But, instead, you take a large mouthful, placing the mug down. "Shall I show you my dream?"
Heading to show him the spare room, the one that you’re hoping to make into an office, his work boots sound out, echoing around the stripped-back hallway and bare flooring.
There's a comfortable quiet you don’t wish to allow to shift when you head down the hallway, beginning to explain. Hands moving, gesturing, sporadically glancing over your shoulder as he follows—finding his eyes don’t fall to the open boxes, but remain firmly on you.
It isn’t until you step inside the open doorway and he pauses at the do you (on command) continue talking. Slowly pointing to where you think you’d want things. Listing, nose-scrunching as you say how nice it would be to have floor-to-ceiling shelving, an armchair—a desk with space for work. A plant here, maybe one there.
How you want to move from your kitchen counter to in here for work—maybe put up a piece of art here, some nice curtains there. A real desk chair that’ll support your back.
You only stop when you look back and find him resting his forearm on the doorway, not looking anywhere around the room, just at you.
And it makes you pause. Mesmerised, by the way he rolls the pads of his fingers against his thumb, his forearm flexing and how the end of his t-shirt has slightly risen due to his leans. It undoes you, making you forget what room you're even standing in as your brain melts and you become rendered completely, fucking useless.
The spell doesn’t break until his arm drops, fingers push his hat up, eyes warming as he takes the space in. “You want to work near the window?”
Nodding, you move to the side, allowing him space, watching him as he takes his eyes off you, moves into the room and stares around. He sweeps his gaze, brows furrowing occasionally before he stops close to the window.
Sliding the pencil from the top of his ear, he pulls a pad of paper from his pocket. Jotting things down, sketching—eyes zig-zagging across the wall as he tries to mark whatever his thought is down. Mouth moving, occasionally hearing him working out numbers, before the sound is muffled by a scratch of the pencil.
You’re in awe. Just observing. Making no sense of what it is he’s drawing. Least of all what he’s thinking. But gosh, is he handsome when he does it.
More so, when that soft smile creeps back over his face at you watching him, and you worry (briefly) whether you’ve said it out loud.
“You’d have a nice view if your desk was here.”
“Got a nice one right now.”
Snorting, Frankie rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth ticking up into his cheek. “How much do you hate yourself for saying that?”
“Only a smidge,” you say, finger and thumb close together.
Holding his stare, you find the softness of his smile has spread to his eyes, and you can't help but roll your eyes. "Fine. Maybe a little more than a smidge," you amend, your own smile mirroring his.
His laughter fills the room once again, and you can't help but join in. The two of you standing there, and all you want to do is pinch yourself. Not sure how this could be real; how he could be, how all of this could be. How the grin on your face is really there and he’s really here—
“I’m thinking,” he begins. Voice clearing, eyes looking around. “We could build you a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves here like you want—maybe add some cupboards. Could be a nice backdrop if you’re sitting there. Can have it pre-built, or I can help you measure it, build it? Probably need—“
You should be listening. Maybe even making notes.
Not flicking your eyes to his lips, watching the way his face furrows or his lip curls in between listing things.
“How?"
"How, what?"
Swallowing, you exhale. "Did you get so good at that?”
His lips slide into his cheek. “At what?”
Tilting your head, you purse your lip, drop your arm from his shoulder, gesturing, finding the words. “I just watched you like—measure, with your head. I think I heard your brain... calculating?”
He pauses, mouth remaining open, a twinkle shimmering in his eye as he scratches at the curls hanging under his hat. “Oh, I… um. I used to fly. I was in the U.S. Army. Delta Force—guess I got good at measuring, doing calculations in my head, had to, you know?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that… that why you don't like to sit still either?”
Rolling his lips, he tucks the back behind his ear, nodding, a sheepish smile adorning his face.
“Well,” you say, “You’re good at it.”
Swallowing, he licks his lips, gaze not leaving you. “You not wanting to ask anything?”
“Should I?”
Shrugging, he licks his lip. Dragging it along slowly. “Some would.”
You shake your head, meeting his gaze. “I’m not some, am I?”
He considers it, your answer. Turns it over.
But his response isn’t verbal; it’s a gentle tug on the belt loop on your jeans, pulling you close. Out of instinct, your arm drapes over his shoulder. Silently thankful for the outfit choice, for choosing a nice top and jeans. Especially as you stand staring at him, eyes taking him in as he does the same.
Your heart pounds loudly in this definitive pause. A chance provided to cast your eyes away, to ask him what else he's thinking.
But that’s not what you want—not what you need.
Not as you close the small gap. Not as you watch his stare, all heavy and scorching, and how it drops to your lips, following a similar path you had taken on his face only a second prior.
Kiss me, you think.
But you realise as his lips slide into one cheek, dimple deepening, that the words had flowed out instead. Stretched out, laid a red carpet from yours to his.
And it’s inescapable, the pull you feel when your mouth marries itself to his, when your palm remains flush with his cheek, being greeted by the tickling of the wiry hairs on his jaw.
When he licks into your mouth, you’re gone—thrown off course and falling freely, all willingly, not wanting to ever land and not at all in fear of the descent as you grip him for stability. Neither of you stop when his hat falls from atop his head, landing with a crack on the floor.
Because it might be odd to have missed a mouth before, but you have.
Suddenly feeling all is right now it’s back against yours, where you write a story against his lips and taste the words he wishes to say in return. The room is empty, quiet—no backdrop this time compared to the street before—and so you can’t mask your whimpers, and you can’t mistake the sound of him groaning when you move him back so his back meets the walls.
Distantly aware of his hands gripping your waist, keeping you close, mouth chasing yours as you begin to grin, begin to feel him mirroring it.
And then he stops.
Pulls back.
A look on his face that’s unreadable and scrunched.
“I…”
Shame fires inside of you, like a key in an ignition, roaring itself to life. “I’m so sorry, Frankie—I thought, I mean—“
His hand comes around your wrist, stopping you, halting you in your desired path to move from him. “Stop, baby. Please.”
Baby.
It's there again. But this time, fully spoken, not held back.
“I just… I just want to do this right, is all. I’m… fuck, I’m here to help you. Meant to be a professional. Don’t… I don’t want you to think I tricked you into letting me in so I could… you know.”
Heat rises, billowing out across your cheek and neck. “I don’t… I don’t think that.”
“No?”
Shaking your head, you smile. “No.”
His chest fills before he lets out a loud exhale, thumb slowly drawing a circle on your wrist. “Good. ‘Cause…” he shakes his head as he bites his lower lip. “I want to take you out for dinner.” Index joining his thumb, both doing a pattern, as he whispers your name, forcing your eyes to meet his. “I want to treat you right. I… I don’t want to have come from work and—you know?”
Nodding you move a little closer, palm sliding over his cheek. “I know.”
He grins, sliding his palm down flush with yours, before he loops his fingers in between yours. “Good.”
“Good,” you whisper.
Tightening your hold on his, almost swinging it.
“Think you should kiss me again, though.”
Laughing, his eyes crinkle, dimple appearing briefly—but then he does.
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Thank you for helping me move and assess the stability of my dresser.
No problem, glad to be of help.
I had a really nice time with you, Frankie.
How much did it pain you that you couldn’t work that into tease?
I’m wounded, bleeding out as we speak.
You need me to come back? Hold your hand.
Not sure that’s all I’d want you to do if you came back.
Not sure I’d keep my word about doing this right if I did either.
Because I’m an incredible kisser?
Because I didn’t want to leave you at all.
Wish you hadn’t, honestly.
Don’t tell me this, I’ll get back in my truck and come back.
Oh, the dreadfulness if you did.
Did you just use the word dreadfulness?
I did, and I stand by it.
What you doing on Friday at 7pm?
What do you want me to be doing on Friday at 7pm?
I want you to be sat opposite me at a place in town, candle in the middle.
Guess I can move things around to play footsie.
I’m eternally grateful.
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NEXT CHAPTER -> NEXT TUES
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Also, because a lot of y’all are young and maybe you’re not a bb fan, don’t know this song, don’t think of it from time to time, didn’t immediately finish the line…
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2. lemon twist
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter two of do me yourself
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summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.4k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over IG. frankie being a single!dad to a son. frankie gives reader/you a nickname (paint related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: thank you so much for all the love on chapter one, and the bonus graphic. I'm so happy to bring you chapter two! also, WE'RE POSTING WEEKLY BABIESSS
prev chapter | frankie's ig
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
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A soft, melodic tune pulls you into the land of the living, aware of the tug of it, and the immediate reluctance you have to leave the comfort of your dreams.
Your hand hesitates, reluctant to emerge from under the snug warmth of your sheets before your fingers are tapping and searching, all sluggish with sleep, groping blindly as it crawls against the wooden top of your bedside table. It's only when your fingertips connect with the screen does the world fall into silence.
Nothingness. Stillness. Peace.
The perfect environment for your mind to come to itself as you slowly open your lashes, raising a balled-up fist to rub slumber away, as your gaze meets streams of light rolling in through the breeze-blown curtains.
Then it hits you.
Comes to you in a trickle. Then a flood.
One after the other, memories of last night rush over you. Messages sent and received coming to you, recalling the way you'd tucked a pillow under your chest as your thumbs replied quickly to each incoming DM. Then, you recall the giddiness, how it fluttered through you—how it still remains. Still ever-present and very much thrumming inside of you as you begin to smile.
It remains on your face as you roll out of bed. A brief memory of something he said making you laugh as you wash your face, and another when you brush your teeth.
That feeling stays with you as the sun glistens through your kitchen window. One which adds a glow to the place, making the little smoke stains on the walls and the chips on the kitchen counter seem better, less noticeable—and less irritating.
You smirk as you wrap your hand around your mug—because is it too soon to wish him a good morning? Should you wait for him?
Sighing, rolling your eyes, you land on the dresser you were sprucing up in the place a dining table should be. Your eyes linger on it—teeth picking at the skin on your lip—just as it does so each time you come in this room.
A reminder once again that this place should be a home you’ve been building for years, and not just the last few months. There should be photos on the walls of a relationship playing out alongside family and friends, but those ones placed in between are still just empty.
Like so much of your home.
Taking a sip of your coffee, you drop your stare to the newspaper under the feet of the dresser. The stories were told in black and white splotches over in many shades, dotted around as you tested and checked to see what would make the old, worn thing look like something new. The same thing you’d somehow managed to get delivered through a smile and a sweet, please.
You had been, for so long, undecided on the shade.
Yet, as you gaze upon it now, your imagination begins to weave a vivid portrait. It conjures the image of what it might resemble should you succumb to the shade that's gradually painting itself in imaginary strokes.
Sliding your phone from your pocket, you open up your DMs.
Does butterscotch orange come in a paint type suitable for wood? It does. You at work today? Desperate to see me? Just looking to help someone shift paint they can’t sell. What you looking to paint, Rainy?
Taking another sip of your drink, the warmth kisses your palm similar to the temperature blooming in your cheeks from conversing with him again.
Choosing, instead of words, to snap a photo, knowing it'll be easier, simpler.
Watching it send, the little speech bubble appearing as your mind drifts to the hair above his lip, the facial hair along his jaw—the little patch you’d wanted to graze your thumb over.
You think of the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles; when he’d looked pleased to see you in the paint aisle—something akin to a modern-day meet cute you see on the TV.
You coming in today? If I can… gives me something to do this afternoon.
You bite your lip, considering it—whether it’s too forward to make a flirtatious comment. The two of you skirted around it last night, practically river dancing—not quite stepping over, but not quite retreating either.
I’ll get you it ready at the main desk. My hero, Frank.DIY Don’t push it.
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It’s the third visit you’ve made, and while you gloss over the paint chippings on the door, you do notice the circular stains on the floor.
They’re brown, smudged slightly at the edges as though someone has, at one time, attempted to clean (whatever it was) quickly after it had appeared. It’s clear they had failed.
Your eyes scan over it, for a moment forgetting anything and everything.
Just existing in today's scent, which happens to be singed wood—chippings of it practically in the air—as the sound of an electrical saw starts up and begins screeching in some distant corner until you hear your name being called.
And it silences everything.
That voice could pull you from anything, you think.
A crisis, your thoughts, a spiral.
You’d heard his voice plenty all last night as you watched videos of him hanging shelves, answering questions likely sent to him on how best to prime a wooden handrail, and still, you weren't sure you were sick of his voice.
That, and DIY had honestly never sounded so hot.
After the shortest walk to the counter, a brief hello, a grin you wish you could try and smother a touch, you’re leaning on the counter. His eyes focused on you, watching every move you make as though looking anywhere else would be a crime.
“You got a Sharpie there?”
Frowning, you feel you can breathe easier when his eyes drop to the counter—rustling around the till area as you rest your elbow.
“Because I forgot mine and I think I should ask for a signature this time.”
Pausing, he slowly lifts his chin, then eyes. “Funny.”
Shrugging, you grin, watching him ring up the tin—occasionally smirking to himself, before shaking his head as you pay, your phone vibrating on the counter that you continue to ignore.
“You gonna be alright with that?”
Scrunching your nose, you pocket your phone and tilt the can on the counter. “Painting a dresser or carrying this to my car?”
Something sparkles in his eyes, a little shimmer. His mouth opening, likely ready to spill nothing but charm and flirtation again, when another voice cuts through—one gruffer, more tinged in age.
“Francisco, what you d—oh, I see.”
Your smile remains, even as you stare up at the older man—the one with wiry whites and spotted greys you’d seen sitting behind the counter on the day you left to get coffee with Francisco.
It’s notable, how smaller, and thinner the older man is—how he moves like he’s pained by each step until he slumps into a chair and puts on the brightest and biggest of smiles before offering his hand.
“The name’s Harry.”
You look at it, only briefly, flicking your eyes to Frankie who looks like he’s wishing the earth would open up at his feet and swallow him whole. A somewhat twisted, forced blank expression and the mildest of eye rolls follow when your hand slips inside Harry’s, offering your name.
“Thought it was Harold,” Frankie says, rather bitterly.
“You have to call me Harold, but she can call me Harry.”
Smirking, you bite your tongue, rolling your lips as you smooth down your blouse—trying not to make any more eye contact with the man you’d really come to see.
Sliding the paint closer to you, you offer a softer smile, one that is nothing short of kind. “It was lovely to meet you Harry, and I’ll see—“
“—Rainy.”
His voice cut through as the can slid from the counter, the sudden acknowledgement of the weight showing—likely scorched across your face as your arm drags down, shoulder going with it, just about saving it from the ground.
It’s only as you look up, do you find Frankie half over the counter, spotting the key rings and cart tokens rolling around the floor—the stand on its axis from his sudden movement.
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So, is Rainy my name now?
You caught that?
I did 😏
I wasn’t thinking.
I have to ask.
Here we go.
Do you always wear the hat or is it a Frank.DIY thing? And is it Frank or Frankie or the newly learnt Francisco?
Whats wrong with my hat? And Frankie and Morales were taken.
Morales your surname? I feel I’ve hit a sore spot.
Yes. And you have but you can make it better.
How?
Meeting me for a very boring lunch this week.
You’re really twisting my arm. Which is mean. You saw the stress my shoulder had to endure today.
I tried to warn you. I’ll let you bring your Pinterest board and your saved Reels.
I fear you just want me for my organisational inspiration.
Can’t help you decide if I’m the man for your project if I don’t know what you’re after.
Fair, I guess I can meet you for a business lunch.
Would you be more into meeting me for lunch if it wasn’t a business lunch?
It depends on what kind of lunch we’re talking about.
I’m very badly trying to ask you out on a date.
Oh, that’s what you’re trying to do.
Unless I’ve read this wrong.
Nope, read it perfectly. I guess I have to confess to you that I really would love to go on a brunch date with you, Francisco.
Lunch date. Let’s not get too romantic. Don’t want you to fall head over heels and visit where I work twice in two days.
Has Harold told you how hilarious you are?
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It’s nice—the place he’s chosen.
All washed in bright white, yellow splashes and pastel accents. Plants adorn as much of the walls and ceilings as humanly possible, with guitar-infused music softly playing as the door clicks into place behind you.
It's so nice, in fact, you almost want to live here. To spend an infinite amount of time brushing your thumb over the leaves to see which ones are real and which ones are very good fakes. So pretty that it’s the kind of place that if you weren’t looking for him at a table, you’d snap a photo of it all and send it to a friend.
But, as soon as your eyes land on him, he's the only photo you want to take.
White t-shirt, with a dark shirt thrown over the top, still very much all broad-shouldered and wide chest as he smooths his hand down as he stands.
The hat, one that you'd assumed would be a staple, is all but gone, curls at odd angles as though his fingers have been teasing them—tugging and pulling as the ends slightly frizz—as he moves around the table when you approach.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he grins, hesitancy thrumming before he must question himself, snaps himself back into place from dragging his eyes up and down you.
Then, he’s moving, gently—enough time to register he’s moving to hug you, and plenty of time to politely decline.
But you don’t.
Allowing his hand to slide over your waist, delicate, very much cautious and all but respectful, at the same time as his breath flutters over your cheek. You almost turn your chin, wishing to all of a sudden curl into it before his lips graze your skin, lashes fluttering before you feel him moving back.
And, fuck, the scent of his aftershave is still washing over you in thick waves. It does its best to slide up your nose and make a home there as heat rushes to your cheeks.
You almost turn, almost catch the last bit of his lips, eyes focused on his, holding, burning them in as you find yourself unable to tear away from it. Two people, swirling, completely lost in only the other—the rest of the world fading to a muted shade, nothing compared to the hue he exhumes in the centre of brightness and pops of colour.
A thing you turn over, unable to stop yourself from stealing stares as he pulls out your chair, before joining you by sitting opposite.
“Thought this was a safe bet, wasn’t sure what kind of lunch person you were.”
“More of a brunch person, honestly.”
He smirks, flicking his eyes up, even if his head is tilted down at the menu.
“It’s very nice—not been here before.”
A brow arched, he smiles—shyer, the beginning of the dimple appearing before he casts his eyes back down.
“What do you recommend, Francisco?”
You don’t miss his snort, the way he sticks his tongue in his cheek as he gives you that look—one that makes you want to keep flirting and testing him all at once. One that makes you clamp your jean-covered thighs together, but secretly hope he notices you doing so.
If he does, he doesn’t show it. Instead, using his index finger to point at various parts of the menu, recommendations falling, rolling—a shimmer in his eyes at certain parts, that makes it easy when someone comes over to ask for your order.
You suspect it’s a favourite, the one you’ve chosen. Something is written into the way he holds your gaze before he stumbles over his words, practically trips, to say his.
It’s only when you’re alone, do you rest your elbow on the table—the coldness of it rising up your skin, rooting you—as you lean your chin on your palm. “So, do I get my Pinterest boards out now or…?”
“Funny.”
You bite your tongue as you smile, staring, admiring. “So, outside of terrorising a man in his own shop, running an Instagram, what does Francisco DIY do?”
Shaking his head, he takes a sip of his water—a bead collecting, remaining on his lower lip for a ridiculously long time, before the tip of his tongue casts it away, and sweeps it from your view.
“My… my friend fights—like MMA. He stopped for a bit, but now he…”
You wait, let it form—let him decide what it is he wants to tell you and when, and how. Sliding your feet out under the table, stretching as you relax into the chair, finding his eyes fixed, concentrated.
“I go to some of his training.”
“Good at DIY and MMA training? Starting to wonder why you’re single, Butterscotch.”
He laughs, soft, rich. “Just… haven’t been looking to date.”
Nodding, you let out a heavy exhale. “I wasn’t either.”
His lips purse, twitch to the side, a smirk half forming somewhere in his cheeks as he leans over, elbow resting on the table, foot catching yours under the table.
Mirroring you entirely as the two of you just stare. And, normally, it would be weird. Odd. But, it doesn’t feel it. If anything, it makes you want to commit each crease from his smiles, each wisp of hair along his jawline that crawls up his cheeks—the patch that could be traced with your thumb, an almost heart shape left, ready to be stamped with a pair of lips.
Your eyes only pull from it when your drinks arrive—when the moment is broken by the real world—as you lean back, let your eyes move to your server, thanking them as you take your drink. And then, the two of you are alone.
“Might change my Instagram name.”
Brows lifting, he pauses his glass close to his lips. “Oh yeah, what to?”
“Rainier Grey—makes me sound elusive.”
Snorting, he shakes his head, sipping on his water before placing the glass down close to your hand. Fingers brushing against it, a thing which makes your eyes flick over your screen.
“I dare you.”
“You dare me?” you say. “How old are you?”
“A man too old for dares.”
You brush your index finger over the back of his fingers, lingering on it, noticing the way they flex as you do as if battling to take your hand in his.
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Even if you’re determined to go halves, Frankie’s insistence beats you.
All ‘Don’t argue with me on this, alright?’ said in a tone deeper, more serious than you'd heard to date. And, it's hard not to let heat lick up your spine at the sound.
Even if he’s giving you kind brown eyes as you hold your hands up in defeat.
Smirking, you watch him pay, spotting the picture in his wallet of a boy with a missing-tooth smile almost as big as the man in front of you.
“Alright Morales, but next time it’s my treat.”
“Next time?”
Smirking, you bite your lower lip as you stand, grabbing your things. “Think you’ve earned it.”
Each step to the door feels heavy, a fluttering in your stomach—a grin that can’t be wiped, barely doused when you say goodbye to the people behind the counter.
It grows wider when he gets the door for you, the cooler, outside air creating a vortex of his aftershave all over again (that you hope finds a way to bury itself into your skin) when he opens it.
It’s odd, almost insane—the giddy way you feel as the two of you walk to your car. His fingers are so close to brushing yours, the distance to your little vehicle becoming shorter and shorter as you desperately wish for another few blocks.
Disappointment flares, trying to scratch out the happiness inside your stomach as you pause at the car, trying to smile, but finding it difficult.
Rubbing the back of his head, you watch him roll his lips. “I had a great time.”
Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you nod, “Me too.”
“Won't have to wait long, you've promised me brunch.”
“Think I said I’d pay. But, if you want brunch, I’m down to blow your mind.”
You realise too late, mouth hanging open, the words hitting—landing in his ear as you watch him process them.
It’s sluggish, almost lagging, the way his face lights up, the way his eyes widen and his smile grows into something close to what you had across the small table—not tinged in any way by the upcoming goodbye.
“Well, if that’s—”
“Shut up,” you say, cutting him off, hand ready to push his arm, but you slide it around his waist.
Face close to his, bodies almost flush.
You watch him swallow, how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he flicks his gaze from eye to eye.
Licking his lips, he smiles. “Can I kiss you?”
The moment you nod, he’s leaning—lips brushing over yours, fingers tightening on his waist as you move with him, all delicate, smooth, downright velvety as your other hand finds his neck. Feels his pulse against your palm, the warmth of him against your skin, before your lips part, deepening it, letting him have more, as much as he wants—
Then, he moves you. His palm meets your car, guiding you back until your spine meets the side of your vehicle, and he leaves another mark of him—thumb and four fingers—in the grunge the city throws at your car.
The other is the one he leaves pressed against your lips, all invisible, sweet and aching. Leaning in, your fingers find purpose on his neck, skating around, teasing a low curl as you lick into his mouth delicately.
All teasing, caressing, the arm around your waist tightening as the two of you remain almost flush against the car.
And it’s dizzying, all unexpected—but then, so is he.
More so, when you part—nose against nose, eyes opening to find his doing the same.
“I should…”
Your fingers slide, wiping his bottom lip before resting it on his chin, nail stroking against the hair there. “Okay.”
“I’d like to,” he begins, slowly stepping back, allowing cooler air to flow between where your bodies were pressed together, “Not wait to see you again—and, help you. With your project.”
Rolling your lips, you smile. “I’d like that too—both of them.”
“Alright.”
“Okay,” you smile. “Let me know.”
Nodding, he steps back up on the kerb, hand wiping across his mouth.
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You actually changed your handle.
Told you, I don’t back down from a dare
Guess I owe you one.
Can I cash it in at any moment?
As long as it’s appropriate, yes.
There goes my idea of daring you to strip in the shop and make out with a paint tin.
Have to just dream about that one.
Oh, I will Francisco.
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NEXT CHAPTER -> COMES 27TH FEB
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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frank.diy
frankie morales x f!reader | bonus graphic for do me yourself
HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY. so because i have zero chill, i've designed some companion graphics that will go along with the story. it won't be each week (for reasons you'll see) but there will be a few. if you've not read chapter one, i recommend doing so before clicking under the cut.
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i am so in love with him, you lot. i can't even...
NEXT CHAPTER COMING 20TH FEB
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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1. butterscotch orange
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself
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summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date. an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]
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IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—
It rings, echoes through your skull.
Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.
There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.
Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.
But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.
Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.
Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.
One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.
The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.
Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.
There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.
But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.
It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.
With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.
That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.
Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—
You haven’t got a clue about where to start.
Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.
Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.
Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.
The next isn’t any less overwhelming.
If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.
Screws, bolts, fixings.
Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—
“You need a hand?”
It throws you off, the voice.
Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.
It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.
And fuck.
He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.
You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.
Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.
“Screws.”
“You… you need screws?”
Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—
Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”
Think. Think. Fucking think.
And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.
And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.
“Show me.”
“Show… you?”
Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.
Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”
You do.
A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.
Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.
From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.
That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.
Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.
The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.
“I know what you need.”
“You do?”
A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.
He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.
“I do.”
And he does.
A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.
It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.
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It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.
The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.
It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.
But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.
Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.
With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.
But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.
"It's you."
"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.
Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"
"Something like that."
His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."
You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.
“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”
Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”
“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”
His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”
Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”
His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”
“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”
Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.
And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.
“You… doing anything right now?”
Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”
Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”
You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.
“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”
Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.
Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”
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It’s nice, the coffee place.
Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.
Because suddenly you’re nervous.
A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.
“Let me get this.”
Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.
“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”
Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”
The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.
All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.
'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.
With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.
Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.
To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.
Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.
Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.
“Sorry?”
“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”
Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.
“You don’t have to…”
But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.
Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.
And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.
And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.
“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”
It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.
Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.
Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.
“Does he like drawing?”
Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”
“How old?”
“Five—does that… does that bother you?”
“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”
You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.
“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”
“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”
Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.
“Prefer the night?”
“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”
“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Gray?”
Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”
“You got me there.”
“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”
Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.
“Open up your Instagram.”
You stare, blinking.
“Trust me.”
And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.
“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.
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You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.
It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.
The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.
Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.
You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.
You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:
Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠
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Stalking me are you?
Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.
I know you went back some months, Rainy.
How do you know that?
Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.
Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.
Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.
Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Gives hands on help to beginner DIYers?
You genuinely asking or flirting?
Big-headed much?
I can help you with something if you need it.
I think I do.
Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.
Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.
You asking me on a date?
No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.
Knew you’d gone back further than a month.
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BONUS GRAPHIC FOR CHAPTER - COMING 9TH FEB
NEXT CHAPTER -> COMING 20TH FEB
an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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the adoption process was so long and exhausting but he signed the papers. now we gotta get marlene to sign her over.
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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#brown eyes in a brown jacket
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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When you gotta film a movie at 8, and a gathering of The Fellowship at 9
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 2. More Intelligent Than a Face
Series Masterlist ; Part 1.
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Angst & Yearning™️; Slow Burn; Sexual Inexperience; Cock Riding; Size Difference; Size Kink; Sex Ed for Omega’s 101; Power Dynamics; Creampie; Discussions of Heats and Knots and Slick, Oh My!; Virginity; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap
A/N: FYI I do mention that she has small breasts in this one only because I usually write big boobs and thought it was time for some itty bitty titty committee representation. 
Word Count: 13.9K
Read on AO3
Tip Jar
2. More Intelligent Than a Face
Existence is a strange thing, a needful thing. Something to be sated, filled, satisfied, this ordeal of being a living, breathing person. And to be an unusual sort of person, someone with needs extra to what the regular sort would require, doubly strange. 
You had always thought, in different ways, that the mating program, although a choice thief, a freedom thief, was also benevolent in its control in some ways. After all, it gave those of you who were of the not usual sort, alphas and omegas, that such thing that you needed so badly. 
Each other. 
A bad, terrible, devastating thing that in turn gives you something necessary, life changing, life fulfilling, even, perhaps. 
When your aunt had died and you’d been taken away and then put away and then shut away for what seemed would be forever, it had not, at first, in your child’s mind, seemed so terrible. But with the years, that existence you bore that needed, it began to hurt. It eventually became a very terrible thing that in turn, had taken away your ability to recognize yourself, as well. The reality that you’d been caged because of what you were, perhaps not particularly who, but certainly, what, was, at first, difficult to see. And then, when you did see it, even more difficult to look at. 
A thing caged because of what it is. And again, existence is a strange and needful thing. Caged because of what you exist as; caged because of what you need because of what you are. Caged because they can give you what will sate you. 
You open your eyes slowly, the bright, waning golden light of dusk shooting over the edge of the end of the world; bleeding pinks and violets feeding the fire. And he’s there, in a deeply set arm chair pulled up by the hearth, staring into the flames, and you realize, like you’d never truly considered before, that the cage was in part also his fault. That in ways, you’d been put away also because of what he is. You wonder if this should make you angry, resentful. If it should mean you should not want to be here, langoring so comfortably in his home that he’d brought you to. This man who you do not know, who does not so much even look like he wants to know you. In ways, your caging is his fault. And certainly, concretely, the prolonging of that caging was entirely of his doing. So why is there no resentment?
Once, one of the other omegas had said that they were brainwashing all of you. Preparing you, ripening you for slaughter. He’d come in later than the rest of you, when he was more grown, more mature, when he’d seen more things in his before life. He had lots of opinions, lots of thoughts, said that your before life, those ten years of living with your aunt, of only being a child like all the rest of them and not an omega, did not count. He said you’d been too young to understand all you’d lost. A boy named Leo. He was kind, but he was angry. And his anger frightened you. It was something you did know, in the sense that you could recognize it, for you’d seen anger before, but you could not understand it. For some reason, maybe you were built wrongly, and Leo was right, and you should have been angry like him, but you could never find it within yourself to muster it. Maybe there was nothing wrong about it. Maybe everyone was simply built and made and felt differently and that was fine too. But you knew that he was wrong on some accounts, particularly, that your before life had counted, that your aunt, who you remembered with so much love, had counted. And most of all, what he was most painfully wrong about, was that you did, and deeply, understand all you had lost. 
After all, you could only see the sky for one hour a day, every other day, now, and that one hour made your understanding of everything around you, everything happening to you, keen and painful and humiliating in a very clear way. 
The last rays of the sun wash Joel in vibrant orange reds now. A slash of glowing vermillion across his face, something almost violent about the streak of light, something possessive, and you focus your eyes intently on the sight of his face. This man, this alpha, who for all intents and purposes would or could own you as declared by the government or nature or even Leo and all he’d said would happen once you’d been claimed. 
But there was one last thing he’d been wrong about, that young, angry boy, and what you felt was the greatest chasm between the way the two of you had existed within your new designations, which was that, at one very recent point in Leo’s memory, he had belonged to someone, to somewhere. He’d had a place and a home and a family, and he had belonged, and you had never had that. Your aunt, despite her love for you, had been too old and tired to want you, truly want you. You had never been wanted in any soft, true way by anyone before. And looking at him now, you don’t think Joel could ever be capable of wanting anything in a soft way, but you do think he could want something in a true way, and you’re certain that could be more than enough for you. 
“Why didn’t you come for me?” Your voice, scratchy and small from sleep, floating away from you towards him. He jerks, the twitching returned, head snapping towards you, eyes wide, moving forward in his seat as if he’d spring out of it and towards you without thought. His scent seems to be heightened somehow now. As if your sleep had awakened your senses in new, keener ways. You can feel him tickling the back of your throat, threading his way through your hair, beneath your clothes, between your legs. 
“Are you hungry?” He asks, ignoring your question. “When was the last time you ate? You need to eat.” And again that frown, too many fast words. 
“Why didn't you come for me?” You press. “They told me you didn’t know if you wanted to come, that you wouldn't answer. I want to know why.”
He sighs a heavy, heaving thing, falling back in the chair, and turns back to the fire, and you want to whine and cry until he puts his attention back on you. You feel so… so– you don’t know. Little, unmade, with a need to be big, to grow and grow and grow so that all the things you feel and want might fit inside of you, so that he might fit inside of you. You feel hungry as if your gums ache and sting with a desire you’ve never tasted before. But also, and despite all of these conflicting, churning things, you also feel so inexplicably at ease. He’s just there, and you are just here, and you’ll make him answer, you know you have it in you to make him do the things you want, and you can’t say how, you don’t know how, but you understand that you do. 
There’s power in that – even as you are, all you are not, you can see it – the ability something small possesses to make something big move, do, be. There’s power in that. 
You whine low in your throat, and he turns back to you, something dark and tumultuous in his eyes, brow crooked sternly, but he opens his mouth. “I was going to leave you there,” he says, and you immediately wish he’d shut it. Never mind, you want to tell him, you say all the wrong things.  
“But why? I was waiting for you.” Whine, whine, whine.
“I didn’t want this. I never have.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me?” You ask again, just to be absolutely certain you’re understanding that you’ve once again found yourself in a place where you are not wanted for, or despite of, the thing that you are. The logistics, the intricacies of it don’t seem to matter as much anymore, after everything, the before life, the not life, all that matters now is the yes or no. 
But he goes silent again, attention back toward the fire, the sun set, no more glowing vermillion slash, very little hope now too. 
He ignores your question again. “Tell me about the place they kept you,” he says instead. 
“There’s nothing to tell.” You want to cry now, for the first time, besides the tears of initial happiness when he’d finally walked into your white box, you want to cry. You dig stubby nails into the round of your knee, hard as you can, trying to make it hurt and distract. “It was very calm and very quiet.”
“Did you have friends?” He won’t turn back to look at you, and it makes you feel very lacking. Very much like the nothing they tried to make you feel you were before. 
“No. They wouldn’t let us.”
“They wouldn’t let you have friends?”
“No. They said it would agitate us – too much socialization. Really, they just didn’t want us realizing, becoming angry and aware”
This makes him turn, makes you feel, within yourself, the anger you’re telling him of, like oh, now, when I’ve been shocking and honest, you look at me – after I waited all that time for you. There is no resentment about the cage, only for the waiting. You should stick your tongue out at him, make him an ugly face, turn over and go back to sleep and ignore him the way he’d ignore you. But no, you think, let him see that you do understand, and you do know some things, that you are angry, and Leo was right.
“What did you do then?” He asks. 
“I read. I learned about myself, about you. About what we are.”
His gaze is so intense now, a ricochet, a scream, something very persistently sad. “And what are we?”
“People just like all the rest of them. But with more necessity.”
“How do you mean?”
You tip your head side to side, bright fire eyed gaze to bright fire eyed gaze. Your cheeks feel molten, sweltering, sweat at your nape, the fire in the hearth so bright, but not as bright as you; your belly glows. This is what you are, this is what you’d been made into. “There is so much necessity in existing, don’t you think?”
He tips his chin, he doesn’t understand. 
“We need so many things. We require so much to be alive, to be what we are, to be satisfied and content.”
“Do we?”
“The things we are, yes. I think so.”
“You don’t seem like you spent years in that place,” he says, voice slow, molasses in the notes. There’s something hypnotized slumbering in him that forces something satisfied to swell within you. Your belly glows. 
“I had a before life. People forget that.”
“I read in your file — you lived with an aunt.”
You wait for the: only for ten years, but the diminishing does not come. “Yes. She was kind, and I remember all of it, even if the rest of the world forgets it happened.”
“Did they ever mistreat you? At the facility–”
“No. Never. There was nothing.” You’re the one to turn away now. The sun has entirely gone away, a single glowing sliver just at the drop off of the end of the world. You stick your hand out straight ahead of you, fingertip following that line of fading light through air and space and sea. 
He watches you unblinkingly, and asks, “What do you mean?” The far off light glows through your skin, through your fingernail; he follows the path of your hand.
You can pretend in your mind that you feel the warmth of it against your fingertip, that it scorches the way it glows, heats the length of your limb, feeds the same glow in your belly, but there’s no more possessive streak of light to wrap around you; now, the heat only lives within you. This is what you are, this is what they said would happen, and now it’s finally happening. You let your arm fall back to your lap, limp, and turn to look at him again. He looks so angry, and you feel so incredibly sad for him. This cold perch, this cage that is not white like your box, but dark and struck right on the edge of peril, this place he chose to exile himself to. They were honest, in the things they'd told you all, the truth of the way alphas exist out in the world. Lonely and ostracized and feared, brainwashed to your reality maybe, sure, the way Leo claimed. But in certain things, they’d been honest, and you’re glad for it, that you have the ability to understand him now from this vantage point. The reality of how he exists, the reason for that look in his eyes, it all makes sense to you. 
“I suppose that can be a kind of bad thing… a mistreatment. Making nothing of us, of our lives, taking the whole world away until someone chooses to come and give it back to us.”
He flinches, the look shutters, clicks and flashes, a camera capturing the truth of what the two of you have already done to each other without even really knowing one another at all. “I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I took so long.” The words cost him something the way all truths cost something. “That I wasn’t there for you as soon as I should have been.”
“Why weren’t you?” You ask, although you know. 
“I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m not– I’m not right. I’m not well.” And this costs him more than the rest, you can see. The thump, thump, beat of his heart in his throat. You should tell him to stop, mercy is power, but you think, feel, that this pound of flesh you’re demanding via his truths is what you’re owed for your life and a year of waiting. And anyways, you’ll pay your own pound of flesh in kind eventually, and it’ll cost, even if it’s freely given, it’ll still cost. Everything is equal here, it’s only that it takes a certain kind of eye to realize the truth of that. 
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Everything, what I am, the whole thing of it and this. It’s all wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know.” And he looks suddenly angry, aged, wearing all his years and all his very obvious loneliness, teeth bared but on the verge of falling out.
“No…” you say slowly, thinking, rationalizing, a rolodex of truths in your mind. What you are, what I am, what we all are and all the honesties that compromise us. “I don’t, but I understand anyway. They make you all nothing, as well, don’t they? They take it all away, all nothing until you have one of us. It’s a terrible way to live.” And you don’t ask him, it’s not a question, only a very obvious thing. 
Your words upset him, put him right at the mouth of madness, all those shakes and jitters returned, but you only lay your head back down on the soft pillow he’d tucked beneath you, hands folded undercheek to wait for the explosion that does not come. There’s something in you that wants to see him angry, angry like Leo, like the boy who’d said you didn't have to be what they told you to be, that reminded you that you could choose for yourself. One of the few things you’d agreed on, despite and inspite of the friendship that they would not let you have but that would have blossomed anyways if they’d given you the time. They wanted to make you nothing, but you didn’t want to be nothing. You wanted very much to be alive and to belong. 
You realize, watching Joel muzzle his nature before your very eyes, wondering if the truth of him would have him springing up out of the chair to smother you with his weight and temper you with his knot, subdued with his teeth sunken into the gland at the back of your neck, that you want to see him angry. You realize that you want to see him break, that you want to hear that truth no matter what it costs the either of you. You want to see him honest. 
He struggles, a dog fight right before your eyes, but when he wins, it changes the game, turns the truth chimeral. Makes you see him in a different way, and all at the same time, makes you aware and even more comfortable than you’d already been. You’re safe here. He is safe. Most importantly, you want to be here. 
“Let me show you your room,” he says after a deep breath. 
“My room?” A little seedling of dread and sadness and disappointment. 
He shows you to a bedroom hued in soft blues. The sea when it is gentle, the sky when it’s joyous. Everything comfortable, nothing white, like he’d known already. 
He stands awkwardly at the mouth of the entry, as if scared to step foot into this serene pool of azure and marr it’s peace. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you move around, no shoes, no socks, slowly running your fingers over all the soft surfaces, sweaty little toes sunken into the deep pile of the rug underfoot. 
“I wanted you to have somewhere to adjust– where you’d have privacy. I’m sure this– that I– that it’s all a shock…” he stutters.
One of his boots inches forward, snaps back, like he wants to follow, like he needs to follow, like nature is right here in the room with the two of you, but he wins that dog fight again, holds back. Frustrating. 
“I’m not shocked. But I– I won’t stay with you?”
“No,” he says with a finality that makes that seedling bloom in full. “I also got you clothes. And– and soft things. I know your sort–”
You give a soft huff of air through your nose, my sort… our sort.
“Like things like that. And I also… I also put some of my own things in the drawers,” he nods towards a dark mahogany dresser shoved up against the wall; shy and boyish and hesitant all wrapped into a package that would seem to be none of those things. “They say that helps.”
“Okay… thank you.” 
“Went into town to get it,” he says of the robin's eggshell blue duvet, a more dove gray blue wash for the silk soft sheets beneath. It’s all beautiful and delicate and lace trimmed and looking at him, huge and rough and something like a lonely mountain, you can’t believe he’d chosen this for you. “Lady at the store said you’d like it when I picked it out.” And that makes satisfaction smother the seedling, yes, he’d chosen it for you. A good sign. 
“You went into town to get me things?”
“I told you I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.” Something about the sentence tickles your mind, but then you’re lowering yourself onto the cloud soft bed, cool silk and cotton beneath your skin, sliding against his clothes, your belly glows bright. You’re full of distractions and truth. “There’re a couple of young women that live down aways.” Young women? You perk up at the thought. Friends? “Ellie and Dina. Two young alphas, and they’re good people. I’ll take you down to meet them soon, when you’re ready.”
“Two alphas?”
“They’re a couple.”
“Like– like in love?”
He hovers at the edge of the rug with that strange look in his eyes again, the one from before – I’m only an omega, you don’t have to be afraid of me – and a palpable desperation to cross the border you don’t think he’s even aware he’s letting you in on, but that you can see nonetheless. Two fingers tucked into the line of his belt, twisted there as if grasping for restraint. 
“Yeah, they’re together.”
“I didn’t know alphas could do that… that they’d let you.”
“Reckon it’s why they came all the way out here, to be honest, for freedom. But ‘course they can – be together, that is. We can do what we please, despite what they’d have us believe.” And Leo’s words ring in your mind again. Perhaps everyone sees the truth of what you are except for you. The seedling grows vines, suffocates. All the hope you’d thought would live here seems to have never even existed at all. You feel, for the first time, heavy with all the things you do not know, all the things you lack, all the inexperience and naivety like ignorance thick and cloying in your blood. “From what I understand, Dina presented late, after they’d already gotten together. And by that time it was a done deal, they were in love, no going back. And anyway, they make it work, make it look easy as nothin’, to be frank.” He runs a big hand over the back of his skull, and the way he lifts his arm has the thick of his bicep bunching, fat ball of muscle just there for your teeth to sink into. You shift restlessly on the bed. 
“Easy as nothin’,” you say slowly, trying to imitate the dip and pitch of his drawl. Your fingertip follows the line of stitching in the duvet, petting at the seams holding it together. “Is that how we’ll be too?” And although you mean the words, intend the question, you’re suddenly awash with shy regret for asking, even though you can’t say exactly why. Probably for the look on his face, which goes immediately dark and serious, and even yet, you persist. “Will it be easy for us too?” And you’re sure your voice must sound like you’re begging. 
“No. It won’t. It won’t be like that between us. You’ll stay here as long as it takes for you to acclimatize to being out of that place,” that place, he says like a curse, and it makes you angry, “To bein’ out in the world, and then we’ll find somewhere for you. Somewhere that’s safe and comfortable where you’ll be able to make your own life.”
“I don’t– I don’t understand,” you tell him, but it’s a lie. You do understand, you see, and very clearly, that all you’d waited for during your life, the before, the not life, the extra year, it had all been in vain, for nothing. It would not be given to you here. 
“What don’t you understand?” And his tone is cruel and spitting, making you flinch. “I’m sending you away soon. This is what I’m saying.”
“But I don’t– No–” You’d waited so long. He’s being so mean, and you tell him so. 
“Yes. You need to be with people your own age. You need to see the world and grow up,” and what a horrible thing to say, you think – to grow up. As if it were not a thing you’d been forced to do already all on your own, without anyone to help you.
“Well then what do you care about what I need? You make no sense!” And you bare your teeth at him. “If you don’t want me–” 
But he cuts you off, broad palm held up in a staying gesture, and it’s so incongruous with all the rest of it, that you want to laugh in his face. “Didn’t say I don’t want’cha.” And that frown again, he makes no sense, the tip of his boot makes landfall in the high piled rug, halfway in, hypnotized and compelled in full. You settle on the bed and feel very calm despite the too fast beat of the thing that moves and lives within you, despite your anger and confusion. 
And through the beat and the heat and the sweat on your neck, despite the shyness you’ve forgotten is shyness right at this moment, but that you’re sure will return later because this is what you are and this is what you were made for: him. You ask, “Then are you going to knot me now?” Because if he’s going to send you away, then surely he’ll give you that before you go, surely he’ll still want that from you. 
He splutters, going all red in the face as if the notion of a young omega asking the experienced alpha she’s been presented with to do that most basic thing his nature demands, is something out of the ordinary. “What? No– no.” But despite his supposed refusal, he takes two steps forward towards you. Venturing further onto the soft piled rug, leaving large crushing footprints in his wake. 
“Later then?” You ask very pragmatically.
“No. Absolutely not. There will be no knotting.”
You shake your head at him, small frown between your brows, but still feeling calm despite the tragedy. Forcing that horrible seedling down into submission, the vines smothering all your hope. “But what do you mean?” And you feel like a child. 
“I’m not going to fuck you. We aren’t doin’ any of that. You’re too– you’re too young, practically a girl.” A child. He has an accent that thickens with agitation, the ends of his words sluicing off between his tongue and teeth and anger while he hurts you.
“You don’t want me,” you say, and it isn’t a question anymore, only an obvious thing.
His eyes go very dark, and you want to turn away, look back at the edge of the world and the bright glow of the sun being swallowed by it. “I don’t want that.” And the way he spits the words hurts, making you a thing impossible to desire.  
“You don’t want me,” again, repeated, so the both of you can bask in the truth of it. 
But it snaps something in the room, or in him, or amidst the honesty being brought out here and now. He takes two ground-eating steps forward to loom over you aggressively, forcing you to fall back on your elbows, looking up at him wide eyed but still inexplicably not afraid, only a greater thing than what can be called merely disappointed. And yet, not disappointed enough to not notice the way one of his knees presses against the inside of one of yours. “I should get to have a fucking choice too, shouldn’t I? Like you, locked away in that horrible place–”
“It wasn’t horrible,” you try and say, but you don’t think he hears.
“The way you had all your choices and freedoms stripped. Shouldn’t I also be allowed to have one single goddamn thing?” Where else would I have gone if not there? “A choice – to say, no, stop, I don’t want this.” He’s so angry, and it is all suddenly so clear, and he finally grabs you, pulling you up by the bend of your elbow, the small joint almost crushed in his massive fist to pull you halfway up off the bed and towards him, getting in your face with all his anger. 
Leo’s voice again, you don’t have to be what they tell you to be, you can choose for yourself. This is what Joel wants too. 
“You can’t end up stuck out here at the end of the world with some washed up old alpha who can’t give you a quarter of what you need and deserve. I won’t let you. I won’t,” he snarls.
But despite your greenness, your naivety or your ignorance or your youth, you think: how dare he? “And what about what I want? What about my choices? Or are you going to be just like all the rest of them? Like the whole world telling me I’m too insignificant and too stupid to decide for myself? Just locked away in another cage–” You spit at him, trying to claw and shove at him, stubby nails digging at the sun pebbled skin of his throat, yanking at his too long hair and patchy beard, inadvertently pulling yourself closer to him. He grunts, struggling to take you in hand, slippery thing you can make yourself into when you really want, and you, trying your mightiest to hurt him any way you can as he’s already decided he’s going to hurt you with his rejection. “Is that what you are? Just like all the rest of them?” You cry amidst your struggle, choked with tears and being too little to be effective but too big for your own skin. 
You shove at his jaw, trying to scratch at his cheek, but he grips you full around either arm, locking you in place and gives you a swift but measured jerk, jostling you into submission, trapping your hands bent as they are up by his neck so that one small palm is sliding to the back of his nape, over the gland behind his ear, at that soft vulnerable hollow, and coming to rest at the one in back, at the base of his neck beneath his collar. Both of you go still as stone, frozen by the truth of what you both are and how inescapable it all is, reality held in the palm of your hand.
Obvious: a designation is not a thing you can ever hide. Alphas and omegas wear it on their bodies like markers. Glands scattered at different places: behind the ears, at the base of the neck, inside the wrists and ankles; vulnerabilities that when acknowledged, bitten, seal a mating bond. Places that if handled properly, turn you into nothing but what you are at your basest nature. And you can’t help yourself – at the feel the spongy patch of skin, slightly raised and slightly rougher than the rest of him, a place that when in rut or in heat, would become, will become, extra sensitive, extra swollen, extra ripe – when you slowly slide your fingers against it, feeling the texture of it, the way it’s even hotter than the already sweltering rest of him. 
He growls low and rumbling in his chest, that sound again, and he’s so angry, it’s painted all over his face in shades of defiance; coming off of him like radiation, angry at you, angry at the truth of what you both are, angry at himself and the world and all of it, but he pulls you closer anyways, tugging your forward by his grip on your arms which is starting to mimic the ache you’re suffering at that place between your legs you long to show him, pulling you in so that the tips of your breasts, covered beneath his thick sweater and the too thin, soft bra they gave all the omegas who needed them, brush against the thick of his chest, pulling a soft breath of a moan from your tongue.
“You’re being so mean to me,” you whisper. “And I don’t deserve it. And I waited so long for you and you never came for me, and now this is how you’re treating me,” you say with a hiccup and a tear, and you feel little and big and that place that calls for him pulses and hurts and leaks. He’s so mean and you’re so sad and you want him and you can’t understand why he’s being this way when you were made for him and he for you, and if nothing else was right in this world, then this was the thing that was supposed to be. 
His eyes shift quickly back and forth between both of yours, that frown, mouth turned down, his mustache that connects to the patchiness of his beard showing how contrary he finds you. You frown back at him, trying to pull away, whining when he tightens, pulls you closer, right up to his face as if he needs to inspect you even more closely. Your toes aren’t touching the rug anymore, scraping against the thick round of his boots, and you won’t have it. You’ll give him a piece of your mind, you’ll show him. “You think that because I’m little and young and easily bruised that I’m not in control.” It’s not a question. If you could grow fangs, you would. If you could rip him to shreds, you would. “That I can’t control you. But I made you come for me, didn’t I?” Now you laugh at him, now you show him. “I knew if I wrote to you, you’d come, and you did. I made you come. I made you.” And saying it feels like victory, so you don’t care that it makes his face crack, you don’t care that he pushes away from you, letting you fall back onto the bed with a limp bounce, storming out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. You don’t give a thistle for choices. You want to be selfish, you want to be alive, you want to see the sky. You have the sea now, and you want to be this thing you are because this is already you, this is what you were made into, and you have no choice but to bask in it, and you won’t bend to him or give it up for him only because he can’t accept the same of himself, only because he’s still trapped in his own white box. 
-
He knows, as soon as you make whatever stupid decision it is that you’re making, that something’s off. A shift in the air in the house, his heart beating funny, his scent changing because his body knows you’re not in its immediate vicinity anymore, something that tells him off, off, off, be vigilant, she needs you so much, you can’t fail again. He reminds himself of all the decisions he’s already made, of what he knows he wants and does not want, of what he is and what he is not. 
After he’d stormed out of your room – I made you – he’d retreated to hide in his own bedroom, to the other big chair by the fireplace in here, cowering like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, forcing himself to listen to you cry for hours, the whine and whimper of an omega in need of something he was made to give, and yet will not. As if a little thing like you could make him do anything. Him. He grits his teeth, chews on his own tongue, digs his fingers into the arms of the chair to force himself to remain seated in place, to not return to you, to not give you all the things he knows you need and want to be soothed by. 
He can smell your scent changing already, reacting to him, reducing him to nothing, entirely effective in your conquering. And he’d stupidly thought that perhaps the heat, and the rut that it would yield, would wait, give him a moment of reprieve or compassion before it came for him. A moment to think. He thought he’d have more time, a chance to escape the thing he so desperately wants but cannot and will not let himself have, refuses to give in to. His body stirs and smolders, and like he’d done for eleven years and then one, he ignores it. He ignores the truth of who and what he really is. 
He sits in his chair, head propped up against the back, and listens to your cries and mewls ebb and quiet until finally, he thinks you might have sobbed yourself to sleep. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t mean to hurt you. It’s the absolute last thing he could ever, ever want. Everything, not only in his nature, but in his character, in the things that make him up as a man who’d want a woman like you, is clamoring within him to go to you, to give you what you want, to sooth you with his voice and his scent and his cock. To fuck you into your heat until you’re soft and slick and fevered enough to take his knot, to let him breed you, to let him mate you. His cock stirs and thickens beneath the rough confines of his jeans, that thicket of skin at the base where his knot waits in ready for you, simmering with heat and tightness. He digs his knuckles into his temple until it hurts. 
You don’t want me… Of course he fucking wants you. He’d have taken your cunt for himself right there in that white box room, on your rickety little iron cot for all the surrounding omegas and witless betas to hear without giving a single shit what anyone said or thought if he had any sort of right or will or choice. If he had anything more to give you. And then watching you go right to sleep when he’d brought you into his home, the sight of you feeling so immediately safe and content, ready to nest amongst his things and his scent – that feeling of having within himself the things that he needs to be what he is – indescribable. 
Pretty little omega – and truly, you’re so pretty. All he’d never let himself imagine or desire or hope for. He’s too old, past his prime and forgotten by the world, but he’s still a man with a working cock, still an alpha, even if only in the simplest of ways. Of course he wants you. 
He lets himself languish miserably before the fire, eyes going hazy with exhaustion, the comedown of adrenaline, the presence of warm omega all around him, the taste of your pre-heat scent coating his tongue and throat. He pulls his socks off and lets the heat of the fire warm his feet and thinks he should’ve given you his room instead, let you sleep in his bed, near the fireplace, between his sheets and amongst his scent. He can sleep out in the dirt for all he matters as long as you’re comfortable. And the rational part of his brain wants to laugh at the thought, sitting here alone, realizing that despite his battling, his nature will always win out in the end, that all this fight really means shit. His cock gives a faint throb, his deflated knot rhythmically pulsing in time with his heart, ready to swell and claim what everyone including nature, but excluding Joel, has said belongs to him. Of course he wants you. And if he’s honest, or a fucking liar, he can’t really say which, all his truths and deceptions have become so muddled within his own mind, his past and his present and this future he’s never thought he wanted or had a right to, the year of waiting was more a form of self punishment, restraint as proof of fear, than anything to do with you. 
Anger, yes, that everything had been decided for him for so long. That he isn’t even allowed to decide what he is, what he wants. But fear, more than anything, that interminable curse of failure he’s so haunted by and so afraid of. How could nature ever look at him and think him strong enough to take on the role of caretaker, protector, alpha – whatever it is that you need him to be, the whole world in the eye of a young and untried omega – when he can hardly stand the sight of his own face in the mirror? There’s nothing but tragedy setting the stage the two of you stand posed on. 
Finally, your cries fade to soft hiccups, and then a peculiar silence he doesn't trust. He waits, ears peeled, his head turned slightly towards the cracked open door of his bedroom, sensing the shift in scent and after a few beats of too loud silence, a thud and a huff, the music of a little mind thinking too loudly and mischievously for its own good. Even the wind seems to blow differently as if it knows you’re scampering about amidst it now, vulnerable to its lashings, and he’s shooting up out of his chair and charging through the house. By the door, he realizes his boots are gone, stolen from where he’d dropped them discarded after he’d left you in your room to cry your salt tears. He forgoes a coat and his flannel, braving the icy wind in nothing but his white undershirt, stepping silent but no less frantic out onto the deck. The truck is dark and quiet, still in its usual spot, and this quells his fear minutely. It occurs to him that you likely don’t even know how to drive. 
But when he comes around the western facing corner of the house, it’s worse than he could’ve imagined, and the scar slashed across his right temple suddenly zings like copper, burns like fire at the sight of you. You are, for some inexplicable reason, crawling on all fours, towards the edge of the cliffside. And he’s frozen solid for a second, shocked and terrified, and then moving forward like lightning, tripping over his own two feet and breath before he realizes you’re right at the very edge now, and he needs to move very fucking carefully to ensure he doesnt send you spilling in fright over the edge. 
He alters his movements, continues forward slowly, his bare feet over the freezing ground and sharp bric-a-brac of the forest floor, the slabs of stone turning to ice as he nears the edge, and he watches the uncoordinated wallop of your movements, banging your knee with a small yelp, as you crawl like a slow and drunken spider in his too big clothes, dragging his too big boots around your ankles, to the very edge of the cliff side, slowly lowering yourself to plop down with your head and arms hanging over the edge. 
He pauses about ten feet away from you and waits for your next move, but you lie still, quarter part of you draped over the edge of the cliff, and he realizes that you’re watching the water far below crash against the rocks. 
“Sweetheart,” he calls slow and gentle, crouching down low so that his voice travels along the ground where you lay. “Sweetheart, what’re you doin’?” You start, turning back towards him, one palm coming to the edge of the rock to shove yourself up to peer back at him, rock pebble spraying out over the void with your movement, and his heart and stomach lurch to his throat, almost gagging at the terror. Your eyes are hazy and bright, and he recognizes the beginnings of the fever, it’s tendrils wrapping themselves around you, making you a little confused, a lot needy, and he’s so fucking stupid, he should’ve never left you alone. But he hadn’t thought it’d come on this fast, that you’d affect each other so. 
“I wanna go down there,” you call over the small hill of your shoulder, turning back to peer down at the beach. You point down at the shoreline with your other hand, wagging your finger as to emphasize what it is you want.
Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to have a goddamn heart attack. “Alright, baby. Come back here, I’ll take you down. Let’s go together.” You mumble something, arm flopping out, waving him away. “Please, sweetheart, come back here with me,” he begs, and there must be something in his tone, he’s sure, because you turn full back at that, looking at him suspiciously like you remember his earlier words of rejection and no longer trust him now. 
“I’m glowing, sir. I need to feel the sea and the cold.” Your voice sounds not your own, like it comes surfing off the wind to his ears. 
“Not, sir. Joel. Only Joel, remember?”
You push yourself up, moving to sit back on your knees, but still right at the edge, still too close. Sweat slides slick and frigid down his spine, the complete opposite of what you must be feeling right now. Only Joel. Only Joel, he hears you mutter at the sea. “There isn’t anything only about you. Leave me alone. Go away–”
“Please, baby. Come back here. Let’s go inside, I’ll give you the sea, I promise. Just come over here – with me.” You turn back at that, shifting on your knees to face him. If you lose your balance, stumble, you’ll topple back over the edge. He just needs to be good enough for you to want to come to him, convincing enough. He puts his palm out towards you, all supplication now. “Come here, sweet thing. I’ll show you the sea, I promise I will.” You start your slow spider crawl back towards him and his scar burns, a sharp pain through his brain, piercing behind his eye, heart beat to death between his ribs. As soon as he gets his hands on you, he’s going to fucking throttle you, he promises. But he’s almost got you, and he dares not move, barely even breathes, his hand is shaking so badly it interrupts his view of you on every other painful heartbeat, and he realizes his eyes are blurry with terrified tears, and suddenly, that anger doesn’t matter even half an ounce as much anymore because then you’re here and crawling into his arms, up into his lap so that he’s falling back onto his ass on the cold, hard ground. He pulls you into himself, clumsy little spider legs wrapping around his waist, your arms going around his neck so that you’re clinging to him. 
One of his boots lies lost and discarded back by the edge of the cliff.
“Please, don’t ever fucking do that to me again.”
“I’m glowing,” you sigh into his neck.
“I know you are, baby. It’s okay, we’ll fix it.” He feels you nuzzle at his collarbone, his neck, the gland, already sensitive and swollen behind his ear, already, already, already, God help me, and his heart feels like it’s beating so hard he can feel it move through your chest cavity and reverberate against his hand on your back. Christ, it wasn't supposed to happen this quickly, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to have more time, more choices, more control. The wet of your lips mouthing at his skin, and then the peek of your tongue tasting his gland, and he rumbles deep in his chest, his mind going loose and slacken like an old rubber band, and then snapping back to clarity at your surroundings. Cold wind and now the beginning sprinkling of needle freezing rain, your shivers jittering into his chest.
“We gotta go inside – let’s get up,” he murmurs into your ear, unable to resist nosing at your hair, the small, freezing cold seashell hidden within. 
Wait, wait– and then the scrape of small, blunt edged teeth just there at the vulnerable patch of skin. He swallows a scream, and the caged thing rattles and howls inside his chest, his arms going iron and binding around your back, pressing you to him, chest melded to chest. “Wait, please,” again, and now a tiny kiss. “If you don’t want me,” and he never should’ve even insinuated it, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done in his entire miserable fucking life. “Then will you please–” another soft press of lips to his jaw, the corner of his mouth. His hand slides down your spine, he can’t help himself, presses down on the base of your vertebrae, the heat of your cunt along the pulse of his cock, through cotton and denim and cold, just there, just there, he’s so fucking close. “Will you at least kiss me–” but you’re not waiting for another rejection, you’re just licking clean across the slash of his mouth, taking his bottom lip between both of yours for a shy little suck, unsure and inexperienced with desperation. And then there’s nothing caged about any of it, no more white box, no more perch at the end of the world, he squeezes you to himself so that it hurts, and he kisses you.  
Hand twisted too tightly in your dampening hair, he pulls your head back, and with a rumbling grunt sends you deep and languid into easy submission, the steady deep timber of the sound wringing the desired effect on you. You twitch once, as if he’d tugged on your strings, his pretty puppet, and then go soft and open and easily penetrated, jaw hinging open so that he can lick inside of you, tasting all you have to offer which he refuses to accept he’s actually taking and which you’re all too desperately eager to give. 
He takes it all regardless. 
Slick mouth against slick mouth, out there in the cold rain and wind, rolling around in the dirt, he tastes you the way the two of you were made for. Pulling your hips closer, rolling his up to meet all the heat you have to offer which will only get hotter and hotter the more he continues down this path. You claw at his hair, the gland at your wrist rubbing against the one at his ear, marking him with your scent and pheromones, marking him as yours. And he swears he can almost feel that glow in your belly too, a little wriggling comet in his hands, set to burst. The crescendo of your whining climbs higher, your mouth hungrier, and Joel feels insane for a second, entirely outside of himself, lost to his senses. All he is, is what you need him to be, something hard and strong and solid for you to mold yourself around, and it’s so right it’s wrong. Not what he’d planned, not what he’d decided. 
He rips his mouth away from yours, panting, forgetting his name and his sense and everything else he is besides a hard cock and a now equally smoldering belly. “Wait– wait,” he begs, burning comet, too willful to tame without teeth, surging in his arms. You rub yourself against his face, your hair sluicing through his, your soft tits against his chest, his neck, bumping his chin while you try to climb him perched in his lap like you are. “Wait, please–” he tries to sooth over your huffing whines, and then a sharp stinging little bite to his jaw line. 
No, no. 
“Stop. We have to stop, please. This isn't what’s supposed to happen. This isn’t what I want.” And you hear that. 
The comet burns out, you go still in his arms, and it feels worse than anything. He wishes he could swallow the words back immediately because then you’re pushing back and away from him. Scrambling out of his lap, escaping his arms as fast as you can. 
“You’re horrible! Get away–” He dodges a small, kicking foot – the bootless one.  And you’re stumbling to your feet, tripping over the too big shoe wrapped around your too small foot. He pushes to stand, as well, gripping you about the elbow, avoiding a weakly punching little fist now. This is truly getting too ridiculous. The two of you need to come to terms with each other, meet in the middle, forgo the theatrics you seem all too desperate for. He ducks away from another ineffectual punch, grips you by the scruff of the neck, unruly kitten that you are, and pushing you forward, hooks you under his arm, lifting you clear off the ground and rendering you entirely captured, bent in half, a wilted flower over the strong of his forearm. 
You squawk indignantly, kicking your feet against the back of his leg as he stomps over to his abandoned boot, slowly filling with rain now, fuck this shit, and trudges through the mud back to the house, ice cold droplets dripping off the tip of his nose. The two of you are well on your way to soaked, but he thinks it might not be such a bad thing, considering the ball of heat radiating from your belly, the one in his own mimicking you. It seems to pool in the palm of his hand, where he’s got you hooked and caught over his arm, honey collection of magma.
Let me go! You’re screeching. “Leave me alone! You don’t even care about me and I hate you and I want to see the water!” More kicking and clawing.
When he finally dumps you back onto your rumpled bed, undignified yelps and pathetic little growls, he’s at his wits end. Taking you firmly in hand, heavy hand back at the nape of your neck, thickly calloused palm scraping against the quickly swelling gland there, other pushing at your hip to drape you over the edge of the bed like a rag doll, he folds himself over you, smothering you with his weight and heat, forcing you into calm. You go shocked frozen, wracked with shivers and then finally, blessedly still and quiet. This was all you needed, for Joel to follow his instincts. 
He presses you into the bed with his too heavy weight, thick arms caged around your head, pert little ass tucked up against his pelvis, and he breathes you in, lets you settle. 
“You need to behave,” he rumbles, and all you do is sigh bleary eyed and exhausted by your own willfulness. “You’re not to go outside all alone at night like that again, do you understand me? And you are especially, never, ever, to go that close to the cliff edge again.”
“But the sea–” you whine and shift, rubbing your little cunt against his now fully hard cock, perfect position that he’s got you in, presented to him like this. He presses tighter against you, growling deep in his chest to shut you up. 
“Promise me.” But you whine, shifting, starting to cry a little, too far gone to the start of the fever he’s done nothing to really sate. There’s still time yet, for your full heat, but these beginning symptoms, they need to be soothed just as well, tempered just as diligently as the full blown heat would be. If for nothing else, than for the sake of the omegas' comfort and happiness. He bends his knees, shoving the thick of his erection up against the apex of your thighs, pressing you further up onto the bed and tighter beneath him, and nosing through the mantle of your hair, he finds the gland at the back of your neck beneath the collar of his sweater and bites down gently. Not breaking skin, only giving you teeth to feel, to be soothed by, that blunt clasp that’ll dull your own sharp edges for now. 
He laves his tongue along the scorching patch of skin, the texture different to the rest of you, different, even, to his own glands, like silk, like water, something liquid about the feel of you here beneath his tongue and teeth. You let out a terrible little sound that has the threads of his control snapping, providing cause for concern, and he growls softly, pleased, in response. It’s a sound of submission and acceptance and praise, from the both of you equally, all at the same time. He lets you settle like this, petting at you with his tongue, giving you the scraping edge of his teeth like a threat, every so often. Grinding, because honestly he can’t even fucking help it, against that scorching little cunt he knows would already, even now, be so soft for him. Perhaps, not soft enough yet, not ripe enough yet, to take his knot and everything else he wants to force on it, but soft enough for him to teach you how to take a good fucking. 
A virgin, never even had a heat before, and trapped here between his teeth and beneath his cock. It would all be so easy, it would all feel so right. 
But that is, Joel thinks, just the thing of it. It would feel right – but would it be right? He can’t yet tell. 
You cloud his judgment, seduce his nature into wanting to give you everything and anything you could ever even think to ask for, and he can’t yet tell if it’s just you, that sparkle and that light and that heat like a comet that lives inside of you that he’s coming to suspect is wholly yours, nothing to do with biology or designations or markers that tell of what you should and should not be, that’s got him so desperate to please you. Or if it’s only nature, trying to force him into another choice he’s not made for himself. 
-
You wake slowly, disturbed out of your sleep the way one feels when they’re being spied on by something too large and too scary to look at right in the eye. 
You shift in the blue bed, cool and calm now, all that glowing heat from before that’d forced you out into the cold and the wind, hungry to throw yourself through space and time out into the sea, reckless and free, gone away now. All you feel as your eyes blink open slowly, is a shivery, damp cold rattling down the line of your spine. The room around you is dark, the glow of the slumbering fire out in the living room peeking in through the slightly left ajar door of your bedroom. 
He’d stayed until you’d gone boneless and calm, trapped beneath his weight and between his thick strong arms, letting you suck on the gland inside his wrist as you’d pleased. And when finally, you’d been just on this side of awake, he’d changed your clothes and slid you beneath the soft sheets and weighted duvet, and sat in the cozy sofa chair by the window until you’d been too exhausted by the embers in your tummy and the tight want between your legs to fight sleep any longer. 
The chair sits cold and empty now, and above it, the wide window, the pitch black of the world beyond is bright with unknown terrors, and you huddle into your nest of pillows and blankets, hiding beneath the edge of the duvet. 
You’d never had a window in your bunk, had not experienced the night in years and years, and looking at it now, put on display as it is through the clear pane of glass separating you from all of that unknown, you feel suddenly terrified, nothing but little. It feels as if you were to look away from it, it’d reach through the glass and pluck you out of your bed, whisk you far enough away that he’d never be able to find you, come for you again, and also, like if you don’t stop looking, it’ll eventually begin to look back. You wiggle backwards, bum finding the edge of the bed, and then sliding out, feet first, gaze still peeled on the window and the night, walking backwards out of your room and pulling the door shut on your way. At the very last moment, you peek through the sliver of the door edge and frame, nothing but your nose remaining in the blue room, and you swear the night stares back now. 
You shut the door with a snick, and turn to rush on tipped toes in search of his room. 
He’s sleeping on his back, one thick arm thrown over his head, the other laying across his belly, and you peer over the edge of the bed, hands clasped beneath your chin, watching the up and down of his breathing, the flicker of his eyes beneath his lids. He has long eyelashes and funny whiskers and hair everywhere. Under his arms, and across his chest and his belly, leading down below the sheet covering him, to the thick lump there, that place you don’t know yet, but do understand. He’s hairy, and he’s big, and the aching place you want to show him comes awake in response to all this man you have before you. And although the house is warm, the fires stoked diligently to keep you as toasty as you need, another shiver runs its way down your back. So taking hold of one of his thighs, you hoist yourself up onto his too tall bed, knobby knee stabbing him in the side as you climb on top of him, planting yourself right in the middle of his broad expanse. He gives a rough grunt, shocked awake by the little creature climbing its way all over him, hands shooting out to steady you by the hips as he jerks startled. 
“What in the Sam Hell–” You ignore his spluttering, rubbing your bottom against his stomach, finding a comfortable position to drape yourself over him, wilting like a felled weed snuggled up against his chest, tucked just below his chin, giving an entirely contented sigh when you settle. “What the fuck’re you doin’?” He has such a nasty mouth. Someone should wash it with soap for him. 
He tries to roll over, but you cling, bearing your sharp little teeth to latch at his collarbone, holding tight, refusing to be shoved away again. “M’cold–” you fuss, chewing and slobbering all over him as you pull yourself closer, hitching a knee over his hip, burrowing your foot between the bed and his back. 
“You have t’go back to your bed. You can’t sleep here.”
You whine, chewing harder, and he grumbles, but his hands slide from your hips to your back in a soothing pass and you slick your tongue against the flavors of his skin. He tastes so good, and he smells so good, and in a tiny voice you know will get you what you want, you say, “The window is too big and it’s so dark. I’m scared, alpha.”
He groans, grip going tight and strangling around you, fists bunching in the oversized clothes he’d swaddled you in after he’d dried the rain and outdoor chill off of you before putting you to bed. “Can’t I just stay here? I promise I’ll be good like you told me to,” and you nuzzle against him, making sure to thoroughly cover him in the headiness of your scent. Everything is so warm and right, and he’s so thick and comfortable and strong everywhere, perfect for laying on top of like this. The hair on his chest is prickly, tickling your face where you rub yourself against it, and he rumbles low, a deep sort of purring sound that you feel vibrate in your tummy, big wolfish man that he is, but his grip goes loose and soft after a while, stroking and soothing and petting along your slopes and planes. Convinced. Ha. 
You hold very still, breathe very slow, make sure not to spook the beast while he accepts the fact of you here atop him until he finally says, already sleepy and relaxed again, “Alright… but you’ll behave like I said.” And eventually he rolls the two of you over, little omega barnacle that you’ve turned yourself into, and tucks you into his warm side. 
The third time you wake to him, there’s fire everywhere. And an ache in your womb so sharp it sends shivers through your whole body. You cling and grind and tremble; forget your name, where you are, nothing more than that sticky throb in that place that you want to give to him so, so badly. 
He’s draped atop you, heavy arm caging you in, thick chest covering your back, smothering you between incredible strength and, soft, Joel smelling sheets. You cup the ball of his bicep, it’s big and hard and hot, and drag your palm along the thick slope. He’s so strong, he could crush you, hurt you, make you into anything he wanted, and you want all those things, you think. You want him to do whatever he wants if only he’ll make the ache go away. Fire and glowing bright heat everywhere, most of all your belly, your heart, somewhere so deep inside you’d never known it existed until he’d come and made you aware of it. 
Your fingers slide along his wide forearm, hairy here too, thick wrist, hard, strong bone beneath, and then the soft spot on the inside that belongs to you now. You stick your tongue out, tasting the spongy patch, scraping your teeth along it. If you bite him, you’ll be able to keep him forever, he won’t be able to send you away, but there still remains – even if just for a little bit longer, before the heat you’ve been waiting your whole life and a year for to finally take you – a part of you that’s still rational, head only halfway gone to the clouds. That part which reminds you that more than anything, you want him to choose you. Without the bite as a deal breaker, bond sealer, only because he wants you, only because he likes you. 
But you can taste him, it doesn’t mean you have to bite him, and you the tip of run your tongue along the inside of his wrist, gently suckling at his gland, the flavor of him so much stronger here, as if his essence is more concentrated at this small place. And the ache between your legs, in your tummy, deepens, spreads and blooms and ravages. The inside of you feels sensitive and swollen and big and little all at once, and you shift your bottom, trying to rub yourself back up against him, your sucking mouth pulling sharper, a whine bubbling in your throat because you need something, something more, and you think you know, and you know you understand, but you’re not sure, and if he could just wake up and show you it would all be so much better.
You press back harder, arching so that the aching place feels the heat of him behind you, that hard ridge there that makes your heart pound all through your body. You’d shucked off your leggings and the sweater he’d put you in through the night, too hot and sweaty with the big beast smothering you as he’d been, so now you’re left in nothing but one of his too big t-shirts and the soft, cotton white panties all the omegas always wore. You whine again, gnawing on his wrist for real now, and a big paw of a hand comes up to wrap around your hip, stilling your wriggling. You feel him lean closer, burying his face in the back of your hair, groaning, hot bullish breath fanning across your nape. He rumbles deep and it only makes you feel worse, more desperate, more hungry for that thing you don’t know how to ask for. You want to cry his name, beg him, but your tongue feels fat and swollen inside your mouth, too full of blazing heat to form actual words. He just has to know, he just has to be able to tell. 
“I know,” he mumbles against your nape, nosing around to your ear where he presses his mouth. “I know, it’s alright.” You gurgle again, pulling his wide palm to cover your face completely, nuzzling against his rough palm, muffling your pathetic animal sounds of supplication. It’s okay, it’s okay, you can hear him murmuring and you’re not sure who the words are for, but you feel certain they’re not for you. He’s scared, you know this. Between all the things you’re so uncertain of, this you’re sure of. He’s afraid, and it’s your job to reassure him, to show him how well it will all be once the two of you come together. 
You push your face harder into his palm, and you feel him hook his fingers into the elastic of your panties, tugging the soft fabric wide, tugging them down your legs, and there’s that same need, yes, that comet bright glowing heat, but also, and something you can recognize as more your usual self, a desperate sort of shyness. Something coming unraveled and unspooled for the whole world, him, to see. You can feel the slick uncoveredness at the apex of your thighs, running down your legs, a blossom of heat and vulnerability there at that place, the core of you, and it doesn’t feel shameful, necessarily, but painfully exposed. Your softest place bared for him to see. And yet, alongside that, the knowledge that this soft place is only for him, that you only ever want it to be for him, and so this can, again, be nothing but right. 
“Look at all this slick you’ve made for me, what a sweet girl you are.” There’s such reassurance in the timber of his voice, it makes the heat change, something swirling but steady, constant. You spread your own palm against the back of his hand covering your face, line your fingers along the backs of his, little and big, matched alongside each other, and you press his fingers against your forehead, squishing your nose against his palm, Hiding there in the cup of his hand from the whole world and him, waiting for this truth of yourself to finally be revealed to you. 
His palm strokes along your bare thigh, I know, I know, he keeps saying, and they’d told you all that your alphas would know, that they’d show you, and there’s reassurance in this, that some part of what’s happening is unfolding as they said it would. It makes you feel not so small, not so untried and naive. You try and lay as still as possible, willing the flames into patience, breathing in your own hot breath from the cup of his palm. I know it hurts, we’ll make it better, I promise. He shifts behind you, the rustling of fabric, and then his hand on your bottom again, moving in a slow circular motion, steady and reassuring. He moves to your leg again, lifts it and then something hot and hard and big, coming to rest on your inner thigh, and he lets your leg down, starts the soothing rub of your bottom again. 
“We’re gonna go so slow, alright. Only a little at a time and not the whole thing today. We gotta wait for your heat to settle in all the way, time it all right so that my rut doesn’t start before you’re ready to take me. How does that sound, sweetheart?” But your tongue is still fat, your words still jumbled and missing, and all you really want to ask is if he’s changed his mind now, if he’s finally decided he wants you, and you think you’re crying, sipping salt water from the palm of his hand. “I know I wasn’t how you needed me yesterday, and I’m sorry for that.” He presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder, hand sliding up your hip to your waist, dragging his shirt along as he goes, uncovering you for himself. And you feel so intensely, that you belong to him, and you can’t understand how he could have ever not felt the same way. 
You hitch an agonized little sob, muffled by his hand, and he rolls slightly so you’re half draped atop his chest, his palm rubbing soothing circles low on your belly now. And forcing you out of your hiding place, he pulls your face back to look at him, gripped around your jaw. His face is very serene, and this settles you, makes the words he’s saying clearer, more meaningful. “Can you hear me silly thing, or can all you think about is taking a cock right now?” You scrunch your nose at him, you know that word, it’s his hard thing between your legs. 
“It’s so heavy, alpha,” you sniffle, feeling the weight of it pressing against you there. 
He nods, warm look in his eyes that crease at the edges. “That’s how it’s going to feel inside you, baby.”
“The knot?” A seedling blooms again, this one very different now, full of hope once more. You realize you’ve found your missing words. 
He shakes his head, not yet, and drags his palm up the inside of your thigh, squeezing and kneading as he goes, and you want to complain that he moves so slow, that he needs to do something else, you don’t know what, but something. You want to click your teeth at him, bite him again, anything to make him go. 
And then: “Drippy little girl,” and he’s finally there and a moan that’s almost a scream because he’s cupping a place that is so unbearably sensitive and raw and full of heat and wet like you’d never known was possible. 
Oh, oh, ah, ah, ah. “It’s alright,” he says, rubbing gently back and forth, a slick sound that is loud and embarrassing coming from between your legs. “It’s alright. This’ll help for now. We won’t go inside.” And he grips the heavy thing, his cock, in his own palm that’s all slick from your leaking and presses it against you. He rolls over completely now, shifting higher in the bed so that you’re sitting full on top of him, back to chest, bum to belly, and he spreads your thighs wide with his other hand, pulling your shirt up to bare all your nakedness for him to see. You wonder if he can also see all that burning shyness you’re suddenly so chock full of. 
“Look at these pretty little tits,” he murmurs, cupping one small morsel in his palm, squeezing so that you’re arching against him, mouth agape like a fish, trying to find sounds that seem to have suddenly gone missing once again. “That’s right, I know.” He moves to the other one, squeezes and pinches and shakes it so that it jiggles in the cup of his hand. All the while he strokes his cock between your legs, pulling his hips back every so often so that it slides against you, coating it in all that wet slick you’re spilling for him. 
You look down at the place where it juts out between your thighs, and it’s so big. Dark and angry looking at the end, thick and covered in veins that make it look even angrier and about to burst. You ask him if it hurts him, and he laughs a little and says it isn’t anything you can’t fix which makes you seven different shades of pleased. 
The hand at your breasts moves up to your face again, and he turns your head, searching for your eyes. “We started off badly yesterday, yes? But we’re gonna do better today. I promise.” He slides his hips back again and this time he presses harder against you, his hand flat against the underside of his cock so that the top is slicking all along you. Sensitive little cunt, he says when you tremble and shiver and keen, and that’s when you know that’s what it's called. Your cunt. That place that belongs to him, that you want to give him so badly, that you want him to want so badly but that you barely even know yourself. No more experience than the greedy, frantic digging at the soft, hot flesh beneath your hand in moments when everything had felt too tight and needy to do anything else. 
“Gonna break you in so well, baby. Gonna teach you how to come, how to fuck, how to take a knot.” And now the wide head presses against you, against a place that is so, so incredibly sensitive it almost hurts. You suck in a sharp gasp, trying to jerk away from the hurt, but he holds you in place against him, presses again, yeah, I know, yeah I know, like he’s trying to put it inside you, and yes, you think that’s what it is, that’s what you need, even if it might hurt. “You’re gonna get everything you need jus’ from me,” and his words are slurred and dripping slacken from his tongue. 
He starts to move faster, you think he’s swallowed the same stone of desperation you did, rough grunts and huffing pants, and “So fucking small, it’ll never fit.” Jesus fucking Christ. And on every slick slide forward that wide angry head of it, his cock, bumps the crest of your sex, catches at your hole. You watch it in shock as it presses in just a little, and it hurts and feels like you’re full of bubbles and everything is sticky and your tummy glows with heat. 
“Your little cunt needs this,” he grunts, the head catches, he presses, presses, pulls away, you want to bite and scratch and demand he go all the way, and you’re nothing but a pounding heart and a clenching cunt and you want more, and when he slides again it notches full on at the tiny opening, he pauses, lets it rest there before he presses not even half a centimeter further, only giving you the wide stretch of it, letting your cunt flutter and grip around the very head. 
“Look at that–” And he peers over your shoulder to look at what he’s doing to you. “Look at your tiny cunt stretching for me.”
You cry, trying to pull away, trying to shove yourself deeper, to take the whole of it like the greedy thing you are, but he holds you in place and lets you flutter and flutter and cry until something in your womb pulls tight, and with his fingers swirling at the apex of your sex, the little nub that is so sensitive it pulls a warbled, baying moan from your tongue, an ah, ah, ah, he gives you your first orgasm with him. A desperate thing, too much and not enough, and with his other hand he’s squeezing, shoving his fist along the rest of the length of his cock, pressing it hard where you meet, and then he’s feeding you a blazing heat, filling you with it, stirring your insides to flutter and shiver harder. Forcing you to cry and beg for more, “Please, please, please,” more.
“You’re not ready yet.”
And although you’re not entirely certain for what, you promise, “I am, I am, I can take it.” You know he’s supposed to put it all the way inside, that then, the knot will come. And although you’re unsure what it will specifically be like, what will become of you during or after, you know you’re ready to discover it all. 
“Not yet.” And he’s grunting it through clenched teeth, his hips churning, spitting tip grinding at your hole, something hot and thick sliding wetly all over and between the two of you. “You’ll do as I say. Your little cunt needs this, needs me to be patient with her.”
He lets the slick weight of himself fall away from you, leaving you feeling stretched and bruised and all shivery on the inside, yet still hungry for more. And he pulls his hands along the slopes of you, leaving trails of sticky wet along your skin. The proof of all you are, invisible but tangible, with a taste and a smell and a feel. 
You lay your head back on his shoulder, the heat swirls and simmers for now, and your cunt, your cunt, your cunt, you want to give it to him in full, it throbs and trembles against his slick cock. “I’ve never had a heat before,” you tell him although you know he knows. He probably knows everything there is to know about you, which, admittedly, is not much. 
“That's alright.”
“It will come soon, yes?” You peer over your shoulder to look up at him, and he nods down at you, that warm, eye creased look on his face again. You like the sight of it so much. 
“Will I go away from myself?”
“No,” he says gentle, “I won’t let you. I’ll keep you here with me. You have nothing to be anxious about.”
He rolls the two of you over, keeping you in the comfort of his embrace, and he’s huge and steaming and naked behind you. His hairy chest, his hairy legs all along the smooth and sensitive curves of you. And his thing, it’s still trapped between your thighs, heavy and sticky with your wet, and still kind of hard but not as much as before. You reach between your legs to touch it, and he jerks and hisses but lets you do as you please. Curious fingertips gently along the thick round end of it, down the long length to find two heavy and hot weights hanging lower. 
“Where is the knot?” You ask uncertainly, shy with all the things you don’t know. 
“Here,” and he grabs your hand, moving your fingers to the base of it where there’s an area of skin, of a different sort of texture, rougher, thicker, around the circumference of it. You prod gently at it, not understanding. “See, it’ll swell when it’s inside of you, and then we’ll stay connected for a time, and I’ll fill you, and that’ll help your heat. And after a while it’ll go down, until you need it again. Did they explain to you how it’ll happen?” His cock is thick between your thighs again, beneath your exploring fingers. A little harder and bigger than it was before. His body, something like a wonderful miracle you need to know everything there is to know about it.
“Yes, but not– not all the way, I don’t think. They said you’d show me.” You turn back to look at him, searching for confirmation, reassurance, but instead ask: “Why did you change your mind?” And finally, of his own choosing, he grips you by the throat, and presses a small kiss to your mouth. The greatest victory of the day, and it’s only just begun. 
“It’s exhausting, not letting yourself have what you need.” Need, not want. He shifts over you, coming up on his elbow and rolling you so that you’re on your back and looking up at him. You bring your fingers up to explore along his face: the hooked nose, soft mouth, heart brandished beard. He sighs that bull sigh, and you giggle as it tickles your throat and cheeks. Need, not want. That stings. “Fighting against what you are constantly– and you reminded me that we still have control in what we are. That there’s still choice in this, decidin’ to be what we are without resenting it. And we need each other, after all.” Need, not want. 
“I don’t think you need me.”
“No?”
“No.” The truth that you very much feel like you need him, you keep to yourself. And anyways, he knows. You know he knows. 
“M’thinkin’ I didn’t know I did. Or couldn’t say it out loud.” And he mimics your exploring fingers: thumb against the fan of your lashes, up the slope of your cheekbone, prying your mouth open to catch the edge of your bottom teeth and look inside. There’s a warm look in his eyes, like he’s pleased with you, like you’ve done a good job. “Think I’m realizin’ how wrong I was. How I want this all too.” 
Want, not need. 
He bends his head and kisses your mouth, kisses your breast, shows you how much he wants it.  
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the-wrong-providence · 2 months
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Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 1. Genus: Tragedy
Series Masterlist
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you. 
She'll still come for you. 
-OR-
the A/B/O outbreak AU 
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink
A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.
Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.
Word Count: 6.3K
Read on AO3
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Genus : Tragedy
To a one Mr. Joel Miller,
500 Sheahan Road
Clallam Bay, WA 98326
United States 
We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her. 
The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer. 
Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature. 
Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:
Dear sir,
I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 
And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear. 
At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people. 
Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega. 
It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates. 
Joel had been one of these people. 
The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.
It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom. 
It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity. 
Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand. 
Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too. 
With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either. 
The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit. 
He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.
He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite. 
Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was. 
He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father. 
He did not want to be an alpha. 
He did not want an omega.
He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures. 
The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever. 
He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized. 
He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately. 
That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 
And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever. 
-
“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all. 
“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.” 
Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby. 
White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside. 
A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet. 
When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are. 
He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”
He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want. 
He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you. 
Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear. 
He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence. 
Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like. 
Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same. 
Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched. 
He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop. 
You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”
He could never have forgotten.
A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?” 
He could never have forgotten.
-
The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely. 
He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled. 
“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting. 
“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding. 
And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him. 
It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older,  sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.
After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday. 
It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky. 
You want to see the sky every single day. 
His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him. 
You want to know things. You want to know him. 
He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement. 
You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him. 
He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him. 
The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet. 
He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.
Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for. 
“I’m fine,” he says. 
You don’t believe him.
He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen. 
He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well. 
There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long. 
He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big. 
Joel.
You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations. 
He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even. 
Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate. 
He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness. 
“How do you feel?”
“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping. 
He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely. 
“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”
And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of. 
It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.
You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you. 
“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.
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