Do Y’all Watch A Movie See Someone From Your Dr And Like

“Democrats should boycott Trump’s address! Dems shouldn’t show up to his speech! They should interrupt him!”

Actually, they should all launch multiple grenades to bl@w that fucker and his dick riding munchers into little fucking pieces. Be serious.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

flight risk

john wick x fem reader, minors mdni

synopsis: life was perfect, despite what your parents wished for you, you had all you could possibly want. surely your husband wont wake you up at 2am and drag you across the world, uprooting everything you've ever known.

authours note: this is the first thing i've ever written AHHH AHHH AHH, thank you for reading though!! oh my goshhh, i'm so nervous.

cw: drugging, guns, suspected kidnapping, morally grey but also not john, john just wants his wife guys </3

it had been exactly 3 years since you had uprooted your life after meeting john. which sounds like a major sacrifice, because well sure, thats how your parents viewed it. the confused pinching of your mother's eyebrows as she fiddled with her wedding ring told you that. 

you didn't need to be a genius to recognise that perhaps your father didnt trust john, slipping pepper spray into your purse and a pocket knife onto your keychain as you said goodbye in the airport. maybe it was an act of rebellion moving away, far away. sure you were naive, but in a specific way. you had seen shit, a lot of shit, but you made an active choice every day: see the good. is it indescribably cliche? absolutely! but hope kept you going. 

so when you stumbled upon a particular six-foot man with a limp, you tilted your head both in awe and intrigue. your first dates were awkward, almost forced. he was incredibly vague about every little detail in his life and so naturally, you chalked that up to ‘he must not like me.’ when you asked about his family, he responded that he didn't speak to them. when you asked about his job, you got the typical ‘im a contractor’ response. what the fuck is a contractor? what are you like a spy? psh. 

but he was sweet, a gentleman too. paranoid and perhaps vigilant to a fault, but you didn't ask questions. he was just being overprotective, which was nice in your eyes. you fell deeply in love with him, getting married 2 years after meeting him. you pieced together his career. he would call you a pacifist when you commented on the number of guns he seemed to own casually. which sure, wasn’t exactly a lie. but he didn't view the world as black and white, and therefore neither should you, you decided very quickly. 

it was your anniversary so you decided to set up a beautiful, intimate dinner at home. he arrived and you pushed him away to put on some slacks, even though it was just the two of you. he would chuff, kiss your temple, and oblige. so there you sat, serving dinner, walking over to his side of the table to pour him merlot when you accidentally bumped the bottle with your hip, knocking it off the table. you let out a yelp, frozen as you watched him catch it effortlessly without breaking eye contact with you. there were 2 things to note about his actions. 

1. you were unquestionably sure that this must be the most attractive thing anyone has ever done, fuck.

2. the speed of his reflexes did not match the job description or the skillset that belongs to a ‘contractor’

the dinner continued, albeit awkward because you had questions. and to your surprise, he wasn't so vague. now he was being blunt to a fault. which you suppose married couples are. 

“im a hitman” he stabbed a shrimp sitting on top of the pile of pasta, bringing it to his mouth with a sense of casualness that was unnerving. haha. funny.

so naturally, you giggled as he chewed. 

“a hitman? john that’s- ridiculous. can you be serious for a moment? i love your jokes, but this is our anniversary dinner.” you laughed softly into your wine glass, tilting your head and propping your elbow on the table to rest your cheek on (an action that would have caused your mother to hit the back of your hand with her fork due to the improper manners you were displaying).

“not a joke baby” he hummed almost with a solemn look in his eye. the reality of the situation hit you like a freight train when he reached out to hold your hand over the table, drawing soft, soothing circles on the back of it. not a joke. it wasn’t a joke. 

he slept on the couch that night. maybe it was harsh, but no- no, he deserved that. you married a man, a hitman. who lied about his entire career and kept guns under floorboards, you didn't even know could be kicked up. alas, trust was built back up. he reassured you he only killed dangerous people who did bad things. life wasn't so black and white, you realised once again. it took a while, but you fell back to the stage where you trusted him again. 

he came home late some nights, and left to go overseas every now and then for a week or so. but he would come back with little souvenirs for you: wine from rome, chocolate from switzerland, and jewellery from india. he made money that you could only dream about, but who can put a price on taking someone's life? 

you adored him though. maybe it was fucked up, maybe you were sick and twisted. but your husband would kill for you without hesitation, and you couldnt lie to yourself and say that fact didnt turn you on at least a little bit. 

you both moved to tokyo, right in the middle of the city about a month after this dinner. relocation seemed to be a common theme, but new cities and new languages were always exciting for you. and he assured you all was well, but you had your suspicions. maybe he feared someone he pissed off would come find you, even the score and put a bounty over your pretty head. 

you enforced the fact that if you were going to sleep with guns in the house, they all needed to be locked away in gun safes. there needed to be rules, and trustworthiness for this to work. john lied, he kept a hidden one in his bedside table, and another under your bed alongside the others in the safe. 

the rain pelted, it was a sunday night, well morning technically you realised. pretty much all of japan had been hit with a tropical storm, which meant that sleepless nights in your shared highrise apartment came with built in ‘white noise’ sounds from the thunder outside. though this night, you slept soundly. it was about 1am when you faintly heard footsteps, belonging to john you assumed. 

talking in incoherent sleep babble, you didnt open your eyes, you just mumbled ‘john..?’ muffled by your pillow. whoever it was stopped what they were doing and walked over. 

“mm, hi baby. it’s me. go back to sleep mkay? it’s late.” a silky smooth voice surrounded you in a blanket of warmth and you mumbled an i love you and drifted back off.

unaware. he waited until you were out cold before he started haphazardly shoving belongings of yours into a suitcase. he proceeded to zip it up and prop the suitcase against the wall next to his own. on top of his suitcase laid two drivers liscences, marked with photos of the two of you, but with different names, addresses, birthdays. identities. you stirred in your sleep as a calloused palm gently cupped your cheek, whispering your name. your eyes blinked open sleepily. 

“hi my sleepy girl” he looked down at you, perched on the side of your bed with a soft smile, still dressed. which was odd, why wasnt he in his usual sleeping sweatpants? you sleepily blinked up at him, looking over to your digital clock. 1:47am. 

“mhmhphmh?…” you mumbled out, an unspoken question as if to say come to bed, what are you doing? your eyes fluttered closed again, snuggling back down.

“honey, need you to wake up for me, kay? im sorry, i know, i know..” he gently rubbed your back, biting down on his cheek until he drew blood, loathing himself for what he was about to put you through. his sweet, sweet girl.

“eyes open, open them up for me.” he gently tapped your cheek and begrudgingly open them, sitting up looking unimpressed. 

“it’s 2am i wanna-” you yawned softly, covering your mouth. “wanna sleep john, just come to bed.” your eyes shifted around the room landing on the packed suitcases. suddenly sleep no longer felt like a priority. 

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, tucking your hair behind your ears as you looked to him for answers wordlessly. he sighed softly, a deep one that he had clearly been holding in for a moment or two. he gently stood up, holding out a hand for you to take and pulling you up, walking you to the walk-in robe. 

“i know you’re confused, and probably scared. you trust me, don't you baby?” he looked down at you as he rummaged through clothes that belonged to you. he settled on a sweater and jeans. 

“trust you..? of course i do.. i just don't, john.. what's happening?” you asked, almost with hurt in your voice, a conviction of what was about to occur. 

he gently walked back over, mumbling a quiet ‘arms up’ as he slipped your nightgown off, putting a sweater on you, and passing you jeans to put on. 

“it’s just a precaution baby. don't want to scare you, okay? we’re just going on a trip for a little bit, okay?” he said calmly as you zipped up your jeans and slipped on converse. you swallowed thickly as he put a baseball cap on your head.

“an incognito sort of trip?” you said with disappointment, realising all too well what this trip meant. “where? you know i panic when i fly, i can't get on a plane, john.” he kissed your forehead softly, washing away any doubt. 

“there are eyes and ears everywhere, baby, we have to be quiet about this, just have some faith in me, i wouldn't purposefully put you in a dangerous situation, yeah?” he walked out, sliding her fraudulent id into her pocket. it was like a whole double life he lived. she had no idea he had these made, did he have fake passports too? emergency cash stashed somewhere? you followed him like a lost dog as he picked up your suitcases. 

“we aren't coming back here, are we? to this apartment?” you asked in a flat tone, one of hurt and despair. he gently shook his head, giving you a solemn smile. you disappeared into the kitchen, dumping everything in the fridge into the bin. 

“honey? what are you doing? baby- i.. we have to go, now.” you looked up at him, rushing to shove perishable items into the bin. 

“i dont want to leave the apartment in disarray, someone will realise and come and look, and i dont want the owners of the building stumbling across rotten food. its the polite thing to do.” you said, mindlessly stepping into action. 

“very polite. clever girl. we dont have time for that though, baby. come on. need you to listen to me and focus.” he held out a hand which you begrudgingly took. 

you suddenly yanked away, running back into your closet, to which he sighed pinching his nose. 

“baby. i won't tell you again,” he said, short. pointedly. you reassured you would only be a minute, running back out with your wedding garter in hand, shoving it into your suitcase. wedding albums, dresses, suits would all sit here and haunt your empty apartment. 

you needed to take something with you. he noticed what you did and looked down at you like you had punched him in the gut, pained, hurt. he gently cupped the back of your head, bringing you forward to press a pained kiss to your forehead as he cursed under his breath.

“im so sorry sweet girl. i just need to keep you safe, you understand that, don't you?” you gave him a brief nod, a faraway look in your eyes. 

he led you out into the hallway, and then ushered you into the elevator as he took a phone call. he spoke in tongues, well, that was what it sounded like to you. codewords and a whole different language. something eastern european you guessed. you perched a seat on top of your suitcase, as he spoke. he looked over to you and continued speaking, reaching down to pick up his suitcase, phone held to his ear by his shoulder as he pulled your suitcase along with you sitting on top of it. he hung up the phone. down another hallway. suddenly you were in the apartment building's garage. he led you to a black suv. you looked at him confused. 

“you drive an aston martin, and this isnt my kia sport.” 

“no, it isn't your kia sport. get in, honey, come on.” you sighed, still so many unanswered questions as he ushered you in, doing up your seatbelt. 

“i didn't know you were bilingual,” you said, looking down at your converse, chewing your lip. you didn't know what to say, too many things to ask. 

“what language was that?” 

“ukranian.” he spoke softly, driving you through the city, he passed you a bottle of water that was in the car. “drink, you need to stay hydrated.” 

“john im scared, i don't understand any of this and i need to call my dad, tell him what's happe-” he gave you a knowing look. sighing softly, holding out his hand for your phone. 

your furrowed your eyebrows, but trusted him. passing him the phone. he dropped it onto the floor of his car and stomped the foot that wasnt on the accelerator onto your phone, smashing it. you let out a loud gasp of shock, confusion. he had a stone cold face as he rolled down the window and threw it out of the car. 

“john!” you choked out, in disbelief. 

“don't fight me on this sweetheart. i need you to listen to me and do what i say, okay? im trying to keep you safe, and that isn't going to work if you have your phone on you. you cant be traceable.” you sat there, realising the weight of his words. 

“i asked you to drink, baby. please.” you scoffed, a little attitude now. you wanted to throw the water in his face or tell him to shove it up his ass. he was being vague again. not answering your questions, ordering you around. but you conceded and drank, he watched you out of the corner of his eye. 

you sipped, thinking about how much your family would worry when you didnt answer their calls, would they file a missing persons report? i mean, they didnt know what john.. truly did. oh god this was going to be messy. you gulped down the water, curled away from him. was it petty? sure. but you wanted to know you weren't happy with him. 

you sighed sipping the water and suddenly the bottle slipped from your hand, sloshing onto your shoes and dribbling down your lips as you tilted your head almost in slow motion, realising what had happened. john didn't react. why wouldn't he react? oh… oh.

“john, i feel dizzy n’ fuzzy or something.. i dont-” you slurred out, not recognising your voice, you sat confused as your head lolled back into your seat and you slipped into unconsciousness. 

fuck,  john swore under his breath. the guilt was going to eat at him alive. he needed to get you on a plane, a private unlisted one of course, far away and off the grid. but he knew he would have to drag you on kicking and screaming, your phobia of flying would ensure that. that would be loud, and messy. next best solution? 

mildly drug the love of your life to make the transition smoother. god you would never forgive him for this, but it’s something he was doing for you, he tried to convince himself.

the unmarked suv pulled up to an open field, somewhere in japan. an undisclosed location. there was a plane under a huge tarp waiting, he pulled the tarp of the smaller plane, it was only built for two. he never mentioned he could fly a plane, or that he had fake passports made up, or that he spoke multiple languages and had various safehouses built.. nothing of the sort. but why would he want to worry your precious mind? there was nothing he hated more than seeing the look of fear on your face. 

he shoved the luggage in and sighed, cursing again as he slung you over his shoulder, walking up the two steps to the plane, sitting you down and strapping you in. tears welled in his eyes at the sight of you sitting there, looking so vulnerable. he gently pulled your head up to slip on the headphones and closed the plane door. as he strapped in, the plane roared to life and suddenly the two of you were in the air. 

he landed the plane somewhere in sweden. a field. where he of course, had another unmarked suv waiting. he killed the engiene, swallowing his guilt as he slid your headset off and scooped you back up, wiping a small line of drool from the corner of your mouth, your jaw had gone slack. 

you stirred slowly, words slow to come out of your mouth, still a little slurred as he drove around sweden. something garbled and entangled, adjacent to ‘john?’. he clenched his jaw, inhaling softly before deciding to pull over, if you slapped him, it would probably be best if the car was stationary. 

he turned to look at your sweet face. waiting for you to speak. you winced softly, your head aching, limbs like jelly. groggy. 

“you..- did you?” you mumbled out with bite. you had pieced it together as you passed out. he didnt react, because he was expecting you to fall unconscious, because he have you water he had previously drugged. 

“i had to get you on a plane. without you pulling my hair or screaming.” he said calmly, staring straight forward. 

“i might just fucking kill you, actually, ive decided.. im your wife!” you yelled, and he flinched. “you deserve this, john” - he spoke to himself in his mind. 

“my darling girl, i know. i know..” he winced as you continued your rant. 

“you fucking drugged me! with what? what was it? some fucked up sedative im sure you have lying around in our apartment. oh! im sorry, our old apartment. i cant do this. where the fuck are we? im going back home.”

“cant tell you the drug. it’s something from somewhere, we can call it that. we’re in sweden, i have a safe house being set up but we need to stay in a hotel tonight.”

“oh! fantastic, we’re in fucking sweden and my husband practically used a date rape drug to knock me out.”

“honey please dont ever use the word ‘rape’ and ‘my husband’ in a sentence together, ever again. clear?” he said sternly looking at you.

you sighed softly. “im sorry- i didnt it mean it like that. but im still fucking seething with you.” he turned the car back on, turning back onto the road. 

“which is entirely fair. you can slap me when we get to the hotel, alright baby? i just need to get you somewhere while we wait for the safehouse.” he said softly. 

you grumbled something out but relented. “im not going to slap you, you’d somehow get off on that.” you blurted out and he chuffed under his breath, knowing that would be true. 

you arrived in a hotel, a fancy one at that, he spoke to the front desk. luggage at his side. oh great, he speaks swedish too. you glared at him as he spoke. he walked you to the elevator. 

“honey?” you said with a deceiving smile and anger in your voice. 

“yes dearest?” he responded with equal sarcasm.

“next time i comment on the fact you’re bilingual, maybe correct me and say trilingual.” 

“polygot actually, 8 languages.” 

you turned your head to look up at him, and yell. but the elevator doors dinged and opened, revealing a sweet looking couple. you bit your tongue and he stepped aside letting the couple out. he had the nerve to strike up a conversation with them as you looked at the ground, no idea what was being said. 

“åh vilket underbart par!” the woman cooed softly, nudging her husband who agreed smiling gently. 

“ah tack så mycket, det här är min underbara fru. kul att träffa er båda, men vi måste komma till vårt rum. önskar dig lycka till!” john spoke and your eyes widened softly at the accuracy of the accent, he dragged you into the elevator. 

“i love you. i love you so much. please realise im doing this for you. to protect you.” he said, holding your cheeks softly in his palms as the elevator rode up to your floor. 

“i love you too. im just confused, and scared.. i wouldnt have gotten on a plane otherwise, im still peeved you did that though.” he nodded, kissing your forehead.

“i know baby, how about i run you a bath and we can order some champagne and talk? would that be alright?” you nodded softly as he walked you to your hotel room. it was lovely, luxurious even. he ran the bath and you stripped, slipping in and sighing in bliss, closing your eyes. 

you heard him speak on the hotel phone, probably ordering champagne, and he checked the hotel room, paranoid. the champagne never came, and so he sighed, poking his head into the bathroom, looking at you in absolute awe. you turned your head looking towards him.

“im just going to run down to see what’s taking so long, okay baby? i will be right back, two minutes at most.” you nodded softly. 

“that’s okay. ill be here… and john?”

“hm?”

“i love you.” he smiled walking over to kiss you delicately, looking into your eyes.

“i love you too. two minutes, time me.” he murmured before disappearing. 

two minutes later, almost exactly - if you had bothered to time it, you heard the door click. you smiled to yourself, closing your eyes softly as you relaxed in the bath, bubbles covering you. you heard the footsteps approach the door. 

“john? dont bother with the glasses, just come here.” you called out, assuming he was going into the hotel room to collect the glasses. he never responded. he always responded to you. 

“john?” you called out, voice wavering. it’s not like you could call him. but surely it was him. you sighed, stepping out, wrapping a towel around your body. soap suds rolling down your chest as you padded out into the bedroom part of the hotel room. he was nowhere to be seen. 

“john? baby?” you mumbled softly. it all happened so fast.

you had no time to react as a hand clamped over your mouth from behind. another grabbing your waist, hand around your towel. your short towel. you kicked, screaming, muffled behind the hand. trying to kick out the feet from behind you. you halted, inhaling shakily when you felt something cold press to the side of your head. this wasn't john. 

likes, reblogs and comments are so so so incredibly appreciated.

i love you!

simon riley indulging your darker kinks cw: cnc, mask play, knife play, breath play, gun mentioned (but no play).

simon could hardly believe what he was hearing from you, his sweet thing, as you detailed your fantasies to him. looking up at him with those doe eyes of yours as you relayed the debauched thoughts that occupied your brain—the brain he often called ditzy.

yeah, sure, you'd had sex plenty of times before, vanilla in nature whenever his wide hips plummeted into your velvetly pussy with lewd squelches and skin slapping against each other, but what you were asking now was different.

it was filthy, but he'd be lying if he said his dick didn't chub up at the thought. his eyes darkening with lust as you detailed your want for him to 'break in' to your shared home in his black balaclava, armed with a gun in his holster—whether it was loaded, or not, was up to him—and a knife in his hand.

god, you were so sweet, so shameless, when you asked him to enact these scenarios with you, and who was he to ever deprive you, even of your most lascivious desires.

and that's how he ended up here, the cloth of his balaclava itchy against his flushed skin, eye black around his eyes as he picked the lock to his own damn house. to the neighbors, he must've seemed crazy, but anything for his sweet girl and his aching cock.

you were getting ready for bed, finishing up on your nightly routine in the bathroom. simon's boots were heavy against the floorboards, successfully avoiding the pesky ones that creaked with too much weight, the ones he had promised you he would fix.

it had weeks since your admittance of your fantasies, and still no action from simon's side. you sighed, brushing off the feeling of disappointment once again as you turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the hallway, floor creaking under your weight as you turned towards the bedroom.

you didn't make it more than a step down the hall before a rough, gloved hand clamped down on your mouth, another slinging around the front of your waist. a scream erupted from your throat, muffled by the hand.

your heart raced, fear pulsed through your body as you squirmed against the brutish man, but you couldn't help the fluttering of your clothed pussy. the only way you could tell it was simon was by the familiar scent of your favorite cologne lingering on his dark clothes.

you were pliant under his rough hands, the arm slung around your waist groping up your front, fingers teasing up the hem of your shirt, pawing fist fulls of your tits, squishing the fat against his palms as he tweaked your nipples. your breaths were heavy, and you still gave him a fight despite being more than willing.

your body was buzzing, mind already hazy as he held you firmly to him and groped you in the middle of your hallway. he wrapped a hand around your neck firmly, gloved palm flat against the column of your throat as he gently squeezes, testing the bounds while his other hand left your mouth.

a shudder ran down your spine at the sound of metal scraping against denim as he pulled a pocket knife from his jeans. he flicked it open, earning a soft shing! sound that cut through the air. he let out a dark chuckle at the small flinch when the cold blade made contact with your supple skin.

he traced the tip of the small blade along the contour of your cheek, down along your jaw to your chin as he used the flat side to turn your head towards him. his eyes were dark behind his balaclava as he stared into yours, and he felt an immense, gooey feeling of power at your 'fear' rising in his chest. your eyes betrayed your fear, but, overwhelmingly, arousal as he eyed your blown pupils and parted lips, tongue gliding over your plush bottom lip.

he traced the outline of your lips with his knife, the pointy tip of the blade nearly slicing your delicate skin. when he took the knife away, he replaced it with his masked lips, scratchy, itchy material of his plain balaclava irritating against your soft flesh. his lips attempting to mold to yours through the thick fabric, your eyes fluttering shut.

your lips were swollen, fabric burned by the time he pulled away and the mask was damp where his lips protruded from under it. your mind felt hazy, hair tousled and slightly frizzy after a simple action became magnified in the situation. what a sight, he thought before burying his face in your neck, a loud breath in as he inhaled your scent, reveling in the sweetness before exhaling with a soft growl.

his fist clenched around his knife, bringing it to your oversized tee as he teased the fabric before slicing it with some difficulty. a whine slipped from your lips, causing the hand remaining on your neck to tighten its grip, silencing you immediately. so obedient.

he continued to cut off the shirt you wore, baring your body to the cold air of the house, goosebumps rising along your skin. he took a minute to appreciate the sight, trailing the blade across your chest, tip circling your pebbled nipples as you faintly trembled. he ate your fear like it was the first meal he's had in weeks. it was insatiable, his hunger, newly awakened and starving.

he worshipped the skin under the blade, circling your navel before moving lower, and lower, and lower to the edge of your pretty panties you wore. dainty, lacy and adorned with a pretty bow on the front. such a shame as the fabric ripped under his knife, leaving you bare against his fully-clothed body.

and lower the knife moved, closer to your drooling warmth that fluttered at the contrast of the cold metal against your blazing skin, heat rising wherever he traced the blade. he teased along your skin before pressing the blade flat against your sopping cunt, coating sticky arousal that smeared along the steel. you gasped at the contact, clenching around nothing before he pulled it away.

next thing you know, your face and chest was pressed against the wall, his hands grasping your hips to pull them back in a soft arch before running the knife down your spine and over the plush of your rear. his other hand went to your pretty cunt, the rough fabric of his gloves gliding through your folds and collecting the pearly arousal, teasing your little clit before pinching it, drawing back.

you feel his touch completely leave your body, a frown contorting your features as you turn your head to look over your shoulder, only to get pushed back in place with a simple, firm command, "stay." like a dog, you obey again.

you can only hear the clink of his belt as he undoes the buckle, not even bothering to fully slide it from his belt loops before undoing his jeans. next thing you know, he's forcing his bulbous tip past your folds, clenching tightly around his thick cock as if you're pushing him out. you hear him curse, mumbling gruffly about how tight you are.

his hips slap against your rear, his eyes practically mesmerized by the pudgy flesh rippling whenever he drives his heavy cock into your velvety pussy with a lewd squelch that fills the hallway with each thrust.

you can't help crying out with soft mewls as he pummels harder, unrelenting as he takes what he wants, his hands coming up to wrap around your throat on both sides and squeezes. the sensations of your spongy walls wrapping him tighter causes him to let out a gruff grunt.

he doesn't stop until you're drooling onto the wall, saliva spilling from your lips as your jaw lays slack, eyes hazed over and hair overly frizzy. his pearly, gooey releases leaking from your abused hole onto the floor, creating a sticky, smeared mess once he pulls out. he groans at the sight, collecting the oozing fluid on his gloved fingers over the crusted arousal from earlier.

he watches it drip out of you, grasping handfuls of fat from your rear and spreading them apart to watch his spend spill from your pretty, swollen cunt and pool onto the hardwood floors. he'll stuff his face into your backside, taking in the musky scent as it seeps into his balaclava before standing up and leaving you trembling against the wall. you can bet he doesn't wash that stupid mask when he leaves for his next mission.

yay! using these super cute star button dividers from roseraris! <333

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brave girl

summary: you decide to try something new when you believe you're home alone. joke! you aren't home alone. at least joel is willing to help.

tags: 18+ smut, joel miller x afab!reader, dbf!joel (it's mentioned twice,) pillow humping, f!masturbation, sexual frustration, getting caught, crying, insecurity, anxious!reader, softdom!joel (kind of idk,) soft!joel, neighborly!joel, tooth rotting sweetness, clit rubbing, kind of size difference-y, praise, nicknames like baby, sweet girl, sweet one, brave girl, etc.

a/n: yayy i wrote a fic !!! this is VERY birthday girl adjacent btw so if you liked that you'll like this (and vice versa!)

wc: 2.2k (not beta read)

You know this isn’t how he wants you.

No guy willing to fuck around with his best friend’s daughter wants it to be like this, where she’s sniffling and crying into his shirt, pushing herself not to squirm away from him. The normal idea of this would be for him to meet you at a beach, or a barbecue, or something else summer-y and sexy, and then you’d fuck and then oops-wait-you’re-his-daughter!? That’s how this should be, right? 

But no, instead you’re in the midst of your semester off, and sure you had met Joel a few times over the holidays when you came down to visit your old man, but you didn’t think this would be happening. 

Joel shifts behind you, reminding you that the position you’re in sucks for him. You’ve heard him complain about his back before, and now the ridge of your twin size bedframe is digging into his spine. You wish you had the energy to move or help him, but your eyes are bleary and your body is frozen from anxiety, which is better than the embarrassment of earlier. Thinking about the humiliation… a flash of hot red runs up your neck at the memory.

You had been trying something different. After scrolling online for a little while on some forums, you made the decision to try humping your pillow. Penetrative sex wasn’t something that felt good for you, and rubbing your own clit gets boring after the fourth night in a row. So yes, you decided to desecrate the pillow you’d been frustratedly tossing and turning on for the past week. 

It had started out okay. And literally just okay is how you would describe the experience. After being excited at the idea all night last night, and into the morning before your dad left for work, you had basically jumped onto your pillow the second the door clicked shut. Your flimsy undies were supposed to work as some sort of extra friction, and they kind of did, but eventually you just resorted to rubbing yourself while you were hunched over your pillow. The friction just wasn’t right, your pillow was too soft and there was nothing to truly rub against so it just frustrated you more. Your anger peaked when you realized that you had been all excited for no reason and you quickly lost steam on the jerking-off part of your morning, resorting to huffing and puffing into the pillow which pissed you off so bad. 

But when he had found you, or rather, just opened the door, you were crying. 

For whatever reason, you felt embarrassed about the pillow situation. You’re how many years old and you can’t make yourself come? Fingering yourself feels “weird” so instead you humped a pillow? Shame quickly overtook your frustrated feelings and you ended up crying into your sheets, clit abandoned and fingers slightly wet. Maybe you just weren’t meant for something like this, maybe you just weren’t meant to have sex or be sexy. What kind of girl were you? Surely a broken one, surely a stupid one. Nothing could feel worse than this self-created humiliation. 

Except, obviously, Joel finding you. 

“Are you oka– woah,” is what he had said before slapping his free hand over his eyes. Joel was annoyingly quiet sometimes. Without his work boots clomping beneath him he was a quiet guy with quiet movements so long as he was on carpet, so you had no clue he was in your house. He wasn’t there last night, so what the hell was he doing there now?

A little yelp had left you as you tugged your shirt down and shoved your pillow back to its rightful spot on the bed in a flurry of movement. Blush pink had crawled onto your face and shameful red snuck up your spine, seizing your neck to stiffen your posture. 

“What are you doing here?” You had asked, a guilty lilt to your tone.

Joel was standing there, clearly also flustered, with his hand still over his eyes. 

“Your dad kept sayin’ he’d fix the cabinet in the upstairs bathroom but he didn’t,” Joel begins to explain, his hand dropping from your door knob. “He’s back at work now and I uh— It’s my day off so I figured I’d lend a hand. Then I heard you crying or uh, something.”

You decide to stare into the bottom corner of your room, beside Joel’s feet.

“I was crying.” It isn’t a lie. 

Joel nods, almost takes his hand off his eyes, then decides to keep it on. 

“Why?”

And you probably shouldn’t have answered honestly. You should not have told Joel that you were crying because you feel like your pussy is broken, or maybe that your brain’s broken, and that you haven’t come in weeks because you keep getting so in your head about it. But you did, and that wouldn’t have been so bad. Would it have been bad to vent to your dad’s friend about how you can’t bust a nut? Yes, always. But it’s worse because it’s Joel, Mr. Fix-it-Felix himself, who just has to help everyone. 

But you didn’t exactly say no when he offered.

So now, you’re here, with your body cradled between his thick thighs, the denim of his jeans scratching at your lower back while one of his arms cradles the upper part of it. Joel said it was fine for you to put all your weight on him, and so you did. Your head rests on his shoulder, eyes focused on the aging, freckled, skin of his neck. 

You had warned him you’d probably keep crying, but he said it was okay. 

“You bare under the shirt, baby?” Joel asks softly. Your head nods your answer, eyes burning. 

The shirt is draped between your thighs as your knees are propped up but apart. Joel’s hand comes down and hesitantly hovers there, fingers just brushing the fabric before cupping you through the fabric.

“Can I touch underneath?” He asks.

It takes you a second. Humiliation is still coursing up and down the lengths of your arms in little waves of tingles that tickle weirdly. Can Joel touch underneath? You barely know how okay you are when you’re touching yourself, can you really handle him doing that? 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

His chest moves heavy underneath you, a steady beat of up and down that reminds you of those automatic baby rockers. Joel doesn’t move his hand from where it is on you, and he doesn’t look down at you either, thank God. The anxiety, the unsure tension in the room, it’s stunting you from getting what you need. You don’t know what you can and can’t handle, you don’t know your body anymore. Something about this situation, which is already twisted, is only made worse now. Both of you know that much, but Joel seems to know more.

“Do you want to know?” 

His voice is quiet still, a rumbling noise that still shudders with nervousness as he says want, like he knows you might say no. Joel is someone you can stand saying no to, you know he’s faced greater disappointments than not helping his best friend’s daughter get off. But, you don’t want to say no. You don’t want to say no, but you don’t want to say yes either. 

You just want it to happen. 

One of your hands, the one that was reached up to clutch onto his shoulder, trembles as it comes down to guide his hand underneath. Your shirt drapes still, allowing you some modesty, a shield from his eyes.

“‘M not shaved,” you say apologetically, your voice tight from tears. His hand is just sitting there, motionless, and that sense of frustration is back. You don't want this from him, if you wanted something still you'd go back to humping your pillow. 

Please, you want to say to him, please show me this can be good, that I can feel good still. Take me somewhere I can't.

He's too hesitant, gently cupping over the somewhat trimmed hairs. Deep down you know why he's hesitating, he feels bad about this, but you're already crying so what's the use in anxiety?

“Joel,” you say his name like a reminder, even though you're just as scared as he is. He responds quickly, nodding and saying “yeah, sorry,” before his hand is finally moving.

“M just gonna start like this, okay sweetie?” His voice swims in your ears, quiet as you rest yourself against his chest again. Joel's movements are slow, practiced, as he rubs just over your lips, applying pressure to your clit in a gentle way. Everything he does is him testing the waters, making sure it's still okay. 

“Are you scared?” he asks. 

And no, not exactly. You aren't scared of anything in particular, you're just overwhelmed, but that's a lot of words and you can't find the words to put together a sentence right now. You hum something similar to a “kinda” and luckily he gets it.

Finally, he sinks a finger deep enough to actually feel how needy you are. A puff of breath leaves him, and maybe he’s surprised at how wet you are considering how scared you are. Another weird noise escapes your chest as you push your face higher, nose to his adams apple as you try to disappear beneath his jaw. Slowly, he begins to rub over your clit. It’s only one finger, a little overwhelming, and you squirm at the pressure. “Too much,” you complain. 

Joel, thankfully, doesn’t seem insulted by this, and instead eases up with the pressure. Your knees start to close together subconsciously, everything in you feels so conflicted and you don’t know if having Joel Miller help you was the best idea. But then he starts talking.

“Don’t want you to focus on my hands, sweet one,” he says. It isn’t self deprecating, but more of a suggestion. “Want you to focus on me, okay? It’s just me.”

Your eyes, which had previously been squeezed shut, open. You can see the freckled, tan, skin of his neck. It’s bumpy, and you can see little hairs that stray from his normal beard pattern. There’s a birthmark just below his collarbone that you’ve seen before when his shirt’s neckline slides the wrong way, so you must be tugging on his clothes in some way. You focus on that spot as his voice continues to lull your mind.

“It’s just me, right? Just Joel, you know me, hm?” He asks. It’s as if he wants to keep you in the moment, to keep you as awake as he seems to be. Joel’s head settles down more, his bristled chin resting on the top of your head as his hand works a little more intensely. 

You barely even recognize that you’re still crying as you let out a soft “uh-huh.” Big, hot, tears are rolling down your cheeks as you cling to him. His wrist is warm as it rests between your legs, his hand even warmer, but you try and listen to his words. 

“Yeah, it’s just Joel. I’m just helpin’ you for a bit, okay baby? You gonna let me help you?” It’s working. You can feel your stomach tightening, and even as tears still spill out, you’re nodding yes. If there were any words you could get out of your mouth you’d tell him yes, yes please help me, but unfortunately nothing will come out. Joel isn’t doing anything specifically technical with his movements here, just rubbing your clit slowly, using any of the wetness that leaks out of you to his advantage as he talks in a smooth tone. 

“You’re doing so good, so perfect. You just keep focusin’ on me, alright? I’m right here, I’m holdin’ ya,” he reminds you. Your eyes shut for a moment again, and your hands that were flopped beneath his bent knees are now gripping at your sheets. He notices you squirming and tilts his head down so his cheek rests on your head now. Against your back is his chest, his heart thumping beneath his skin at a steady beat. If he is hard, you don’t know, but you don’t care either. He’s helping you right now, this is about you. It’s about you, tucked under all his warm, soft, body. It’s about how he feels so safe for no reason, and how he’s encouraging this. It’s about how he’s fine with you crying, that he isn’t pulling away or asking if you’re okay. Joel knows it’s okay because he’s making it so, he’s grounding you with words and setting fire with his hands. “Just me and you, me and my brave girl,” he says. 

It’s probably the softest orgasm you’ve ever been brought to. A choking feeling crawls up your chest, choking your noises while rushes of blood bloom up your body to your head. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, boneless, and nearly deaf. You can barely hear what Joel is saying, but he’s definitely realized that he’s helped you plenty.  Your chest is heaving as he presses a kiss to your scalp, mumbling words about how brave you are, how pleased he is. It’s the first real orgasm you’ve had in a really long time, and maybe he knows, because he doesn’t make you move at all. Joel lets you lay back on him, removes his hand and adjusts your shirt so you’re covered again.

“That’s a brave girl now,” he murmurs softly, “you just rest now.”

i’m probably talking and giggling with my s/o in my dr rn. that’s okay. i’m happy for me.

one day, you’ll celebrate your birthdays over there, and your wishes may turn softer, more resigned—no longer the desperate wishes you make now. these weeks of struggle will be no more than a fleeting thought, something you’ll brush off with a small giggle, then bury back in the deepest, dustiest shelves of your mind. you’ll look back at the nights you spent wondering if this was it, and you’ll laugh, and laugh, and laugh—a hollow but somehow full sound, at how little you knew then.

what goes on in my brain every single day