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His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk. 

His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth. 

“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”

He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.

“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”

You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.

“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”

“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”

“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”

The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”

“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”

“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”

Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.

“I’ve already read it.”

“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”

“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”

“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.

“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”

Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.

“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”

Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”

“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–” 

You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”

You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it. 

The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up. 

Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable. 

“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”

“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.

“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him. 

“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest. 

The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult. 

“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”

A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently. 

When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly. 

–

“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”

“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”

“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”

“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”

You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.

Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him. 

“Fuck me.”

You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”

“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”

You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”

“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes. 

“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”

Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”

“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”

“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”

“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.

“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”

“A chair is close to your heart?”

You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”

“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”

“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.

Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”

He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.

You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”

Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”

You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak. 

“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.

“Yes!”

Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile. 

“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”

“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back. 

Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.

“You gonna let me out?”

“What?”

When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.

You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–

You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.

“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”

“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”

His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”

“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.

Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.

“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”

“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”

“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”

“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy. 

“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”

He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”

“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”

Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”

“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”

“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”

It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him. 

“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”

“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”

“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”

You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.

He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve. 

Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.

“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.

“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”

“I happen to be full of those.”

“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.

His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.

“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly. 

He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.

You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.

“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing. 

His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly. 

“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.

“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”

The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.

“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”

“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”

“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy. 

“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”

You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.

“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”

“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.

“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”

A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek. 

“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.

“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.

“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”

“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”

You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.

“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”

“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.

“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”

“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”

“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”

“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”

“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.

“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”

You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.

“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”

“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.

“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”

“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch. 

“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.

“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”

“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out. 

“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.

Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.

“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”

He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit. 

“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”

Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right. 

“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.

His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”

You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.

“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”

Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air. 

“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”

You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”

“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.

“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy. 

“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”

“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”

“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.

You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”

A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back. 

You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.

“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”

“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure. 

His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.

“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.

“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”

You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.

“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.

Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”

“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”

He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath. 

“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”

You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.

“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.

“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.

“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”

You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”

You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.

“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.

“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.

His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.

“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”

“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down. 

Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.

“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”

Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”

You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.

“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”

You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock. 

“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”

You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white. 

“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”

“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.

When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.

“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.

Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap. 

Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.

“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”

“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”

You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.

“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.

Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.

“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”

Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”

“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”

“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”

“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck. 

“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”

You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size. 

“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat. 

“Atta girl.”

Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”

You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.

“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”

“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”

He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips. 

“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass. 

Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock. 

“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”

You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit. 

“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”

“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at you when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”

“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”

Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.

You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.

“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.

“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”

You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls. 

Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.

“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.

Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.

“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.

“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back. 

You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.

“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”

“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”

Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.

Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.

“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”

“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”

“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.

You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”

Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”

He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.

You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.

“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.

“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”

“I aim to please.”

He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”

You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”

“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.

When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.

You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.

“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.

“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”

You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”

He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec. 

“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”

“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.

“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”

Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.

The moment you enter the bar is an inflection point. All attention is pulled to you in the doorway, the center of the dive bar’s singular focus. All low lighting, glass lamps, and dark wood. He glances up from the scratched surface of the bar, the visions of all the unending miles of road he’d put behind him that day, all the unspooling, desolate road ahead of him, vanishing in an instant.

A pretty bride still in her finery spills through the door with a laugh, head bent against the wind, and everything changes. When you lift your head, Joel sees your face clearly for the first time. The slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw, the shape of your smile, are so familiar he feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. 

You are more than a familiar face.

He knows you. 

He is certain he’s never laid eyes on you. 

Grinning ear to ear, you duck inside the bar in a swirl of hot air. The bell above the door tinkles as it slams shut with a heavy wooden thud. The sparkling heels strapped over your feet are covered in a thin layer of dust; the long lines of your legs are revealed through slits on either side of your gown that extend nearly to your hip bones. He expects to see a groom following close on your heels, hand in hand with you, fawning gaze following your every move.  

But the door doesn't open again and you cross the smoky bar alone. Soft yellow light bleeds over your body, gliding over the dips and curves like unseen, phantom hands. Heads turn, watching you pass in a cloud of silk and satin, pearls and lace, flashes of skin beneath ivory white. 

There’s a tiny veil pinned back over your head, fluttering in your wake, an emerald ribbon looped around your throat. The ties of the ribbon spill over your collarbone, descend to the low neckline of your dress, dip between your breasts. 

You’re still smiling, giggling deliriously, almost hysterically, manically, when you slot yourself between Joel and another man at the bar. Whatever you're laughing about, he doubts it's funny in the least.

A cloud of sage and lavender follows you, seems to cloud thick and warm in the air.

The dress settles around your legs, high slits closing like curtains drawn, and your shimmering skin disappears from view. 

Joel watches you from the corner of his eye, curious and wary at once. You are at odds with the rest of the bar, gruff trucker types in worn baseball caps and flannels. Curious eyes hooked into you like a rare, jeweled fish.

The barman seems to know you, says your name with a question mark tagged onto the end. “You all right? Thought you was supposed to be gettin’ married today, girl?” 

“Oh, Tom, I’m doing just wonderful,” you croon, in a voice like honey and gold. Joel is sure he’s heard it before, just as he’s sure he’s seen your face. Everything about you is familiar, like a song he’d once known how to play, or heard over a bad radio connection before it was cut short. “I’d like a drink, if you don’t much mind.”

He raises a brow. “Anything in particular?”

“Strongest thing you’ve got,” you request, leaning on your elbows against the bar with crossed arms. Your wrists are looped with jangling bracelets. Your hands are encrusted with rings, silver and gold dappled in light, though your left ring finger remains pointedly unadorned, not even an engagement ring. Joel suddenly suspects a husband won’t be ducking through the door anytime soon. “Don’t be shy.” 

Tom lifts a brow and turns away, pouring a double shot into a heavy bottomed glass. He slides it across the wood with a gentle push. The whiskey sloshes against the rim but doesn’t tip out. “Need the courage or somethin’?” There’s a gleam in his eye, amused, taking you for a nervous bride and not an angry one. You’re too busy knocking the drink back, tapping the counter for another pour, to notice his tone, to answer. “Where’s—”

“Oh.” Your laugh is pitched upwards, cutting and self-deprecating. You sway briefly into Joel’s shoulder. Electricity suddenly, near painfully, snaps between you, biting and sharp, like summer heat lightning. You glance over at him, frowning, just for a moment. When your gaze meets his with a tilt of your head, your brows furrow, your breath hitches. “Not a clue,” you continue sharply when you look away from him. “He left me at the fucking altar.” 

The energy of the room shifts, eavesdropping ears tilting closer, hungry wolves licking blood wet maws. Desperate, lonely woman.

The second drink goes down as smooth as the first. The glass thumps down solidly onto the counter. The bartender both looks surprised and doesn’t. “Well, shit. Sorry to hear that. He always was a jackass.”

“You haven’t seen him, have you?” 

“A couple weeks back maybe.” 

You shrug, nonchalance feigned, the barest trembling of your bottom lip before you smile again. “So I’m drowning the hurt,” you say delicately.

“Well, I reckon you’re in good company for drownin’ sorrows, darlin’.” 

Joel nurses his drink, watches the pathetic swill of amber trace the bottom of his glass. He tries not to pay you any mind, the commotion you’re attracting to the bar, drawing in all the lonely, suddenly sympathetic men that have been scattered around the room for the better part of the evening. It's near impossible, that lightning feeling lingering, like a divining rod wrought golden thread between you, impossible to cut away.

The bar is suddenly very busy with men who need new drinks, replacements for the warm beer they’ve been nursing for the better part of the evening, taking their time about it too, watching you.

The group that coalesces around you good-naturedly, and self-servingly, offers to cover your tab, buy you another drink. It invites you to share just what the bastard did, assures you that you did not deserve it. 

Joel keeps an eye on you. He’s not a jealous man, never has been, especially over someone he doesn't know, but there’s something about the wolf hungry eyes on you that he does not like. Your back is turned to him, a smooth expanse of bare flesh, cut off at the base of your back where satin sits flush with your skin, buttons the color of pale cream tailored to the curve of your body end near the bottom of your spine. He wants to tuck his fingers beneath it.

Your arm brushes his, the weight of it warm against his own, even through the layer of flannel and cotton between you. 

A couple of the guys invite you to the corner of the bar they’d been occupying before you arrived, so you don’t have to keep standing in those heels. You seem to know a couple of the men that pass by to give their apologies, greeting them by name, but most of them you don’t. He waits for the bar tender to tell them to fuck off as he's like to do, but he's distracted.

One man tells you that you remind him of his daughter. His voice is oily, and your shoulders tighten in response. 

The word daughter echoes, roots beneath his skin, but Joel doesn’t know why. Something more than your discomfort weighs on him, the heel of a hand beneath a fragile jaw pushing upward, shoving his face away from peering too closely at that feeling, that word. 

“C’mon, playin’ cards with a few old fellers might take your mind off it.” 

You decline, laughing and self-deprecating about it. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.” 

“Well, you don’t gotta be.” 

Your hip bumps against his knee, slowly but surely backing yourself into a corner. 

“Y'all leave her be,” he cuts in, voice soft, not glancing up from the glass in his hand, the last dregs of the whiskey reflecting the red-gold lamplight. An old box TV above the bar drones static next to a flickering neon sign of a jumping rabbit. Down the Rabbit Hole, it says. Lubbock, Texas, beneath.

He can feel their gazes shift to him but he doesn’t look back. “Sorry boys,” you interject, smiling sadly, “I’m really not much company to keep.”  

The patrons of the bar retreat reluctantly, only half grumbling about it. 

Joel can hardly blame them. 

This life is empty, lonely. Company is almost always welcome. Though he isn’t sure he’s ever sought it out, but certainly not like that.

The bar settles back into its natural rhythm for the moment, though your presence is a beacon, a light to shore they’re all keeping a carefully trained eye on. Just in case you changed your mind about their company, their unadorned sympathy. 

And him now, too. 

The longer he sits there next to you, the more he feels as though he’s seen you before, that he knows you from somewhere. 

Your gaze shifts to his, warm and soft with the alcohol blooming beneath your ribs. Your head tilts again. “Well,” you say, the taste of familiarity so thick on your tongue that for a moment he thinks he does know you and he’s about to make an ass of himself. “Thanks are in order. Though I had it handled.” 

“They shouldn’t need handlin’,” he grouses. 

The pretty, curved, corner of your mouth twitches. “They mean well, even if it’s for their own benefit. It wouldn't have killed me to play cards.”

He laughs dryly and reaches down to pull out the stool beneath you, helps you hitch yourself into the seat. The bare skin of your back sears hot against his palm. “That’s one way of puttin’ it, I reckon. They don't need anyone making excuses.” 

Your smile wavers, but only for a moment.

“Do I know you?” You lean closer, peering at his face. “You look so familiar. I know a lot of these guys, but I don’t think I know you.” You press a hand to your chest and glance away, “Oh, God, please say no. After you just defended my honor and all.” 

He chuckles, breathes out. It isn’t just him. “No, I — I was just thinkin’ the same thing.” 

“Really?” 

He grunts in agreement and downs the last bit of whiskey in his glass, feels it pool warm and heavy in his stomach. 

“But you don’t know me?” 

“Don’t think so.” 

“Me either.” 

He gestures at your dress. “Sorry about the. . .”

“Yeah,” you straighten and smooth your hands over the ivory material. The supple fabric moves over you like water, the soft inverted bow of your waist, the swell of your chest against the low neckline. “Right? What a waste of a good dress.”

Joel chuckles. “You seem to be takin’ it well, considering.” 

“My spirits are likely to come crashing down the second I stop to think about it. But for now, drinking ‘til I’m sick’ll do. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but all I can think is that it’s his damn loss.” 

“Seems like it probably is.” 

That makes you smile, shift happily in your seat. 

Whatever your answer is, is interrupted by the man on your other side. He tries to buy you another drink, but you decline with a wave of your hand, so pretty about it that it almost doesn’t sting. “Thank you but I may topple right out of my heels if I keep this up.” You turn immediately back to Joel, the swell of jealous stares almost palpable at your back, that your emotionally compromised attention has been so thoroughly, accidentally, captured. 

That his own fascination is mirrored back at him is maybe the best fortune he’s had in awhile.  

You lean in conspiratorially, and Joel sees double for a moment, your image splitting off like a divided cell before you come back together. You and not you, like a glimpse of you from another life. Like the echo of a memory he lost along some deserted highway long ago. 

Jesus, whatever had been in his glass was stronger than he thought, or, maybe you are that radiant, like heat shimmering off the earth in summer air. Maybe he just wants it to be true, has become that pathetically lonely. Something in his chest aches, an empty place he can't name.

“Did you see how much he poured for me? Tom’s always had a heavy hand. How many shots would you say that was?”

He studies your empty glass, still clasped between your hands. “At least five, I’d reckon. Between the two he poured ya.” 

You laugh; the sound is like a siren call, beckoning him closer to a rocky shore. You’re still peering at him curiously, something feline in the tilt of your head, the weight of your gaze. It settles warmer than the whiskey, burns brighter going down his throat. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, your breath ghosting over his lips with how close you lean, willing his features to match someone in your memory. He knows that’s what you’re doing because he’s attempting the same. He feels like he’s supposed to know you, that he does. He’s just forgotten. “I’m being rude,” you blink and shake your head, straightening in your seat again, breaking the spell just a little. “I didn’t catch your name.” 

“Didn’t catch yours neither.” 

You offer your ring adorned hand, nails that could scratch out eyes, tiny tattoos on three of your fingers that extend onto your wrist. He takes your hand, palm engulfing yours. Your skin is smooth and warm against his rough hand. Your name is like the toll of a gently rung bell, placed delicately against his ear, calling him toward prayer, devotion, home. 

“Joel,” he answers. 

You hum, a caress in the back of your throat. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?” 

“Think I’d remember you.” 

You smile. “And why’s that?” Mirth glitters deep in your eyes. You aren’t as flippant, or as drunk, as you might seem. 

He doesn’t answer, fiddling with his glass instead, the center of his palm like ice where your skin met his. “I think I’d remember you too,” you admit. “Just for the record. I feel like I do. Joel.” 

His name slips off your tongue separate from the rest of your words, a statement unto itself, tucked in your cheek like a pearl for safekeeping. 

“Joel,” you say again, testing the stretch of his name, hands fluttering like anxious birds, like you could cup the letters in your palms, bring them to your mouth, swallow them down. “I like that. It fits.” 

The shimmering golden cord stretching like silk between you pulls taut, coiling around his throat until he feels like he might choke.

“Joel,” you say again, weighing the sound with a sigh, though he can’t begin to guess what measure you’re taking of it, him. He’s heard it before, he thinks, his name spoken so sweetly on your tongue. You tilt into his side, head tipping down toward his shoulder like it’s too heavy for you to keep holding up. “Seems I’m very popular. A sad girl is a good lay, after all.”

He clears his throat, shifts just a little on the stool. You laugh, and seem to take pleasure in his discomfort, examining him from beneath your lashes when you lift your head, metallic clung fingers cupped around your empty glass.

“So, where are you heading, Joel?” 

“How do you know I’m not from here?” 

“You could be.” You shrug, “But Tom is the only real permanent fixture around here.” 

“Seems like you might be one too.” 

You smile and fidget with the glass, running your nail from the base to the rim and back again, a soft tinkling sound following in its wake. He can’t help but think of your hand somewhere else, tracing those nails from root to tip. He shakes his head to dispel the thought.

It isn’t like him, none of this is. 

“I am. . .permanently impermanent. Follow seasonal work, I guess. I can’t seem to settle down anywhere,” you say to the bar top, the warm, humid air. “But when I pass through here, I always stop.” 

“West Texas,” he muses, “Not the kind of place people usually stop.” You hum softly in agreement. “Seems a mighty lonely place to get married, anyway. You got family here or somethin’?” 

You shake your head. “I’m lonely either way,” you warble, like the beginning of a song. “We were supposed to get married in Vegas a couple months ago. But—” Your mouth snaps shut like a steel trap around whatever you had been about to say. Your shoulders heave with a sigh, the swell of your breasts straining at the low line of your dress. Your whole body moves with the weight of that sigh. “We were in this pretty little town couple hours west of here, and thought, why not here, y’know? After it all happened,” you spread your hands, bracelets clanging together faintly. “I just. . .got in my car and drove. Told myself it was over for good—” you snarl the word, venomous. “Ended up here.”

Your eyes shift to his again. “A place to sleep, drinks,” you slap your hand against the scarred bar, “and a gas station. What else do I need? And Tom always takes good care of me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well usually. He was distracted but that’s why you got thrown into my path today. Things always work out that way. They didn’t mean anything anyway.” You tilt your head at him. “So where are you heading next? Distract me.”

The air ripples, like something thick and viscous layering over his vision, blurring it, tunneling it. The road behind him is murky, all the same, one truck stop after another, miles and miles and miles of endless highway. It all blends together, and maybe that’s why he’s got no fucking clue where he picked up the last load. Or, where he’s supposed to be hauling it to. 

He pushes the thoughts away. He’s tired, that’s all. The endless visions of roads without end play on every long haul trucker’s mind. 

Of never getting home. Home, which is—

“East,” he answers vaguely. 

Joel blinks and the hazy film disappears. East doesn’t really seem right either. Maybe he’s drunker than he feels. 

Your head is tilted again, inquisitive in your watchfulness. A smile slips into place on your face. The radiance returns. It’s like looking into the goddamn sun. He blinks and the uncertainty recedes, water pulling back from a terrible, teeth-lined shore. “I was thinking west,” you muse. “After this. Maybe north.” 

“Back the way you came?” 

You nod, looking wistful, contemplative.

Joel glances away from your profile, the slow rise and fall of your lungs, the vast expanse of your skin. You shift forward on your seat, toes brushing the ground as you stand, fishing out a wad of cash from somewhere to smack down onto the bar top. 

An odd anxiety squeezes at his chest. The feeling isn’t necessarily unfamiliar, but the cause is. It just isn’t like him to feel so intensely about a stranger. He tightens his hand around the glass so as not to reach out and grab your hand, beg you to keep him company a little while longer. He thinks you both could use it. 

“Hey,” you say, pressing a hand to his forearm. “Could I read your fortune?” 

He turns to meet your penetrating gaze. Your lashes cast shadows across your cheekbones, like feathers falling across your face. “My fortune.” 

You produce a pack of cards, spirited from the same place the money came from, he thinks, until he follows your hands down and glimpses a triangle of green poking out from the side of your dress, stuck against the glimmering skin between your breasts. 

Jesus. 

There’s something about you, and he is only a man. 

You fan the cards out on the bar and then flick them back together. They aren’t cards he’s familiar with. “Tarot,” you say. “If you sit at a table with me. And if you’re interested, of course.” 

“Why?” 

You tilt your head, eyes darkening when you meet his. “I’m curious.” 

Joel stands and offers you his arm before he realizes what he’s doing. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to think about the road he doesn’t remember or where he’s headed next, and, that he would like to keep you company, that he doesn’t want the warm stretch of golden thread between you to snap. 

He ushers you to a booth in the corner.

You seat yourself gracefully on the sunken, worn red leather seat. He takes the seat across from you. The glass green lamp above the table is tilted slightly toward you, ringing you in a fractured golden light, luminous, like a brightly colored bird. 

Straight-backed and elegant in this dive bar in the middle of nowhere, you flick the cards in your hands quickly before glancing up at him again. “Joel,” you say, breaking his name in half, over enunciating. Like a snake oil salesman buying her own product. A little bit of a liar. “If you have a question or a problem in your life, hold it in your mind,” you say, still flicking the cards between your fingers, showing off a little.

Blank, empty, unspooling highways like knitted silk stitched into the earth. It seems like there’s never been anything before this bar, that there won’t be anything after it either. 

“Do you have it?” 

“Sure,” he answers, but there’s nothing there, nothing but blank spaces and empty roads to fill his mind. 

Your foot touches his beneath the table, the side of your bare calf against denim. If you notice, you don’t show it. The warmth of you seeps into him. And maybe he should pull away, but it feels too good, like the aching stretch of sore muscle. He tucks his ankle behind yours. 

He’s watching your face, would swear that your mouth twitches. 

“Liar.” 

“What?” 

“You don’t have a question.” 

“Suppose I don’t.” 

You shuffle the cards restlessly, flicking and flipping with a practiced finesse. Hooded, watchful eyes flash at him from the backs of the thick card stock, your ringed hands winking in the low light. 

The movement stops all at once, his gaze pulled to your face as you smack the deck down. “Joel,” you chastise gently, reaching up to unpin the little veil from your hair instead. The smooth arch of your arms above your head is hypnotic; the taut glowing flesh like a calling card. Your breasts lift with the movement, the ribbon quivers at your throat. 

His cock twitches, and he shifts uneasily, glancing away. It’s unlike him, this desperation, connection, maybe connection born of desperation.

Joel has never been infatuated by anyone. He doesn’t know you and the feelings lurching to the forefront of his mind are always ones that have taken months to cultivate, fingers of desire dredged up by character. 

He doesn’t much care for the feeling; like that of a lecherous man waiting for your guard to drop. 

The veil flutters as you lie it on the table, stroking your nails against the delicate material, reminding him that you were meant to become someone’s wife today. Now nothing more than a marionette bride with her strings cut. 

“Take your time. It’s not going to work otherwise.” 

He sighs through his nose and leans back against the seat. 

“It doesn’t have to be a question, exactly,” you explain. “Just focus your thoughts somewhere, on something.”

“All right.” 

Your mouth quirks. “You got something this time?” You ask, taking up the cards again, shuffling them slowly now, without any showmanship. 

He thinks of long winding roads, a horizon that never seems any closer, and you. The mystery phantom connection to you. 

“Got it,” he answers softly. 

Your leg presses more firmly into his. “This is just a basic spread,” you explain, still shuffling the cards. “Past, present, future.” 

He nods and your fingers freeze around the cards, doling out three in a line. 

You set your deck aside and examine them closely, inclining your head over them so a shadow obscures them. He wouldn’t know what the pictures on them mean anyway. 

“You don’t have children do you?” 

“No,” he answers.

Children. 

“No,” he repeats, louder this time. “Don’t think I’d do any kid much good, anyway.” 

You glance at him, that bird-like expression, hands fluttering like the guttering of a candle. “Why?” 

A blank fills whatever his answer is supposed to be, dark, voided. “Ain’t ever home, am I?” He settles on.

“Hm,” you glance down at the cards again, touching the corners of them each in turn, adjusting them slightly so they’re perfectly straight, a neat little line. The cards, he notices when he peels his eyes away from your face, are beautiful. Hand painted, meticulously rendered, painstakingly detailed art. You pick up the deck and flip out three more, layering them over the first set of cards, covering his past, present, future with a new one. 

You glance up at him and point to each card without looking. “You suffered a great loss recently that you aren’t sure how to move on from. You feel stuck and hopeless, like you’re living in a terrible feedback loop.” Your palm hovers over the future cards before you lower your hand and split them apart with pointer and middle fingers. “The future is murky. You have two paths ahead of you.”

He shakes his head, “Bunch of mumbo jumbo.” 

Seemingly in spite of yourself, a laugh shakes your shoulders, presses in your mouth into a smile, your eyes into a squint. “The cards don’t lie, Joel,” you admonish. “They are being very clear.” 

“Bullshit,” he chuckles. “Pretty convenient the future is the only one with two paths.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Well, nothing is set in stone. I could do another reading tomorrow and you might have something completely different. Your past might change too, depending on how you view it.” 

Joel rolls his eyes. “Cards are pretty, anyhow.” 

“Thank you,” you beam so brightly it blinds him. The earnestness in your voice is swollen and sweet, like you’ve never heard a compliment before. You half the deck and pluck up a card to pass to him, very carefully not disturbing the spread before you. “I painted them myself.” 

“Shit, well, color me impressed.” The card is sturdy, tactile with mounds of thick paint beneath his fingers, intricately detailed. Two golden cups, dotted with green jewels, delicate, impossibly soft looking pink silk wrapped around them. 

You hum. “Interesting.” 

He glances up from the card to find you leaning across the table, slowly blinking down at his card. He’s shocked by your presence again. Your lips part gently and he glimpses your teeth, the pink press of your tongue. “What?” 

Your eyes move to his, a shy, embarrassed look tracing over your features. “Just funny. I pulled the two of cups for you.” 

“What’s it mean?”

“Thought you didn’t believe in my cards?” 

“Humor me.” 

You side step his question. “You know, I usually make people pay for the privilege of a reading.” 

“This the seasonal work you mentioned?” 

Your eyes shimmer. “Something like that.” You’re taking his teasing as it is, good natured, but he can see you believe in those cards, the way your attention cuts to them worriedly before fixing back on him again. 

“What do I owe you, sweetheart?” He asks softly. “I pay for good work.” 

You laugh. “You don’t even believe in this good work.” 

“No,” he agrees. “Don’t mean you didn’t do somethin’ for me.”

You shift happily. “That’s good enough for me, actually, Joel.”

“So, what do I owe ya?” 

“Another drink?” 

He’s already standing, fishing for his wallet in his back pocket. You could have asked for a star from the sky and he would have found some way to catch one for you just then.  

.

.

.

Time slips away like it was never there to begin with. The night feels impossibly long and frustratingly short at once. The bar is like it’s own little world, painfully intimate and warm, like a hazy memory re-watched on that grainy old box television flickering above the bar. 

It doesn’t help that familiar feeling in his gut, like you’re an old flame he’s seeing again after so many years apart, intensifies as the night wears on. 

He's got an early day, dusty, lonely miles that need covered, but because you keep drinking, Joel does too. He holds his liquor better than you do, but figures that’s all right, if only for this one night. If anyone deserves to get lost in a bottle, it’s you. 

You read his fortune again and again and claim that it’s always the same. 

Smoke loops above your head in lazy rings from someone’s cigarette, softening your features in the already low lighting. “I don’t know what to tell you, Joel,” you shake your head, staring down at the reshuffled cards, three in a line for the umpteenth time that evening. You sway a little in your seat, eyes glassy. “They just don’t lie.” 

The two of cups card still lies by his elbow; he picks it up and holds out his hand for the deck you’re reshuffling. 

You hand them over without question, cup your face in your hands and watch him shuffle your deck, flick through the miniature paintings one by one carefully. “I reimagined some of them,” you explain. “Not that you could know the difference,” you add teasingly. 

A tower on fire, a moon surrounded by fish chasing their tails, the downy silence of a cloaked woman with a lantern on a snowy plain. On the reverse of each, that hooded, lined all-seeing eye. 

“I reckon yours are better by any measure,” he answers. “Why don’t you let me read your fortune?” 

When you don’t immediately answer, he glances up to find you peering at him, something wanting faintly distressed in your eyes. “That’s sweet of you to say,” you murmur, your bottom lip trembling very slightly again, twisting the loose ends of the emerald ribbon around your throat through your fingers. 

Joel nods. “You all right?” 

“I am. . .” you start, looking away, dropping the green strip of cloth. It flutters against your chest, the tail of it disappearing between your breasts. 

You cross your arms over your stomach, like you could hold yourself together by force alone. “I can’t believe this is what it took for me to realize.” Anger clouds your face for a moment, brows knitted, teeth bared. “What he did to me. All the shit he put me through—” Like before, you stop yourself, lips pressing tightly together, swallowing back acid, censoring something.  

He wonders where you’re keeping that anger, why you’re forcing it back down your throat when you have every right to let it loose. You don’t have the air of a scorned woman left at the altar so much as a relieved one. 

You gather yourself and straighten primly. “My. . .well, my nothing now, I guess. He never liked my art. And he certainly never let me read his fortune.” 

A bitter seed grows in your throat, choking your voice. Broken promises aside, it seems like he wasn’t that good to you. Joel isn’t aware he moved until his hand is closed around yours. “His damn loss.” 

For a long minute, you assess each other, eyes held in other’s kind gaze, the folds of your hands bound together, gold thread wrapping around your wrists. 

You cover the knot of your tangled hands with your free one.

It’s the alcohol running warm through his blood; it’s just the loneliness that plagues the life of a long haul trucker like a wraith. Lonelier than he realized, apparently. How long has he been on the road now? It feels like forever, always.

Eventually, you blink away, slide your palms from beneath his.

Joel pulls back too, shuffles the cards a final time and then lies three of them in a row, just as you had for him. The last card gives him pause, feels like an omen. 

“Six of cups,” you murmur, looking at the cards, pointing to each one as you say its name, “wheel of fortune, death.” 

“Jesus.” 

“It doesn’t mean death literally,” you explain. “It’s more metaphorical.” 

Something loosens in his chest. “All right, well, what’s it mean?” 

Your gaze is a complicated tangle of emotion as you run your nail over the cards, skewing them from their places. “It means I break the cycle or I’m an idiot.” 

Before he has a chance to ask you what cycle you should be breaking, you’re peeling yourself up from your seat. “Now I owe you a drink, Joel. Beer again?” 

He nods. “That’s fine, sweetheart.” 

You teeter in your heels a little, laughing as you trip away. The long slashes up the sides of your dress part, revealing a long, sleek line of leg that he’d like to touch, rub his knuckles against, to run his tongue along—

He shakes himself, watches the sway of your body instead, the slope of your waist and hips, graceful and graceless at once. 

He watches you at the bar, laughing and talking with a couple that drifted in a couple hours ago, with Tom, the long length of your spine a knotted, elegant ridge.

You return to the table with a beer in one hand and a glass of something orange in the other that you had clearly cajoled the bartender into making for you, at odds with the swill of whiskey and beer usually on order. 

“Last call,” you inform him as you half trip into the booth next to him, instead of across the table, settle right against his arm along the back of the booth, like you’ve always been there. “Good thing, probably. I’m really drunk.” 

He laughs, then wonders how bad off he’ll be when he stands up again. “How long we got?” 

“Hour.” 

You turn to him, crossing your legs beneath the table, that pretty sheaf of fabric falls between your legs, shows miles of skin. “You got a way home?” 

“Do you?” 

“I’ll sleep in the truck.” 

“I’m in a motel down the road.” 

“How you plan on gettin’ there?” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like it’s your problem, you know.” 

“Call it my problem.” 

Something like amusement dances in your eyes, makes you glance away from him. “You know,” you say, “I think you’re more concerned about me than husband-to-be ever was.”

“Then he probably wasn’t worth marryin’ in the first place.” 

“No,” you agree softly, eyes flickering over his face, “Probably not. I’m gonna walk it.”

“Walk?” 

You nod and suddenly gulp down that violent orange color in your glass before standing, leaning over the table to clumsily collect your tarot cards and the veil you’d abandoned early in the night. The cards are wrapped lovingly within the lace. “Yep, so I better get going.” 

“I'm gonna walk you."  

“What?” 

“You’re gonna get murdered walkin’ along a highway at night like that.” 

“Like what?” 

Like a woman alone in the middle of nowhere in a wedding dress. Like a homing signal for unwanted attention and trouble. You seem to know that, though. Like you were hoping to take a gamble. “Like a missing bride,” he grumbles instead. 

“Then people will probably just think I’m some lady in white haunting every trucker’s dreams.”

“You’re startin’ to haunt mine,” he complains. 

You giggle.

Joel stands with some effort, the room tilting around him as he straightens. You catch your arms around him, only kind of helping keep him upright considering the weight of you tipped pleasantly back against his side. “Doesn’t look like you’d be much help anyway.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters. He hasn’t drank like this since he was in high school, since before—

What? A blank, empty, space in his memory. 

“What the hell did I drink?” 

“About a whole bottle of whiskey, I think. And some beer. You hold it well, considering.” 

Your hands are still on him, palms against his back and chest, warm, startlingly familiar. A feeling he never wants to loose, he knows suddenly and with clarity. The night is drawing to a close, like a door tipping shut in his face. If you slip away, he'll never see you again. "C'mon, let's get a move on."

“Are you insisting?” 

“I am.” 

“Then we better hold onto each other.” 

.

.

.

A full moon hangs low in a dusky purple sky, palest white, cream around the edges, like a poor imitation of your wedding dress. The June air is warm and dry, faint and careful, like a held breath.  The world looks vast in the blue of the night, all wheeling stars and flattened miles, Indian grass and coneflowers gathered in little coronas on the shoulder of the road.

You walk barefoot beside him, cradling your shoes and tarot cards. He’s worried about your feet but this must be the cleanest stretch of two lane highway in the country because there’s nothing in your path to mind. Not glass, not cigarette butts, not strewn trash, like something knew your feet would be coming this way and swept it away just for you.

The motel is a desolate little thing that appears out of the night. He’s passed it before, the blinking neon pink vacancy sign a marker of a halfway point to somewhere. Down the Rabbit Hold Motel. Never noticed it was the same name as the bar.

“Are you from Texas, Joel?” You ask, balancing on the white line that demarcates the edge of the road. 

“Yeah, not Lubbock, though.”

“Where?” 

“Arlington. Austin.” 

“Both?” 

“One then the other,” he answers. 

“You sound like Texas.” 

“And that’s how I know you ain’t from here.”

It earns him a laugh but not an answer; just the loop and lean of your shoulder into his. 

Things look further away than they are, when the world goes this flat, but all at once you’re in the parking lot of the motel, painted in alternating pink and flashing purple. “I guess,” you start, coming to a halt at a set of stairs, a soft breeze swirling around you. The smell of chlorine hangs heavily in the air, the undulating blue-green of a swimming pool down the tunnel created by walkways between buildings. “I don’t really like to be from anywhere.”

“Why?” 

“Gives you too much to lose, I guess.” You shrug, eyes and thoughts far away, drifting. “But it doesn’t give other people much to hang onto either.” 

“Yeah.”  

“I should let you go. Sure you’ve got a long drive in the morning.” You glance over your shoulder, taking one step up the staircase behind you. Joel has to tilt his head up, to keep his gaze on yours. “I promise not to become a wandering ghost bride, okay? Thanks for humoring me and taking care of me. I think. . .I got really lucky tonight. With you.” 

“Sure.” 

The reality that he will likely never see you again pinches inward, nudges some other loss forward in his chest that he can’t name, can’t match a memory to. You both keep standing there, breathing in that hot air, waiting for the other to break that fragile bone, let the unkept marrow spill into the dirt. 

“You could sleep it off,” you offer. “Here. Don’t want you becoming a ghost either.” 

He should not want to stay; he should not care about you at all. 

He’s reaching for you before you’ve even extended your hand. 

.

.

.

The door snaps closed behind you, leaving you stranded in complete darkness. 

There is only the warmth of your body close to his, the feeling of your breath against his mouth. The sage and lavender scent of you wraps around you both, undercut with the smoky smell of the bar, the faint salty sweat of your skin.

For a moment, neither of you move or speak. The two of you cocooned together in dark that makes up the whole world. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?” You ask, chest rising and falling against his in the narrow, short entryway of the room. Your voice is a whisper, breathy and catching, like it’s a secret you aren’t supposed to tell. 

“Been wonderin’ that all night.” 

“At least I’m not alone then.” 

Your shoes clatter out of your hands; he isn’t sure what became of those cards that spelled truths.

You wobble into him in the dark with a soft grunt and laugh. Joel catches you and reaches under your arm to grope at the wall for a light switch. His fingers brush your ribs, the delicate satin and lace stitched there, and feels the shaky inhale of your lungs against his fingertips, the wanting arch of you.

He’s almost disappointed when he finds the switch. You squint at him through the harsh overhead light, ringing you in floating dust motes and tempered butter yellow light. The length of your body is still pressed against his, supple as a branch of willow. Your lashes are long against your cheekbones, casting shadows across your skin, your parted lips. 

It’s the alcohol, he thinks, desperately, for how far outside himself he feels, unearned attachment to a woman he only met a couple of hours ago, like a sticky, sweet web being knitted between his ribs. Growing a cocoon to keep you close, safe. 

A trembling breath passes your lips before you step back, shaking your head, and move further into the room, disappearing in its dimness. “Sorry.” 

Joel feels bereft, empty and alone, though you’re right there. He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah.”

He toes off his boots, kicks them next to your abandoned heels tipped on their sides, the needle thin points scuffed.

The room flashes pink from the vacancy sign outside, a pulse of heady light that makes his head ache. Joel yanks the curtains closed, plunges the room into soft gray, the green glow of an alarm clock on the bedside table. 

“Thanks,” you say from the bathroom, voice echoing strangely within. “Sorry for. . . would you mind helping me with this?"

The bathroom door is open, more gray light leaking from within, trembling on the air. 

Your back is turned, eyes meeting his in the mirror that occupies the entire wall above the counter, one arm bent behind your back, fruitlessly scrabbling at the buttons practically stitched to your skin. 

He brushes your hand away and works the little cream buttons out of their loops. It feels forbidden, unearned. You were supposed to become someone else's wife today.

“How the hell did you get this on?”

“One of the housekeepers took pity on me. At the other place I was staying.”

When he glances up from the buttons that descend worryingly low on your spine, you're watching him, eyes shadowed and far away.

He pushes the last button through its eyelet and steps back, tempted to push his hands inside the fabric, feel your breath, still pulsating nervously in your lungs, the tension laced through the static air like a knife against a tightrope.

To his surprise, you don't wait for him to leave.

You let the dress fall from your frame, wriggling a little to get it past the curve of your ass before it pools at your feet in a heap of silk. He follows the long line of your legs to your hips and ribs, the lacy, white underwear that sit high on your hips, a garter looped around the top of one thigh, the vast expanse of your back, a ribboning of another tattoo on your ribs.

"Pathetic, right?" You say.

That is probably the last word in the world he'd use to describe what he's looking at, shamelessly, another man's almost-wife. His bride at the very least.

He glances into the mirror, watches your hands slide over the curves of your body, shocked by his own appearance in the glass. He looks unkept, especially next to you, graying hair curling wildly behind his ears, beard in desperate need of a trim, the bags beneath his eyes so purple and thick they seem to carry their own shadow. Rumpled flannel, dark jeans. You aren't the one he'd call pathetic.

He looks wolfish beside you in the mirror, so pretty and prim and swathed in so much lace. He wants to bend you over the counter, push into you slowly, peel away these final layers of fabric and chase away any notion of a dark thought from your mind. Blot out the memory of any other man, any other person, you'd ever been with. He wants to hear your shuttering breaths repeat his name, on a loop, desperate and untamed.

The wold feels small again, like if he walked away right now, he'd find nothing but an endless black void outside this motel room.

"It's not like I'm a virgin or anything," you say with a scoff. "But it would have been our first time seeing each other married, y'know?" Your hands travel over your waist, dotted, Joel finally notices, pulled from the haze of his own lust, bruises. Along the passageways of your ribs, the swell of your hips, the upper, outer skin of your thighs.

He inhales sharply, but you don't seem to notice.

"Pathetic," you murmur again, voice only a little slurred now, thicker with emotion than alcohol. Sobriety is slowly encroaching on you both. "To try so hard with a man that didn't care at all."

"It ain't you that's pathetic, darlin', trust me on that." He tries to smooth out the hard edge in his voice, water over a stone, like a caress poached in steel.

Joel isn't sure if he should mention it, like broaching the subject might make it real for you.

You're nodding at yourself in the mirror, fidgeting with the emerald ribbon around your throat, the long, velvet threads pasted against your clavicle, the sloping inward curve of your breasts. Your gaze slips from your body to his eyes; you finally see what he does, hands flattening against your skin like you could hide it.

"Darlin'—"

"You think I'm stupid."

"No."

"To let him do it."

"You didn't let him do anything."

"I did, though," you answer, desperate, shaking your head. "I did."

Joel frowns, opens his mouth to ask what you mean, when you trip out of your dress, a sad heap of wishes on the tile floor. He catches you in his arms, supple and warm. "It's my fault, when he. . ." you trail off. "It's my fault."

He rubs your back. "It ain't. You're all right."

Joel expects you to pull away but when you tilt your face up to his, you let out that same shaky breath. "God," you murmur, lifting a hand to his face. Your fingers are like ice. "Why does it feel like this? Why do you feel so familiar?"

"Hell if I know."

Your chest hitches. "I feel like I'm cheating," you admit. "I was supposed to become a wife today."

To an abuser, he thinks. To someone that would lay hands on your precious skin. That hurt you in so many other ways, if what you hinted at was just the beginning of it.

Even if you were cheating, Joel thinks, he wouldn't give a damn. He fits his hands against your ribs, the bruised peach flesh, feels you tense and then relax. "No," he coos. "You ain't doin' anything wrong." Self-serving, but true, he walks backward with you in his arms.

He shouldn't have sex with you, not the way you are right now, but that door is closing, the night is ending, the rabbit hole he jumped into did have a bottom and your both plummeting toward it, back to driving endless seas of blacktop. Of gas stations and truck stops and bars and motels, of bridges and highways and diners and ferries and toll plazas, of route after route of lonely road, truck after truck delivered to empty grocery stores, dying malls, the end of the Earth itself. Nothing beyond cheap cups of coffee, nights spent alone without somewhere to eventually crawl back to at the end of it all.

There's nothing else, just him and the road.

He's never going to see you again; can see the same thought reflected in your eyes, the terrible, ferocious want.

Joel turns and backs you toward the bed, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You push a hand against his chest and sit delicately, fingers drifting down as you do, until they hook in his belt.

"Show you mine if you show me yours?" You tease, hands shaking a little.

Despite it all, Joel chuckles. "Sounds like a fair deal."

You release his belt and lean back on your palms to watch him.

He remembers the monstrous thing in the mirror, the state of him, but if you notice, or mind, you don't show it. When he pulls off the flannel and then t-shirt, he only smells his soap and deodorant, the salt scent of skin and day old cologne. Your eyes follow every movement, something reaching deep in your irises, like you want to jump him, break open something precious with your teeth and drink it down.

Your attention feels raw, tender, wanton and slick. The buckle clinks as he pulls his belt through the loops of his jeans.

He's half hard when he untucks himself, strokes his length, eyes on your face.

"What?" He says. "Your boyfriend have a small dick?"

"You have a big cock." Your tongue pushes pink against your bottom lip, eyes not leaving him.

"Uh-huh."

You glance up then, pressing your hands to his thighs, trailing them up to his belly and back. "Oh, c'mon, Joel," you laugh, "you have to know."

He clears his throat, face warm like he's some horny teenager.

Whatever he's going to say is lost forever in the folds of that moment, because you lean forward and lick the head slowly, like you're taste testing a sweet. He jerks at the feeling of your tongue, belly lurching with it. "Christ."

You look up at him, before leaning in to spit on him, on the palm of your hand. The tight ring of your fist squelches around him. "Someone has definitely told you that you have a huge cock."

If they have, he can't remember it at that precise moment, distracted as it were. You cup his balls in your other hand, massaging and then squeezing just tight enough to make him grunt. You lean forward and kiss his stomach, along the line of his waist.

He covers your hand, forces your pace to slow, then stop. You cup both hands around him and let him thrust into your still palms. You watch, looking dazed, lips parted. "Fuck," you whisper. "Oh, fuck."

And Joel hasn't even touched you yet.

He pulls away, pushes you gently back on the bed, fumbling with the fastening of your bra behind your back until it unsnaps. "Doin' good, honey. So good."

You preen, bloom like a flower seeing the sun. "I want you to fuck me."

"'Course you do," he agrees, nodding as he runs his hands over your ribs, those dark clouds on your skin. "I'll give it to you, baby."

When he tugs your bra up your arms and tosses it to the side, his cock twitches against your thigh. Beautiful seems a meek, watery kind of word for what you are. Ethereal, otherworldly. You have silver bars pierced through your nipples. "Look at you," he coos, lowers his head to suck on pebbled nipple into his mouth. You taste like salt and iron, as tangy as blood, the scent of sage and lavender drifting up from your throat, the space between your breasts.

You moan, a loud, rapturous sound that goes right to his dick. He thrusts against your covered pussy, the lace dragging against the sensitive head. You bury your hands in his hair, tugging, pushing your chest up into his mouth like you'd like to be swallowed whole. Joel rolls your other nipple between his fingers before turning his mouth there, sliding his tongue down your stomach to your navel.

A gasp like your first breath of air when he licks over your drenched underwear, the inside of your thigh.

"Hold on," you mumble. "Wait."

He pulls back, watches the twist of your muscle as you reach for something on the bedside table. "Let me."

Joel sits back on his knees, let's you roll on the condom with a touch so tender he isn't sure he's ever been touched at all.

You lay back and Joel tugs your underwear off, soaked so bad they're nearly translucent. "Ain't she pretty," he says of your glistening pussy, dripping onto the bed. "Anybody ever tell you how pretty?"

"No."

"C'mon," he mocks softly. "Somebody musta told you before how pretty she is."

"Oh ha ha," you gasp and spread your cunt open with two fingers. Your hole convulses, pulses, and he finds some measure of pride at making you so desperate and hungry, needy and empty. "Please fuck me, Joel. I promise I'll never tell you again how you have a huge fucking cock."

He chuckles but any levity is drained from between you when he notches himself at your entrance. You are unbearably tight and hot, instinct begging him to split you in two, bury himself so deeply inside you, that you can't be pulled apart.

Instead, he works himself inside slowly, in increments, watching your face for discomfort, bottoming out quick when naked bliss parts your face. He's not going to last inside the wet, dark, heat of your body, your pulsing cunt.

He pulls back and slams into you, watching you tits bounce with each desperate thrust of his hips flush against yours, knees anchored on his hips.

Your head lolls back, a moan choked tight in your throat. The green ribbon is askew now, trailing midway down your belly.

When he pulls on one end and the tie goes slack, he almost expects your throat to split open, your head to tilt horribly, like a folktale he once new. He groans at the sight of your bare neck, pulls away to lift one of your legs, ankle pressed to his shoulder so he can sink that much deeper, fingers rubbing messily against your swollen little clit.

"Come for me, sweetheart, let me feel it."

Your throat strains and Joel grunts, feeling the curl of his own pleasure tracing along his spine, teasing and pressing.

Your cunt contracts like a vise, a violent shutter wrenching your body up from the bed in an arch, a cry bursting from your mouth like a trapped moth.

He comes hard inside you, vision going black with the hot fingers of pleasure spreading outwards through his body, thrusting inside you until you loosen and go slack. "You okay?" He asks, breathing hard as he lowers your leg from his shoulder.

"Yes," you breathe.

"Gonna pull out now."

"M'kay." Sleepy, warm voice, tucked against his collarbone.

He laughs a little and slides out of you, the feeling akin to walking into a blizzard after being sheathed in the heat of your body. "Good girl." He pats your thigh and stands on legs like a newborn deer, peeling the condom off to trash, rummaging in the bathroom until he finds a washcloth to wet and bring to you.

.

.

.

Joel grunts when you cup him in your hand beneath the sheet, squeezing his balls, lazily rubbing your hand along his softening length. Curiously, carefully. It's so intimately familiar, like you're a couple and not new lovers. He doesn't mind it.

Your skin is tacky against his where you press into his side, and he likes the tacky, kind of painful pull of it. You pull your hand away and watch him in the dark, the gray muteness of the room beginning to lighten. "Can I tell you a secret?" You whisper when he turns on his side to face you.

"You tell me anything you want."

You swallow, the sound of it loud and anxious in the still room. "He didn't leave me at the altar."

He cups your cheek in his hand. "I figured."

"I couldn't go through with it. He's been better since Vegas but last night he got, he, um. . .anyway, I got ready and drove to meet him at the courthouse and just kept driving and driving." You smile at him softly, self-hating, but your eyes are hard, daring him to judge you, though the veneer is thin, cracked.

You bottom lip trembles then, your face squeezing closed, eyes shut. "The very worst part of it? How I know he's right about me?” You ask with a bitter laugh, blindly pressing your thumb hard against one of the bruises. “I know I’ll go back to him. He’ll call in a couple weeks, and I’ll believe him when he says he’ll never do it again. That he’s so sorry.” You open your eyes, the full force of your gaze suddenly locking onto his. “What does that say about me? Not the fact that I’ll go back, but that I know I will? That I know I’ll believe him?” 

Joel doesn't have an answer for a long time, just holds you, strokes your cheek.

“Maybe,” he says eventually, still stroking your cheek, “try to think of right now. When he calls. You know better right now that he ain't gonna change."

"That's good advice."

"You gonna listen to it?"

"I really hope so, Joel."

He says your name softly, as tenderly as you said his, and leans in to kiss you.

Your mouth opens against his, tongue carefully slipping into his mouth to slide against his. You taste like that bitter orange drink, sweet at first with a bite beneath.

He's pretty sure you fall asleep this way, kissing until your mouths are swollen, aching with it like so much sour candy.

But when he wakes, you're gone. The duffel bag and pointed heels and pressed pooled like wishes. His flannel is gone too, but he's glad you took it, imagines you wrapped in his scent driving with all the windows down.

The bottom of the rabbit hole is bitter and the walk back to his truck, the truck stop near the bar, behind fucking schedule now, seems much, much longer than it appeared last night, with stars wheeling above, you balancing on the white beam at the edge of the road.

He goes through the routine of getting the rig ready like a man in a dream, everything seems hazy and far off and unreal. With you, he was alive, now, he's slipping back into some complacent, ever ending, numb nightmare.

Joel tries not to dwell on it, but when he climbs up into the cab, finally ready to set off, lukewarm travel cup of coffee in hand, he finds your veil hanging down from the sun visor. When he pulls it down to press against his nose, though the truck is brimming with your scent, something falls with it.

One of the tarot cards.

He doesn't wonder if he'll see you again, just when.

And what this card, a beautiful woman looking up at a sky full of stars, could mean to you.

you hadn’t even been trying to rile him up.

all day, you’d been cleaning up around the house in one of joel’s old flannels, bare legs on display, humming to yourself like nothing was out of the ordinary. but Joel had been watching. watching the way that shirt of his slipped off your shoulder, the way you bent over to pick things up, the way you padded barefoot through the kitchen, innocent as anything…while he sat there with his jaw clenched, blood rushing south every damn time.

he tried to keep his mind on his work. tried to ignore the way your voice floated down the hall, the way your hair was messy from the heat, the way you stole little sips of his beer like it was yours. but the breaking point came when you stretched across the counter to reach a jar on the top shelf. joel’s shirt you’d stolen lifted up just enough for him to see the swell of your ass, and when you turned with a triumphant smile, you caught him staring.

“whats wrong, miller?” you teased, lips curving.

that did it.

the chair scraped back, and before you could blink, joel was across the room, grabbing your wrist and pinning you against the counter. his breath was hot against your ear, voice a low growl that made your knees weak.

“you got any idea what you’ve been doin’ to me all day?”

“joel—” you started, but the words stuck when his hand slid up your thigh, rough palm squeezing.

“you think i don’t see you runnin’ ‘round in my shirt, no panties?” he hissed, grinding his hips against yours so you could feel how hard he was. “such a tease. you want me riled up, don’t you?”

you lips parted, a half formed protest dying on your tongue when he lifted you onto the counter with ease, pushing your legs apart. his eyes were molten, hungry, and you realized just how far gone he was.

“joel…please,” you whispered, but you didn’t even know what you were begging for.

he smirked, lining himself up, his cock heavy and throbbing against your entrance. “you’re gonna get it, darlin’. gonna fill you so deep, you won’t know how to think straight by the time i’m done.”

the stretch burned as he sank into you, and you cried out, clutching his shoulders, nails digging in. his groan vibrated through your body, deep, and guttural.

“say it. tell me you want it. tell me you want me to fill you up,” he rasped, gripping your hips tight.

“yes…” you gasped. “yes, joel… please—take me.”

his pace was relentless, every thrust angled to drive deep, to claim you completely. he cursed low in your ear, voice rough, “so tight… take all of me, darlin.”

you arched against him, moaning as your body trembled, clenching around him with every desperate thrust.

joel’s thrusts grew rougher, deeper. each one angled like he wanted to bury himself inside your womb. you could barely breathe with the way he held you down, one hand gripping your hip so tight you knew he’d leave bruises, the other splayed over your lower stomach.

“feel that?” he growled in your ear, pressing his palm harder so you could feel him inside you, thick and heavy, hitting the very deepest part of you. “that’s me. right where i belong.”

your cry turned into a moan, legs trembling as he used your body like it was his to ruin.

and it was.

“fuckin’ knew it,” joel rasped, sweat dripping from his temple onto your neck. “Knew you’d be able to take it all. gonna fuck it so deep it sticks.”

your nails dragged down his back, desperate, as your climax built sharp and fast. “joel i’m gonna-“

“cmon, baby, milk my cock. milk it ‘til i give you what you want.” his voice cracked on the last word, hips slamming forward, balls slapping against you. “gonna pump you so full of me you’ll be drippin’ for days.”

that sent you over the edge. you screamed his name as you shattered around him, body locking up as your walls clenched and spasmed, pulling him deeper. joel cursed low, grinding into you with a strangled groan.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it—” his hips jerked once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled hot inside you. the warmth flooded your insides, thick and endless, his groan breaking into a growl as he stayed buried, grinding slow to make sure every drop stayed right where he wanted it.

your head fell back against the counter, chest heaving, as joel refused to pull out, still pressing his palm against your stomach like he could feel his cum settling inside you.

“goddamn…” he panted, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “that’s it, darlin’. take it. all of it.”

you whimpered at the fullness, the steady drip of him already leaking around his cock. joel pulled back just enough to look down, smirking when he saw his cum spilling out. with a low growl, he shoved back inside, slower but deeper, grinding in circles that made you sob.