Daydreaming is a full-time job

You had a cookbook open, the pages clean and free from the mistake you were most certainly going to make. The receipt was in the trash, the wrapping with it.  The longer you stared at the book, the more you felt like it was meant for some poor victim to attempt something they knew they weren't good at. 

Your hands were never meant for mixing and decorating sweets. You learned that at a young age, way back in elementary when you almost poisoned the whole class from your cookies. It was meant for signing names and dialing phone numbers—meant for pointing and directing people to do their jobs for once. 

Glued to the kitchen, you had a wide variety of bowls, utensils, and ingredients organized on the counter in preparation for your new endeavor. Usually, at this time, you would have been rushing down white hallways with schedules and deadlines at your heels. Album covers, outfit designs, documents that needed to be looked at— exhaustion spinning your head, but adrenaline moving you forward— but not tonight. 

A 2-week paid vacation was in your contract and you decided to spend it at home, choosing to relax in the comfort of your seldom used kitchen while your mind buzzed with ideas on what to bake first. 

Your first victim will be an attempt at making cupcakes. 

You flipped through the cookbook, staring at the pretty pictures they displayed of cakes, cupcakes, cookies; every delicious treat you could think of. You bit your lip, mouth watering at the sight of a red velvet cupcake. Red and white icing, cream-filled, dark crimson crust— all that was sure to induce you into a sugar coma. 

You had to make it, poison be damned. 

You got started, following the instructions. Bowl first, eggs, sugar, milk— whatever the instructions said to use, you did exactly that. You got comfortable in the process, hands moving with sugary determination. You mixed when you needed to, added more toppings for extra sweetness. White chocolate chips, some sprinkles— you might have overdone it with the sugar but there was no harm in that. "Red velvet Surprise!" Was your epic name for this creation you hoped would live up to its name. 

It almost felt like managing a business, the environment your family thought you would dread but dove into with wonderful results. Cooking was like managing people and their expectations; a little guidance here, some careful calculation there; you smiled to yourself, maybe it won't turn out to be such a disaster after all. 

After a while, the silence started to eat away at your bones. You weren't used to the quiet, so you turned the radio on, sugary gloss finger tips sticking to the channel knob. You twisted, the station crackled to life— your interest set on flipping through radio hosts who were actually entertaining to listen to. 

| “—And now for a fan favorite!"

The radio host calls out, the music scratching before you hear the familiar sound of that voice ring through. 

You turned your attention back on the lumpy concoction, the ingredients almost consistent but still in need of mixing and time. You used your wrist to stir, entirely pleased at the results so far, tongue sticking out as a natural habit to keep yourself focused.

| "—Where did you come from, lady? And ohh, won't you take me there—" 

Even when you were away relaxing at home, trying your best to focus on being normal— stress-free, feet cozy in your fuzzy slippers, pajamas glued to your body— you still couldn't get away from him. 

| "— I want to love you! Pretty young thing—"

You can't stop your head from bobbing to the track. Foot tapping, your wrist moving with the rhythm of the song. Somewhere in the middle, you were mouthing the words, hips swinging, the ad-libs probably one of your favorite parts of the song. 

Once the batter looked good, you poured it into a tray, each cup filled moderately to ensure you didn't overdo it. 

The oven was preheated and set to 400 degrees. And after, you took the time to clean off the counter with a wet rag, disposing of dirty dishes all while singing the last parts of the song before the host changed it. He announced an artist you didn't like, someone whose voice sounded like sandpaper and bad decisions on a track, and tuned into their more recently popular song. 

With the oven finally heated, you placed the tray inside, giving it a once-over before you shut the door and left it to bake. 

You had a lot of time on your hands. 

Your legs brought you towards the living room, the radio music following like a ghost. You hadn’t been home in so long, often held back at work, so it wasn't a surprise that everything was unkept. Stacks of folders and binders, work-related paperwork you didn't feel like dealing with were everywhere. 

With a heavy sigh, you got to work. 

You reorganized, placing some papers under the coffee table, a few on your bookshelf, and the rest in your bedroom closet to tidy the area. You had old files of projects you showed to your boss, some you managed to see come to life, others that needed massive reworks but didn't seem like a bad idea. Sketches of outfits, pictures of venues, and merchandise— the tour at the time was eating you alive but you loved it. The feeling of seeing fans appreciate a design. The rush of excitement when a scene was pulled off on stage, a situation created out of the thought of “would it be crazy to do this?” And a lot of “yes! Let’s do it!” 

Regardless of the stress, you liked doing what you did—

A knock at the door startled you. 

You checked the clock on the wall, the time reading a quarter till eight. You weren't expecting guests…

Were you? 

You were going to ignore it, assuming some teenager was going around trying to pull off a prank but the knock happened again, this time heavier. 

Odd.

You quickly ran to the door, suspicious and otherwise terrified that it could be the cops or worse. You peeped through the tiny hole in the door, standing on your tiptoes, and your face twisted immediately. 

Great. 

With a deep sigh, stress brewing back up into your spine like you've been tased, you unlocked the door, cracking it open slightly, the chained lock keeping the door from opening further. 

The blacked-out shades were no surprise, having grown used to looking at the lens like a barrier, but the baggy pants were new. Dark gray, high above his waist, the oversized jacket did nothing to hide his slender frame. And the hair, God, the mullet shaped and styled like he was going to an award show— not someone's apartment building. 

It's almost like he wanted to be caught.

"Hey…" the man of the house said, shuffling from one foot to the other, his lips pulled into a grin. 

"Hey," you repeated back, taking note of how alone he was. He usually had a bodyguard, Bill, but it was only him. 

You wanted to laugh suddenly, the whole point of being here was to get away from him, but it seems like he couldn't stay away.

"Are you lost or?" You said, looking at him confused. 

"Lost?" his grin dropped, "No? At least, I don't think so?"

"Good. Cause I got cupcakes to make and you're wasting my time—" before you could close the door, he managed to squeeze his foot between the crack, the heel of the shoe pointed sideways. 

"We drove all the way over here and I can't get a smile?"

You gave him a smile alright. One that was forced and filled with venom. 

"You're no good," he pouted. 

"Thank you. See you in two weeks—" again, he wouldn't move his foot. "Mr. Jackson, go home." 

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No," he said with emphasis, "I can't."

It's like arguing with a toddler. 

"Why? " you questioned, “—and it better be a good reason too."

"My house flooded." 

You raised a brow. "How did that happen?" 

He bit his lip, pulling his hands behind his back. "Bubbles thought it was a bathtub so he decided to move in." 

Like a mother to a troubled toddler, you knew just when he was lying or telling the truth. 

"Oh, really?”

He nodded, head down, eyes peering into yours. 

“Then why didn't you drive to a plumber? You think I got a degree in fixing toilets?”

“…maybe?”

“You're so—“ you have to remember he was your boss, but you were also on vacation, so technically he wasn’t. “I’ll call someone to come fix it, does that sound good?”

“Sounds perfect!” 

The silence washed over. 

You smelled your cupcakes, the sugar developing. You looked back at the clock again and then to the folders still scattered around on the floor. “Great talk sir, see ya—“

“Wait!”

The door refused to shut. His foot was still caught between the crack of the door. You both looked at each other crazily. Eyeing one another. The chain coming down so you can open the door wider to give him a piece of your mind. 

“Mr.Jackson, it’s highly inappropriate for you to be here. I mean, this is my house. My home. You don’t live here—“

"Is that my song?" He interrupted, stepping closer, close enough you could smell his cologne. 

"Your song?” Your lips turned, “No—"

| “— You really turn me on. You knocked me off my feet—“

"It sounds like it," He smirked, earning an eye roll from you. 

"What do you want?"

"I needed an escape.” he managed to push inside, forcing you to step back while he walked into your personal space,  ignoring your very obvious scrunched face. "The people back there were giving me a headache." 

"I know the feeling." you give him a pointed look, your arms crossed over your chest as you watch him walk deeper into your living room. He checked out the scattered folders on the floor, tip-toeing around them, peering around like a curious cat. 

"And the guy who replaced you? Ugh!" He groaned loudly, plopping himself down on your couch.

“Are you going to ignore me?” You said, finding it useless to keep projecting while he did in fact, ignore your comments. You took a peek from out of the doorway, noticing the very obvious black car parked up front. 

Deciding to save what little peace you had left, you shut the door, leaving the issue alone. 

 “—If I have to spend another second with him, I'm gonna—"

"You're not going to do anything," you tutted, walking back to the kitchen to check your cupcakes. You opened the oven, backing away slightly when the heat shot out in waves. 

"I'm gonna fire him. He's annoying," he sighed, lounging on your couch like he owned the place, his thin legs resting over the cushions. "He tells me to do this and that— say this and that. Smile, scoot over, sign this album—"

"Don't be a baby," you said from the kitchen. "That's his job." 

Seeing that your cupcakes were done, you took the cupcakes out with an oven mitt on your hands, the smell immediately hitting your stomach. It smelled so good, good enough to risk burning the roof of your mouth. 

You rested the tray on the counter, waving it down to cool it off. Michael was still complaining, listing more reasons why he was in hell at the estate without you there. You heard something about interviews, a magazine cover, dressing like a robot for promotional material for some new sci-fi film he wasn’t interested in. 

You licked your lips, the smell drawing your senses, your mind already hyping you up to try it. 

“And he tells me to be smart about it— smart! Like I’m not smart already!” 

"I say the same thing,” you added, still letting the cupcake cool off. 

"Yeah, but I like the way you say it.” 

You couldn’t ignore the implications of that. Old wounds hidden behind a band-aid that was going to slip off soon. You’ve had this conversation with him before, way back when you first joined his team. You were just starting, a few years younger, your eyes filled with hope and love for the same things he had. 

As his manager, your interest was supposed to align with his… and somewhere down the road, it aligned almost too perfectly. 

You joined him back in the living room, folding your arms over your chest. 

"And he smells funny," he added, "like old shoes and Bubbles when he doesn't take a bath for a week." 

"That's kinda rude."

"It's kind of true," he shot back. 

You both watched each other, quiet and still. 

Finding that the conversation was going nowhere, you opted for a better solution to his complaints. 

"I baked cupcakes, wanna try?" 

He pulled his shades down, perched up on his nose now. He looked at you with those big brown eyes, his eyeliner dark and mysterious. It gave the impression of seductiveness— although you know he's nothing more than a sweetheart at best. 

"Yes, Please." 

You prepared a presentation, announcing yourself as if you were the queen of England. Saluting and then marching with a singular cupcake warm in your hand. You made your way to the living room, shooing him to move his legs over so you could sit beside him. "Your highness," you teased, bowing your head and he took the cupcake from you, his fingers touching over yours. 

He waited, eyeing the cupcake. “Will this kill me?”

“Let’s hope not.” 

He took a small bite. 

His face didn’t change much, except for a tilt in his eyebrows. 

"What do you think?" You questioned. 

He was silent for the most part, chewing slowly— almost too slowly for your liking. You know he wasn't much of a food person, often having to be forced like a toddler to get his nutrients in, but you've never seen his face so far removed from an emotion. 

"…Well?"

"It's… something…" he said, voice low. 

"Something? Like, good?  Bad?"

"Honest?"

Knowing him, he was going to be blunt in fact. "Go for it." 

"Don't quit your day job," he gagged, and you rolled your eyes at his exaggerated movements. "Yuck, I wouldn't feed that to Bubbles even if he liked it." 

"You're so annoying."

"You asked." 

"Are you serious? Is it really that nasty?"

"Here, you try." 

He leaned over without thinking, holding the side he didn't bite to your lips, close enough that if anybody walked in, it would have been obvious what the relationship between you two was. 

Your eyes dropped to the cupcake and then back to him, but he was only staring at your lips. 

"Say ahhh—" he cooed, moving in without permission, like he knew you were going to do what he said even if you didn’t want to. 

You opened your mouth slowly, finding it hard not to stare at him. Long lashes, glossy lips, smoky eye shadow that made his eyes even more enchanting to look at— and the long curly hair over his face gave him a prince archetype, you should thank his hairstylist for suggesting it again.  

You took a bite, teeth nipping at his finger but he didn’t pull back. The taste instantly exploded into your mouth on impact. Too much sugar, too much flour, dry and wet at the same time— Christ, this was disgusting. 

Your lips pulled back, cheeks puffing, the clear look of disgust written all over your face. 

"Told you so," he laughed in your face. 

"Fine, fine, you won. It’s nasty." You shivered, tongue pooling out to try and get rid of the taste from lingering on your tongue. "I don't think baking is for me." 

"At least you know now," He chuckled, placing the mess down on the coffee table. "Your true strength is in high heels and a pencil skirt." 

Finding that you were over with his smart comments, you decided to use your own. "Are you stereotyping me, Mr. Jackson?" 

It hit him quicker than he ever thought. His eyes went wide, almost as wide as a cartoon character's face in panic. "w-wait— no— I meant working under me—"

"Under you? Like I'm your common prostitute? Is that what your game is?" 

He sat back quickly, the distance not helping his favor, holding his hands up in defense. "N-No— wait— I didn't mean it like that— " his mouth dropped open, excuses rolling off his tongue like honey. "Cause you work for me— and of course I'm not calling you that! I respect you too much— a-and I would never say that to you—"

"But you would say that to anybody else?" Your lips creased, concern spreading over your face. 

"Pardon? No! Never! I-I would never do that—"

"Gotcha." 

It all came crashing down. 

You watched as his big brown eyes turned, his lips slowly running into a thin line. His hands came back down, resting over his lap, and you couldn't help chuckling in his face after that. 

"Aww, chin up," you smiled, "any longer and I would have called the cops." 

"You're a dirty player," he said, tilting his head. "Had my head spinning and you're laughing."

"Hey, you're not innocent either. Remember when you tapped 'kick me' on my back and had everyone sign a contract to keep their mouth shut about it?" 

"It was funny." 

"It was mean."

"You're mean," he said quickly after, stopping you in place. 

You felt the shift in his tone. The slump in his stance. You don't often see him look this way, quickly upset without a cause. 

"How so?"

He looked off to the side, his fingers fiddling in his lap. "You left me…Alone," he said slowly, "they don't understand me. Don't understand what it takes to do the things I do." He sighed so heavily, you felt your heart shake. "Not like you. 

And then it hits. 

There was a cause. 

The cause was you. 

"I'm…" you stop yourself, unsure how you should respond. Should you respond as an employee should to their boss? Say what they want so you don't get fired? Or should you respond in a more personal way? Something beyond a work-related relationship that you've been trying so hard to maintain. 

"Sir—"

"Michael," he corrected, barely taking a glance. 

You tried again, his name tasting sour. "Michael—” it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel proper to refer to him so closely. “Sir—" 

You heard him huff, his eyes finding yours suddenly. He laughed slowly, shaking his head. "You're so strange. I ask everyone else to call me Michael— some even have nicknames for me, but you always resort to 'sir' and 'Mr.Jackson'." 

"Because,” you stated, unsure. “ You're my boss—“

"Is it so bad to be more than that?"

There it is. 

That tick in your heart that never seemed to go away.

 Any normal person can bite it back and ignore it. Pretend enough that it turns into something less, but you don't have the compassion to pretend. The world was real, your job was real, he was real. It only lies dormant until the moment you see him and then it kicks back up again. 

You swallowed around a dry lump, feeling warm all over. It was getting dark— darker than you would like. If he stayed longer, you assumed his bodyguards would think something bigger was going on— Nothing was going on. 

"You should leave," you started, feeling hopeless so quickly. "Before someone suspects that you're here." 

"Who would suspect that?" 

"Dark car across the street, bodyguard probably at the stairs—"

"But I don't wanna go."

“You have too.”

“I don’t want to.”

You should be more resilient than this. Instead, you were being pushed over. Entirely left at his will, subject to do what he wanted because Michael always got what he wanted. The stage, the lights, the fame. He wanted it so bad, he conjured it out of thin air. 

He wanted you so bad, he conjured it right in front of him. 

“Say it again,” he breathed, “say it like you mean it. Tell me to leave like you don’t care.” 

But you did care. 

And that was the scary part. 

“I…Sir—“

“Michael.” His hand crept towards yours, thumb brushing over your skin, sending warmth through your body. “Tell me again. Tell me you don’t want me.” 

You wondered how many times you could say it. How many times could you deny it to convince yourself that it wasn’t real? 

"S-Sir…you know we can't." 

It's hard being like this, putting a wall between you two when you both know that it's very easy to jump over it. 

You knew what he had, a crush that developed over time into something raw. Something that couldn’t be explained and yet felt all over— but Crushes were for kids, children who didn't have their life planned ahead yet. Not for people whose distance was already set in stone. 

You, bright-eyed, following under your manager because you had always dreamed of mentoring the greatest. President, big company owner, world superstar— manifesting truly did you wonders, but you didn't think it would go this far. And Michael? He was completely out of reach. Talent, compassion, and exceptional ability to garner fame like nobody else. 

He was your boss. 

Not the boy next door. 

Workplace relationships weren't your thing, especially when it took into account how many people wanted him as badly as they did oxygen. 

"I know," he said, his eyes drifting somewhere far off. 

It felt cold. 

“I get it. Yeah…” His fingers ran over the knuckles of your hand, stopping short of your ring finger. He took extra time noting it, like he was trying to say the obvious without looking even more stupid. "A guy could try though, right?" 

You blinked, and he was moving before you realized it.

He pressed his lips to yours, squeezing your hand into his. He didn’t push any further, didn’t try to deepen the kiss, he simply felt your lips against his because he knew this was probably the only opportunity while he had the chance. 

It felt…strange. 

Not a bad strange. A good strange. The type of strangeness that was mixed with troubled feelings, no worries, and a life imagined into sunsets and warmth.

This was inappropriate. 

This was bad. 

But…

For some reason….you didn’t move either.  

You titled your head. 

He pressed in harder. 

And you both melted into each other like chocolate left out in the sun. Sticky with want, lips sweet against one another. The taste of him was long-lasting and made your stomach twist with satisfaction. 

Before you could pull away, he was ushering you down into the couch, his hands pinning you down. Your bodies moving together on their own until he was slotted between your legs, your thighs trapping him in. The kiss transcended into something more, something deeper that was close to boiling over. 

You turned your head away when he breathed into the kiss, reality hitting back into you, giving you whiplash. 

“Mr— Sir—“ he kissed you again, but you pushed him back by his shoulders. "W-We can't," you gasped.

 His eyes watched you with want.

 "You're my boss—"

"Then do what I say." 

He pushed you deeper into the couch. 

“Michael—”

"I-I'm trying to save myself—" he kissed your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin like a blunt knife. His large hands pulled at the waistband of your pajama pants, dipping in like his name was written between your legs, waiting for him to sign his signature. "B-But I can't stop thinking about you—"

It was all too much. His hands, his body, his voice— everything.

He was your boss, the world's most wanted pop star. Women adored him, men wanted to be him— but all he wanted was you. 

"Angel, please—" he groaned, finding that sensitive spot that made your lips curl. 

"They'll—" you gasped when his hands grazed over the pool of heat between your thighs, relief finding its way by the mere force of his fingers slipping into you. He didn't stop, dead set on feeling you pulse around his fingers until he knew you belonged to him. "— cut my pay— maybe f-fire me—"

His lips found yours again, the kiss sloppy and wet. He pulled away, open mouth hovering over yours so he could taste your silky moans on his tongue. "I won't let that happen," he rasped, "If you go, I go." 

"Don't—" you shuddered when his thumb found the sensitive bud you've been mourning for him to touch since the moment you first saw him. "D-Don't—be stupid—"

"Don’t make me stupid." 

Two fingers, long and slender, found their way into your core and it sent a wave of pleasure through your body, soft moans slipping from your mouth like a perfect melody. You shut your eyes tightly. Scared. Terrified. Entirely overwhelmed and yet you craved more. 

"Come back— skip the vacation at home. Spend it with me." His fingers curled and twisted, using the many spasms in your face to see what made you squirm and groan. He was clumsy, a bit awkward, but it didn't stop him from trying to find out what made you so perfect. "I-I got a beach house in Florida— vacant. Bought it last year just in case."

You were so hyper-focused on the feeling of him, you didn't realize you were tuning him out until his mouth descended back on yours, so eager to remember the taste of you. 

"You heard me?" He said, pulling back. "Four bedroom. Two stories. Private and secluded."

You nodded. He smirked. And then your eyes snapped open when you felt a tingle boil in your stomach. 

"Angel, are you listening?"

"…huh? O-Oh—" you weren't. All you could focus on was his hands. How often they dragged over. How often they slipped in. How often they were set on making you come undone. 

“Bought something that wasn’t just for myself—“ he kissed your neck again. "Just for you— all for you.”

“Mr.Jackso—“

“Michael—“ he snapped, “Call me Michael, baby, lover— anything that doesn’t sound so distant.” 

Your eyes found him when the longing felt tighter. 

“Michael—“ you mewled. Peering up at him like an angel fallen from grace. 

Inappropriate. 

“Keep going,” he dipped low, kissing you once more like you were his lifeline. 

He was your boss. 

Your hands found his neck, squeezing, using him like an anchor to keep you rooted. “Michael—oh, Mi—chael—“ 

Your lover. 

“Stay with me—“ he dove back in, “stay, stay, stay—“

He was everything. 

"Michael— oh god—" 

You couldn't hide the tremors. The deep wash of pure bliss that hit everywhere and nowhere at once. You cried out for him, his name a prayer on your tongue. All while he took you through it, fingers holding you down while your hips rutted up to feel the last remnants spike. 

You held his shoulders with a tight fist, cursing under your breath while he tutted at your eager display. Entertained and otherwise satisfied. He kissed you through it. Kissed your face, neck, shoulder, forehead— anything that he deemed belonged to him. 

You belonged to him. Work relationship status be damned. 

You murmured something, sighing lightly. Eyes shut for the night. He wasn’t sure what, but for now, he thought it was best to leave you alone. 

Now was his time to go home. 

He finally pulled back when you whined that he was too heavy. Fingers slowly slipping from your pants to reveal the mess made. He stared at it like it was gold, the mere existence of it worth millions of dollars to him. 

He shouldn’t….that would be too…. 

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try—

A knock on the door— always a knock on the door—made him shoot up from the couch. “In a minute!” He shouted and quickly rushed to your bedroom to find a blanket. He draped it over your body, tucking you in, fingers running over your hair to make sure you looked comfortable. He got on his knees again, mouth pressed against your temple one last time, and left like he was never there. 

But he was. Wasn’t that hard to forget. 

Once he opened the door, he found his bodyguard posted against the wall, hands crossed over his chest. He tipped his head down when Michael shut the door, pulling out unfamiliar keys from his pockets to lock the deadbolt, twisting until it snapped and he whistled with pride. 

He jogged down the stairs, his bodyguard at his heel and he slipped into the car with your house keys tucked in his pockets. 

If you want them, you’ll have to call, beg for him to bring it back, and he’ll tell you to come get it, all the way in Florida. 

“Where to boss?” His driver called out. 

Michael hummed, turning his gaze out the window. He supposed he’ll try to be nice to the executives. Try to pretend like he wasn’t yearning to hear your heels click down the halls while he was stuck listening to men think for him and assume what he wanted. 

He sighed. His driver knew. And he switched on the engine, twisting the gears into drive, and began to pull off. 

Michael leaned against the window, eyes shut. He remembered everything. Your voice. The kiss. His hands that brought you pleasure beyond a cheap thrill. He touched his lip, fingers grazing over. Still warm with desire. 

And if you're still wondering if he did. Fingers tapping against his lip. Well…He couldn’t get rid of the sweet warmth of you on his tongue. Sweet, delicious, his. 

You'll never make me stay, so take your weight off of me.

He called you Diana. It wasn't your real name; he didn't know what that was. He didn't want to know it. There was too much attachment there, the possibility of the letters getting stuck to his tongue when you weren't around. Your face already lingered there too often, full lips and hastily ripped clothing flashing through his mind at any inconvenient moment.

Knowing his name, however, was unavoidable. The first time you whispered it into his ear as he pushed your legs open made a shiver of simultaneous guilt and delight wrack up his spine. It wasn't love, but there was something there that thrilled him. Maybe it was the sweetness of your perfume mixed with your not-so-sweet demeanor. You pleasured him in a way that had nothing to do with a stage. Nothing to do with his money.

Michael was a fierce performer. He could make men and women crumple to the floor at his shows with a swivel of his hips. But to you, he was a sheep in wolf's clothing. Inside your small, one-bedroom apartment, there was nothing he could do to make you waiver in your humiliating indifference to him. You didn't ask when you'd see him again. You didn't ask for money—just the heat of his skin against yours.

The best part about you was that you didn't ask questions. You didn't want to know if he had a girl. It didn't matter to you. Whatever he did after he got off on your body wasn't your concern. The problem was that Michael cared. He cared about what you were doing when he wasn't around, who you were talking to. He wondered if you scratched your nails down anyone else's back the way that you did his. The thought of it had started to infiltrate every moment of his life, his work. And with another woman in his bed now, someone softer and more considerate than you, he knew he had to let you go.

You always met in the same place. A dank club on the outskirts of Los Angeles that wasn't frequented by many star-studded idols, except for him. He dressed casually in leather black pants, a navy blue button-up, and a white t-shirt underneath. His dark curls were pulled back into a low bun, his version of trying to go undercover from the fans that seemed to follow him everywhere. Tonight, the streets were empty. He seemed to have gotten lucky.

The meet-up was never planned. He didn't even know your number. But you were always there, in your dark corner on the balcony of the club. He could already see you as the bouncer let him in with just a glance at his face. Smoke billowed around you as you people-watched. A crowd of patrons surrounded you, drinking and chatting. Some Michael recognized, some he didn't. You didn't speak to them, the cherry of a cigarette glowing as it moved toward your mouth. There was always an empty chair beside you, no one filling the seat. He always took it. He wouldn't tonight.

Michael's legs felt shaky as he walked onto the balcony that loomed over the dance floor. The crowd around you all looked up at his arrival, minus you, who was flicking ash into an empty whiskey glass.

You reached for your full drink with your other hand, dipping your fingers into the alcohol and pulling out a bright red cherry that floated on top. That was when you finally looked up at him, with your shining lips wrapped around the cherry, your manicured fingers pulling the stem. Michael felt like he had swallowed sandpaper.

"Leave us." You said in a low voice, not breaking eye contact with Michael. But everyone knew the command was directed at them, not him. And they listened to you, grabbing their drinks and filing off the balcony with rumours uttered under their breath.

I know your every move, so won't you just let me be?

When it was just the two of you, you rewarded him with a small smile. The purple and blue club lights wavered over your skin, glittering like the reflection of the sun hitting the ocean. You threw the stem of your cherry into the makeshift ashtray, chewing slowly.

"You said you wouldn't be back after last time." A laugh escaped you, beautiful and violent. "I almost believed you."

He didn't know how to respond to that, to admit his dirty secret or lie and say that he didn't mean to run into you. But the answer was clear when he moved closer to you, hands clenched at his sides.

"How's your girl…" You paused, looking to the ceiling in mock thought. "Oh, I've forgotten her name."

Michael's mouth opened to speak, but his words failed at the sight of you crossing your legs in the leather seat. You donned sheer black tights with a run up one of the thighs, ripped like someone pressed their finger into the fabric and pulled. His cheeks burned, and he bit the side of his tongue.

You continued, slender fingers lifting the cigarette to your lips again. His eyes grazed over the lipstick mark wrapped around the orange filter. Marks he'd once seen on his skin. "…think you forgot her name last week, too. In fact, it seemed like you'd forgotten everything except my name." Your gaze lingered on his throat, the bob of it as you looked at him.

"My name," You repeated, like it was a joke. He didn't even know who you were, truly. "And the way you like how my tongue feels on your neck."

Michael's eye threatened to twitch at the memory. He swallowed down the heat that had started to bloom from his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Diana, Diana, please, please," you mocked the sound of his moans, chest heaving in mock pleasure.

You flattened the last of your cigarette against the tip of your high heel, putting it out. Smoke rippled out of your nostrils, floating around Michael's head and intoxicating him.

I've been here times before but I was too blind to see,

"I'm not here to talk about that with you. Or talk about her with you." Michael finally spoke, shifting to lean against the rail of the balcony. He didn't miss the way you laughed to yourself, your head falling back and exposing the length of your neck. "I've never been here for that."

"Got a point there." You smiled, standing up from the chair. It took everything in Michael not to shift away from you, like he was avoiding the bite of a poisonous spider. Your hand reached out, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. "You don't usually come here to talk about anything."

…that you seduce every man, this time you won't seduce me.

"I'm serious." Michael's eyes rolled of their own volition, but he didn't have the strength to pull his arm away from you quite yet. But you did it for him, your hand releasing the fabric, only to reach up and pull the collar of his button-up down, revealing the sharp dip of his collarbone. The marks you'd left before were long since faded.

"How was it hiding those from her?" You grinned at him, and in the darkness of the club, your canine teeth looked like fangs, ready to sink into his jugular at any moment. "Saw those pictures in the tabloids, some awards show you were at… pretty high collar on that jacket you were wearing if you ask me."

You grazed your nails up his neck with two fingers, watching the way he struggled to keep from shivering. But he wasn't able to hide the reaction to you pressing into the pulse point below his jaw. A whiny, breathy sound left him, and his hand raised to grip your wrist. Tight enough to leave bruises. You wanted them.

He tossed your hand away with one hand and raised the opposite to grab at your shoulder. In seconds, you were in the spot he had just been standing in, back pressed against the railing of the balcony. His free hand gripped the metal bar next to you, boxing you in.

"I didn't come here for that." He hissed, eyes looking nearly black in the dark. "Not with you. I'm done with you."

She's saying, 'That's okay, hey baby, do what you please.'

"Oh, Mikey,"

You leaned forward, your body pressing close to his. You could feel the buttons of his shirt, the press of his belt buckle, the heat of his breath against your ear, and something else beneath that, firm and warm. Exactly what you'd been looking for. Your hand raised to graze it through his pants, skin against warm leather, and he responded with a resounding hiss. You smiled like the cat who'd caught the canary, lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you began to whisper.

"Then why are you hard?"

'I have the stuff that you want. I am the thing that you need.'

Michael grit his teeth, swatting your hand away from him, although his hips had leaned into your touch. You didn't mind, hugging your arms around your body to keep your hands to yourself.

"Don't you know how much I hate you?" He asked you, no bite in his bark. Dark curls from his bun had fallen out, brushing the skin of your cheek from how close he was.

"I didn't get that impression the last time you were inside of me, no." You answered, hips searching for the friction of his. He didn't allow it, not yet.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you caught Michael's eye drifting to it. His lips were parted, and his chest heaved in a way you only ever saw when you were on top of him. You'd caught him in your web again, whether he knew it yet or not.

"Come back to mine. Show me just how much you hate me."

She said, 'I have to go home, 'cause I'm real tired, you see.'

The ten-minute walk back to your apartment was quiet, save for the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement and a match lighting up a cigarette or two. Michael walked a few steps behind you, watching the way your hips swayed, how you instinctively kept your eyes fixed around the street for your safety. He wondered, briefly, how many times you'd walked home alone from that club. Passing by dark alleys, run-down apartments, men who would destroy you and then leave you like trash on the side of the road. He huffed a laugh through his nose, quietly. Protective of the woman who was dead set on ruining his life, what a joke.

Your apartment, though small, was always oddly comforting to him. The smell of your perfume hit him as you unlocked the door, tossing a small purse onto the sofa just a few feet away. Nothing had changed from the last time he'd been here, not even the way the blankets were strewn on the floor from when he'd taken you there. He remembered how you'd laughed when he'd pushed you down, legs spreading so eagerly for him.

'But I hate sleeping alone. Why don't you come with me?'

Michael was frozen, back against the door. He watched you balance on one leg to take your heel off, and then switch to the other. The run in your tights had gotten longer from the walk, and you hummed as you noticed.

"Guess you'll just have to rip 'em off." You looked up at him, eyes dark. When he didn't respond, you shrugged. You lifted the skirt of your tight dress, casually, exposing the entire length of your legs and the sheer sight of your underwear behind the tights. Your fingers hooked into the waistband. "Or I can just take them off-"

Michael pushed himself off the door before he realized what he was doing, replacing your fingers with his own and tugging you toward him by the waistband of your tights. He used his other hand to grab at the hair at the base of your neck, tugging until your head was bent backwards, the entire column of your throat exposed to him. His pretty, white teeth nipped at the skin, leaving small red marks that he soothed with the cool wetness of his tongue.

"I can't stay long," He said, lips hot against your skin. "She's at home, thinks I'm just at the studio late."

I said, 'My baby's at home, she's probably worried tonight. I didn't call on the phone to say that I'm alright.'

"I'm all yours for as long as you need." You said it from where your head was still tugged back, not moving an inch until Michael decided otherwise. His entire being burned with the need to touch you, to make you so breathless again that all you could say was his name. His hands were gentle in the way he released your hair and set his grip around your waist.

Diana walked up to me, she said, 'I'm all yours tonight.'

It was almost a shock, the way he was suddenly pushing you toward the breakfast bar in your small kitchenette. Your front hit the linoleum counter, your arms flying out to brace for the impact. Bent over for him, he could run his large hands over the expanse of your entire body, stopping for a moment when he found a spot he loved especially, or thought needed to be squeezed or grabbed firmly.

His hand stopped where the rip in your tights started, inside your upper thigh. He hooked his fingers into the hole and tugged. The fabric split right down the middle, down the entire length of your leg, exposing the smooth skin underneath. He tsked, leaning forward so his mouth was against your ear and his chest pressed into your back.

"A pretty girl like you shouldn't look so unkempt."

He tugged again, harder this time, until the fabric of one leg was flying off of you and landing on the hardwood floor. You gasped at the feeling of the cool air hitting your skin, and the shock of his warm hand replacing it. You didn't like it when he had the upper hand, when he gained all this confidence and thought he was the one in control.

"Maybe you should call your girl, Michael." You turned your head to look at him as best as you could from where you were bent over the counter. "Just to let her know you're okay."

You lifted your body from the counter, wiggling his hands off of you until you could turn around and face him. You kept your eyes on him as you sank to your knees. His mouth was hung open, his skin turning pink - with what? Embarrassment? guilt? Pleasure? Maybe all of the above.

Your fingers reached for the belt buckle on his pants. "Phone is on the counter. To your right." You tugged the belt from the loop. "Call her."

'At that, I ran to the phone, sayin' 'Baby, I'm alright.' I said, 'But unlock the door, 'cause I forgot the key.'

Michael's fingers shook as he grabbed at the phone, starting to dial the number to his house. He could have said no. He could have pushed you off of him and walked out the door, like he'd planned to. But you were mouthing at him and kissing him from outside of his boxers, drooling all over the fabric, and he knew he couldn't leave. One hand rested on your head as he pressed the receiver to his ear, listening to the phone dial.

You could hear a sweet voice on the other end, though you couldn't map out exactly what she was saying. Just what Michael said in response, his eyes squeezed shut as your lips finally wrapped around him.

"Hey, baby, I just wanted to call and let you know I'm okay. N-no, I'm not sick, just- think it's my allergies. I'm at the studio, I… Quincy is really wanting this to be… to be perfect tonight, and…"

Michael's voice trailed off when your tongue moved in the way he liked, his brow furrowing and his hand guiding your head. You pulled off of him for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Focus, Mikey." You whispered, mouth shining from him. "Your girl's on the phone."

Michael's eyes opened, and he glared at you, upset that you said anything at all. He chuckled nervously into the phone.

"No, baby, that was just Quincy… I need- need to get back soon. I just wanted to call and ask if you could leave the door… unlocked before you go to bed-"

He was close. You knew the telltale signs by now. The way his breath hitched, the way he stuttered, the way his hand had started to grip your hair tight at the top of your head. If he weren't on the phone, he would have grabbed you with both hands, used your mouth as much as he wanted. But now, in your control, he could only hold in his gasps and moans, giving short, one-word responses to what his girl asked on the phone. You glared up at him as he continued speaking, annoyance growing because his attention wasn't entirely on you. It made you work harder, doing everything you could to get him there.

When you stopped, right at the edge of his release, he had to hold back a whimper. His knuckles were white against the telephone, watching you carefully as you stood up from where you'd been sitting on your haunches. You hummed at the look of him, disheveled, embarrassed, completely at your mercy. You held your hand out in front of him, looking from his eyes to the phone.

Michael had been listening to his girl ramble about something; he really wasn't sure what it was at the moment. He furrowed a brow, shaking his head at your request. It was a weak refusal, and it made you laugh. Out loud, bright and airy and echoing through the room.

The voice of his girl got louder on the phone, with questions about who that was and what woman was with him, laughing. You used your other hand to grab Michael, where your mouth had just been, wrenching your wrist and moving up and down in a way that made his eyes flutter closed. It was then that you were free to grab the phone from him, when his release was building, and there was nothing he cared about more than getting there.

You waited to say anything until he was moaning, spilling all over your hand, and twitching against your body. Your voice was smooth on the receiver, a stark contrast to the breathy, choppy nature of Michael's voice.

"He's not coming back because he's sleeping with me."

You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.

It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts. 

You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week. 

He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts. 

After another helpless call, he answered. 

"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping. 

He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning. 

He thought you left, but you spoke up. 

"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!" 

He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."

"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!" 

It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them. 

"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish." 

"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me." 

He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name. 

He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.

He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor. 

He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper. 

You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it. 

"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!" 

And that was it. 

He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals. 

Not him. 

His animals. 

And that is what started his deep infatuation with you. 

He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world. 

And sending it out was even harder. 

But it happened. 

And he kicked himself for it. 

When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours. 

The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?” 

“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”

"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"

That was a few days ago. 

"Why would I give you a fake number?"

"Why wouldn't you?" 

There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes. 

"No, this is real. My own personal number."

"O-Oh, I see." 

It went quiet on the other line. 

"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"

"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious. 

"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"

Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."

“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined. 

He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe. 

"So, what's the matter?"

He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet. 

"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"

Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"

"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."

He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left. 

"I get it. I have issues with my parents too." 

The connection sparkled. 

You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened. 

Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was. 

"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day." 

"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

"Thank goodness—"

"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles." 

Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?" 

"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense. 

"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"

"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals." 

He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."

"You mean that?" 

"Yes. How about tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?" 

He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."

"Who's that?"

"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."

"Okay." 

Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist. 

"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked. 

"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying. 

"Goodnight Michael."

The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine. 

You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following. 

You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer. 

"He's me." 

You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question. 

"Can you fly too?"

He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too." 

He introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room. 

He's never laughed so much in his life. 

Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect. 

You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy. 

After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character. 

Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room. 

The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything. 

And he was thankful for that. 

But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face. 

"She's your girlfriend now?"

Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?" 

Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered. 

"I wonder what he's thinking?"

You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.

He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good. 

Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go. 

"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after. 

Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?" 

He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."

"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?" 

If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either. 

You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him. 

Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it. 

"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie. 

He could finally catch his breath. 

"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now." 

He didn't want you to leave. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."

And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you. 

He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"

"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably. 

"I've been working on something but I need input."

"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things." 

"Don't worry, I don't bite." 

You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake." 

"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—" 

Michael's jaw almost dropped. 

You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension. 

"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up. 

Michael swallowed around a lump. 

"Where is it again?" You questioned.

The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field. 

He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face. 

"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning." 

"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving." 

"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something." 

He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth. 

Good but missing something

He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."

"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized." 

Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"

"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours." 

"T-That makes sense." 

A knock on the door startled you both. 

Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go." 

Michael screamed internally. 

"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm. 

"I-I guess so." 

You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried. 

"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard. 

"Sure—" 

He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away. 

You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only. 

Michael didn't know what to do with himself. 

Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson. 

You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step. 

Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song." 

"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"

Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"

Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"

Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill." 

Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat. 

Good but missing something 

Title track name — Baby Be Mine

Some prick in a business suit spilled his coffee all over you, your luggage had nearly been lost in transit between connecting flights, and someone’s unsupervised child had tried to bite your ankle while waiting at the gate.

The weather was bad, and all of the flight crew and your boarding group were pissed—your second trip was delayed by two hours due to inclement conditions. Snow had pelted the floor-to-ceiling windows without reprieve for what felt like years, and finally, the folks in air traffic control seemed to have just thrown up their hands and said, ‘Fuck it, let them go.’ You boarded the plane freezing your ass off and stained all down the front of your t-shirt in espresso. Your Achilles tendon ached.

And still, this felt like the greatest day of your life.

You were going home. And not just home but to Joel, who was picking you up from the airport that day. You hadn’t had any exams at the end of the week, so you’d decided to come home a half-day early and surprise him. With all of the delays, you wouldn’t be in until early that morning, but Joel was still happy to pick you up. You wouldn’t tell your dad you were back until the following evening, and in the meantime, you’d savor every second you had with Joel until you had to leave again. You didn’t want to be apart from him, but at least the separation this time around was sweeter: he was your boyfriend.

Just thinking those words made you smile.

Even sat next to a screaming baby the whole four-hour plane ride from Baltimore to Austin, you were happy.

Damn near cheerful skipping off the aircraft five hours after your original ETA, and heading to the baggage claim in a sea of pushy, disgruntled passengers.

You took the stairs instead of the escalator. You didn’t mind the extra effort with your far-too-heavy carry-on; you just wanted to take the fastest route to get to the place you’d be meeting Joel. Your sneakers sounded their light, quick thuds down the marble steps as you went, and you slung the strap of your duffel bag higher up your shoulder to get a better hold while you jogged.

You looked around, eager as ever.

Was that a pit of anxiety you felt?

Around Joel, that was never really a thing—but anticipating his presence after weeks spent apart was a whole different beast. Now your pulse pounded in your ears; your throat constricted a little bit. Where was he?

From: Joel

Just parked

Headed in now

That had been twenty minutes ago.

I’ll be over by the stairs

Except he wasn’t there.

You were at the foot of the stairs, peering anxiously around as you were jostled further out by the moving crowd, but the longer you looked, the more certain you became that Joel wasn’t there. In fact, there was no one that looked even remotely like him. It was mostly families and young people that appeared to be around your age—evidently, all colleges started break at the same time—that were standing around. You stood on your tip-toes to get a peek overtop these people, and you still couldn’t spot one single silver-flecked head that looked like his.

You pulled out your phone to text him.

From: You

Sooooo did someone kidnap you or—

You didn’t get to finish that message.

Before you could hit ‘send,’ you felt two arms wrap around you from behind. You dropped your bag.

The same grin crept onto your face—you couldn’t help it.

“Excuse me, I’m actually waiting for my boyfriend…”

You pretended to tense with discomfort at the feel of someone’s body draped over your own, and then there were lips grazing your hair, stubble teasing your cheek.

“Oh, yeah? Then where is he?”

Joel turned you to face him.

Well, shit, there he is.

Both of you were beaming. Joel looked handsome but sleepy—and who could blame him at 5:21 AM, when he’d likely been at work since six the day before? You were the one to open your arms then. You lunged just in time for him to accept your embrace, and you didn’t miss the way he stumbled a bit. He also turned his face so your lips landed on his cheek, not his mouth. He blinked rapidly.

Perhaps you’d come on a little strong.

Easy now, he’s probably tired as shit.

“Sorry. Just missed you,” you mumbled into Joel’s neck.

He squeezed you tighter. He shook you back and forth.

His lips pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head.

‘Don’t be sorry. I missed you more’ was all he said.

And before you knew it, you were headed home again. Rather than retreating to the house you’d grown up in, though, you went over to Joel’s cozy, ranch-style place. From all the time you’d spent there lately, and even in the years before, you knew it well. Joel kept it clean. Simple.

Cold as shit.

“52 degrees?! Have you lost your fucking mind, Miller?”

You’d pulled your parka fast about yourself as soon as you stepped in. You exhaled and saw it hang mid-air.

“It ain’t that bad. We got blankets,” Joel huffed.

He hadn’t talked much on the ride home from the airport. You didn’t blame him. You could see in his eyes and in the way he’d fixed his stare on the road all the way home that the man was exhausted. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. You decided not to push him on it.

But sleeping in an igloo was where you drew the line.

You spun on your heel to face him, brows pinched.

“My nipples could cut diamonds right now.”

And you peeled back your jacket to show him, where you only wore your tight, coffee-stained tee underneath. Sure enough, two small, hardened peaks poked out through the fabric to greet Joel in the chill of his living room.

To your surprise, Joel swallowed and looked away.

He left the room shortly after that—ostensibly, to adjust the thermostat. But it was the expression he wore as he did that gave you pause. The look on his face was hard.

Guilty.

What the hell had happened in the thirty minutes since you’d gotten here to make him take on that expression?

Was it the way you smelled after six or seven hours of combined air travel, not including all the excruciating minutes spent languishing in the Boston and Baltimore airports? That stupid story you’d told him about the flight attendant whose breath smelled of rotten pimento cheese? Or was it because you’d jumped him too fast—opted for a kiss on the mouth instead of simply hugging him and attempting to curb your enthusiasm a little bit?

Your mind whirred a thousand miles a minute with this thinking—overthinking, really. You couldn’t help doing it.

In spite of the near-dizzying excitement you’d felt coming home, it was easy to slip back into old habits. Worry, uncertainty, fear of feeling more for a person than they did for you and getting too invested, it was all there. It was astounding how quickly the dread crept in. Shit.

“Shit,” you repeated aloud, kicking off your shoes.

You were standing in Joel’s room, preparing for bed. The heat had evidently kicked on, but the space was still freezing, so you peeled your clothes slowly. You set them aside, one-by-one, and folded them atop Joel’s dresser while your stomach churned. Your toes curled in your socks, and for a moment, you contemplated whether or not to wear your pyjamas to bed. Or Joel’s. Or naked.

Did he want to have sex tonight?

He’d looked so tired, and he hadn’t touched you once since setting you down from the hug at the airport, but—

“Hey.”

A folded, fuzzy blanket landed on the dresser next to you

It was pink. It had polka dots on it, not unlike the towel you had back at college and had seen Joel wrap himself in before you’d snuck him into your communal showers.

You smiled faintly at the memory.

You looked back up at Joel.

“I figured you’d get cold whenever you came over here, so I got this. Now you can bundle up. And wear these.”

Emphasizing the last word, Joel dropped a pair of matching slippers next to the blanket. They were new. He’d bought them for you, and had remembered enough to know you liked pink, frilly things. And not freezing your fucking ass off in the middle of winter. Your smile grew.

You thanked him, and were about to turn to give him a hug, when he was off again. This time, to the bathroom.

You decided you’d dress in your own pajamas tonight. You grabbed your new blanket and slippers and then padded over to Joel’s bed at the other end of the room.

How long you waited there was anyone’s guess.

Changing out of his clothes, brushing his teeth, washing his hands or simply running the tap until the water all but ran out seemed to take Joel decades. You stayed curled on your side in his bed, rubbing your now-comfortably warmed feet under the covers and occasionally checking the time. You even scrolled for a little bit to distract your mind and keep it from worrying. He’s probably just tired.

And when, finally, he shut the bathroom door behind him and retired to bed, you could see it: Joel was exhausted.

You wanted to leave him be. Let him get some rest and pick things up in the morning, same as you always did.

Then Joel snaked a big, warm, muscly arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. Against your back, you could feel it: he had on one of his long sleeve, waffle-knit shirts. You wriggled a little and shuffled your legs, and you shortly discovered he was wearing his thickest pair of pyjama pants as well. Joel almost always slept naked, or in only his boxers, so this was odd. Then again, it was dead of winter, so you couldn’t really blame him.

He pressed an innocent kiss to your temple before murmuring, ‘Night, sweet pea,’ and you couldn’t ignore what you felt, either. What you were feeling, presently, through the thick, cotton fabric of Joel’s pants was impossible to ignore—he was rock-hard against you. Joel shuffled back some, but still, the bulge was prominent.

Okay, well…maybe we don’t have to sleep just yet.

You weren’t entirely sure why you did what you did. You were pretty tired yourself. All you knew was that intimacy made you feel close to Joel—helped your brain process feelings better than speaking, sometimes—and right then, you felt needy. Lonely. With just a few gruff words and a strange look from him before, you’d grown self-conscious again, and you weren’t sure what to do with that emotion. You figured Joel’s dick in you might help.

So you turned around and climbed right on him.

You straddled Joel’s hips, a little more confident in how you maneuvered it now, after doing this dozens of times before. You and Joel enjoyed sleepy sex, whether it was first thing in the morning or right before bed, and usually, neither one of you had to talk to initiate. You simply clambered over the other person and got to work. It was a simple form of stress relief—a way to rid your brain of unwanted thoughts and get you right to sleep after doing the deed—and it didn’t take much to get either one of you off. You sighed when you felt Joel’s cock graze you through your light, satin pyjamas. You didn’t move too quickly, but you did bear down on him.

Joel’s eyes flew open.

He grabbed your hips, and he grunted through his teeth.

“Sweetheart—” he started, strained.

It encouraged you to feel him stiffen from that first motion of your lower half, so you did it again. You leaned down to kiss his neck, in just the spot he always liked, close to the jaw, and you rubbed yourself gently against his erection. His grip tightened on your hips, and the initial surprise seemed shortly to morph into desire.

Like always, Joel would probably flip you and offer to fuck in missionary. That was how you both liked to start.

You dragged your lips down the column of his neck and were about to bare your teeth to leave a quick love bite, maybe nip at the skin once or twice before moving your mouth lower on him, when Joel’s grip really constricted.

His fingers seared your skin.

A groan rumbled in his chest.

“Baby, please…” he croaked. He swallowed hard.

Was he trying to beg? That wouldn’t be a first, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. His tone was low. His voice was soft, and his fingertips were kneading hard

“I know you’re tired, so I’ll get on top,” you offered, quiet.

With barely more than a whisper and a brush of your hand against the bulge in his pants, you earned another throaty sound from Joel. He cursed under his breath.

“This…I need to…fuck.”

Words seemed to evade him, and that wasn’t surprising. When you were turned on, you also forgot how to talk.

Joel always teased you for it, so now you’d do the same.

Moving lower down his body, and pushing the covers back as you went, you kept your gaze locked on his. The house had heated considerably since you’d gotten back, and now you didn’t feel like you had to wrap up in fifteen layers just to stay tolerably warm. You flashed the man a sly little grin, told him he needed to use his words if he wanted you to put your lips to use where he wanted them, and proceeded to stray even further. Your bottom lip grazed past his navel, and your tongue darted out to lick down the strip of grey and black hairs running down his lower belly where the bottom of his shirt had ridden up a little bit. As soon as you did, Joel inhaled sharply.

“Baby,” he hissed.

He seized your hair in his fist. Surprisingly, it felt nice.

It made you want to take him in your mouth even more.

So, hooking your fingers under the waistband of his pants, you didn’t waste any time. You yanked at the fabric, fully prepared to suck Joel off a little before climbing on and riding him, and just when his cock was about to spring free, you felt it—his grasp pulling back.

You heard him, hoarsely:

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Your chin jerked up. Probably no more than five seconds had passed since you’d slid down his body, and each act had transpired so swiftly, without a pause or a hitch from what you could tell, that for Joel to stop you so suddenly meant something was off. Something here was wrong.

“We can’t do this,” Joel blurted out at once.

You let go of his waistband. You tried to talk.

“What’s wro—”

“I— I need to tell you something. Now. I’m sorry.”

At the same time, Joel seemed to be asking you to get up. You didn’t hesitate to do exactly that, shuffling back.

Your stomach plummeted inside you as you feared you might’ve done something wrong, or crossed some line.

That, on top of everything else that night, and feeling like Joel might be having second thoughts about your relationship already, was enough to make your eyes sting. There weren’t tears, but that wasn’t far off.

How had you fucked this up so monumentally, so quick?

You chewed the inside of your lip. You blinked furiously.

“I-I-I’m sorry, Joel. I thought you wanted me to—”

“No, I’m sorry. We just can’t do this right now.”

His gaze was serious. Wide. Your heart sank.

You couldn’t help the words that followed.

“Did— did I just do something wrong?”

“No, baby, you didn’t do anythin—”

“You’re having second thoughts?”

Your pulse leapt and sped up.

“No, no, not at all. I’m jus—”

“Because you can tell me.”

“That’s not what I was—”

“If you want to break up—”

“What? That ain’t what I said.”

“So what is it? What’s going on?”

Your worst thoughts were winning.

You were jumping to conclusions again.

There wasn’t time to be rational or sedate.

“Joel Miller, if you’re gonna dump me right now—”

“Sweetheart, there’s a chance I might be your uncle.”

“What?!”

In fairness to you, his admission sounded fucking insane.

Joel could’ve handled this situation in a thousand different ways, and of course, he’d done it horribly.

The timing? Terrible. Treading close to atrocious.

The execution? Piss-poor. Actually, the worst.

You’d been a second away from wrapping your lips around his dick, and he chose that moment to tell you that you might possibly be his long-lost niece? Really?

The look on your face as you shuffled back didn’t surprise him at all. It did make Joel want to vomit a bit.

“Listen, I can explain…” he started, speaking slowly.

He lifted his hands in a conciliatory sort of gesture, then reached for you, but when you pushed back further in the bed, he dropped both. Your eyes went wide in horror.

“What do you mean you’re my fucking uncle, Joel?!”

His widened, too. You might’ve misheard him.

“No, no, I’m not. I’m probably not, I just—”

“Probably?! What is ‘probably’?!”

You’d all but screeched that.

You were standing from the bed. Looking down at it, as if to say, ‘What did I just do? What have we been doing?’ and your face gave way to a grimace. You winced like you’d just witnessed a car wreck firsthand, and again, Joel couldn’t blame you for that. He needed to fix this.

He’d meant to handle this himself. He’d called Tommy at least sixty times that night, when your dad had casually dropped the bomb that Tommy might have slept with his ex-wife and knocked her up over twenty years back, making him your biological father and Joel your uncle.

It was a stretch.

As far as Joel knew, Tommy had never been involved with your mom, much less around the time you’d been born. It was such a wild, far-fetched idea that he and your dad were almost positive that this wasn’t the case.

There was no way.

But if there was…

Joel hadn’t planned on taking any chances until he was certain. He also hadn’t wanted to cause any unneeded trauma by freaking you out and having you go into a panic, like you were right now. He’d intended to play it cool until he could get ahold of his baby brother—if he ever would pick up his fucking phone—and he’d meant to get the truth out of Tommy before doing anything else. Before you got home. Then you’d changed your flight to come back a half-day earlier, and even with all the delays you’d had, Joel still wasn’t able to get in touch with his brother before then. It was late. He’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place, debating whether to spill this big, terrible news that might turn out not to be news at all, while also revealing your dad’s secret that he might not be your father. It was a clusterfuck. It sucked.

Joel had only found this out hours ago, and already, it felt like the world as he and you knew it was going to shit

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lay a finger on you until he was absolutely sure that you weren’t his niece. He hadn’t wanted to fuck up your psyche, as well as the heart of your relationship with your maybe-not-biological-father, by sharing this news. So he’d tried to compromise. Sleep side-by-side and pretend to be too tired to do anything, so he could buy more time before he spoke with Tommy. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Then you’d wrecked his plans by straddling his dick and proceeding to try and suck it, and Joel had been left with no choice.

He blurted it out before he could try and stop himself.

“Tommy might’ve— might’ve fucked your mom.”

It was graceless. Just like everything else.

Your eyes went even wider.

“What?” you breathed.

He kept going.

“There’s…your dad was tellin’ me, there’s a slight chance your mom and Tommy were messin’ around back in the day, about a year before you were born, and…and he isn’t completely sure—there were a few other guys, but he doesn’t know—and he told me. He told me this tonight, when we went out for drinks. And then you came back earlier than I was expecting, and…well, I’ve been tryin’ to get ahold of Tommy, but he ain’t pickin’ up. I wanted—”

“Get your keys,” you cut in suddenly.

Now it was his turn to be confused.

“Wait, what?”

Joel stared, and he saw you were already on your phone. Toggling something on the screen. Frowning down at it.

“Where are we—” Joel tried again.

You snapped your fingers, like you’d found something. Then you looked up at him, briefly, before striding out the bedroom door. You walked quickly; Joel followed.

He wasn’t sure where you were going or what you planned on doing, but he opted to dress while he walked. He threw on his jacket and kicked on his boots, then went fishing for his keys—they were lying in a hodgepodge of shit on the counter, as always—and just as he reached out to grab them, you seized them first.

You were already headed for the car port. You didn’t look behind you, and wouldn’t so much as turn your head when he called out after you. You marched to his car.

“Where are we goin’? You gonna talk to me, honey?”

Joel tried sounding soft. You weren’t having it.

You jumped in and barely gave him the chance to get his seatbelt fastened before you threw the thing in reverse.

You were backing the Bronco out in a blink. Your grip tightened on the wheel, and that was when he saw it.

First, a frown.

Then, your gaze cutting over to his across the center console. It was brief, but a look did more than enough.

“I have Tommy’s location. We’re gonna go beat his ass.”

Life was great for Tommy Miller.

Like, really great.

He had a lady he was half-certain was the love of his life sprawled out in his bed, the sheets they got to share were warm, and the world outside was quiet. At 6 AM, out in the sticks as they were, it usually stayed like this.

Cool. Calm. Serene.

He should buy a house of his own out here one day.

The place they were staying at used to be his granddad’s. Joel had already done a bang up job at fixing it himself, and Tommy wanted to help. He also knew it would make a nice retreat for him and Maria whenever they wanted to get out of the city themselves. She liked it here, which meant that Tommy loved it. He loved her.

Stupid as it sounded, he was now beginning to understand some of Joel’s fixation with you.

If his brother felt even a fraction of what he felt for Maria, Tommy could easily see why Joel would risk his whole friendship with your father to be with you. He got it.

What he couldn’t totally comprehend was why you two wouldn’t come clean already. All this lying and sneaking around behind your daddy’s back must have been awful for you both. It would suck telling him at first, to be sure, but your father wasn’t that intolerant that he couldn’t be convinced to warm up to the idea eventually. You’d be graduating in a few months—you could come back here, not have to treat each other like some big, ugly secret, and then live like he and Maria did, every day. That was what Tommy had wanted for his big brother, anyway.

These thoughts and at least a dozen more were all swirling through his mind after the break of dawn that day, when he was half-asleep and barely more conscious than not. He stretched out in bed, smiling to himself.

He was about to turn and drape an arm over Maria’s side when a sound at the front door stopped him. It was loud.

Someone was knocking.

Banging.

Striking their fist on the wood so hard it sounded like they might’ve been apt to knock the whole thing down.

For a moment, Tommy considered grabbing his pistol. Then he shrugged off the thought, not wanting to freak Maria out by brandishing a firearm at this hour, and instead bounded quickly to the door to see what the fuck this person wanted before their knocking woke her up.

He swung the front door open, nostrils flared.

And there you were, looking just as enraged.

“You motherfucker!” you hissed at him.

Before he could stop you, you were storming inside. He could see Joel behind you, looking almost as overcome as he was, but he didn’t have time to talk to his brother.

Tommy didn’t have time to breathe, as you knocked the wind out of him by pushing past him, your steps forceful.

Your eyes were wide with indignation and ire.

Disbelief and…something like disgust?

“Did you fuck my mom?!” you spat.

What the— what? What?

When he was too stunned to speak—from both drowsiness and the initial shock—you stepped in again. You didn’t touch him, but you got in his face. Very close.

“Answer the fucking question, Miller. Did you?!”

“Sweetheart—” Joel started behind you.

Tommy could hear that his voice was tight. Their eyes flitted up to meet each other, briefly, and at the same time, the door to the bedroom opened. Well, great.

“Did you fuck my mother or not, Tommy?!”

Perfect timing. Tommy swallowed hard.

For some reason, his brain wasn’t functioning at full capacity, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. Evidently, you interpreted this pause as an admission, or something, because your face morphed into one of pure horror, and one of your hands rose to cover your mouth.

“Oh god, you did!” you shrieked. Words high and shrill. “You fucked her, then let me have sex with my uncle!”

Oh, fuck.

What the fuck?

What the everliving fuck?

At last, he found words: “No! No, I never—”

Tommy couldn’t imagine what Maria must be thinking.

You turned on your heel, and, hand still hovering over your mouth, you turned to Joel. You looked like you were about to be sick, as did he. Your breaths shortly faltered.

“We are so fucked!” you said to him. In shock.

Joel seemed as if he wanted to comfort you, but in truth, the man looked just as queasy, and you appeared to be in no state to want to be touched. You spun back around.

Somehow, Tommy was able to conjure up more words. Whether they’d actually make sense was anyone’s guess.

“I— I never had sex with your mom, kid. Never,” he said.

Decent enough.

But you didn’t believe him.

“My dad said you did,” you bit back. “He said that you and—and some other guys were hooking up with my mom right around the time she got pregnant with me, and he thinks you might be my dad, which would be insanely, insanely bad, since I’ve been fucking your brother for the last three months, and you knew that!”

Each word hit with all the force of an eighteen-wheeler.

Again, Tommy was too stunned to talk for a moment.

“Just…just come clean if you did. We need to know.”

That was Joel. His face was screwed up in a wince, like he didn’t really want to know any of this, but it was necessary. He needed to know if his brother was truly stupid enough to have sex with a woman and not mention the fact that her daughter might be Joel’s niece.

Tommy stared back, blinking, before recovering again.

This time, he knew he had to keep his shit together.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maria.

Keep. Your. Fucking. Shit. Together.

“I never…in my life, ever slept with Amy, Joel. I swear,” he said, slowly. Then, turning to you. “I was—what, like…twenty-two when you were born? I didn’t even lose my virginity ‘til I was twenty-four. I never had sex with her.”

“But her dad said—” Joel started.

“Her dad thought I was a slut back then, I know. I wasn’t, but I liked pretending I was. It was easier to act like that than tell the guys I was a virgin, alright? It was stupid.”

He felt stupid.

Even more so in front of Maria, who now not only had to hear this whole insane incest debate but also learned he hadn’t gotten laid until his mid-twenties. It shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter, and he didn’t regret his choice in the slightest—but still, he felt a pang in his chest.

And more to the point, why the hell would your dad even insinuate that he might’ve slept with Amy? He knew damn well they’d never gotten together. They were friends, sure, but that’s all they ever were, or appeared.

None of it made any sense.

Clearly, the news was still settling in between you, Joel, Maria, and even himself. Silence stretched on for some seconds, and Tommy released a sigh to himself. His heart rate gradually slowed, and he looked to Maria.

And where he’d expected to find her distraught, if not disgusted or a little humiliated on his behalf, he saw a smile. It was faint, but it was there. From the opposite side of the living room, in the dim glow of the morning sun’s first rays, he could see it. She was smiling at him.

Your family’s kind of insane.

I still love you, by the way.

Maria didn’t need to speak to him in words, but he felt it. He couldn’t help but grin weakly back at her, wanting to walk over to her and give her a big, bear hug in apology.

Unfortunately, Tommy didn’t get that chance, as you jumped him in the next instant with a hug of your own.

You squeezed tight and exhaled shakily into his chest.

“Shit. Tommy, I am so sorry. I’m sorry,” you said.

His grin stretched bigger in spite of himself.

In spite of this whole ridiculous, messy situation, he smiled and hugged you back. You were like a little sister to him, thankfully not a daughter, and Tommy forgave folks easily. Over the top of your head, he glanced at his girlfriend again, and he mouthed a soft apology himself.

I’m so sorry, Maria.

Also, I love you more.

“It’s all good, kid.” Out of habit, and feeling the same protective instinct he’d always felt for you, he kissed the crown of your head. He rubbed your back as you hugged. “If I thought somebody was dumb enough not to tell me I might be fuckin’ my uncle, I’d also try to kick their ass.”

You laughed. You shook your head a little against him.

“You’re too big. I could never actually do it,” you said.

“I might,” Joel rejoined from someplace behind you.

That threat had no teeth. His brother was simply heaving a sigh of relief as he plopped down on the couch, likely thinking to himself that he was so fucking glad this conversation hadn’t steered where he feared it might. Briefly, Tommy caught his gaze, then squeezed you in his arms a little bit tighter. He angled your bodies to Joel.

“Even if he ain’t your uncle, are you sure you wanna be stuck with this loser, honey? He’s an ass, as you can see.”

He was talking to you, but his focus was on Joel. Smug.

The man on the sofa just rolled his eyes. He reached out to snag the waistband of your shorts and tug you back, while Tommy kept that wry, knowing smirk on his lips.

He let go, and you gladly dropped over into Joel’s lap.

“Too late. We’re dating,” his brother hummed back.

Dating?

Well, shit.

Tommy stared harder, only this time his look was one of surprise—and muted satisfaction. He glanced at Maria, who was yawning and preparing to draw back into the bedroom, it looked like. Then he remembered how early it was. His brother looked just as drained laying out on the couch, and if he’d had to guess, you and Joel would be retiring to the guest bedroom to crash at any minute.

He would have to keep this quick.

“Goin’ steady, huh?” he pressed.

“Don’t start.” Joel raised a hand, yawning himself.

You were all too tired for this shit. Tommy couldn’t resist. Like the bonehead little brother he was, he had to say it. He’d been waiting too long to see Joel in a relationship.

He was already retreating to the bedroom, to Maria, and he didn’t intend on dragging this out, but the opportunity was also too tempting to ignore.

“And y’all didn’t ask for my permission?” he called over his shoulder. Taunting. “A father has a right to know!”

Joel lifted one big, callused middle finger from the sofa. You smiled and waved and gave your best impression of a person much sweeter than you normally were, saying:

“Sorry, Dad, Uncle Joel’s dick was too good to resist!”

Eeeeeewwwwwww.

Tommy made a face as he left.

“I’m going back to bed. Y’all are sick.”

And on some level, he meant it. He was also grinning ear-to-ear as he shut the bedroom door behind him and turned to Maria, who was sliding under the covers.

“Your life is a Folgers commercial,” she chuckled.

“Pretty much,” he murmured as he joined her.

Then, without thinking twice about it, he reached for one of the pillows that had fallen off the bed. He nudged it over his girlfriend’s way, as if offering for her to take it, and when Maria cocked a brow, Tommy pointed to the door. He could already hear you and Joel going upstairs.

“You’ll need this. Use it to cover your ears,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Because if I know anything about those two, they’re about to have some of the most disgustingly loud sex.”

You and Joel were having the most disgustingly loud sex.

It always was, though, wasn’t it?

The concern wasn’t one that often crossed your mind when getting drilled from behind by Joel Miller, but today, with his brother—who was not your biological father—and his girlfriend in the room directly below the one where you and Joel were fucking, you did consider it.

Were you being too noisy? Could they hear you now?

Was Joel pounding too hard, and should you have maybe put a pillow between the metal bed frame and the wall?

There was no time to fix the latter. You were in too deep. Joel was in too deep himself, digging through your guts with every quick, merciless thrust of his hips against you. His grip tightened on your waist, and he pushed down. He wanted your upper half damn near parallel with the bed, while your ass was up and pointed just where he could fuck your wet and needy cunt. He drove in hard.

Every push of his cock through your body, sawing back and forth, again and again with increasing vigor, could’ve supplied noise enough to wake the whole neighborhood. The dizzying squelch, the persistent, wet smack of his groin against your ass, the tiny strings of your shared arousal and sweat stretching far and then colliding all over again with each new thrust, all blew your cover.

If you’d had any desire to keep your sex noises private, your body and his were doing a terrible fucking job of it.

You might as well have painted it on a billboard by now:

‘WE REALLY, REALLY LOVE FUCKING!’

‘WE’RE NOT RELATED, BY THE WAY!!’

Perhaps that was why Joel was so earnest now—having just found out that this had all been a false alarm and you could fuck as much as desired, well…it did things to him.

It did things to you, too.

It made it hard to keep quiet or even try to curb the frenzy when Joel sheathed himself fully inside, held it, then leaned over your prone body to press his hand to the back of your head. He tilted your chin toward him as best he could in this position. He dug even deeper, and you felt him in your fucking lungs. You let out a whimper

“Joel—”

“Look at me, darlin’,” Joel said, gruff. “You’re close, hm?”

You were.

You nodded your head against his firm hold.

Your eyes tried meeting his from where your face was pressed against the mattress and Joel was hovering directly above, but the effort was fruitless. Your gaze couldn’t stay on his like he’d wanted. Joel grunted.

He pulled you up. He tugged you back into a semi-kneeling position, so that your back was flush with his chest and your bodies still connected. His lips pressed a quick, calming kiss to your neck before he moved again.

Before you knew it, you were off the bed and standing—more a function of Joel holding you up than any strength in your legs. You were propped against a pretty wooden dresser with a mirror attached to the back. In your shared reflection, you met Joel’s gaze, and he grinned at you. He wasted no time pushing back inside and watching your face contort with the pressure and the stretch of his girth. Your jaw went slack; you clenched around him.

And you could feel in the responding groan from Joel that he was just as close. You’d been at it for less than five minutes, but the ardor and the relief and the fact that it had been weeks since you’d gotten to do this together was enough to send you both spiraling fast. Joel reached for your hip in one hand and held your throat in the other. He went on at a relentless pace.

With every snap of his hips, your knees hit the dresser drawers. It didn’t hurt. Joel angled your body so he wasn’t pushing you too hard into the surface of the furniture, but he did make you feel it. He lowered his head closer to yours so that your faces were side-by-side in the mirror, and you felt his stubble graze your cheek.

“Y’know, I meant what I said. Last time,” Joel murmured.

What?

As close as you both were now, how could the man even string words together, much less bring up old memories?

You steeled yourself in place, barely holding his gaze.

“Wh— Huh?” You sounded dumb as shit. “What?”

Joel’s teeth grazed the soft, tender skin from your jaw to your chin while he continued to work himself in and out. He slowed his thrusts to a much calmer, gentler rhythm.

He kissed your cheek just as he plunged in, balls deep.

You let out a whine so desperate, pitchy, and shrill at that, you almost didn’t hear it when he spoke again:

“I told you that I was ready.” Another gentle withdrawal. “To tell your dad.” A thrust back in. “Whenever you were.”

Shit.

So that was what this was about.

You felt good. You felt like you were ready, too.

But the prospect of telling your father the truth about you and Joel was nothing short of terrifying, frankly. Imagining what he might say—or do—to the man you loved made you want to keep this hidden away for as long as you possibly could. It was selfish, you knew it. Still, it was scary to think of all the things that would change as soon as you made this known to your dad.

From what you could tell, though, Joel wasn’t feeling quite the same level of concern. He fucked you slow and deep. He let his hand slide from your throat to your legs.

Between them, he found your clit easily and pressed in.

He rubbed circles while he dragged his cock in and out at the most maddening pace, and with every thrust, you could feel him hit that sensitive place, again and again.

You shuddered in his arms. You braced your hands against the dresser below, not wanting to collapse.

Sensing you were right at the brink of ecstasy, and likely wanting something to fill the lull you’d left, Joel went on.

“You— you want that, too, don’t you?”

There was patent need in that tone.

The slightest tinge of insecurity.

You didn’t want Joel to think for even a moment that you were having second thoughts, so you fought back the worry in your own mind, and you nodded your head.

“Y-Yeah, Joel. I want it,” you whispered. “I’m just scared.”

Hell, that admission might as well have been written on your face, because your expression said it all. You were teetering on release and fucking terrified of this coming to an end. The eyes that held his were a bit glossier now. Joel saw that and seemed to ease off, pressing his lips back to your skin as he rocked his hips back and forth.

“I am, too,” he confessed. His breath hitched, and the circles on your clit grew a little sloppier. He was close. “We— we can wait. I just wanna…take you places, hon.”

You knew what he meant by that. Going out without having to check over your shoulder every ten minutes, wondering if this was the time you got caught. Not needing to worry so much. Again, you nodded, and you felt Joel’s cock twitch inside you. Your walls ached, and the knot in your stomach was tightening every second.

You were about to speak up, when Joel cut back in.

“I love you. I…I don’t care how long this takes us.”

“I love you, Joel.”

You couldn’t manage much more than that. Already the tides of pleasure were rising too high, and your chest was flooded with a heady feeling. You were about to give in, still holding Joel’s gaze in the mirror, and from behind you, you could see his demeanor harden with purpose.

On hearing you say those words, you loved him, plans involving his old friend and the worst the man might think when you two came clean with the truth were lost to the ether, it seemed. He set it all aside, at least momentarily, as he worked on drawing your pleasure out and also getting himself there in time. He held your hip tighter and drew his quick, messy circles through your folds in just the way you liked, and he kissed you gently. He fucked you gently. He made every last word and touch and brush of his cock inside you feel as tender as you’d ever felt it before. You came undone in seconds.

‘I love you’ was almost like a refrain between you both.

Joel shortly followed. He groaned against your neck as the pleasure fluttered and pulsed—muttered something about wanting to spill inside, but you both knew better. He withdrew just in time to paint the insides of your thighs, then your ass, then the small of your back.

There was so much. While relishing your own moment of bliss, you couldn’t help but savor the warmth and weight of Joel’s spend coating your skin. It made it feel that much more raw, and primal, and from the look Joel had lowered between your bodies to take in that wet, sticky mess, you could tell he was thinking the same as you.

You weren’t surprised, and didn’t flinch, when he pushed two fingers in your mouth. He still had you up against the dresser, eyes locked on your own reflection, so you saw what he’d wanted you to see. You licked and sucked the cum off his fingers until they were completely clean. A reflexive whine reverberated down those fingers after you’d swallowed, and Joel’s first instinct was to smile.

“You did so good for me, sweet pea,” he praised.

His hand strayed down your front, mapping the skin mindlessly and with that same, sweet grin on his lips. You preened beneath his touch and didn’t want it to end.

Eventually, it had to. You were both drenched in cum and sweat, and as cold as it happened to be outdoors, your activities had managed to kick the heat up more than a few degrees. Joel’s chest and shoulders were glistening.

“Shower?” you murmured, turning around to face him.

Joel hummed in agreement.

He swept his thumb between your thighs one last time before teasing the tip at your lips. You suckled it softly, if not with a drowsy and contented little smile to match his

You showered. You toweled off. You threw on his shirt, Joel slid on his boxers, and you both crawled into bed. Anything beyond snuggling in and sleeping wasn’t high on the list of priorities, as you assumed it was for Tommy and Maria, so you were surprised to hear a noise right after you closed your eyes. It was a knock on the door.

It was Tommy’s. You could tell.

Sensing the same, Joel called out:

“We’re sleepin’, man, c’mon. Go on now.”

You were certain Tommy and Maria could’ve said the same when the two of you had been engaged in your cacophonous fuckfest just fifteen minutes prior, so you stayed quiet. You squeezed Joel’s arm around your waist.

The knocking continued.

This time, it was accompanied by Tommy’s voice.

“Are y’all decent?”

In other words: not naked and going to traumatize him. You were both semi-clothed and under the covers anyway, so you yelled back that, yes, you were.

Tommy walked in. He had his phone to his ear.

Then he held the thing up, where you could dimly make out that the call was on mute, but what alarmed you even more was the contact name on the screen.

Joel leapt into a sitting position just as quickly as you.

You both froze; Tommy gestured as if to say, ‘Relax.’

“Wh— why is my dad calling you?!” you demanded.

You had no idea how the man was staying so calm. This was a bad thing, right? Beside you, Joel seemed to be thinking the same, because he twisted his head toward the window. He craned his neck, as if checking to see if your father might not be parked outside the front door. Your body tensed glancing back at Tommy—he was still holding the phone like it was a prize, or something—and when you saw him smirk a bit, you shot him a wary look.

“What?! What does he want?” you pressed again.

Instead of answering immediately, Tommy moved his thumb over to the ‘unmute’ button, and his grin grew.

“I dunno, why don’t you ask him yourself?” he said.

At the same time, and before Tommy could press that button, you and Joel both shouted at once: “DON’T!”

It almost would’ve been comical if it wasn’t also bone-chillingly horrifying. What the hell was his problem?

As if to press that last question, Joel stood from the bed and stalked over to his brother. Tommy ambled back, still taunting, and held the phone up closer to his face. Right when Joel lunged for it, the nimbler Miller jumped back. Joel blew out a breath and gritted for Tommy to grow the fuck up, would ya? Tommy just smirked and continued the song-and-dance for the cellular device. It didn’t take much for the two to get into a full-blown battle for the thing, and before you knew it, Joel had his brother snagged in a headlock, Tommy was laughing his ass off and telling him the chokehold’s illegal, asshole, and you were a second away from intervening. Fuck this noise.

“Tommy, you’re bein’ a—” you started, sharp.

“Fuckin’ dickhead!” Joel finished for you.

He’d almost wrestled the phone out of Tommy’s grip, when his brother turned and surprised you both again—he threw the phone your way. You shrieked out loud.

Force of habit.

You narrowly caught the phone in your hands.

And, having nearly dropped it at first, your fingers seized at the screen to secure their grasp. Of course, your thumb tapped right on the key you’d been trying to avoid

“Shit,” you cursed reflexively.

“Sweetheart?”

The phone was on speaker.

Across the room, Joel froze in place, and the color drained from him completely. You, too, were stock-still.

“D-Dad?” you stammered.

You half-expected him to shout—‘What on earth are you doin’ home early? And with Tommy?’—and you winced. For a second, you thought your friend might’ve snitched, and you shot him a look, but then your dad was back.

“Hey! Glad Tommy got ahold of ya. He said you caught an early flight back to surprise me. Y’all at the airport?”

You swallowed.

You must’ve said yes, because your father went on.

“Good, good. Keep your bags packed, alright?”

“Why?” You hoped he didn’t hear you falter.

Time was moving too fast. Your heart was no doubt drilling holes in your ribcage by now. Blood rushed and swirled and deafened your ears to all that was going on, but dimly, you could see Joel’s expression across the room. It was pensive, while his brother’s stayed amused.

Tommy knew something you didn’t.

Before you could begin to wonder what that was, your dad’s voice across the line shortly supplied the answer.

It was laid-back, easy, and uncharacteristically excited.

You hadn’t thought you’d ever heard him so eager about anything in his life, but there he went, telling you at once:

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days. 

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse. 

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance. 

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts. 

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.” 

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door. 

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses. 

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death. 

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick. 

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body. 

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him. 

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail. 

“You could say that, yeah.” 

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight. 

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank. 

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees. 

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned. 

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner. 

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to. 

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat. 

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud in your skull.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?” 

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face. 

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat. 

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open. 

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light. 

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse. 

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat. 

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary. 

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile. 

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine. 

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin. 

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.” 

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. 

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.” 

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…” 

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?” 

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin. 

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again. 

“Heavenly…”

 Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.” 

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair. 

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer. 

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.” 

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin. 

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back. 

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you. 

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. Only babbles came out as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly. 

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right. 

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair. 

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan. 

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-” 

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts. 

“Oh, my poor baby.” 

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

 And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin. 

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…” 

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt. 

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs. 

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been. 

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.” 

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

 “Or anywhere, for that matter.”

You step out into the night and onto your front porch, bare feet padding along the worn wooden planks. A slight and welcomed breeze caresses your freshly clean skin, sweat and dirt from a long day of work forgotten down the drain of your shower. You wish the stream of water could’ve rid you of more than just the consequences of living in the Mississippi Delta. With each step you take toward the old porch swing that’s been a permanent fixture throughout your life, you feel the heavy tightness in your chest, the exhaustive haze clouding your mind.

You sigh deeply and close your tired eyes as you sit on the swing, the wood creaking in protest. You’re sure one day it’ll break, catch you off guard and give out under your weight, but thankfully it’s not another thing to add to your list of misfortunes for today. You stretch your legs across the bench of the swing, propping your elbow onto the back to hold up your weary head. With your eyes closed, you try to focus your senses on the late summer night around you. The constant hum of the cicadas mating calls fill your ears, mixing with the familiar symphony of chirping crickets. You feel the warm breeze brush against the bare skin left uncovered by the thin linen nightgown adorning your body. Even then, the nature around you does little to keep your mind from drifting, returning to the events of the day and the feelings that have burrowed themselves and made a home in your chest. 

You feel utterly and truly alone.

It seems like life is constantly reminding you of it. The home and farm you’ve lived your whole life, once filled with life but now only contains memories of your loved ones that are long gone. A home once filled with a vibrant albeit sometimes chaotic family, now only houses a young woman, struggling to find her way in a world that seems to stack the odds against her favor.

As if on cue, you hear a gentle merp from your side, beckoning you to open your tired eyes to see the black ball of fur that is your companion, Jack.

“C’mere, boy.” You coax the feline with a small smile and a pat on your thighs, to which he eagerly obliges, already purring as he jumps onto your lap. He rubs his face and entire body against your belly and chest, marking you with his scent and seeking affection. You gather him into your arms and hold him close, inhaling his familiar scent. The feeling of his warm fur and purrs vibrating throughout his body and into yours provides you with a little bit of the comfort you seek.

“It’s been such a hard day, boy.” You murmur into his fur, your voice cracking along with your walls that struggle to hold back the emotions stewing inside. Your nails gently scratch his head as you close your eyes, feeling them begin to burn with rapidly rising tears. You’re too tired to hold them back, deciding to let them fill your waterline before streaking down your round cheeks and into Jack’s fur, though he doesn’t seem to mind it.

You let yourself sit in it. Tears flowing, mind freely drifting to the small heartaches of the day that built up to become too unbearable. Hateful hearts held behind judgemental gazes, grueling work under an oppressive heat, and a new girl on the arm of a man you thought you’d have it all with. A deep, shaky inhale flows into your lungs, nose sniffling as you gulp in an attempt to swallow some of the emotions down your throat.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Your wet eyes fly open, head shooting up from where it’d been buried in Jack’s fur at the sudden sound of a masculine voice holding a southern twang. The moonlight shines against his back, outlining the strange man’s figure. 

“Ya alright?” His tone is gentle, carrying the undeniable twinge of concern. You sniffle and clear your throat as your eyes take in his figure, fixed on the edge of your front yard and taking cautious steps closer. He wears dark trousers held up by suspenders, fashioned over a clean light blue button up shirt, the top left unbuttoned where you can barely make out the glimmer of a small chain hanging over his chest.

“I’m fine.” You assert, despite the words croaking slightly from your dry throat. You straighten your spine as you watch him skeptically. “Who are you, exactly?” You challenge with narrowed eyes, mentally questioning how quickly you could run into the house and grab the stashed away shotgun if needed. It isn’t often people randomly roam along this gravel road at night, let alone knowing what intentions the ones that do may carry.

“Aw I’m sorry, Darlin’. Where are my manners? I’m Remmick.” The words drip from his tongue like molasses, slow, heavy, and warm. You watch as he raises his hands placatingly, palms facing you. He’s close enough now for the porch light to cast a faint, warm glow over him. Dark strands of hair hang over his forehead, curling at the ends. With a better view of him, you notice he’s quite handsome.

Suddenly, Jack jumps off your lap with a high-pitched, inquisitive meow, scurrying across the porch, down the steps and right to Remmick’s feet. Your lips part, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as you watch your skittish cat rub against the stranger’s legs, meowing and gazing up at him. The very same cat that runs and hides on the rare occasion new people come around.

Remmick looks down at the cat, shadows of the night hiding the smirk on his lips as he watches Jack sniff him, searching for the familiar scent of fish.  No doubt expecting his recurring treat Remmick has been sneaking to him in the dead of night to gain his trust, and eventually yours when he finally decided to make his move on you. 

No fish tonight, boy. Remmick chuckles softly to himself as he bends down to pet the feline on his head. Jack accepts the pets with each, but once he realizes that Remmick has arrived tonight empty handed, he turns away and prances off into the dark. Remmick straightens back up and when his eyes fall to you and take in your surprised expression, a prideful satisfaction fills him. Numerous nights while you slept, he spent gathering small fish, coaxing Jack to come closer and closer until he readily ran up to him, and it paid off. Your shoulders are less tense, your gaze isn’t so harsh, and just as predicted, your defenses have lowered. He’s sure his charms can handle the rest.

Your eyes follow Jack until his body disappears into the dark of the night, then settles back onto the strange but handsome man who seems to be the only person to make an instantaneous friendship with your wary feline. Remmick’s hands have moved to settle in his pockets, his eyes and smile soft and warm as he looks up at you.

“Do ya always wander around in the dark and startle people, Remmick?” You question him with the faintest hint of humor lacing your words, cocking an eyebrow as you cross your arms over your stomach.

“Well that certainly wasn’t my intention, miss. You see, I just moved to the area, down the road a ways. And well, I like walkin’, and I like the night. ‘S quiet, peaceful.” He explains with ease, slowly stepping closer and closer to the porch where you sit. “Just happened to be passin’ by when I noticed ya. You seemed upset… Sure you’re alright, darlin’?” He asks again, concern etched across his face as he leans against the stair railing of your porch.

You can’t recall seeing or hearing about any of your distant neighbors moving, but then again you tend to keep to yourself anyway. Surely you’d just missed any news of a new person in town. You find your body relaxing a bit, easing back against the swing as everything about him seems to disarm you. You shake your head, sharply exhaling through your nostrils, the trails of tears on your cheeks already dried.

“I’m fine. Nothin’ I’d want to burden a stranger with anyway.”

“Well considerin’ we’ve already introduced ourselves, technically speakin’ we’re not quite strangers anymore, are we?” He flashes you a warm and charming smile, noticing the way you’ve already relaxed to his presence so quickly. “Besides, who better to talk to ‘bout yer problems than someone uninvolved, yeah?”

He cocks his head to the side, tempting you to let him in. To divulge your pain and worries to this handsome man you barely know that stumbled onto your property in your time of despair. A brief silence hangs between you as you contemplate the repercussions of such, eyeing him standing at the bottom of the porch steps as his own gaze at you with nothing but tenderness. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at you like that, let alone offered to do something as selfless as listen to your problems.

“May I?” He nods toward the space on the swing that your legs currently occupy, requesting to join you.

You briefly consider him before sighing, wordlessly moving your legs to free a spot for him. He smiles and ascends the porch, his movements confident and at ease as he approaches and sits next to you, making the swing sway back slightly. His arm stretches out to rest along the back of the bench, fingers mere inches from the bare skin of your shoulder. Every nerve ending in your body stands at attention with him now so close, in your space. His scent invades your nostrils, earthy with the faintest hint of cologne that’s faded throughout the day.

“Now, what’s got you so upset, darlin’?” His voice is low and honeyed, you can practically feel it reverberate through his chest and into yours. You shift and let your eyes flutter down to your lap, unsure of how to handle the sudden intensity of his undivided attention. You ponder just how much you should say. While part of you is begging to unburden yourself and release the pent up despair inside of you, the other is wary of revealing too much to a stranger, formality of introductions aside.

“A collection of things over time, really. Buildin’ up. Today was just the cherry on top, I suppose.” You finally answer, glancing back up to catch the way his brows furrow and head leans closer, waiting for more.

More of everything. Of you. Not just the heartaches that plague your mind. Your essence, your joys and sorrows, your pleasure and pain, your soul and entire being. There’s only so much he can learn from observing you these last few weeks. He wants it all. His fingers twitch with resistance, lingering so close to your exposed skin that he’d barely have to move an inch to touch you. To finally be so close to you, within grasp, has his whole body buzzing and coiled tight. He can’t, he won’t squander it.

“I saw my, uh…” You pause, taking a deep inhale as you search for the right words to say. He certainly wasn’t a boyfriend, no, his intentions were far too shallow and brief for such a title. “My ex-lover today. Out around town, with a new girl on his arm.” Prettier. Skinnier. Wealthier. In public. You leave the rest unspoken, the comparisons you’ve made on impulse.

You can’t help but shake your head at yourself, feeling silly for letting a man so unworthy hold power over you. But ever since you saw the new couple together, images from that night a few months ago pass through your head. The private flirtations that led to a meager, unsatisfactory act of sex. The other side of your bed left empty the next morning. The cold shoulder, diverted glances, and radio silence ever since. The unfulfilled promises of something more, of love, of family, of belonging.

“It’s not that I love him or miss him for that matter, it’s just…” Your voice trails off, gaze cast out into the expansive dark openness of the fields around your home, the occasional flicker of a warm yellow glow from lightning bugs catching your eye. It’s a welcomed sight filled with a nostalgic comfort that reminds you of childhood, but does little to dispel the heaviness that’s settled in your chest. 

“Wonderin’ why you weren’t good enough? If you’ll ever have what your heart desires?” He sucks his teeth, shaking his head with a sigh. “That’s a real hurtin’ feeling, darlin’. Yeah…” Your gaze immediately snaps back to his, caught off guard by how truly and easily his words speak to your pain.

“A feelin’ a beautiful woman like you shouldn’t have to hold.” 

“You’re too kind.” You exhale a dismissive scoff, even as the corners of your lips curve up into a smile. He’s merely being kind, chivalrous, responding in the way anyone who’d want to make a good impression would.

But he doesn’t brush it off and move on, he pushes further.

“Naw. I mean it, sugar. You’re beautiful. Ain’t your fault he couldn’t appreciate what was right in front of ‘im.” His voice holds no humor, his eyes intense and serious. You could almost swear there’s a flicker of longing in their dark depths, but you dismiss that too. 

“But I can. I can save you from this pain in your heart, your mind.” He shifts, his upper body leaning closer toward you. 

You go still, surprised by his forwardness and the implications of his words, his body and touch drawing nearer. Your brows furrow, scrunching together in skepticism before a short chuckle slips past your lips.

“Is that so? And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“I can give you what you need. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Acceptance, Love, Fellowship… A family.”

You’re sure you must be dreaming or at the least your sanity has finally cracked. A man you met no more than 10 minutes ago offering you all of your heart’s desires. There’s a little voice in the back of your head telling you that something is off, that this isn’t normal. Danger is creeping in like a dark fog, spreading tendrils reaching out to grasp and pull you in. His presence and words are captivating, damn near intoxicating, and you find yourself caught between needing to run away and lean into him.

“You don’t even know me.” Is all you can muster saying. Pointing out the obvious, glaring flaw to such a proclamation as outlandish as his.

“Oh, but I do. You were callin’ out to me, lurin’ me here. Your soul singin’ a sad, yearnin’ song I know too well. See, I’ve been watchin’ you…” He can’t hold himself back any longer and closes the scant distance between his hand and your body, his thumb brushing over the bare skin of your shoulder and working up toward your neck with a slow, teasing caress. Your breath catches in your throat, his touch awakening every nerve with a warm tingle that cascades down your body.

“I know you better than he ever did,” He spits the word out as if it burns his tongue, flames of jealousy blazing at the thought of another man touching you, let alone not appreciating the gift of it. “better than anyone in this town does.”

“I…I don’t even know you.” Your voice grows less confident and weaker with your resolve as his pull becomes stronger. You wet your lips, gulping down your dry throat, chest rising and falling with each breath that comes heavier.

“We are the same, darlin’. In here.” He lifts his other hand, placing his palm gently over your heart. He feels it pound against his palm, chipping away at his rapidly declining control over himself. “And when we merge as one and come together, you’ll know everything there is to know about me. But for now…” 

His eyes follow the movement of his fingers, trailing from over your heart to the middle of your chest, sliding down the exposed skin of your sternum. He watches with satisfaction as goosebumps rise along your skin in the trail of his touch, the way your breaths hitch and quicken. “I’m from another place and another time. Everything I’ve done, everywhere I’ve been, it’s led me here… to you.”

His hand falls to your knee, creeping up the bare skin of your thick thighs left uncovered by your nightgown. Finally feeling your warm, plush flesh beneath his hand hits him like a wave, his eyes momentarily fluttering shut with a choked, muffled groan. You feel his soft grip, his fingers growing longer around your flesh as he loses his last bit of restraint, nails like claws subtly digging into your skin. When he opens his eyes to meet yours, they’re no longer dark from the shadows of the night, but glowing red.

You suck in a breath that catches in your throat at the sight of his mask finally slipping. He is no man, but a creature of some sort. A creature that’s looking at you as if it wants to devour you and savor every bite. 

And you just might let him.

“What do ya say, sugar? You gon’ let me make ya mine?” You spot the sharp ends of fangs peek out from behind his lips as he murmurs the question, drool slipping past them and down his chin. His fingers squeeze into the meat of your thigh, massaging the flesh and slowly creeping higher. The unmistakable feeling of arousal courses through your body, pulsing between your thighs that you can’t stop yourself from parting slightly.

That little voice in the back of your head warning you of danger begins to fade until it’s completely snuffed out, overtaken by longing and desire. Maybe if you weren’t so tired, if you weren’t so lonely and teetering on the edge of hopelessness, you’d have the right mind to listen to that voice. To be frightened and run into the safety of your home screaming. To feel shame for the way your body is responding to him. To see this as a trap, as a serpent tempting you with forbidden fruit. 

But you’re just reckless enough not to care, and he knows it. After all, what do you have left to lose… except your soul.

Your eyes lock onto the drool dripping down his chin and your own mouth salivates at the sight. You don’t answer him with words, but with your body as you lean closer toward him to close the distance. He closes his eyes expecting for his lips to meet yours, only to press against your cheek. Your tongue darts out, slowly dragging up his chin to the corner of his mouth, collecting the drool on your tongue and swallowing it deep.

You feel a shudder run through his body, a rumbling groan that almost sounds like a whimper escaping his parted lips. He turns his head toward you, red eyes smoldering with unbridled desire. A beat passes before his hand moves from your shoulder to thread his claws into your hair at the base of your skull and his lips crash against yours in a hungry, demanding kiss. His mouth muffles your soft gasp, but you return the kiss with equal desire. Your hands reach out and grasp onto him, fisting the fabric of his shirt and holding onto his neck.

He hitches your leg over his, spreading your thighs wide as his tongue parts your lips, delving in to explore the depths of your mouth. Your moans as your tongue meets his pushes him farther, hand sliding higher up your high to feel the heat radiating off your core. Your tongues lick and lap at each other, swirling around in feverish, filthy dance. Your hips buck with a whimper when his hand slides beneath your gown to cup your bare, wet heat. A growl rumbles in his chest, a single digit gliding through and parting your wet folds before settling on your clit.

“So wet for me already, baby.” He rasps against your lips with the subtlest hint of condescension in his tone, but it only makes your pussy throb and clench, squeezing around nothing and aching to be filled. The rough pad of his finger begins to circle your clit slowly, working you up even more with every pass over the sensitive nub.

He revels in the way your body responds to him so eagerly, the way your hips chase his touch, coaxing him to press harder and move faster, the way your pussy grows slicker with each passing second, coating his claws in your arousal. His mouth eagerly swallows every moan and whimper his touch pulls from you, every pretty, wrecked sound making his cock grow harder and strain against his pants. 

Remmick pulls his lips from yours, needing to taste and explore more of you, needing to hear your moans unstifled from his mouth. Your name escapes his lips like a desperate prayer as his lips move along your jawline, pressing a trail of open mouthed kisses toward the tender skin of your neck.

His tongue slips out to lick a long stripe from the base of your neck to your ear that sends a shiver down your spine, making it arch and pressing your chest harder against his. Your body trembles against him, head swimming with the pleasure of his mouth and fingers working you with ease. 

“Invite me inside, darlin’. Need to worship you proper.” His voice is utterly wrecked and desperate as he practically begs for entry, his breath fanning against your neck with heavy pants. He could take you right here and now on the porch, but he wants to do this right. To worship every inch of you, to pull every bit of pleasure he can from your body in the comfort of your bed. That, and he needs to hear you verbalize what your body is already telling him, that you need him.

You nod eagerly without hesitation, your ears barely registering the creaking protests of the worn wooden swing with every grind of your pussy against his fingers. Surely it wouldn’t survive if things moved farther.

“Yes, Remmick. Come inside.” Your voice is a wavering, pathetic plea, but you’re already too far gone to care. 

He wastes no time in scooping you into his arms and rising to his feet, encouraging your legs to wrap around his waist. You gasp at the ease and speed at which he lifts and carries you with an unexpected strength, sending a thrill through you. His shoes thump along the wooden planks of the porch, swinging the screen door open to freely step inside your home and hearing it slam shut behind you. All the while his mouth never leaves your neck, kissing and sucking, marking the sensitive skin as his. His sharp teeth grazes you almost teasingly, but never digs in hard enough to break skin. Not yet.

Remmick moves throughout your home, following the path to the bedroom as if he’s done it numerous times before. He knows where it is, he’s spent enough nights peering through your window to admire your sleeping form, fantasizing about all the things he’s about to do to you. Remmick lets your bodies fall onto the bed, his own pinning yours down against the sheets as his mouth finds yours again, lips and tongues clashing in a sloppy, wet kiss fueled by uninhibited desire.

You can feel the hard outline of his cock pressed firmly against your core, rocking your hips to seek friction, rubbing your slick folds against his straining bulge. His hands work their way up your thighs, claws catching on your gown as they glide over your curves. His touch is reverent, savoring the feeling of you beneath him and memorizing every inch.

He pulls away from your lips with a groan, chest heaving with ragged breaths as he sits up and takes a moment to admire your disheveled state beneath him. Warm and flushed skin, kiss swollen lips, the marks that are already forming on your neck, the outline of your hard nipples. His eyes rake down your body, hands caressing your thighs before grabbing onto the hem of your gown.

“Gotta taste you, sugar.” His voice is husky and strained through heavy breaths, red eyes locked onto your core as he pushes your dress up. The sight of your soaked folds draws a choked moan from his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips, more drool pooling in his mouth. His hands continue to push your gown up, revealing more and more of your skin. Just as the fabric begins to push over the soft swell of your belly, a wave of shyness crashes over you and your hands grab onto his, stalling his movements.

“Wait-” You blurt out breathlessly, a confusing mix of nervousness and arousal coursing through you. Past experiences and hurt from others come to the forefront of your mind, clouding your judgement even farther. Assuming this man, creature, whatever he is- that has pursued you so diligently could be dismayed by your bare body.

“Naw, baby…” He shakes his head side to side as his eyes flash up to yours, his gaze intense and eyes glowing in the full moonlight shining into the bedroom. “Don’t hide from me.” 

He looks back down to where your hands have stilled his over your hips and pushes past them, continuing to expose more and more of your naked form. You watch, captivated as his body sinks between your parted legs, stretching out across the length of the bed. His eyes flutter closed and his lips follow the path of his hands, kissing and licking your newly exposed skin.

“You’re a goddess…” His voice rumbles, muffled by your flesh as he kisses the stretch marks etched onto your stomach. You let out a sharp, shuddering exhale, overwhelmed by such attention and praise toward your ‘flaws’. His tongue drags along your sternum, your nipples perking as he exposes them to the light breeze filtering through the open window. His eyes flutter open to meet yours, half-lidded, “Told you I was gon’ worship ya, and I meant it.”

His mouth latches onto one of your nipples with a nearly pathetic, whimpering exhale, tongue lapping at the hard nub as he suckles onto it. The stimulation makes your back arch off the bed, gasping “Ohhh!” as your fingers thread into his hair. He lavishes your nipples with attention, flicking his tongue, swirling it around and sucking hard, sending sparks of pleasure through your body and down to your pussy, making your clit throb with need. You force your eyes open to look down and watch as he feasts on your flesh, the sight alone almost as arousing as the physical pleasure he’s bringing you.

Remmick’s glowing red eyes flicker open to lock onto yours and he bares his mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth. You gasp, grip tightening on his hair as his teeth close in around your pebbled nipple, biting just gently enough to tease you. You should be repulsed and frightened by the sight, but you only feel a sick thrill from the sight and your folds grow slicker. A low chuckle rumbles from his throat at your reaction, taking joy in the effect he has on you before he soothes the sting with his tongue and moves to give the same attention to your other breast. 

“Feels so good!” You whimper as a shudder runs through your body, thick thighs tightening around his hips. The sweet sounds he’s pulling from you chips away at his patience, making him needier for more. He pulls away from your breast with a wet pop and a grunt. His saliva covers your nipples, making them harden as the night air turns cool against the sensitive skin.

He begins to descend down your body with a trail of open mouthed kisses, hurried and desperate until his face hovers above your core. One claw slides up the back of your thigh, hooking around the back of your knee and pushing it back toward the bed. A thick rope of drool slips past his bottom lip as he watches your soaking wet folds part for him, the needy way your entrance clenches around nothing and he sees you’re just as desperate for him.

“So wet and ready for me… so perfect.” He rasps, low and ragged before he dives in, his tongue flat as it slowly licks up through your pussy, collecting your essence on his tongue.

“Fuck!” You gasp softly, back arching with a flick of his tongue against your clit. His tongue curls, diving into your fluttering hole. He’s messy and hungry, burying his face into your cunt like a man on a mission, lapping up every drop of your juices.

You expect him to just give you a few chaste licks before moving on and shoving himself inside you, but it’s clear he’s not going anywhere just yet. His arms slide under your legs and clasp over your stomach, holding you against the mattress as he eats your pussy like a starving man digging into a full feast laid out before him.

“Oh… this is the closest I’ll ever be to the gods. Right here between your thighs, darlin’.” He murmurs against you, guttural and strained. His tongue moves from your entrance to focus on your sensitive clit, alternating between circling and flicking his tongue against it. He watches the way you react, the way your thick thighs begin to close in around his head, the way your hips jerk when he sucks the bud between his lips.

“Remmick… fuck, yes!” You cry out as his cheeks hollow with a hard suck, your thighs trembling, toes curling, and fingers tightening their grip on his hair. The sounds of his slurping and suckling meet your ears as the spikes of ecstasy radiate throughout your body. You never knew a man’s mouth could feel this good, could fill you with so much bliss that you can’t focus on anything else but him, devouring you as if he knows your pussy better than you do.

Your hips rock against his mouth as he sucks and licks, chasing the rapidly building pleasure in your core. Remmick’s hands slide up your stomach to find your breasts, long claws tweaking and tugging your nipples, sending another wave of pleasure through your body. 

“Oh god.- ’m gonna cum!” You whine as you feel yourself barreling toward the edge, your breaths coming in short and fast. You’re a writhing mess beneath him as he rocks his own hips to seek friction, grinding his clothed erection against the mattress, precum staining his pants. He only answers you with a groan that vibrates through your core, too focused on sending you to your climax to even dare speak. 

Your body begins to tighten and tense, your grip on his hair stinging as you reach your climax before it crashes over you like a tidal wave. A string of high-pitched moans fall from your parted lips, your limbs shaking as ecstasy courses through you, your hips stuttering and jerking against his mouth that doesn’t let up in its assault on your tender clit. He moans against you, watching as you come undone because of him with a deep satisfaction. Your juices begin to soak his chin and as your body starts to relax from the intense climax, his tongue slides down to lap it up eagerly like a reward, like melting soft serve dripping down an ice cream cone.

“You… are… perfect.” He declares through a hoarse and strained voice, drunk off your essence and body, but the look in his glowing eyes and the way he sits up to rip off his clothes tells you he’s nowhere near satiated. 

Your half-lidded eyes follow his movements, the suspenders falling from his shoulders, the claws that rip open his shirt, buttons carelessly flying across the wooden floor, his belt quickly following. You try to keep up, pulling your gown that’s bunched up near your neck over your head and discarded onto the floor before he is back on you.

Remmick’s mouth crashes onto yours, tongue delving in and forcing you to taste yourself from him, and god does it turn you on. The waning bliss from your orgasm rekindles into arousal, still yearning for more of him, all that he’ll give you, more of the same pleasure no other man has been able to draw from your willing body.

He pushes his pants down past his hips, kicking them off before his arms slide underneath you, hands wrapping around your waist. Without parting from your lips, he hoists you into the air and flips you over with a speed that knocks the air from your lungs. When your mind catches up, you realize you’ve switched places and recognize the feeling of his bare cock nestled between your folds. A shiver of anticipation travels down your spine, coaxing your hips to rock back and forth.

A breathy gasp slips past your lips as his tip rubs against your clit, still sensitive from your orgasm. Your hands fall to Remmick’s chest to support yourself as his rub up and down your sides, kneading the supple flesh along your thighs, hips and ass. His sharp teeth dig into his bottom lip, eyes locked on the way his cock slides through your slick lips.

“Go on and ride me, sugar. Want you to take it all out on me.” The glowing red orbs finally meet yours as his hands settle on your hips, grip tightening slightly and long nails digging into the meat of your ass. He doesn’t need to elaborate or explain, you understand instantly and it makes your heart flutter in your chest. All the pain and sorrow that’s plagued your days, he wants to be your method of release and freedom from it all. “Take what you need from me.” He adds on breathily, nodding in encouragement as his own hips rock up against you, leaking tip nudging against your sore bundle of nerves again.

You move one of your hands from his chest, sliding down his body to wrap around his cock, slick with your juices and his pre-cum. He’s thick and girthy, long enough to kiss your cervix when it’s buried deep and your pussy clenches in anticipation. You lift your hips off his enough to stand his cock up below you and line his tip with your entrance.

You inhale sharply, eyes closing and mouth falling open as you slowly sink down onto him, his swollen tip breaching your entrance. He grits his sharp teeth, sucking in a shaky breath through them. His head falls back against the pillow and a long, drawn out groan lifts from his throat as you sink further down onto him, inch by painstaking inch. He feels your warm, wet walls fluttering and squeezing around his thick girth and it takes everything in him not to thrust up and fully sheath himself inside you.

But you’re soaking up every second of it, giving your cunt the time to adjust and take him in. Your walls throb with a delicious ache as they stretch around him, accommodating his size. It makes you feel like it’s your first time all over again, but so so much better.

“So big-” you whimper breathlessly, hands gripping onto his chest.

“That’s it. Take it all, baby.” His raspy praise hits your ears like smooth honey as you fully seat yourself on him, hips flush against each other and his cock buried deep.

You take a moment to adjust to the feeling of him stretching you so full before you begin to rock your hips back and forth, grinding on his cock.

“Oh… Oohhh, yes!” You cry out softly, letting your head fall back. Your hips move on their own accord, chasing the building pleasure in your core. His hands remain on your hips, guiding you as you ride him, the patch of hair at the base rubbing deliciously against your clit.

Remmick struggles to keep his eyes open as you lose yourself, but he fights the urge to close them completely. The sight of you on top of him, filthy sounds falling from your open mouth, tits bouncing with each roll of your hips, lost in bliss from his cock, is far too good to miss.

“Shit, look at you. That’s my girl.” He pants, watching you with a mix of awe and hunger. His fingers dig into the fat of your ass, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip as he rocks his own hips up to meet the roll of yours- urging more pretty moans to fall from your lips, losing himself in the feel of your gummy walls wrapped around him so tight.

His praise only encourages your movements, rolling and rocking your hips harder and faster. The bed begins to squeak beneath you, nails gently digging into the flesh of his chest. In the chase of your high, you shift off of your knees and to your feet in a squat, earning a strangled groan from Remmick. The change makes your walls grip him even tighter, and eases your movements as you begin to bounce on his shaft.

Your palms are flat against his chest to support yourself, breasts bouncing, and your ass smacking against his heavy balls. The feeling of his cock gliding through your walls is heavenly, knocking the air from your lungs with each thrust.

“Fuuuuck… love the way you ride me, baby.” Remmick groans deeply, his southern accent faltering slightly to introduce an unfamiliar melodic tilt, his native Irish brogue breaking though as he succumbs to the overwhelming pleasure of your body. His thick neck flexes as his head falls back against the pillow, lips parting to release short pants and moans, sharp teeth glimmering in the moonlight.

He’s losing his grip on himself, pleasure rapidly building in his balls with each bounce. You just feel too goddamn good, making him feel the best he’s felt in centuries.

So soft. So warm. So wet. So tight.

“Shit. Stop, sugar…Stop.” He mutters through clenching teeth, the sound nearly pathetic. His grip tightens almost painfully on your hips, stilling your movements.

Your heart drops as a wave of insecurity flashes through your mind. Were you not doing a good job? Did you do something wrong? That is until you look down at him and his tense state. The veins in his neck protrude and pulse, shaky deep inhales through his nostrils. With pleasure still buzzing inside you, your walls squeeze around him unintentionally, drawing a rough whimper from his throat.

“Don’t do that.” He begs with a rasp, low and breathy, his grip tightening even more as if he could stop the sensation. A slow grin begins to spread across your lips and you squeeze around him again, soaking up his reaction. His eyes squeeze shut tighter and a short grunt passes through his clenched teeth.

“Why not, baby? Don’t you like it?” Your voice is teasing, sickly sweet honey dripping over him. He growls in response, but it’s weak, not holding the threatening power it usually would. A thrill buzzes up your spine, power and confidence thrumming through your bones. To have such power over this man, this creature, for your pussy to reduce him to a pathetic mess begging not to bust too quickly. You could oblige him, give him a breather to collect himself to last a little longer, but where’s the fun in that?

You don’t hold back as you continue to squeeze him, warm and wet walls pulsing rhythmically around his thick girth like a heartbeat, your pussy trying to milk him for all he’s worth. He flinches and tenses, lips parting and mouth falling open with a strangled call of your name before a drawn out groan as he climaxes. You moan in return, feeling Remmick’s cum explode and fill you up, leaking out to mix with your own slick at the base of his cock.

You observe him with satisfaction as his climax flows through his body, the changes in his expression, the heaving of his chest, those beautiful sounds from his lips that make you pulse around him once more. Your teeth sink into the fat of your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stifle your wide, shit-eating grin, but as Remmick’s breathing evens out and his eyes slowly flutter open, he sees it. His brows furrow, claws digging into the flesh of your ass as something like determination builds in his chest.

“Think that’s funny, do ye?” He questions with a heavy exhale, Irish accent flowing through as his eyes squint, studying you.

“Not at all. I found it quite cute, actually.” You retort, giddy energy pulsing through your body as your hands caress over his bare chest reassuringly.

“Cute, aye?” He cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. You can’t help but giggle innocently in response, drawing a rumble from his throat. “Oh, you’re goin’ get it now.”

His threat sends a tingling shiver down your spine, turning into heat at the base that spreads through your core. He pulls a hand away from your ass before it lands back down onto the flesh with a resounding smack, a sting spreading across the tender skin. A choked moan bursts from your throat as the pain mingles with pleasure, his hand rubbing and soothing reddening skin.

He shifts, maneuvering your body with a dizzying speed and strength, pushing you off of him and onto the mattress on all fours. Behind you, both of Remmick’s hands grip the meat of your ass, kneading and groping the flesh as his still erect cock rests between your spread cheeks.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout having you like this for a long time, darlin’. Bent over, this perfect ass in the air, achin’ for me.” Another resounding smack punctuates his words, making your body jerk before you push yourself back against him, willing and eager for all that he’ll give you. His eyes are fixed to the way your flesh jiggles with the smack, one hand continuing its caress while the other smooths up your spine, guiding you to arch into him.

Remmick’s hand leaves your ass to wrap around the base of his cock. He pulls back enough to see the way his cum drips from your cunt. His tip nudges your clit before slowly sliding through your folds, collecting his seed to stuff back into your pussy with a hard thrust. You exhale a high-pitched moan, your chest pressing down against the mattress and fingers curling to grip onto the sheets. Your pussy missed the full, stretched feeling of him in the short time of absence, gummy walls eagerly welcoming him back in with a warm grip.

His thrusts start slow and deep, tip nudging your cervix before he pulls out to push back in again. You feel his lips along your spine, pressing a trail of reverent kisses up your shoulder. His bare chest presses against your back, breath fanning over your ear, hand sliding to softly wrap around your throat in a possessive motion. His speed picks up and hips shift to angle his cock, hitting an undiscovered spot along your walls that makes you gasp and cry out, an intense pleasure blooming and radiating throughout your core.

“Oh god, yes!” A choked moan rises from your throat, eyes rolling to the back of your head, nails scratching against the cotton sheets.

“Yeah… Not so smug now are ye?” He taunts through heavy breaths, lips pressed against the shell of your ear. “Fuck, this pussy was made for my cock.”

Goosebumps spread all over your skin with his words, everything about him taking over your senses and making your head swim. His teasing yet praising words, his skin against yours, his southern twang mixing with an Irish brogue, his long thick cock plunging into your throbbing walls relentlessly.

One claw remains wrapped around your throat as Remmick leans back to get a better view of you. He moans at the sight of your ass jiggling and bouncing off his hips, the feeling of his heavy balls slapping against your wet folds. His eyes zero in on your puckered hole presented so eagerly to him. He bites his bottom lip as a grin spreads across them, sliding his free hand down your back until it rests on the jiggling flesh of your ass. His pad of his thumb brushes over the puckered, unused hole before pressing against it firmly, rubbing circles into it.

“Remmick!” The action earns a gasp and wrecked whimper from your lips, your pussy gripping him tight. You have a white knuckle grip on the sheets below you, the foreign sensations and newfound pleasures are almost too much to bear. 

Remmick groans at the feeling of you gripping him even tighter before letting out a low, amused chuckle. “Oh, you like that, don’t chu? Filthy girl.” He chastises teasingly, continuing to thrust against the spongy spot in your walls and prod your tight little asshole. 

“Oh fuck, yes! Yes!” A string of unrestrained and desperate cries of pleasure fall from your parted lips, tears beginning to prick the corners of your eyes. A symphony of filthy sounds fill the bedroom and your ears; your combined moans, the headboard repeatedly hitting the wall, the wet slapping of your flesh.

“Mmm, you gonna cum for me, baby? Give it to me.” Remmick demands, after already making you cum on his tongue he needs to feel you unravel on his cock like his lungs need air. 

The building pressure in your core erupts into an intense wave of pure ecstasy, hitting you like a freight train. A choked scream rises from your throat and your body tenses, jerking and trembling as you ride out your climax. Remmick watches as your pussy gushes around him, walls squeezing him with a vice grip and juices squirting against the base of his cock, dripping down his balls and onto the sheets below. He moans at the sight and feeling of you coming undone, reaching new heights of pleasure because of him. He swears he’s never seen anything more erotic or beautiful in his life.

Remmick releases his hold on your throat, letting your head fall and slump against the mattress. His hand soothes up and down your back as the last waves of your orgasm begin to fizzle out, leaving your body limp and panting heavily. “Good girl.” He praises with a soft whisper, earning a faint whimper from you. He slowly pulls his drenched cock from your pussy, marveling at the mess you’ve made. 

Gently, he grabs your hip and rolls you onto your back to face him. Your eyes are closed, a small blissful smile on your lips, and your chest rises and falls with each attempt to catch your breath. He leans over you from between your thighs, kissing along your jawline before his lips meet yours. You sigh happily, kissing him back slow and deep. It’s not rushed and full of hunger like earlier. Though a hunger still remains, this kiss feels more affectionate and sensual. Your fingers thread into his messy hair as your tongues swirl lazily.

Remmick presses a deep kiss against your lips before he pulls back, just enough to let his eyes soak in your features. “You look so beautiful like this… all drunk on my cock.”

Your soft giggle turns into a breathy sigh as his lips return to your skin, kissing along the other side of your jaw and down to your neck. He can feel the blood coursing through your veins, the pulsing of your heartbeat against his lips.

“But I ain’t done with ya yet.” His voice grows deeper, rumbling against your throat. His still hard and throbbing cock slides through your soaking folds, making your hips jerk slightly and reigniting the fire of desire in your core. “Think you can give me one more? Just one more, baby.”

You whimper softly in response. You know he’s not really asking, he’s telling you. Even if you don’t think you can, you don’t doubt he has the power to pull another earth-shattering orgasm from your cunt. He’s already done what no other man could, giving you more intense orgasms than you’ve even been able to give yourself. But he needs to hear you say it, needs to hear how wrecked he’s already made you and the desperation for more in your voice.

“Okay.” You nod weakly, gulping as you feel his tongue and teeth pressing against your neck. Your voice is soft and breathy, strained from the sounds he’s already pulled from you. “Yes. Please.” 

Remmick groans in approval, inhaling your scent and the ever so tempting allure of your blood with a shudder. His dick slides through your combined juices once more, soaking up your little gasps as he rubs against your bundle of nerves. He notches the tip at your entrance before sinking himself to the hilt with a deep groan. The way your body responds to him, opens up and welcomes him so eagerly, wraps around him so snuggly, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave the bliss of your touch.

“So good for me…” He purrs against your ear, thrusting with long and deep strokes. Your hands travel to his back, gripping onto the sweat slick skin as your walls flutter and tingle around him. Thick thighs wrapped around his hips, you hook your ankles together over his ass, encouraging him to go as deep as he can. You know you’ll always crave this, that you’ll never get enough of him stretching your walls to the brink, of fucking you so deep and hard you swear you can feel him in your guts.

“This pussy belongs to me.” Remmick rasps as he picks up the pace, pistoning into you harder and faster. “All mine.” His breath tickles your ear, his possessive words making your cunt squeeze around him in agreement.

“All yours.” You echo his sentiment with a moan, stating what you both already know to be true.

Your words align with what your body has already told him, spurring on his desire to feel you unravel beneath him once more. 

“Forever.”

A claw gently scratches down your chest and stomach to where your bodies are joined. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him over and over again is a filthy sound, making his cock throb inside you. The rough pad of his thumb finds your clit as his palm presses down on the fat of your mons, forcing his shaft to rub against your g spot with every stroke.

“Ohhh, fuck! Remmick!” You let out a shuddering cry at the feeling, your walls clenching around him from the added stimulation. The sensations are overwhelming, almost cruel, and he grunts at the feeling of your nails digging into his back. He wants your marks on his skin, just as his will soon decorate yours.

“Goddamn… ‘m gonna breed this perfect little pussy. Yer gonna be leakin’ me for days.” He can already feel you teetering on the edge, the pressure in his heavy balls rising as they smack against your ass. “Would you like that, baby? Tell me.” He demands breathlessly as he free hand grips onto the sheets by your head, claws digging in and starting to tear the fabric.

“Fuck, yes! Please. Please. I need it!” You beg through whimpers and cries of pleasure as you feel yourself beginning to lose your grip, his thumb circling your clit and cock abusing your spongy spot sends you barreling toward the edge of bliss.

Remmick feels the telltale signs of your climax approaching, your body beginning to tense and tremble, the grip of your hands and legs tightening around him. Just as a strained sob leaves your throat and your juices begin to flood his cock, he growls. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he bares his sharp, jagged teeth and sinks them into the tender flesh of your neck. A guttural moan rumbles in his chest as your warm, coppery blood fills his mouth. His eyes roll back at the taste, at his full consumption of you. He doesn’t bite with the intent to kill and turn you, not yet, he just needs a taste. For now.

Your back arches off the bed as his teeth sink into you, making your orgasm crash over you like a tidal wave. A choked scream is ripped from your throat, but it’s not a scream of fear or pain, but of ecstasy as the feeling of his teeth and mouth sucking your blood mingles with pure, unbridled ecstasy. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving red lines along his pale skin.

He stills his thrusts, holding his dick as deep inside you as he can go. Your cunt clamps down and spasms wildly around his shaft, gripping almost painfully and milking him for more of his seed to fill and seep into your womb. A deep moan of absolute rapture leaves your lips as you feel the warmth of his cum explode inside you. Your vision blurs and is overtaken with stars as a dull ringing fills your ears, drowning out the sounds around you.

You’re so out of it and lost in the throes of pleasure that you don’t register when his teeth leave your neck, tongue gliding over and soothing your new wound, licking up the last drops of blood.

“We were meant to find each other, darlin’.” He groans reverently against your neck, panting heavily as the last waves of his climax pass through his body and throbbing cock. The feeling of his lips peppering your skin with kisses begins to pull you from the haze in your swimming head. Your heart pounds against your chest and your tired eyes flutter open to peer at him.

Remmick presses a soft but passionate kiss to your lips, the taste of your blood seeping onto your tongue. He’s unable to remember the last time he’s felt this content, this right. The weight and pain of his own past and loneliness no longer weighs so heavily on his shoulders. 

When your lips part, he sighs deeply as his eyes memorize every feature of your face, fingers brushing away the sweat slick strands of hair clinging to your skin.

"What are you doing?" Oblivious, Bobby stumbles, like he's trying to stop dancing, but Rhett's still hauling him along, determined to keep dancing to the faint beat of music leaking through the walls of the bar.

"Nothin'," you hum. Your calculated kiss on the cheek misses, landing somewhere on his jaw instead. Rhett gets him behind the ear. You lay another close to his nose. He stumbles again, chest bumping into yours, but he can only fall so far before Rhett reels him back in by his belt loops.

And Bobby giggles. "Quit that!"

"We ain't doin' nothin'," Rhett hums, biting at an exposed collarbone. Even with the flannel nearly buttoned all the way up, this old flannel of his is so damn big on Bobby's frame. The difference in their shoulders never occurred to you until Bob started swimming in this ratty old thing, tattered sleeves, two missing buttons, and a nearly ripped sleeve, courtesy of a bull's horn.

"Oh my god," heat reddens Bobby's cheeks; if life were a cartoon, his glasses would be fogged by now. But he's all real, and the most he can do is lurch to the left, trying to unwedge himself from between you and Rhett. "Let's just go inside."

The corners of Rhett's eyes crinkle, grinning. "Y' gonna go 'n dance for us, Flyboy?"

You nodded quickly, trying to absorb every word and committing them to memory with the panicked focus of someone who absolutely did not want to mess this up.

She paused before heading toward the elevator, shifting her weight with a soft, maternal groan. Her eyes softened as they swept over you. “Buena suerte, cariño,” she said, her voice warm and kind.

“Gracias,” you replied in your quietest voice, the syllables soft and careful on your tongue. She smiled, gave you a wink, and disappeared down the hall.

You took a breath. Then another.

Your new desk sat tucked into the corner, a little nest of organized chaos—files stacked neatly, a potted plant that had seen better days, and a phone that had already rung twice before you figured out how to transfer calls. You were seated there, chewing nervously on the edge of your pen, furiously typing something you hoped was formatted correctly, when a low voice startled you out of your focus.

“Afternoon.”

You gasped and nearly knocked over your water, your wide eyes darting up to find a man standing by your desk—tall, with a calm smile and a gentle glint in his blue eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, tie loosened just enough to make him look like he’d had a long day, but still cared.

“Shit—sorry,” he said quickly, hands raised a little in apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blinked, heart pounding, already flustered. “Sorry—I, I didn’t see you coming.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and easy. “You’re new, right?”

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. First day. Is it that obvious?” you asked, trying to smile through your nerves.

“Not at all,” he said, with a warmth that made your cheeks flush. “You’re doing great.”

Your eyes dropped to the stack of papers in his hands—typed reports, some of them dog-eared, all of them marked with red pen. “Do you need those photocopied?” you asked quickly, already half-rising from your seat, desperate to be useful.

He glanced at the stack, then at you, like he hadn’t expected you to offer. “Would you? That’d be real helpful.”

You nodded, carefully taking them from his hands like they were precious. His fingers brushed yours for a moment—warm, calloused—and it sent a weird little buzz down your spine.

“I’m Steve,” he added, smiling down at you. “If anyone gives you trouble around here, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

You flushed again, muttered a soft “thank you,” and he gave you a nod before stepping back toward the hallway. You watched him go, then glanced down at the reports.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The day had dragged on in the way only long, hot days in Bogotá could—the kind that left a sheen of sweat clinging to your collarbones, your blouse stuck to your back, and your legs aching from running errands across the office like a girl with something to prove. Phones rang, the typewriters clacked with relentless rhythm, and you’d barely had time to sip your lukewarm coffee, let alone catch your breath.

Now, with the sun beginning to dip low outside the hazy windows and your shift nearly over, you were at the filing cabinet, quietly humming to yourself as your fingers skimmed over manila folders—searching, focused, tired.

And then—you heard it.

A low whistle behind you, smooth and deliberate.

You turned, startled, your heart skipping before your eyes even landed on him.

He was leaning against the doorframe like he was born to do it—one arm hooked just above his head, the other resting casually at his hip, thumb tucked into the waistband of jeans worn soft at the edges. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, the light cotton clinging to the heat-slicked curve of his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he couldn’t be bothered with formalities, like formality had never once tamed him. The ceiling fan above him turned lazily, lifting the edges of his dark, slightly mussed hair, and a cigarette sat tucked behind his ear.

No tie. No badge in sight. Just the lazy drape of his frame against the door and that impossible calm in his posture—as if nothing in the world could rattle him, but you just might.

His gaze found you instantly, dragging slowly over your frame in a way that made your throat tighten, like he was memorizing the way the light hit your cheek, the soft mess of your hair pulled up from a long day.

“Didn’t know angels came with filing cabinets,” he drawled, voice low and honeyed, like he said things just to see how they'd sound curling out of his mouth.

You blinked, caught off guard, your cheeks already heating like a match had been struck under your skin. The folder in your hand wobbled slightly in your grasp.

He stepped into the room with the kind of ease most men faked—every movement loose and casual, but still impossibly confident. The cigarette stayed tucked behind his ear as he sauntered closer, boots heavy on the floor, his eyes never leaving your face.

“You always this shy, mami?” he murmured, stopping just a foot away, his voice dipped in curiosity and just enough tease to make your stomach flip. The way he said it wasn’t mocking—it was gentle, almost sweet, like he’d stumbled across something delicate in the middle of all this noise and didn’t know whether to pocket it or leave it untouched.

You tightened your grip on the folder like it might anchor you to the floor. “I’m not shy,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

He chuckled—a soft, amused sound that made your spine tingle.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, voice low, something amused dancing behind his eyes. “You blush easy, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to say anything more without squeaking.

His eyes flicked to the way you fidgeted, and his smile shifted—still playful, but a little warmer now. He reached out slowly, not abrupt or showy, and took your hand in his like it was the most natural thing in the world. You froze as he lifted it, turned your wrist slightly, and brought your knuckles to his lips.

“I’m Javi,” he said simply, brushing a kiss over your skin like it was a greeting he gave everyone, though something in the way he lingered—barely a second longer than necessary—told you maybe it wasn’t.

Your breath caught. “Oh,” you whispered. “Javier Peña?”

His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise—and something smug behind it. Like he wasn’t used to people saying his full name so softly. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at the way you were looking at him now, half entranced, half terrified, all butterflies.

“In the flesh,” he murmured, his voice dipping even lower, smooth as aged whiskey and just as dangerous.

Then, after a beat, his head tilted slightly, dark eyes scanning your face with slow interest. “No te he visto antes,” he said, the Spanish rolling easily off his tongue, like smoke curling in the summer air. I haven’t seen you around before.

Your lips parted, a soft little sound escaping before you could catch it. Your face grew warm—warmer, somehow—and you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers suddenly clumsy.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know Spanish. Not yet. I’m… I’m trying to learn.”

His mouth curved again, but this time, it was softer. Not a smirk. Something quieter. Something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

“Don’t apologize, cariño,” he said, the word slipping out with so much casual affection it made your knees go a little weak.

Your brows lifted—almost instinctively, like your heart was reaching for understanding before your head could.

He leaned in just slightly, close enough that the scent of his cologne wrapped around you—warm leather, smoke, and something unnameably him.

“Cariño,” he repeated, his voice velvet-smooth, “means darling.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your throat tightening like a ribbon being pulled gently.

“Oh,” you said, blinking up at him, your lips curving in shy surprise.

He took one step closer, and you didn’t move away—not because you weren’t nervous, but because something about him made it feel like gravity had shifted in the room and you were being pulled toward him, whether you liked it or not.

“If you’re serious about learning,” he said, tone suddenly low and conspiratorial, like a secret passed between friends—or something more, “I could teach you.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, heart hammering, words tangled in your throat. He was so close. So confident. So intentional. And you were just… a girl with sweaty palms and a head full of butterflies.

“I—um… I mean, if you want to,” you managed, instantly wanting to crawl into the filing cabinet and shut the drawer.

He chuckled, low and rich. “I offered, didn’t I?”

Your mouth opened again, but he was already turning, already walking away with that easy, unhurried gait, as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a single word. He glanced back once over his shoulder, just long enough to catch your stunned expression, and smirked.

“Hasta luego,” he called, like a promise.

You stood there, your heart beating loud in your ears, wondering how a man could make a single word sound like foreplay.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

By the next day, things felt easier.

You still walked a little fast when someone called your name and still triple-checked the spelling on every file, but the rhythm of the office had started to settle into your bones. You knew which drawer stuck slightly and had to be tugged twice, which phone line belonged to which department, and how to make the coffee strong enough that even Peña didn’t complain. You felt—if not confident—then at least not completely lost.

And then came lunch.

Most of the agents took their breaks out on the front steps of the building, perching wherever the sun fell just right. Some ate in the breakroom that always smelled like reheated leftovers and strong cologne. You could hear the laughter echoing down the hallways sometimes, voices calling out, boots clunking against tile.

But you, quiet thing that you were, stayed at your desk.

It felt safer here. The whirr of the fan. The hum of the fluorescent lights. The comfort of your own little corner in the chaos. You’d made your sandwich the night before—plain, careful, pressed in wax paper—and now unwrapped it slowly, laying the napkin across your lap like you were still trying to be perfect even when no one was looking.

That’s when you saw a figure approach from the corner of your eye.

You looked up.

“Hey,” he said, with a soft, easy smile.

Steve Murphy.

He was in his button-down, sleeves rolled up, his tie slightly askew in that charming way like he’d been too busy solving things to fix it. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his fingers through it a few too many times, and his eyes—so blue and so gentle—found yours like they already knew how to read your every nervous thought.

“Oh—hi,” you said quickly, startled but trying not to show it, straightening just a little in your chair. “What can I help you with?”

He chuckled, low and kind, as if your question had been sweet rather than unnecessary.

“Nothing,” he said, eyes flicking down to your desk. “Just saw you sitting here. Have you had lunch yet?”

Your fingers curled around the wax paper in your lap. “I was about to,” you said, glancing down at your sandwich, embarrassed like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Here?” he asked, stepping in a little, brows tugging together slightly. “Alone?”

You shrugged, the heat creeping up your neck again. “I… I don’t really know anyone yet,” you admitted, voice soft as your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your napkin. “It’s okay, though. I don’t mind.”

Steve’s expression softened even more. And then, with the same steady calm he always seemed to carry, he leaned forward just a little, one hand braced on the desk.

“Well,” he said, voice soft and laced with just enough warmth to make your chest ache, a small smile tugging at his mouth as his eyes met yours with something quiet and reassuring, “you know me.”

You blinked, startled for a moment by the easiness in his tone, the way he said it like it was a simple truth, like of course you knew him, like that fact alone was enough reason to follow him anywhere.

Your eyes lifted to his, wide and unsure, but already softening at the way he looked at you—gentle, patient, like he wasn’t asking for much, just a few minutes of your time and the tiniest bit of trust.

“C’mon,” he added, his voice low and kind, the words not coaxing but welcoming, like an open door. “It’ll be good to get out of the office for a bit, don’t you think? You’ve been working nonstop.”

Your heart gave a quiet little flutter, a warmth blooming beneath your ribs that you tried not to show on your face. You looked down at your sandwich—still neatly wrapped in wax paper, untouched, suddenly small in your hands—and then slowly looked back up at him.

You hesitated for just a second longer, then nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

His grin widened—pleased, but not smug. Just honest, like he was genuinely happy you’d said yes. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go.”

And then—just like that—he was leading you out into the hallway with that easy warmth radiating off him, like he didn’t even realize how much it meant. Like he didn’t know that, with just one smile, he’d made the noise of the office seem a little less scary, and the world a little less lonely.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Murphy made things easy. He had a calm way about him, the kind that didn’t draw attention to itself but wrapped around you like warmth from the sun. He asked questions that didn’t feel nosy, made quiet jokes that surprised a laugh out of you, and somehow made the walk down the stairs feel like less of a walk and more like… company.

“I know a place just down the street,” he said, holding the door open for you like it was second nature. “Best empanadas in town, no contest.”

“Really?” you asked, your voice lighter than it had been all morning.

“The best,” he grinned. “And I don’t lie about food. It’s sacred.”

You stepped into the humid afternoon together, the city humming with heat and noise around you. You walked side by side on the sidewalk, Murphy keeping just a half step ahead like he was ready to shield you from a rogue taxi or a sudden gust of wind. You were still tucking a piece of hair behind your ear when the scent of cigarette smoke reached you—and then a voice followed.

Low. Lazy. Familiar.

“Bueno, hablamos luego.”

You looked up just in time to see him—Javier Peña, leaning against the edge of the building like a man who belonged to the street itself, phone pressed to his ear, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. His shirt was wrinkled in that unfairly perfect way, tie loose, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose. He turned his head, eyes catching on you first—then Murphy—and that easy, smooth line of his mouth shifted.

The phone dropped from his ear. “Chao,” he said flatly into the receiver before hanging up without waiting for a response.

“Well, well,” he drawled, pushing off the wall with slow grace. His eyes dragged over you both, sharp and unreadable. “Where you two headed?”

“Lunch,” Murphy said simply, barely glancing back.

Javi’s smirk curled like smoke. “That so?”

“Yep,” Steve replied, tone easy.

Javi flicked the ash from his cigarette and checked his watch with theatrical boredom. “Damn,” he said. “I’m starving.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he added, voice soft and low, eyes trained straight on you, “So… where we goin’?”

Your heart jumped. Murphy looked over at you, brows raised like he was waiting to see what you’d say. Javi didn’t even bother pretending—he was watching you closely, cigarette still between his fingers, like the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.

You blinked, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “I… um…”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Murphy said casually, kind as ever.

“Wasn’t asking you,” Javi murmured, eyes never leaving yours.

Your stomach flipped.

Murphy gave him a look—dry, unimpressed—but didn’t argue. He just smiled at you gently. “Up to you,” he said, soft enough that it grounded you.

You glanced between them. The calm steadiness of Steve. The simmering fire that was Javi. And you—stuck in the middle, blushing, trying to decide who your knees would give out for first.

“Of course,” you said, trying to keep your voice from wobbling as you tucked your hair behind your ear. “Best empanadas in town, apparently.”

You smiled up at Murphy, and he grinned back, bright and easy like always, a little wrinkle forming at the corner of his eyes, the kind of expression that made you feel like you were someone worth smiling at.

“Damn right,” he said, his hand already in his pocket as if he were checking to make sure his wallet hadn’t somehow disappeared just from thinking about lunch.

And then—of course—Javi.

“That so?” he repeated, his voice lower, slower, and just sharp enough around the edges to cut through the summer haze. He stepped forward, flicked the last of his cigarette to the pavement, and gave Murphy a long, sideways look. “I’d argue I cook better ones.”

Murphy raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”

Javi smirked, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them into the front of his shirt. “What, you think gringos are the only ones allowed to throw meat in dough and call it a meal?”

“Didn’t know you had time to cook between all the—” Steve gestured vaguely, “—charm and cigarettes.”

Javi just grinned wider. “What can I say? I multitask.”

Your face was already warm, but it only got worse when Javi’s eyes found yours again.

“Tell you what, cariño,” he said, voice syrupy, way too smooth, “you come over one night, I’ll show you how empanadas are supposed to taste.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, entirely useless.

Murphy glanced at you, gentle and kind, but there was something knowing behind it now—like he saw the way you shifted under Javi’s gaze, like he noticed how easily your breath caught.

And then—just like that—you were walking.

Down the sidewalk, between the two of them, like it was the most natural thing in the world and not completely insane that you were flanked by two armed federal agents who smelled like warm leather and aftershave and power, one radiating sweet protection, the other lazy fire and smirking danger.

Murphy was all calm presence—his gun concealed under his jacket, his steps steady, his voice warm as he asked you about where you grew up, what you liked to read, if you’d tried any Colombian desserts yet.

And Javi? Javi was chaos in a collared shirt—his sidearm stuffed into his pocket like he didn’t care who saw it, hands in his pants as he walked with that signature swagger, eyes occasionally flicking down to you with that same unreadable heat. When he spoke, it was slower, more calculated. Less about facts, more about watching you react.

And God—they both smelled so good. One like soap and sun-warmed cotton, the other like cigarettes and something rich and musky, and you didn’t know if it was the heat or your own mind playing tricks, but your knees felt a little weak, and your heartbeat was tapping against your ribs like a trapped bird.

They were opposites in every way—Steve with his soft drawl and honest eyes, and Javi with his cigarette voice and sin-soaked charm—and yet… somehow, you were drawn to both.

Two storms. One gentle. One electric.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The lunch spot was small, tucked between a hardware store and an old pharmacy, the kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you knew what magic it held inside. The windows were fogged with heat and the smell of grilled meat and cumin wafted out each time the door opened, mixing with the thick air and the street dust that clung to everything in Bogotá. A faded sign above the door read La Esquina, the paint chipped but still proud, and inside, the radio played something soft and lilting in Spanish, the kind of music that felt like a breeze even in the sweltering warmth.

Murphy reached the door first and opened it for you, stepping back with an easy smile.

You blushed, eyes dropping automatically as you passed. “Thank you,” you murmured.

“Always,” he said, gentle and sweet, like it wasn’t anything special, like it didn’t make your heart do a quiet little tumble in your chest.

And then Javi, right behind you, muttered with a smirk, “Thanks, gringo.”

Murphy gave him a look, but Javi just flashed a toothy, unapologetic smile and followed you both inside.

The place was buzzing with locals, the smell of oil and spice and fresh lime lingering in the air. Ceiling fans turned slow above cracked tile floors, and the walls were lined with old posters, curling at the edges, and handwritten specials tacked to a corkboard. Booths lined the far wall, red leather cracked and faded in places, but they gave the place a charm that felt lived-in. Familiar. Warm.

You were still looking around, taking it all in, when Javi’s hand lightly touched your back.

“Here,” he said, already guiding you toward a booth near the window, the sun slanting just right to catch the soft sheen on his forearms. He slid in first—fast, confident, smooth—and made sure there was only one seat left on the inside.

Next to him.

You hesitated for a second too long.

Murphy raised an eyebrow like he might say something, but didn’t.

You sat down.

You could feel Javi’s leg warm against yours almost instantly, his body stretched out beside you with one arm draped along the back of the booth like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. You kept your hands in your lap, trying to pretend you weren’t entirely aware of every inch of him next to you, of the way his thigh pressed against yours with casual certainty.

Murphy slid into the seat across from you both, his jaw tight but his expression otherwise unreadable.

He gave Javi a look. Subtle. Controlled. But it said Really?

Javi didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he leaned back against the booth with that infuriating, devastating ease—his arm still draped along the backrest behind you, his knee brushing yours like it belonged there, like this seat was his by right.

You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck.

“Is there… a menu?” you asked, voice soft, desperate to cut through the tension with something normal, something neutral. Your hands were folded neatly in your lap, even as your pulse drummed just under your skin.

Javi let out a low chuckle, head turning just enough for you to catch the flicker of mischief in his eyes. “No need, cariño, they know what to make.”

Murphy rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something snarky—but instead, he looked at you, softening instantly.

“They don’t really do menus here,” he explained, voice low and warm. “They just kind of… bring you what they’ve got going today. Usually a few different fillings, whatever’s fresh. You just tell ’em how many you want, and if you want them spicy.”

He paused, his smile gentle. “Trust me, it’s good.”

“Real good,” Javi added, low and smooth beside you. He didn’t look at you when he said it—he was watching Steve, his smirk now laced with something more subtle. Something sharp.

You nodded, trying to focus, trying to stop your eyes from flicking between them like you were watching some high-stakes poker game. The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve, all kind words and quiet steadiness, his hands folded on the table like a gentleman, his badge tucked neatly beneath his jacket… and Javi, sprawled out beside you like a slow-burning fire, gun heavy in the pocket of his slacks, cologne mingling with the faint scent of smoke clinging to his shirt.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The food arrived quickly—hot, golden, impossibly fragrant. The plate was set in front of you with a cheerful "¡Buen provecho!" and the smell alone had your stomach fluttering in anticipation.

You picked one up carefully, the crust still steaming, the edges crisp and flaking at your touch.

And then—without thinking, without meaning to—you bit into it.

The flavor hit you like a wave. Rich and warm, the filling tender and spicy and perfect, the dough crisp and buttery, everything so unexpectedly divine you couldn’t stop the quiet sound that left your lips.

A soft, involuntary moan.

Just a small one. But it hung there. Obvious. Intimate.

Across the table, Murphy’s brows lifted just slightly—barely a twitch of amusement—but it was enough to deepen the lines at the corners of his eyes, his lips tugging into a smile that was half playful, half tender as he leaned forward, resting his chin in the curve of his hand like he had all the time in the world just to watch you.

“That good, huh?” he asked, his voice a low hum of warmth, teasing without cruelty, kind in a way that made your pulse stutter, like he could make your fluster feel less like embarrassment and more like something sacred.

You blinked, cheeks burning hotter by the second, and reached for your napkin, fumbling to wipe at the corner of your mouth as you mumbled, “I didn’t mean to—sorry, it’s just… really good.”

Murphy chuckled, and it was soft and genuine and boyish in that way that made something bloom painfully warm in your chest. “Don’t apologize,” he said, voice dipped in affection. “You’ve got good taste.”

And then—without fanfare, without hesitation—he reached across the table.

Gently, with that easy, steady confidence that came so naturally to him, he took hold of your napkin and dabbed just beneath your lower lip, the soft cloth brushing your skin as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world and not the most intimate moment you’d had since arriving here. His fingers grazed your chin for the briefest second, and you held your breath like a startled deer, too dazed to move, too overwhelmed by the kindness of it to process the closeness.

Your breath caught in your throat.

And then—you felt it.

Javier’s body next to yours, no longer relaxed, no longer lounging—he was coiled now, the shift subtle but unmistakable. His cigarette was back between his fingers in a flash, but he didn’t lift it to his lips. He didn’t light it. He just rolled it, slow and deliberate, between his thumb and index finger, like it was standing in for the things he wanted to say but wouldn’t. His mouth curled into something that might’ve been a smirk or a grimace, sharp and tired and too knowing.

And then, under his breath, low and in perfect rhythm with the movement of his cigarette, he muttered in Spanish, “Claro, el caballero perfecto.”

Of course, the perfect gentleman.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant to be. But there was an edge to it—dry and rough and bitter at the core, like the taste of something he didn’t want to swallow. His gaze flicked to you just long enough to notice you hadn’t caught it, and he exhaled through his nose, the tension still rippling under his skin like a live wire waiting to spark.

But you—oblivious and bashful, cheeks still flushed from Murphy’s touch—just gave a soft, nervous laugh and took another bite of your empanada, your lashes fluttering, eyes cast downward like you could hide in the comfort of your food, unaware of the storm rolling in beside you.

And Javi?

He said nothing more.

But his eyes didn’t leave you.

Not once.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of quiet productivity, the kind that lulled you into a rhythm—sorting files, answering calls, typing up reports with the soft click-clack of your keyboard filling the room like a heartbeat. The office had slowly begun to empty as the sun dipped lower in the sky, its fading light turning everything gold through the hazy window panes, dust floating in the air like little flecks of glitter suspended in time. You were tired, but not unpleasantly so—there was still a pleasant warmth curled low in your belly, the echo of the empanadas lingering like a hug from the inside out, reminding you of laughter and heat and Javi’s thigh pressed ever-so-casually against yours in that booth.

By the time six o’clock crept up, the office was mostly silent. Phones had stopped ringing. The fan hummed gently overhead. You glanced at the clock, blinking slowly, your limbs heavy with exhaustion as you yawned behind your hand and leaned back in your chair, spine arching slightly in a stretch that made your blouse pull taut across your chest.

And then you felt it—that shift in the air.

The kind that always seemed to come with him.

“Hola, muñeca.”

Your breath hitched.

He was standing just a few feet away now, half-shadowed in the doorway, and somehow—even after hours of work and heat and sweat—he looked untouched by the day. Javier Peña, tall and devastating as ever, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long forgotten somewhere, sunglasses now tucked lazily into the collar of his shirt.

“Hi,” you breathed, your voice smaller than you intended it to be.

He stepped closer, his boots slow and heavy against the tile, and leaned a hand on the edge of your desk, his body folding toward you in a way that made you instinctively shrink back—not out of fear, but anticipation. Like the space between you was an invisible thread, and any closer would snap it.

“Still here?” he asked, voice soft, the corner of his mouth curling up just a little. “Office all emptied out, and look at you—la buena niña, working late.”

You smiled shyly, fingers twitching near your notepad, though you couldn’t remember what you were even writing. “I just… wanted to finish up a few things.”

He hummed low in his chest, his eyes scanning your face. “Dedicada,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like that.”

You swallowed, feeling your pulse quicken beneath your skin.

And then—almost like he’d read your thoughts, like he’d felt the quiet wanting gathering between you—he reached into his back pocket with a slow, easy motion and pulled out a sticky note, the edges a little worn and curling at the corners, the paper crinkled as if it had been sitting there for hours, waiting to be offered. He laid it down gently on your desk, the soft pap of it landing against the wood far louder in your ears than it had any right to be.

Your eyes dropped instinctively, your breath catching when you saw the scrawl—his handwriting rough and slanted, the letters uneven and fast, like he wrote the way he lived: unbothered, unrushed, with just enough edge to keep you guessing. A phone number, half-smudged at the corner, and beneath it, just two words.

Spanish Lessons.

“I was serious about those lessons,” Javi said, voice low, that familiar smirk ghosting over his lips as he looked down at you—like he wasn’t just giving you a number, but pulling a thread you didn’t even realize had been wrapped around your heart all day.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then tried again. “I—I mean, you’re already so busy,” you stammered, your voice quiet, almost too soft, already half-apologizing for even existing in the orbit of a man like him.

He shook his head, just once, the motion slow, deliberate.

“Not for you, preciosa,” he said, the pet name curling off his tongue like honey warmed over low flame.

Your breath faltered again.

“I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flushing so hot you were certain he could feel the heat rising off your skin.

And that’s when he leaned in just slightly, his voice dipping even lower, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth like he wasn’t sure where to land. “I know,” he murmured, the words sliding over you like silk, “I’ll teach you at our first lesson.”

And then—of course—he winked.

Slow. Sure. A little devastating.

And just like that, he turned and walked away, his back straight, his gait unhurried, as if he hadn’t just left your entire nervous system in shambles and a sticky note burning like a secret in the middle of your desk.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

You slung your bag over your shoulder with one hand, the other reaching back to sweep your hair into a quick, messy twist, your fingers working automatically despite the fatigue weighing down your limbs. Your heels pinched with every step, the ache radiating from the balls of your feet with that familiar, dull throb that came after a long day of being polite, poised, and perfectly put-together. You gathered the last of your things—the folder you’d meant to leave on someone’s desk, your notepad, your pen that always leaked a little ink—and stepped out into the quiet corridor, the office behind you hushed and emptied, bathed in the soft gold light of early evening.

You’d only just started walking, your mind already drifting to the quiet comfort of your apartment, when you heard them—voices. Low, hushed, male. Serious. The kind of tone that slowed your steps instinctively.

You paused, half-hidden by the corner, your body tensing before your mind could catch up.

You didn’t mean to stop. You didn’t mean to linger. But something in their voices—muted, clipped, almost like they didn’t want to be heard—made your skin prickle. You hesitated, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag, and you knew it was wrong, that you should’ve turned around, kept walking, left them to their conversation.

You were just about to do exactly that—your foot already shifting to step back—when you heard it.

Your name.

Spoken clearly. Firmly. And not in passing.

You froze.

Your brows drew together before you could stop them, a quiet frown pulling at the corners of your mouth as confusion began to twist, low and slow, through your chest. Your heart, which had only just begun to settle from the rush of the day, now beat with sudden urgency, and your breath turned shallow, catching at the top of your lungs. You stood frozen in place, body pressed lightly against the cool wall as if it could ground you, protect you, hide you from the fact that you were—very much—eavesdropping.

“She's not just another girl for you to flirt with, Javier,” Murphy said, his voice low but firm, words sharpened just enough to carry even though they weren’t meant to.

There was a pause. A beat of silence so thick it made your stomach clench.

And then, Javi’s voice—smooth and dry like aged whiskey poured over ice.

“¿Perdón?”

The word was soft, but laced with warning.

“Oh, come on,” Murphy scoffed, not backing down, the tired edge in his voice laced with frustration. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No,” Javi said, his tone cooling all at once, the shift so subtle you could almost miss it—almost. His voice came steady now, sharper at the edges, like a man squaring his shoulders before a fight he didn’t ask for but wasn’t about to walk away from. “Go ahead. Spell it out for me.”

There was a pause.

You could imagine Murphy standing there with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed—not angry, not exactly, but tired in that bone-deep way that came from watching someone make the same mistake over and over. You pictured him dragging a hand down his face, his voice dropping into something quieter—not softer, but more weighted.

“Everyone knows what you’re like, Peña,” he said at last, the words careful, deliberate. “You flirt. You lean in. You get close. You—”

He faltered, and for a moment it sounded like maybe he wouldn’t finish. Like maybe part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Javi didn’t give him that luxury.

“Vamos, gringo,” he said under his breath, a mocking lilt curling around the words. “Dilo completo.” Go on, big boy—say the whole thing.

The silence that followed felt like a held breath.

Then Murphy did.

“You fuck them,” he said, flatly. “And then you leave.”

The words were blunt. Brutal. They landed like a weight in your chest, heavy and cold and unforgiving.

Javier didn’t speak.

But you didn’t need him to.

Even from around the corner, you felt it—the shift in him. The tension coiling tighter. The sharp inhale through his nose. The silence that wasn't surprise, but insult. His jaw must’ve clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides, fighting the instinct to lash back.

And you—frozen behind the wall—felt your stomach drop as your name echoed silently in the air again, because you weren’t just hearing a story about Javier Peña anymore. You were part of it.

Tangled in it.

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