leida

🖤 You most likely met him during the events of A Date With Markiplier. You were this strange new person that was dragged into Mark's little storyline... and for Dark, that was an opportunity. If he could win you over with offers of anything, he could potentially escape. No longer would he need to wait for Mark's stories to be able to appear, since he'd be with you. Needless to say, that didn't quite work out the way he wanted... but he did get to interact with you.

🖤 Over your short interaction, where he offered you anything you could ever desire, as well as everything you didn't, he was intrigued. You didn't exactly react the way he thought you would. No complaints of "Where's Mark?" or fearful cries of "Where am I?" Instead, you listened closely to what he had to say. Sure, you were also afraid, but you were able to keep a calm facade. Whoever you were, Mark must have picked you to be a part of his story for a reason.

🖤 Then, he kept seeing you in every story after that. Always one of the main stars of the show, right beside... Mark... While he was pushed aside to be the villain. That idea from before, to use you as a way to escape these stories, has been thrown out the window. Not just because it's become clear that you could also be stuck playing along with Mark's whims, but also because Dark has found himself too interested to simply use you as a tool. There's the strange way his chest flutters as he watches you move along with the chaos... The way it sinks whenever you leave his sight...

🖤 It takes him a while to realize that his interest is love, and to be honest, he doesn't even care that it is an obsession. Something about the way you interact with the stories that Mark concocts has him entranced and he thinks it is worthy of being obsessed over. The only problem is Mark... Mark always brings you back to safety at the end of the day, and considering that Dark is a villain in his stories, that means away from him. He hates Mark... you shouldn't have to listen to what Mark says or play along with the stories Mark wants to play. So, in the background, he starts planning a way to separate you from the story. A way to get you truly alone with him, in order to get more time with you. This time, though, his offer of anything will be true.

🖤 He brings you back to the table from your first meeting, this time acting a bit more desperate. He can give you anything. He will give you everything. Just stay with him for as long as you can. Keep him company. Better yet: join his side. Be a villain with him. Maybe that can break you out of your "role" in Mark's stories, so you won't be taken from Dark at the end of the day? Maybe that can let the two of you be together forever?

🖤 He just wants you to be with him. He's never thought about the possibility of truly being with someone enough to say he actually has an idea of what he would want to do with you. For him, whatever you want is what he wants. Do you want that romantic dinner from Mark's dumb date story? He'll provide you with one, but better. Do you want to walk along a beautiful beach with him? He'll take you there and watch how the sunlight catches your eyes. Do you want to live out a cozy life in a cabin in a forest? He can do that. He'll even wrap you up in warm blankets to keep you warm.

🖤 As much as he wants to, he can't actually make you stay. Mark has the final word at the end of the day... At least, Dark thinks he does. He's been unsure ever since you showed up. You might have more power than either of you think you do. The point still stands: he can't force you to stay. What he can do is stay persistent. He'll ask you again... and again... and again. His idea is that, if he is persistent enough, you'll get tired of being dragged back here with him, then just say yes. Every time, he gets more and more desperate with his pleading... Spilling out more and more feelings than he really intends to.

It was generational, a once in a lifetime opportunity for a man like him to get with a girl like you, parading around the sidewalk in your short pleated skirts, the stride of your hips always swaying so effortlessly, the breeze allowing the fabric to ride up the fat of your thighs with the wind.

Fucking you in that gas station—although ridiculously worth it, the encounter only made things worse for him, beginning to grow increasingly obsessed with you. From the moment he woke up to the time he flopped his head down on his flimsy pillows, he imagined the way you felt pressed against him, your soft skin just as plush as he always imagined.

You were starting to crawl your way deeper into his skin, ripping the flesh down to the bone, your scent flowing through his veins like a sticky, syrupy venom—one he couldn’t suck out of his bloodstream without getting withdrawals, his body solely devoted to your oblivious mind.

Life isn’t fair—Joel is a virtue to that, and he was losing his composure day by day, doing what he does best—watching you from afar, keeping his distance before he had the opportunity to explore you again.

Your window remains his only chance to see you—to make believe inside his mind. The casual glances he’d give you here and there rapidly turned into something stronger after your secret meeting together, his body turning with excitement every time he got a small glimpse of you, always thankful you leave your bedroom curtains open, your personal space exposed to his line of viewing.

Every night, Joel waits in his bed, tired eyes frantically scanning the clock—ten pm sharp. You submerge sneakily into your bedroom walls, always taking the time to securely lock your door behind you, a signal he takes note of—a delirious feeling taking over him at the idea of sneaking in while your sleeping, breaking the lock open and taking you in comfort of your frilly sheets.

It was addictive, never knowing what or where you’d end up each night, sometimes you’d lay on your bed painting your toenails, even some nights you’d spend extra time in your shower, meticulously going through the motions of your full body routine, popping straight into bed without a show, falling asleep with wet hair and glistening skin.

He desperately wanted to see you again, yet the stunt he pulled at the gas station made him assume he was at a crossroad with you, choosing to watch your night routine and make believe instead of falling asleep to whatever late night re-runs that play on cable.

It wasn’t okay to stalk you like this, the icky man breathing down your neck a couple hundred feet away from you—who remains none the wiser. But it wasn’t his fault your bedroom window is so perfectly placed across from his own and you never bothered closing those damn blinds.

Tonight wasn’t any different, Joel watching you carry out your usual night routine, the time spent in the shower always ending with a small ritual of lotions and creams. You slicked the vanilla scented moisturizers over your body—clad in nothing but a flimsy white towel, the fabric just begging to be ripped open by his clammy fingertips.

He watches for what felt like hours as you finally moved on to your next task, assumingly pacing over to your dresser in hopes of picking out some comfy pajamas to fall asleep in. He chews on his nails, anticipating you picking out something soft and skin-tight, his own breathing picking up at the idea of you in some tiny shorts—the globes of your thick ass hanging out of the material.

You calmly reached into your drawer, fingers rummaging around in the crowded space. Your hand is wrapped around something just slightly out of his line of vision when suddenly—your phone lights up, the slim metal sitting neatly against the woodgrain table-top, the small screen of the flip-phone startling you, your body jerking back.

You quickly reached for it, flipped its clunky screen open, answering whoever was calling you with a cheesy grin plastered on your cheeks. Your mouth slacks open as you began to speak to the person who called you this late at night, Joel mentally cursing to himself as he can’t figure out who it is, his window unfortunately too far away from you, your big yard dividing him from you.

He was enthralled, watching you plop down onto your mattress; stomach first. The new found angle pressed your tits together as you crossed your arm over your chest, the plump flesh practically choking on the seam of the tight towel. You raised your legs, allowing them to aimlessly dangle in the air, the soles of your feet pointed in his direction as you continued speaking.

You looked straight out of an R-rated movie, the kind where the man recording the film gets a chance to fuck the girl next store, and he hoped to god that’s where tonight was headed.

You were practically asking for it, a temptress covered in a small towel, your body already prepared for him to feast on and God was Joel was starving—drool collecting in his mouth, saliva glands drenched with need.

He begins to feel the same feeling in his mouth erupt down to his jeans, his cock thickening at the innocent sight of you, watching you aimlessly adjust and wiggle on the bed, the towel inches away from exposing your pert nipples.

Joel can feel his blood rushing to his ears, his cheeks flushed and irritated. He can’t cum in his pants already, not when the show just begun—awkwardly prying his eyes away from you, he begins to stare at the draft blowing into your window, the wind brushing wildly against your curtains.

The moonlight blooms brightly into the night sky, the pale light shining its white hues onto a metal ladder leaning up against the edge of your house, situated just feet away from your window.

He knew your family had contracted some work to be done on your roof weeks ago, the evidence still lingering around the backyard, boxes of shingles and planks of hardwood covering the green grass. It was clear the company was almost done with the job, yet their materials continued to linger in the yard.

The ladder was awfully distracting, the length perfectly placed. It would be easy to sneak in through the open glass—it was as if the universe put the hunk of metal there just to torment him, to tease him with the same repetitive idea about you—you were always just out of reach.

Thinking with his cock, he cursed under his breath as he slipped his boots on, not bothering to tie the laces, he ran through the house, not bothering to bring anything with him, his mind completely made up on confronting you, even if things go south.

He’s out of breath by the time he gets the ladder into position, shakily stepping up the stairs, he takes his time reaching the ledge of your window, his face just feet away from your unaware, gentle one.

Joel’s unlucky streak has finally ended when he realizes your window is conveniently placed right next to the porch, giving him just enough room to lazily pile his body on top of the small side roofing, the tin material creaking under his tremulous knees as he leans forward, feeling his calves biting the shingles.

The angle situates his predatory line of vision to easily peer through the clear glass, listening to your voice vibrate outside the crack of the window.

Your manicured fingernails continue their tortuous grip on the pink Motorola, holding it up to your ear as you listen to the person talking on the other line. It’s a stark contrast to his palms grazing the slippery vinyl of the window sill, knuckles white with the damming image of you up close, your body language relaxed—the opposite of what you're like with him.

He feels bad. It shouldn’t have to be this way—he shouldn’t even want you this way in the first place; seemingly always having to end up cornering you in a vulnerable position, taking what he wants and abandoning you, leaving himself only wanting more in the end.

You're so endearing and sympathetic, he’s sure you’ll understand soon enough why he’s like this and why he can never find it in him to be normal around you. Everything about you simply drives him crazy, wild enough to sneak into your house like a psychopath, trying to ignore the implications of breaking the law that creep up the back of his neck, hiding his nervousness behind his determination.

You begin to talk again, your voice chirping into the conversation with a slight hum, trying your best to suppress your giggles at whatever the person on the other line was saying. It’s been a while since he’s heard your voice so up close, and he begins to wonder who you're charming on the phone, the sound sickeningly sweet, the syrupy noise making his ears turn like a lost puppy, cocking his head against the concrete wall.

“Alright, have fun and stay safe. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Which isn’t a lot but still, love you.” You sing to the phone, cheeks gleaming underneath the wooozy warmth of your bedside lamp, the lampshades beads dangling from the breeze of wind Joel is currently feeling biting the soft skin on his nose.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Your wording makes his face flush and ears turn pink, unable to control himself bringing a hand down to the growing tent in his jeans, squeezing the spongy flesh.

He’s unsure if his growing member is caused by the adrenaline of sneaking over like this, his hands shaking so uncontrollably it’s making him feel like a teenager again. Maybe it’s from the way you said it; the kind of girl who’s so shy and timid in person but a little minx in the sheets—as if your friends are roped into your personal life, knowing all of your dirty little secrets, even the one where your the girl who does everything, including her next door neighbor.

He plants his body back down on the metal, his bulky frame hidden tightly under the window, squeezing his hand down on his tip. Choking back a groan, his eyes roll so far deep into the back of his skull he could almost see his brain screaming to him about how terrible of an idea this is, but his cock says otherwise, the tip throbbing around his sweaty palm, aching for attention.

His position on the edge is beginning to kill his aching bones, body almost in as much pain as you cause his cock—his patience is wearing so thin he feels translucent. He sits there, waiting in agony for your phone call to end, hitting his head against the wall looking up to the night sky, the sky empty besides the occasional glimpse of a star twinkling in the distance.

Closing his eyes in a huff, the brim of his trucker hat fully covering his chestnut colored irises, he finally hears it—your bedroom door slamming shut.

Peaking over his shoulder his eyes fit around the room, looking for any sign of you and when he sees no one in sight, he makes his move—standing up to pull the window the rest of the way open, he clumsily makes his way inside, tumbling onto the carpet.

Wandering back into your bedroom with a yawn, the minty flavoring of your toothpaste still coats your teeth, lazily rolling your tongue over the leftover residue that reminds clinging to your gums, you don’t expect to open the door to company—company in the man you’ve been attempting to avoid.

Joel Miller.

“What the fuck!” You screech, your hand flying over the glossy skin of your chest in pursuit to conserve yourself.

Your heart flutters in your chest, the organ fumbling head first into the acidic pool of your stomach, the muscle screaming the same way you are, trying your best to control your body from passing out.

You attempt to read the situation, unsure if you should call out for your father, or dial 911 to let them know the man you hooked up with weeks ago has now broken into your house and is currently sitting on your bed as if he’s been over a million times, his stature far too comfortable for your liking.

He’s leaning his body weight on his palms, legs drawn wide against your flooring, his brown boots taking up a considerable amount of space on the fluffy carpeting, the caked up outsoles sure to leave a streak of mud on the white fuzz.

“Quiet now doll, don’t want ya wakin’ anyone up.” He mutters slyly, adjusting himself on the mattress, placing a finger over his lips.

You stare in shock, unable to wrap your head around why he’s here—or how he even got here, let alone why he’s the one ordering you around in your house on your bed.

“Y-you need to leave, this isn’t a good time.” You reply shakily, your body language rigid, crossing your arms over your waist, suddenly feeling exposed in your skimpy towel.

“Thinkin’ it is a good time,” he instantly retorts, his arm brushing the side of your nightstand, fingertips finding solace around the pink alarm clock, gripping the plastic. “But it is getting pretty late, especially to be takin’ phone calls at this hour.”

The alarm looks minuscule compared to his large, tanned fist, swallowing the remnants of toothpaste down your throat, you try to ignore the way his large calloused knuckles make you feel, gazing at the veins in his hand tensing.

“J-Joel, I-what are you doing here?” You whisper, locking the door knob beside you, praying your father can’t hear your argument with the older Miller, knowing him—he’s not leaving anytime soon.

He was finally ready to face you—never bothering talking to you the rest of that night after Tommy drove the three of you back from the gas station, you wondered when he’d show his face around you again. Especially after he begrudgingly forced your wobbling legs back up on his lap in the truck, his body language much more relaxed as he gripped the fat of your thighs, the two of you reveling in the moment when you could finally feel his cum beginning to drip into your panties and onto his thigh, your combined fluids leaving a sticky spot against the denim.

It was your little, short lived secret—an odd and uncertain bond you formed only with him; you truthfully believed it wouldn’t go anywhere, despite how he made you feel.

You wondered when he’d show up again, catching him always staring at you from a distance like a wolf preying on a sheep watching its every slight movement in the pasture—yet this time it was around the neighborhood, catching him wide eyed and silent staring daggers into the side of your head as you’d walk around the block, or lay out in the backyard.

This was the last thing you expected from him, but maybe that’s why he snuck in like this, forcing you to face him in the tight combines of your bedroom.

He looks comedically out of place sitting on your frilly sheets, his saw dust covered jeans flaking off into the pink ruffles. His presence in your room alone is already such a glaring contrast to your soft decorations, his grey shirt looking dull against the baby pink walls you’ve never bothered to repaint as you transitioned into adulthood.

“Ain’t a good idea to leave your windows open sweet pea, never know who’s watching ya.” Joel chides, ticking the brim of his hat over to the opened window.

He stares admirably at your shocked expression, watching the gears in your brain begin to shift into place, realizing how he even got in here in the first place, the breeze blowing your free-flowing locks of hair.

His blatant disregard for your boundaries makes your heart begin to rapidly pound in your ears, the sound echoing much similar to rainfall connecting to a branch during the spring, the water gliding down from the leaves fusing together into fat droplets that fall on the dirt.

“You’re sick! My dads down stairs, all I have to do is yell and he’ll come up here.” You threaten, yet it doesn’t come out as a warning, more like a plea—as if you're begging him to leave because he needs too, not because you want him gone.

Your eyes flit around the room, wide pupils half-hazardly ping ponging around your now violated humble space, attempting to pay attention to anything except the man on your bed.

“Now I ain’t scared of your old man…and I know you don’t want that.” He coos, his face turning into a cocky grin.

He extends his legs out fully, giving you no chance to cower in the corner, your only options now are either facing him or running out your bedroom door, risking getting caught with him—the idea making your teeth clench down, your bite so tight it burns your jaw.

“I do want that.” You retort, throwing your hands to your sides, fingers brushing your towel around your body like a dress.

Joel’s staring at you only makes you grow increasingly frustrated, continuing your rant in a huff. “You really need to leave, w-we can talk about this another time-not tonight.” Your breathing is uneven as you stutter out your defense, but the way Joel’s expression doesn’t falter once at your demands—you know he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

He has you right where he wants you, your resolve slowly dwindling away each second, your fingers picking at the threads of your towel, the thin fabric hugging the curve of your waist, the scratchy cloth traveling down to the fat of your thighs inches away from your cunt—the one thing you know he desires.

“Now I didn’t climb all the way up here for nothin’, how about you come over here and let me spend some time with my girl.” He gestures, fingers touching the loose hem of your towel.

His girl.

The name makes you feel funny, belly swirling, cheeks flushed. No one’s ever bothered to call you that before, truthfully—no one has ever claimed you quiet like this, let alone wanted you so openly they’d crawl through an open window for a chance to talk to you.

His movements are abrupt. Intentional. The dried cracks of his fingernails scratch your soft skin, just enough to send a stabbing jolt of electricity through your body, searing its twisted way between the sweltering valley of your thighs.

“I don’t think this is a good idea Joel.”

“Sure it is sugar, thinkin’ you’re just thrown off ‘n scared.”

Only Joel could make the cool winter breeze gusting into your bedroom feel boiling hot on your skin, the effect he has on you eminent.

Sighing out loud, you shrug your shoulders, looking him in the eye. “You confuse me.”

“Then lemme help clear up that mind of yours.” He retorts in a way you can’t throw a rebuttal at, his hand grabbing your own. “Come here.”

You felt deranged, the kind of feeling you haven’t felt since you were a teenager losing your virginity for the first time. Excitement pools its way through you, down to your toes, beginning to shift your way over to him, squeezing your knees between his open legs, awkwardly obliging his request.

Shame and embarrassment bubble deep in your belly as you drag your feet behind you, letting your toes spread around the carpet until you're standing inches away from him.

His hand still remains on your own, rubbing small circles into the bone that connects your thumb to the flesh. His hands are soft, gentle. Much gentler than the time spent with him in the nasty gas station bathroom, his touch far more intentional.

“There she is.”

He smells like all the other guys in town, tobacco and musk; the kind of smell that makes you gag, but on him it makes your mouth dampen. The aroma sends you into a Joel-filled trance as you inch your way closer to him, like glue on paper—you press firmly against him, fully lining your body up to his thighs.

“Been thinkin’ of what to say to ya, but I’ve never been too good at that.” He sighs, leaning his head into you.

His moments make you jump, head brushing its way to the side of your neck, pressing himself even closer to your body, your lotioned skin making a squishing noise as his cheek hits your shoulder.

“Always smell so sweet, bet you taste like candy.” He growls, voice vibrating through your body like a kettle screaming.

He can practically taste your skin. The sugary powder scent so addictive he can’t help but breathe you in, taking a deep inhale in the crest of your shoulder, his fingers finding the edge of the towel, slipping his fingers into the sharp corner you tucked underneath your armpit.

“Can I take this off?” He mutters, dipping two fingers under the fold, his eyes finding yours already looking down at him.

The years of working outside in the boiling rays of the sun have been surprisingly gentle on him, the crinkles around his eyes appearing far softer up close as you run your hand up his cheek, the scratchy follicles of his beard biting your fingertips.

Your hands find the brim of his hat, effortlessly flicking it off his head, letting it tumble off his back and onto the ground—you want to see him, his blown out pupils making it hard to resist his questioning.

“Okay.”

By the time your words slip from your jaw, he softly rips the garment open, the towel flowing down to the floor with a thump, revealing your body to his prying eyes.

Your nipples harden at the sudden exposure to the cool breeze nipping at your flesh, goosebumps erupting on the skin of your breasts. You go to cover yourself, elbows raising over your torso—but Joel’s hands come up to your own, forcing your palms back down to your side.

“Don’t be hiding from me now darlin’. This right here’s what I came to see” He praises, unable to contain his excitement, a slight drawl to his voice.

The blatant display of your naked body is a hard pill to swallow—even though he’s already seen what the sacred spot between your legs looks like, it’s hard to get used to a man like him staring eye level at your bare cunt.

“So pretty darlin’. Prettiest girl in all of Austin, maybe even Texas itself.”

You know he means it; his awkward way of complimenting you, but you can’t help the doubt that seeps through your bones, the room instantaneously feeling glacial on your blooming tummy, limbs beginning to shiver.

“Feels like you're teasing me.” Mumbling under your breath, you look down at your toes, the painted hues prickling around the carpet, his dirty boots beside them.

You shimmy out of his grasp, fully committing to hiding your body from his prying eyes, cold hands resting under your armpits, the action pressing your breasts together in a thick line of cleavage.

“Ain’t teasing you yet, you’ll know when.” He laughs, a small huff of breath releasing under his nose at your insecurities.

You look so pretty like this—it’s not an opinion, it’s a fact. He knows anyone would fall over dead to see you in this position, pouting lips and perked nipples, it’s ridiculous—yet it gives him an advantage over you, one he devilishly enjoys.

“Always so soft honey, looking real nice tonight.” He maunders, bringing a large hand to your waist, his fingers stopping against the slope of your elbow. “Now move out the way so I can see ya, don’t want to waste any more time.”

You shudder as your arms drop to the sides of your thighs, your nipples eye level to his browbone, the skin furrowed into a stern look as he stares through your breasts and into your soul.

“You make me nervous.” The admission falls aimlessly. He does make you nervous—it’s hard to read him, never knowing what side of him will reveal itself each time the big hand on the clock ticks, always bracing for the worst.

“Well that ain’t right is it?” He mutters, his hand falling flush to the curve of your back, pulling you into him.

You gasp as his face lands between your breasts, his nose nuzzling the supple skin. His lips scratch the soft surface, not kissing or licking; he simply feels around the area, as if he’s getting used to your naked body in a much different manner than before, finally having the time to savor you.

His hand drags down, falling off the curve of your spine, placing his hand onto his lap, palming his hard cock swollen in the fabric of his jeans. Pressing his fingers into the shaft, he growls into your flesh, his voice vibrating your ribcage. “Don’t ever have ta’ be nervous. Not with me sugar.”

His poking and prodding at your naked frame makes you grow antsy, wondering what he’s planning on doing to you tonight, the blood slowly rushing to his cock as you gaze at it, the girthy size filling rapidly in his jeans.

“These thighs,” he ticks, head falling to your hip bone. “Spread ‘em for me.”

The delicate touch suddenly dissipates, his chin pushing into the bone as he brings large hands up to your thighs, gripping the flesh in his palms.

“W-what?” You question, eyes wide as coins as you stare down at him, the vigorous exposure is something you're not quite used to in such an intimate way, a man inches away from your naked cunt.

“I said, spread these.” He repeats, fingers searing into the sides of your thighs, forcing your cunt to spread wide for him.

His fingers make five little indents into the flesh, molding the fat like dough, your lips repeatedly slapping together, mushing your slick around your clit.

You swallow the lump in your throat, anxiety forcing its weary head back into your chest with shaky muscles and even wobbly legs—you step around his boots, placing the balls of your feet on the outsides of his legs.

Your pussy opens fully, sticky lips prying wide in the quiet air of your bedroom. Closing your eyes, you suck in a harsh breath, awaiting his touch.

“Good Lord baby, ‘s real nice seeing ‘er up close, it’s been too damn long.” He mutters, his dominant hand shifting to the front of your thigh, petting the soft skin.

He’s leaned over now, his nose practically resting on your belly button, his eyes locked to the soaked lips of your puffy pussy.

His fingers ghost your mound, his touch so delicate against the skin he’s barely even touching it—the dull sensation causes your eyes to flutter open to catch him gawking.

“She’s real pretty too. Soft.” He whispers, placing a kiss to the squishy spot below your navel. “Who’d you shave for?”

“N-No one?” You stutter, his sudden questioning taking you aback.

Joel was accusing you of sleeping around, fucking someone else other than him. It wasn’t like you had a chance anyways; always finding him out in the yard, mowing the already trimmed grass, or when you’d occasionally catch him looking at you in the glass windows at night. He didn’t get you the opportunity to see other men, let alone fuck one, Joel’s image always on the back of your mind.

“Mmm, not for no other boys right? ‘Cus if ya did, I’d be scaring ‘em all off from ya, can’t compete with what’s already mine.”

His confirmed jealousy catches you off guard, the one thing he's somehow able to communicate with you, your legs stumbling backwards in shock.

“I’m not yours. Never even talk to me unless you want something.” You grumble, cheeks puffing.

You can’t help but glower at the man, all secrets suddenly feeling comfortable enough to expose in the thick atmosphere around your pink sheets, the world shrinking down into just the two of you left behind.

“Poor you. ‘s a good thing you look so pretty poutin’ for me.” He preens, fingertips grazing the apex of your thigh.

There’s a teasing tone in his voice, like you're a child telling her dad about a new toy he doesn’t care about, he isn’t listening to you—or taking you seriously.

“I’m serious.” You huff, fluttering your eyelashes at him and back down to the floor, pushing his teasing hand away from your mound.

“Well in that case. How about I start stoppin’ by more, keep that window cracked for me—hell, your daddy would let me inside if I asked, he likes me.” Talking mindlessly, his hand returns back to your thigh, his fingertips grazing your knee.

He continues speaking, his hand traveling back up to your cunt, this time inching closer and closer to your lips. “But if he knew what I was about to do to ya, I don’t think he would anymore.”

His knuckles hitch right against your slick, feeling the wetness coating his digits. He lets them linger there—watching you stammer over your words, attempting to speak.

“It-It’s not funny.” You shake out, legs wobbling. “You can’t just walk in here and touch me without asking.”

“Well I did, and you’re standin’ here letting me aren’t ya?”

You don’t say anything, your mind going fuzzy at his barely there touch, your cunt leaking slick down to his hand.

“Give up sweet pea, you’re gettin’ off to this ain’t you?”He laughs at you, your blown out state showcasing you your features is so blankly obvious, you’ve fallen into his cock fueled trap.

Clenching around nothing, your knees buckle towards the ground, forcing Joel's fingers snug against your cunt. “N-No! ‘m not!” You cry out, rolling your hips on his hand, forcing any sense of contact to your aching clit.

“You’re making a god damn mess babydoll, can feel it and I haven’t even touched you proper.” He growls at you, pulling his hand away from your pussy.

His fingers are taught underneath you, lining them up to cup your mound, he extends his hand backward, laying a firm slap to your cunt, his tortuous moments burning your overly sensitive clit.

“Joel!” You squeal, shaking like a leaf.

He ignores your pleas, sliding his fingers up your slit, collecting the rumination of slick you’ve been leaking since he stumbled in here, the wetness easily soaking his digits. He slips his middle finger underneath your cunt, prodding it to your entrance, letting his dry cuticles scrape the delicate skin.

His fingers get a good tour of your slit, playing with your clenching hole before he slides them up to your throbbing bud, rubbing a gentle circle against the nub, he slides back down to your entrance. He swirls his fingers around the hole, letting the slick bubble and pop around the ridges of your opening.

“What a fucking whore—‘you’re sick’,” he mocks from earlier, pitching his voice in a whiny rattle similar to yours, “sugar you’re just about as sick as I am.”

You already feel breathless, the dull sensation against your incredibly sensitive hole makes your body give out, learning further into his touch, forcing his fingers to hitch inside of you.

He brings his free hand down to the large protrusion in his jeans, flicking the button wide open, he jams the zipper down, releasing the tension on his choking cock.

It irritates you, your greedy pussy is desperate for stimulation—there’s no chance in hell you’re letting his hand go any further in his pants.

“Do somethin’, you’re not being nice.” You're begging now, rocking your hips like a bitch in heat, forcing his fingers to sink inside of your tight walls but his large digits can’t fit quite yet, the tightness only able to suck his pointer finger inside of you.

“You don’t like me nice.” He angrily barks, forcing his middle finger inside of you, stretching you wide.

The touch short circuits your brain, replacing any source of backtalk with a whine, your body jerking away from him. His skilled figures expertly swirl around your gushing cunt, feeling the ridges of your velvety walls, letting his fingers stretch you wide.

“S-Shut up ‘n make me feel good.” You manage to breathe out, trying to hold back your moans, small gasps of breath slipping out of your open mouth.

His fingers already feel so good between your thighs, yet you can’t help your attempt to get the last word in, toying around with dominance—although you know he’s the one in charge.

“Relax sugar, gonna take my time with ya, stretch this pretty little pussy out.”

Watching you in awe, Joel’s amused at your little show of him—he likes your disgusted attitude you use with him, the jarring juxtaposition between your twisted up face of disgust forget to transfer to your body, your cunt so soaked it sucks his fingers deeper and deeper inside of your body, the sight only making his dick harder and harder by the second.

He begins to scissor his fingers in and out of your cunt, forcing your walls to fit his thick digits, knuckles hitting your spongey g-spot so right, the wetness filling the room.

“Bet your daddy can hear how wet you are from the couch, shit ‘s probably echoing down the damn stairs.” He curses, eyes staring at your frame, watching how your stomach begins to stutter, learning how his pleasure affects your body.

“Joel!” You squeak, unable to hide the excitement in your voice, the stimulation of his fingers finally subduing the pain of your throbbing cunt.

“So tight baby, glad no one else has stretched ya out. Doing a good job keeping her tight for me.”

Joel makes you feel nauseous at the sickening sentiment, but his words hold truth within them—you secretly hoped he’d be by to see you again sometime soon, you just didn’t think it would be in this way.

You want to retort, attempt to give him any kind of response, but his fingers feel so wide in your cunt, the rolling motion of his knuckles making you clamp down on the digits, your orgasm already approaching.

“You like that? Can feel you chokin’ my fingers with this pretty little pussy, bet it feels even better on my dick.”

“Feels so good,” you sigh, biting your plush lip between your teeth, squinting your eyes shut. “But y-you’d feel even bigger.”

Leaning your body weight onto him, his palm inadvertently places itself right against your clit, the squishy skin rubbing into your swollen nub, the dual pleasure making your toes curl.

“Yeah? Stuff ya so tight you’ll be crying, gonna feel real full tonight.”

You look down to his jeans, his cock tensing so strongly through the light denim the tip effortlessly spits globs of precum into the fabric. Your hand craves to feel him twist in your palm as he did your cunt—the way it bruised your insides as he split you in half over the sink, his tip brushing your cervix with each thrust.

Your open mouth lets out a large whine, your fingers gripping the flesh of his forearms. “I’m close,” you cry out, your clit becoming sensitive from the aggressive rubbing of his palm, the rolling effortlessly matching the prying motions of his chubby fingers.

“I know,” he urges, his fingers suddenly halting their pace, “but I wanna feel you cum on my cock, not my fingers.”

He doesn’t give you any time to beg him for your release, confusing settling over your features. He pries his fingers out of your tight hole, the wetness squelching around nothing.

Your mind is almost as empty as your cunt is, the need to finally come face to face with his dick overriding your senses, your limbs reaching out for his jeans.

“T-Take it out. Your cock. Wanna see it up close.” You shiver, your hands snaking between the material of his boxers, swiping your fingertips underneath the thick waistband, gripping his dick with both hands.

“Fuck-k!” He curses, the feeling of your small hand pressing against his cock making his hips jerk in the air, his dick practically chasing you as if it’s mesmerized by your grip.

“Feels so big, can’t believe it fit inside of me.” You mewl, swirling your dominant hand over his tip, maneuvering his shaft out of the fabric.

His hands are quick on his jeans, pulling the material down by the empty belt loops the rest of the way. He lets them pool at his ankles, the material bunching and wrinkling at his boots.

“You keep talkin’ like that and I ain’t gonna be able to fuck ya right.”

Sighing, you watch as he kicks off his boots, letting the fabric swallow the brown leather as it tumbles off his body, leaving his heavy cock laying against his belly, the tip drenched in precum.

You’ve almost pushed Joel past his limits, your manicured hand lazily stroking his cock begins to drive him mad, the wide gaze in your eyes staring at him with one of pure seduction and adoration. It takes everything out of him to not grip your waist and throw you on the bed, his cock ready to fuck you until your screaming.

“Maybe I don’t want that, would rather just stroke you instead.”

It’s obvious your pushing him, trying to force the mean beast back out of him that he’s been failing to keep concealed tonight, readily awaiting it’s arrival to rip you in half, fuck you just how you like it, but your good at keeping him on his toes—feeling each stroke of your hand travel all the way down to his balls.

“That’s enough.”

He’s giving you a warning, one final veiled hint before he wrecks you, but the way your hand squeezes down against his tip at his words, he knows exactly what you want, your devious work on his cock not faltering.

“Bet you’d feel heavy on my tongue." You push again, and before you know it Joel is on you, fingertips bruising your hips as he tosses you on the mattress, the boxsprings snapping at the sudden weight.

You're unsure how you end up on your belly so suddenly, sweaty face plastered on your pillows and cheeks tightly smushed into the cotton with Joel on top of you.

“I told ya to watch that mouth,” he sighs, leaning his belly into your spine, the buttons of his shirt cold as they press against your bare skin.

“Couldn’t help it.” You squirm, wiggling around in his grasp.

“Sure you could doll, you just wanted to see me riled up didn’t ya? Wanted me to press ya into the mattress and fuck you ‘til your screaming.”

His words only make your aching cunt even slicker, the wetness spread around between your legs quickly making a mess of your sheets, the fluffy duvet starting smelling like you—sweet and tangy.

You didn’t realize how much you missed this—missed him. A dirty man with a nasty attitude, the one thing that makes you feel free from your spiffy lifestyle, his touch forcing your skin to buzz with the feeling of being alive.

“Been teasing me for too long,” you whimper, shaking your ass against his cock, feeling the shaft fit between your crack.

He’s so snug behind you, his squishy tip searing against your flesh, the dribbles of precum painting the round globes of your ass, you try your best to angle him to your entrance but it’s no use—his body too close to yours to move.

“Yeah? Then maybe you should go find someone else to fuck you, get some little frat boy to blow his load inside of you.”

There it is—again. His greedy jealousy showing itself even though he has you shaking like a tumbleweed underneath him, your cunt screaming and crying for him to put it in its place.

“I-I don’t s-sleep around.” You breathe out, twisting your head around to look at him lifting off your body, pumping his cock in his hand.

“Shouldn’t be fuckin’ around with a man like me anyways, maybe I should just leave ya here and leave back out that window.”

“No! Please stay, I need you Joel.” Theres no shot he’s gonna walk off and leave you, but it feels good to pretend, practically on your hands and knees begging him now, your body already in the perfect position for him to slip into your hole, arching your hips up to the ceiling, your puffy lips spread open for him.

“Yeah? What do you need me for?” He pushes, inching his knees closer to your thighs, angling his tip to your entrance.

“Need you to fuck me! Touch me, do anything!” You’re screaming now, so loud you're sure your father could hear your voice bleeding down the stairs, yet you couldn’t care less, fully surrendered to Joel's commands.

You squirm as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing his toned hairy torso to your blind eyes, too focused staring at the edge of your headboard, impatiently waiting for him to do something.

Joel chuckles, leaning down onto your back again, the weight of him pressing your belly so deep into the mattress you can barely breathe, his cock slapping your thigh.

He leans on an elbow, bicep flexing against the side of your head, bringing his freehand to your cheek, gripping the squishy flesh roughly in his fingertips “Look at you, begging for my cock and asking for it so nicely, how could I say no to this face.”

Before you can respond, Joel’s cock shuts you up, pressing his tip into the entrance. He begins to slowly sink his way into your wet cunt, burying himself inch by inch until his balls press against your clit.

It’s the same feeling in your walls that you remembered all this time apart, his thick cock stretching you so wide he practically sears himself into the ripples of your heat, taking it slow so he can feel you stretch around him, stilling his movements.

“Joel-fuck!” The noise he rips from your throat would scare even a lion, your throat grumbling from the pillow swallowing your face, releasing a feverish growl into the fabric.

“Ah shit! Greedy little pussy ‘s why I love ya so much.”

You grumble in confusion, your cunt clamping down on his cock, “you don’t love me, you barely know me.”

“Maybe I do.” He snaps his hips back.

“Maybe I don’t.” He grunts, flexing his thighs back into your cunt, each pause between his words he forced his hips back and forth, his strength knocking your ass deep into the mattress, your lungs choking for air.

“But I damn sure know a lot about you, lot more than you’re thinkin’.”

He shouldn’t know a lot about you, he barely even talks to you—but you’re so cock drunk you can’t read into what he means by that, fingers gripping the corners of your pillow case as you let the pleasure consume you, his cock pummeling into your g-spot.

You’re already so sensitive from his earlier job with his fingers, his cock doesn’t need to do too much work to get your body tingling again, his squishy red tip pressing into you with precision.

“Oh my God Joel!” You scream, throwing your face into the same pillow you're gripping, attempting to stifle your voice but it’s no use, the fluffy material buzzing lively with your words.

He can’t help but stare down at your shoulder blades with his brown irises, watching how your bones and muscles shake in ecstasy—all for him, your smooth skin clinging to his hairy chest.

“So big Joel, f-feels so good! ‘s too much!” You wail, the sheer size of him beginning to burn your slit at the angle, his cock burning crimson at your tight hole.

“You took it last time like a big girl didn’t you? Just breathe ‘n let me take care of ya.”

This is what he’s been dreaming about this whole time, corrupting your sweet innocence into his personal little sex doll, your body responding to every sense of stimuli he gives it. He can feel you thrashing underneath him, the pain quickly subduing into white-hot pleasure, his shaft petting your g-spot with such aggression it consumes you fully.

“Next time I fuck you, I’ll make sure to look at this pretty little face,” he grunts, gripping your chin to the side, fingers tapping your cheek. “But right now, I get ta’ use this little pussy, feel it cum on my cock.

The aggressive tone he’s using with you only makes you grow more urgent, squeezing your tearful eyes shut, you savor the feeling of his cock against your ridged walls, the repetitive motions rocking into you.

“Gimmie a kiss.” He bites out, fingers still pressing into your cheek, forcing your mouth into a pout.

“You never kiss me.” You mutter through his bruising grip, smelling you on his fingerprints. “N-Never pay attention to me unless you want something from m-me.”

You don’t know where the babbling admissions come from, chalking it up to the intimate position he has you in, his body so tight against you, your breathing becomes shallow, words stuttering and faltering out your mouth like a failing car motor.

“Oh baby, if y’only knew.” He muses, leaning into you, his nose finding the side of your cheek, approaching your mouth for a kiss.

You turn your head halfway to meet his lips, instantly tasting the remnants of chewing tobacco on his breath. His lips are softer than you imagined, slowly pecking your flesh, tasting your strawberry chapstick, growling at the taste.

“Even your lips taste like fucking candy doll, sweetest I ever did taste.”

It’s almost juvenile, everything about you is so sugary—from your lips to your white painted toes, the thick vanilla lotion that covers your ankles, and all the way inside of you, it makes his teeth ache, your presence similar to a cavity, painfully sweet.

“Mhm, Smuckers.” You murmur between kisses, thinking back to your vanity drawer, the wide variety of flavors you secretly match to your outfits, a childish routine you never grew out of.

Joel stops responding, letting his cock do all the talking. He begins to set a firm pace, hips brutally bucking into yours, his thighs forcing your legs together tightly, his balls slapping your clit.

“Look so damn pretty gettin’ fucked real deep, better tell all your friends who’s pussy this is.”

He’s crazy to think you’d let anyone know about this little arrangement with him, selfishly prepared to have him fuck you like this forever, you’d be a fool to let him and his skilled cock go.

“Ahh shit! ‘s yours Joel!” You cry out, lower abdomen swirling with pleasure, laying limp and pliant for his cock to drive you to your high.

“Good girl, taking it so well, can feel you squeezin’ me with this tight fucking cunt.”

“Need more!” You're unsure exactly what you need, your impending orgasm just minutes away, you scream into the pillow—the case slick with your drool and tears, every single bit of your body leaking from his pleasure.

“Yeah ya do,” he grumbles behind you, snaking a large hand to your clit, his finger rubbing tight circles on the puffy bud.

The band in your belly begins to tighten into a ball of fury, a warm fuzzy feeling beginning to slowly bloom down the sensitive muscles of your thighs, your clit burning with his touch.

“Joel! Joel! Gonna cum!” You wail, fists finding the flimsy material of your sheets, twisting the material in your hands so hard your digits shake.

“Yeah that’s it, I know you wanna cum so bad sugar, how ‘bout you show me ‘n soak my cock.” He commands, rubbing your cunt with vigorous need, his own orgasm beginning to creep up on him from the hours of your unknowing teasing.

“Yes! Fuck right there—right there!” You scream, listening to his words replaying in your mind, his voice overriding any sense of doubt in your body.

Your orgasm instantly snaps through your prickly core, your back arching, ass shaking. You wither around him as the pleasure whips its way through you, your mind and soul floating to the ceiling.

Your cunt clenches down on his cock, your release coating your already gushing cunt to soak him with a fresh wave of slick, each thrust making loud squeaks that ring though your dizzy eardrums.

By the time you start to come down from your high, you begin to hear Joel moaning and groaning behind you, his cock still pumping its way through your tight walls, chasing his own release, your cervix gripping his tip.

“About’a cum in this tight little h-hole, doin’ s-so fuckin’ good for me-shit!” He curses, holding you in place with a painful grip on your thighs, his feverish grip sure to leave bruises on your dimpled flesh.

He rubs his hips against your ass in a rolling motion, a strangled groan pouring out like a rabid dog as his balls tighten, his release spilling in thick spurts.

“Ah-fuck! Stay right here for me baby, gon-gonna st-stuff this pretty p-pussy full!” He grunts out through clenched teeth, not bothering to pull out of you, forcing you to take his cum.

His cock spills his sticky, milky seed deep into your hole, stuffing your body with his special essence, giving you no chance to escape him.

It’s not like you could move from the position he currently has you in, your body cages in by his own heavy sweaty one, his thighs forcing his cock into your pussy like a plug, making sure you don’t waste any valuable seed he has to offer.

“I got ya honey. Thank you.” He mutters, his beard brushing down the curve of your spine, plating small kisses to the supple skin.

“For what?” You wonder, still unable to read him—especially in your fucked out state.

“Lettin’ me in,” He pauses. “For letting me have this, have you.”

Patting your butt, he lazily pries himself off of you, his half-hard cock slipping from your drenched walls with a hiss, the loss of contact suddenly making your womb feel cold.

Joel’s knees crack as he stands up from the sunken mattress, the wooden legs of your bedframe creaking from the weight change, hearing him fumble with his clothing from behind you.

Using your aching muscles deep in your core, you flop yourself around on the bed to lay on your back, crossing your shaking ankles at the feeling of his cum beginning to ooze out of you.

You assume he’s getting ready to leave, force you to pick up the pieces like last time, watching him pull his jeans back up his stocky legs.

“D-Don’t go down the stairs when you leave, you’ll need to leave the same way you came in.”

Your nervousness makes him leer up at you, his mouth curling into a slight smirk. He thinks you’re cute like this, vulnerable and scared of him, he enjoys keeping you on your toes, only able to stare at you and grin.

His staring only makes you huff, continuing on your tangent. “Sometimes my dad falls asleep on the couch, I don’t want him to see you.”

“I know. Could hear him snoring from here.” He sarcastically jokes, turning his back to you with a sigh, sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

He’s being weird, a far different Joel than the one you’ve grown used to, suddenly feeling like the room is swallowing you full, like your forced to talk to him or say goodbye or tell him—

Suddenly he’s moving again, grabbing your ankles to lean against his thighs, your heels touching the freezing wet spot he leaked earlier in his jeans.

You wonder if this is his way of being a gentlemen, his awkward way of soothing you before he leaves, the possibility that he’s trying to not push you away anymore.

“Did…did you mean it?” You ask him, staring up at him with wide eyes.

There’s a lot of things he’s said tonight and if he had to repeat them to save his life—he wouldn’t be able to, a curse of his own mind speaking before he can think.

“Mean what?”

“Before we-we…” you drift off, hands dropping to your belly. “You said you’ll start coming by to see me.”

You’re cute when you’re shy—like always.

“Hey, listen. How about we get you cleaned up and maybe we can talk about going someplace nice together,

“You wanna take me to dinner?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Joel seems to be found of his sharp contradictions tonight, but when it comes to you, he can’t keep his mind on its swivel—always saying whatever comes to mind just to see that confused pouting look on your face.

“Last time you said something about that.” You mumble, thinking back to how nasty he was at the gas station. “Said you wouldn’t ever take me out all because I didn’t tell you how I felt about you.”

Shit—he was pretty mean last time wasn’t he? But he couldn’t help it, not when Tommy almost had you instead, the idea making him shiver.

He sighs, leaning over the edge of the bed, fingers grasping the abandoned towel you were covered in earlier in the evening, bringing it to your inner thighs to clean up his mess.

You hiss as the gritty fibers of the towel scratch at your overtly sensitive cunt, the wiping motions burning your skin.

“Shit, shoulda told ya it was gonna hurt. Sorry doll.” He mutters, finally beginning to answer the question about the future for the two of you. “I wish you did tell me sooner, would’ve been taking you out some place nice every damn weekend if I knew.”

It’s a nice change with him, his causalities seeming far more relaxed and laid back, like he’s not scared of speaking to you anymore—but you don’t wallow on it, choosing to take his words to your heart.

Smiling, you close your eyes, throwing your head back down on the sticky pillows, your cheeks shining with sweat.

“You know now, don’t you?”

⋆.˚ taglist: @chloeee20 @millercontracting @thegirlulike @uncassettodiricordi @millersweetheart @vanishintoyoubby @vickie5446 @pleurspetal @lunarmoonbeam1 @valyrianjoel @naiadglow @hollyseb @bbyanarchist @vamp18e @david-10ninch-blog @joelmillersgirl123 @joseyeeeee @pedrosgirl03 @harriedandharassed @kakiki3 @ptolemaea444 @realultracunt @mysterialee @bratty-spice @furiousprincesskingdom @tearsweetenedtea @sprigsofhazel

Given the questionable location, the fact that Crane’s shower boasted a decent water pressure was nothing short of miraculous. His bathroom may have needed a deep cleansing scrub to remove some of the more neglected areas, including one top corner in which you swore you could see mould peeking out from behind the fraying wallpaper, but it was clean enough for you to feel comfortable using it without too much worry. A fact you were at peace with as you press your face up into the heated stream while a sigh of pleasure makes your chest rise and fall in place.

You had left Crane asleep on the couch, his exhaustion apparent, as you extracted yourself from under his dead weight. After the events of the night, the urge to clean and take yourself for a quick shower was intense; just something to wash away some of the stress which sat heavily on your shoulders and in your injured pinkie finger as the digit continued to throb while it started its healing journey.

The marks on your neck stung for only a moment as you wash them using the water, the ghostly remnants of his fingers still clawing into the flesh as you wipe at the area gently with a clean cloth. At least you had seen some remorse over the injury, his shame at having left such uncontrolled and undignified marks giving you something positive to latch onto. It would almost be funny, given the depth of the pains which some of your more frantic sexual escapades had left etched into your skin, but the comedy of it all wasn’t quite ready to land.

Every droplet of water splashing off your skin feels wonderful and you take a moment to stretch under the stream. The tension in your back grows almost unbearable as you raise your arms overhead but it alleviates in an instant as a soft ‘pop’ emits from the base of your spine. Exhaling, you bring the washcloth to your chest as you begin to work your way down your body, leaving no inch unscrubbed in an effort to clean yourself as deeply as possible.

Jumping in place when the bathroom door opens, your anxieties are immediately extinguished as the tall frame of Crane quickly fills the space as he enters and quietly closes the door behind him. He looks better than he did before his sleep, much of the exhaustion having mellowed out into something rested and ready to face the approaching day.

Caught off guard by his presence, more so by how shockingly intimate it felt to have him casually enter the bathroom while it was in such obvious use, you follow his movements with wide eyes as he strides over to the toilet and moves to unzip his fly.

“Umm, hello?”

The sound of his piss hitting the toilet actually makes your mouth fall open a little, an almost childish indignation flaring in your chest as he turns to fix you with a questioning look. You don’t miss the way his eyes seem to be finding it difficult to look at anything above your chest, his gaze following the soft droplets of water as they roll down your chest before disappearing into the soft pubic hair which sits atop your sex.

"You'll find it hard to piss if it starts pointing up again."

His brow quirks in amusement at that, the open vulgarity and cheek clearly pleasing him on some level as he holds his cock in one hand, the other shifting towards your standing position as he leans slightly away from the toilet.

Without warning, he pulls the remains of the shower curtain back as he removes what little chance of modesty still existed between you. Not that it bothers you, if anything, you are quite pleased that he seems to feel much better after his sleep – a fact which does lift some of the heaviness in your chest as you sense that he has no desire to revisit the events of his little mistake.

“Ass.” You spit the insult at him with no venom, “Do I not get privacy anymore? Or do you like what you see so much that you can’t help it?” You ask with faux heat, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Privacy.” Crane scoffs, shaking off his cock as he slips it back within his pants and flushes the toilet. “After the things you have allowed me to do you…” He trails off, quickly washing his hands before leaning on the closed bathroom door as he openly makes himself comfortable in the space and showcases his refusal to be cowed in any way.

“Well then, are you coming in to join me?” You ask, knowing that the simple intimacy of such a thing would never allow him to answer yes.

“Of course not, I much prefer the view from here. My participation feels unnecessary.”

“This view?” You run a hand down your stomach, allowing your fingers to ghost along your pubic hair as you tease your fingers towards your aching sex – the temptation to tease him too intense to ignore. “Are you sure I couldn’t think of some way to lead you in here? Surely the big bad Scarecrow needs to wash occasionally…”

“You will not tempt me into joining you.”

“It could be nice,” you refuse to give up with a sigh, “and I don’t mind helping you to scrub all those hard-to-reach places which need a good rub.”

“Vixen.” Crane accuses but you can see the growing tent at his groin, “Do you think that will sway me?”

“No,” you agree hotly, “but then I don’t mind if you want to watch me. You can see what you’re missing out on.”

Crane’s breath hitches as you slip your hand between your legs fully, your fingers quickly finding your clit as they rub soft circles around the aching nub – arousal quickly building as a voyeuristic shame only adds to the fire being stoked by your digits.

Something almost shy enters his expression and it makes you pause.

“Do you want to watch me?” The question comes easily and without any expectation.

“Yes.” Crane answers, clearing his throat as he pushes his glasses high atop his nose, “I think I would like that.”

Again left to mourn his genuine lack of dirty talk at times, you push back the thought as you focus on pleasing yourself in the ways you know how. You allow fantasy to lead you, imagining Crane’s long fingers replacing your own as their cooler sensation dances along your heated skin. The warmth of his body seeping into yours as he pins you to the shower wall, leaving no room for escape as the shower darkens his hair and pushes it flat to his head while he ravages you.

Your breath huffs excitedly as you build up a rhythm; your fingers stroking and pinching and dipping within your hole as you tease along all those wonderful spots which make you see stars. Crane watches you with genuine interest, his eyes never faltering as they patiently flick between your expression and your hands, and you can feel him filing away little snippets of information as though you were a butterfly pinned to a board before him.

His attention is heady and it pushes you to a quick finish, your directed focus on your own clit adding to the rapid release which chases you. Your fingers flex against the cool tile of the shower wall as you stroke two fingers across your aching nub, orgasm inevitable as you meet eyes as heated as your own.

“Jonathan.” You whine his name as you come, your fingers so slick that they struggle to keep to any kind of rhythm as they slip across your sex messily. It wasn’t anything mind-blowing but the release of tension, of the days’ stress, was welcomed and you don’t push it too hard as you pull your fingers away as soon as the high begins to ebb.

You can feel the restraint which rolls from his tensed shoulders and the heat which sits high in his cheeks, his refusal to break and showcase any kind of weakness to your teasing as you call out his name. It’s a refusal which amuses you as much as it ignites a slight embarrassment, a shame that you had allowed yourself – once again – to be so vulnerable in front of him in exchange for so little.

“I’m going to nap before I leave,” you announce, recovering quickly from your quick release and turning back to the shower as you hide your complicated feelings by allow the water to wash over your chest and soiled hand. “I need some energy before the drive home but I don’t want to sleep later in the day because then I’ll be exhausted going back to work tomorrow.”

“Do as you please.” His voice still rough with arousal, Crane opens his palm in invitation as he finally walks back through the bathroom door, leaving you to finish your shower with the company of your own thoughts and your own thoughts alone.

x-x-x-x-x

Trapped by a monster, the fear which is heaving your chest and making your limbs feel leaden is familiar in a painful way as you fight the losing battle with everything you have. The hand wrapped around your throat squeezes so tightly that you can’t help the pathetic squeak which slips free of your lips as you kick out with flailing legs.

Ignoring the pain of your shoes glancing off his shins as his face shines with sadistic delight, Roman Sionis holds you steady.

“I told you that you would be mine eventually.” Roman pauses only long enough to slam your head against the wall you are pinned to until stars explode in your vision, “And now that you’re mine I think I’ll have to change my plans up a little.”

“Let me go.” You choke out, desperate eyes darting across the vast expanse of darkness which sits behind Roman’s frame – his thick body blocking out most of your vision anyway as he chokes you with an almost inhumane strength, “Let me- fucking monster, let me go!”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Roman coos as he mocks your struggle, “I paid good money for you, and I’m gonna make sure I get every cent beck before you’re a used up and useless scrap of fuckmeat.”

Fear battling rage, you pull enough strength to meet his eyes, “Don’t touch me you fucking asshole. Fuck you, Sionis.”

“Touch you? Oh, babygirl, I’m going to do things to you that will make you beg for me to just touch you. You’re going to be popular and I’ll offer you at bargain prices to make sure you’re never left alone too long.” One gloved hand drops from your throat to cup your cunt roughly through your jeans, “Fuck, after I’ve had my fill I’ll even loan you out to the kennels and then, when you’re really fucked up, maybe one of the more nasty fuckers on the books will fork out a couple of grand to hang what’s left of you for one of their darkweb films.”

Your hands doing no damage to his chest as you continue to pound against his shirt, you abandon the attempted assault and instead dig your nails into the fabric just above his belt – hoping to tear the skin there where there could be a gap. Instead of skin, your hand loops around to touch something hard and metallic and you grab at it without much thought.

Even through your terror, there’s no mistaking what’s in your hand and you pull it free with a panicked flourish. Quickly pointing his beretta pistol as his own head, relief floods your system as quickly as adrenaline trembles your limbs while Roman regards his gun with open anger.

“Drop that you stupid cunt.” He snarls, eyes twisted in rage as he takes a step back and reaches for the pistol, “You even think about shooting me with my own gun and I’ll fuck you with i-”

BANG.

Something wet and warm flecks across your face and you barely register the look of pained rage on Roman’s face before your eyes glance down to take in the spatter of blood and viscera which coats your chest and arms in a shocking pattern.

Glancing down at the gun in your hands in disbelief, it’s only when the sickening thud of Roman’s falling body collides with the floor that you open your mouth and allow yourself to finally scream.

x-x-x-x-x

Standing over the couch as he observes her napping, Crane watches with growing interest as his witty girl grows more and more animated in her subconscious distress.

He recognises the nightmare. From the microexpressions which showcase her anxiety to the way in which her delicate fingers clench and unclench with each unknown action, whatever plagues her dream is something unpleasant indeed.

Dressed in only one of his older shirts and her underwear, her post-shower hair was still damp when she had curled up on his couch and decided to go for her well-earned nap. Content to allow her some peace, he had quietly retired to his workstation to create a record of the previous nights’ events in one of the yellowed journals which held his notes and private thoughts.

Recalling his experience, he wrote professionally and without any passion as he recalled the physical response which his body experienced as the toxin took hold, the shift in his perception and the loss of control after being restrained. Pausing as he reached the moment where his witty girl intervened, Crane found himself hesitant as he reflected on her intervention.

Despite his warnings, she had sought to comfort him and in response – although unintentional – he had once again hurt her. His guilt wasn’t absolute, a frustration at her inability to listen to his simple instructions whispering that she should hold a little responsibility for her own injuries, but her determination to intervene did leave him with a fresh feeling of debt which would need to be paid at some point.

Eventually though, her whimpers had drawn his attention from his work and he had walked over to the couch to find her experiencing her current nightmare.

She was beautiful in her vulnerability and he finds himself enjoying observing her, filing every little movement away for future consideration when he has more time to enjoy it properly.

She had masturbated for him, allowed him an insight into her personal pleasure in a way that no one else ever had. It was intimate in a way he had not expected and his arousal at watching her hands slide between her legs had been laced with a feeling which he could not pin down.

Unable to help himself, Crane slides his hand within her shirt and his cool fingers come to a rest atop her left tit as she continues to breath raggedly. The soft warmth of her skin seeping into his own, he can’t help but squeeze her breast gently – enjoying how easily she fits within his hand and the rapid beat of her heart as it thrums against his palm.

That heartbeat.

So simple to manipulate and force into action.

A vague thought passes through his mind, one which sees his witty girl hooked up to a heart rate monitor. It would be something light, portable, and easy to keep out of the way as he ensured she remained perfectly restrained and subject to his experiments.

His focus.

His touch.

He could practically see it, how rapidly the monitor would jump and increase its rhythm as he pleasured her and scratched that masochistic itch which guided her foolish choices. His cock throbs within its confines as he imagines which actions would spark the greatest reaction. A harsh suck of her peaked nipple? The crack of his belt across her rapidly-welting flesh? A feathery brush of his thumb across her engorged clit? The pinch of a needle as he broke her perfect skin and delivered her a fresh dose of his latest toxin?

So responsive is his witty girl that he isn’t even certain and that uncertainty has his breath coming short as he continues to feel her heart beat against his palm.

“Fuck you, Sionis.”

Crane flinches in place as she speaks, the unexpected words making his hand recoil in surprise.

Heat buzzes low in his chest, the emotion sitting somewhere between possessive jealousy and anger as he watches his witty girl struggle to control her breathing after her outburst.

Sionis is still affecting her, his actions with Sionis are still affecting her, and that truth is difficult to swallow. It was a truth that quickly put a slight stop in him from taking any real pleasure in her panic, rather, it quickly extinguishes the growing arousal which her frantic and anxious state naturally sparks within him.

Flinching as his witty girl shoots up from her nightmare with a stunted cry, Crane quickly schools his features into something unreadable as she fights to control her breathing, her hands coming up to clutch at her own chest in a childish pursuit of comfort.

"I shot him. I shot hi- god the blood was everywhere." The back of her hand flies to cover her mouth, her lips pressing into the skin roughly as she muffles her own words.

“Shot who, little mouse?” Crane asks, already knowing the answer.

“Roman Sionis. He-he was choking me and I got his gun and, oh fuck, I shot him. I killed him.”

“A subconscious wish fulfilment, perhaps?”

“I-I…I don’t know.” She finishes lamely, her breathing settling as she falls into conversation with him. Her hair is wild in its damp state and Crane glances between it and the exposed skin of her chest as she matches his assessment with her own. Her eyes quickly drop to his groin, the residual hardness there making her expression quirk into something unreadable as she sits up straighter on the couch. She takes in his arousal with shifting emotions; surprise, and then understanding as her eyes slowly tilt up to meet his own.

“Were you watching my nightmare?”

“Yes.”

“And you liked it.” It was almost posed as a question but one which had an answer so obvious that it deserved little intrigue.

“You ignite certain responses within me, witty girl. Let’s not pretend they’re all savoury.”

“What is it?” She asks but quickly follows herself up as she realises how broad her query is, “What is it than makes you like it so much? The fear, I mean? I get it when we’re, well, when we’re having sex but something like this? Why does my fear make you so-”

She breaks off, unable to fully put her question into a cohesive line of questioning but he is no fool and he understands her ask. The crux of his entire person. He hesitates, her question one which exposes him to more vulnerability than she could ever comprehend, but his pause is quickly swept under the rug as he redirects her attention fluidly.

“That’s not a question you want the answer to, witty girl.” He offers her a quirk of his lips, just enough to settle her and inspire a genuine smile in response. “Let’s put it to bed for now and concentrate on something of greater value. I think a meal will set us both to rights since we have not eaten properly since before the events of last night.”

“Food.” She considers the suggestion with painfully innocent eyes, the concept of something solid and nourishing completely overshadowing the emotional minefield she had been unintentionally ready to wade through, “Yeah. I could go something. Should I have it delivered to the warehouse and I’ll collect from the main entrance when it’s ready?”

“Sounds good.” Crane agrees readily, happy to allow the moment of unfamiliar domesticity if it kept the conversation flowing to less dangerous territory, “You choose the meal and I will prepare some drinks.”

Feeling the need to escape from the moment, Crane turns on his heel and makes his way over to the makeshift kitchen which sits in one of the corners of his basement hideout. The tiredness which pulls at his bones is familiar and exhausting, one which has been afflicting him since he had awoken restrained to his own dentist chair. However, it is lighter than he would have expected and he chalks it up to his witty girl and her impressive ability to distract him from his own failings.

Again, he muses on just how she had surprised him by allowing him to watch her pleasure herself. Such a private and base thing, something she no doubt had never shared with another person, and yet she had chosen to share that with him. Her willingness to show that vulnerability, knowing not only what he was capable of but also what he had already done was thrilling.

The first time it ever happened, Harry had wanted to chop his own dick off. Maybe even submit to one of those chemical castrations. Because he had no business sleeping with his best mate’s daughter. No right, no excuse, no justification. It was an unspoken law, a sacred rule in the unwritten mate’s guidebook, and he had shattered it in a single, impulsive moment of weakness. He didn’t deserve to ever use his dick again, not after the way he’d betrayed a trust so deep it ought to have been untouchable.

But then there you were. Standing there, looking as impossibly, infuriatingly pretty as ever. Tempting. Irresistible. You had always been a test of restraint. What was he, in the end? Just a man. Weak, as all men were, prone to desire. And what was a man supposed to do when you offered yourself like that, when you guided him up the stairs to your room, when you shed your clothes and laid bare, legs open, daring him to take whatever he wanted? The answer, he realized, with brutal clarity, was to fuck you like a beast. To pound you into the mattress until your voice was raw, until both of you were slick and gasping and trembling.

You were nothing like your brother Eddie. Nothing like the rest of your family. You were kind, polite, sharper than them all. Maybe, in some corner of his guilt-addled mind, he sought comfort in imagining that you weren’t Kevin’s biological kid either, but every night, when he presses atop you, when he buries himself inside you and drags you across the sheets, he swears that if he squints hard enough, he could see Kevin’s eyes in yours. And even then, after months together, it twists his gut with a guilt that refused to fade.

Neither of you had any idea where this was headed. Harry could sense Conrad wouldn’t mind, he might raise an eyebrow at the age difference, sure, but what better than to marry his grandchild to a man as reliable as Harry? One that he trusted so deeply? What better way to secure Harry’s loyalty to the family by binding him officially to the Harrigans?

But Kevin… Kevin would never forgive him. It would shatter him, the betrayal of months spent hiding in plain sight. Who could predict what a father, thinking his daughter had been taken advantage of, might do? Rage, revenge, despair, all were possible.

Tonight your father had invited him over to watch the game before dinner. Harry sat opposite you, his posture impeccable, the rigid precision of a man trained to command every inch of himself, every movement calculated, but the tautness in his jaw, the slight tightening of his shoulders, betrayed him.

His face remained neutral, neutral enough that anyone else might have believed him. But you knew better. You could sense the predator lurking beneath, the barely restrained heat simmering just under the surface, and every time your eyes met his across the table, it became harder for him not to think about you naked, harder not to hear the echo of your moans every time you laughed, harder not to remember you bent over his desk the night before.

The first bite of roast chicken passed without incident, polite conversation flowing, but naturally, you decided to test him.

Under the table, you slid your bare foot casually along the floor, brushing against his calf. Innocent, barely-there contact, yet deliberate… a touch designed to provoke, to spark a reaction. Harry flicked his eyes downward, trying to decipher what you were doing, whether you were foolishly bold or dangerously cunning, right here with your father only a few feet away.

You smiled up at him, perfectly angelic, your eyes glinting with mischief.

“And so I told dad to let you breathe,” Kevin said, lifting his glass of wine. “You shouldn’t have so much on yourself all the time.”

“Dad, Harry is a big guy, he can handle it,” you said, your voice soft and teasing, impossible for him to ignore. “Right, big guy?”

The words made him flinch ever so slightly, just a twitch of muscle that betrayed the rush of heat surging through him. Big guy. It made him remember all those times you whispered dirty things to him. All those times you’d said “You’re so fucking big, Harry” before taking him in your mouth.

You were clearly doing this on purpose. You moved your foot again, higher this time, brushing the front of his trousers, pressing lightly against him, curling your toes in a slow, teasing rhythm, making Harry shift in his seat. You could feel him instantly: thick, already half-hard, the heat of his cock straining against the fabric as you dragged the ball of your foot along the rigid outline.

“Mm?” you asked innocently, as though nothing had happened. “Everything okay over there?”

Harry’s eyes darkened, he cleared his throat, forcing his posture rigid. “Fine,” he said, but the edge beneath it was undeniable. “This uh… this chicken is really good, Bella.”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” your mother interjected lightly. “All credits to the cook.”

You let your smile widen, letting your foot linger against him, brushing and stroking just enough to make him squirm without offering the kind of relief he craved. Leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, chin resting lightly in your hands, you appeared absorbed in your parents’ conversation.

Your father, blissfully unaware, launched into a story about his teenage years with Harry, gesturing animatedly with knife and fork. You bit back a laugh as Harry’s fingers twitched, almost unconsciously reaching for your ankle, before he forced them back into his lap.

You curled your toes in a lazy, teasing rhythm, with slow drags up the length, then a firmer press right over the swollen head, watching Harry’s jaw clench. He shifted in his seat, spreading his thighs just a fraction wider under the table like his body was begging for more even as he tried to keep his face neutral.

A low groan caught in his throat when you flexed your foot again, spreading your torso to cradle the fat ridge of him through the fabric, rubbing in tight little circles that made him twitch his hips forward involuntarily. His free hand gripped your ankle, not to stop you, but to hold you there, pressing your foot harder against his aching cock like he needed the pressure to stay sane.

Your lips curved into a silent, taunting smile as you mouthed: “Don’t get distracted, big guy.”

Harry gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, trembling just enough to betray his inner struggle. His pulse hammered in his throat and groin, and yet he maintained the polite facade, forcing a composed smile for your father’s benefit. Every fiber of him screamed to take you, to claim you here, to punish your audacity, but he couldn’t. Not in front of your family. Not right now.

You laughed softly, a delicate and musical sound that sent shivers down his spine. Your foot glided over him again, lingering just long enough over the most sensitive spots to make him groan quietly into his napkin. When your mother turned to ask a question about the wine, you pivoted your head, smiling, nodding, answering fully, while under the table, you were orchestrating his torment.

By the time dessert arrived, Harry’s restraint was stretched to its breaking point. The polite conversation was now little more than a distant hum. You’d teased his cock relentlessly for a full hour, massaging the rigid length through his trousers from base to tip, then cupping his heavy and full balls, rolling them gently in the arch of your foot until you felt them draw up tight, aching for release.

Every time his breathing hitched and he tensed like he was about to beg, you’d stop. Pull back. Then you’d return, lighter this time, stroking him with just the soft pads of your toes, tracing the fat, throbbing outline of his cockhead, feeling it jump.

You’d retreat again, leaving him throbbing and untouched for long, cruel seconds, only to press back harder the next time, grinding your heel right against the leaking slit. By now he was certain his boxers were ruined, completely soaked through, a messy puddle of pre-cum seeping through the cotton, clinging to his shaft, matting the coarse hair at the base.

Kevin wasn’t stupid. He’d known Harry for half his life, knew the man’s habits, his temper, the slightest tells that betrayed him. Harry was the kind of man who could sit through chaos and never flinch, but that night, something was off.

It started small. The way Harry avoided your gaze during dinner, darting his eyes anywhere but your face. The slight tremor in his hand when he lifted his glass. The smallest shifts in posture, the stiff shoulders, the forced calm in his tone, they all spoke louder than any words could. Kevin had seen men lie before. He’d seen guilt, from the smallest cheat to the deepest betrayal. And Harry… he was showing the same cracks.

After dinner, when you and your mother tidied up in the kitchen, Kevin and Harry ended up in the living room.

Kevin poured them both a drink. “You all right, bruv?” he asked, his voice casual.

Harry looked up, startled for a fraction of a second, before forcing a small smile. “Hmm. Fine. Why?”

Kevin studied him, tilting his glass, narrowing his eyes just enough. “You just seem… tense.”

Harry shrugged, keeping his voice steady, though the subtle rasp betrayed him. “Long week. That’s all.”

Kevin nodded, pretending to buy it, but his mind was already racing. He’d noticed the way you looked at Harry too, the slight glances, the faint blushes, the spark in your eyes, and it tightened his stomach with unease. Then there was Harry’s reaction whenever you spoke: too attentive, too quiet, as though every heartbeat of yours set him on edge.

“You sure?” Kevin pressed, glass in hand. “’Cause I know you, H. You get that look in your eye when something’s eating at you.”

Harry took a deliberate sip, avoiding Kevin’s gaze. “Nothing’s eating at me.”

Kevin smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Right.”

Kevin’s mind replayed the dinner, every glance, every imperceptible twitch. But it had to be wrong. Surely he was imagining things, there was no way something like that could be happening. How stupid had he been to even consider it?

A few minutes later, you came back from the kitchen.

“Dad, I’m leaving now.”

Kevin wrapped an arm around your shoulders, giving a soft, affectionate kiss to your head. With a falling marriage and a son like Eddie, it wasn’t hard to understand why he clung so tightly to you, his daughter, the one thing he believed he’d done right in his life.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” he asked, his voice gentle. “It’s late. Your old room’s ready.”

“Can’t do. Gotta feed the cat, and I have to be up early tomorrow anyway,” you said. If saying “feed the cat” meant being fucked by Harry all night long, then yes, it wasn’t exactly untrue.

“Then call an Uber,” Kevin said, already reaching for his phone, but Harry cut him off.

“I can drive her,” he said, measured, like it was nothing more than a casual offer. “It’s on my way home.”

Kevin nodded. “Sure. Thanks.” He pulled you close for a final hug. “Let me know when you get home. See you around, love.”

You grabbed your purse and headed toward the door as Harry slapped your father on the back, exchanging quick goodbyes.

Outside, you slid into the passenger seat of Harry’s car, closing the door with a soft thud. He started the engine but didn’t move immediately. For a few long seconds, he simply stared ahead through the windshield, drumming his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

The streetlights passed in golden streaks as he drove. Neither of you spoke at first. The silence was heavy.

Halfway down the road, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You can’t do that, babe,” he said finally, controlled but carrying the weight of frustration.

You glanced at him, pretending not to understand. “Do what?”

He clenched his jaw. “That thing you did. Under the table.” His eyes flicked to yours. “You can’t pull shit like that in front of your father, yeah? Jesus Christ.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile, but the tease slipped through in your voice. “You didn’t seem to mind too much.”

He groaned softly, one hand leaving the wheel to rub the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point.” His accent thickened when he was upset, you could hear it now. “Your old man’s sittin’ right there. He’s my mate. You understand how wrong that is?”

You turned your gaze to the window, the lights flickering across your face. “I know,” you whispered. “I just wanted to see how much you could take.”

Harry let out a breath that was part laugh, part sigh, though no real amusement touched it. “Yeah, well, now you’ve seen it. Not much, apparently.” He tightened his fingers on the wheel. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Pushing me like that.”

You met his eyes briefly, though his focus remained fixed on the road. “I wasn’t trying to make you angry,” you said softly. Truthfully, all you wanted was to tease him, have some fun, the kind of intimacy couples shared. Only you weren’t a normal couple, and you weren’t out on a double date with friends.

“Yeah?” he muttered. “Well, you did anyway.”

The car rolled to a stop at a red light. For a long moment, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the distant night. Then Harry turned his gaze fully to you, really looking, and for the first time, the tension seemed to crack.

“Listen,” he said quietly. “You gotta be careful with this. With me. You can’t just… act like that where people can see. It’s not a game.”

You met his eyes squarely. “I know.”

He studied you a few seconds longer before shaking his head, a faint exhale escaping him as the light turned green.

“Please don’t be mad at me, H,” you whispered.

“I’m… I’m not mad, babe,” he replied, he sounded weary, his voice roughened with fatigue. “Just… be careful next time. No games.”

And yet, you could feel it, his arousal straining against the zipper of his pants, still thick and hot after your teasing before, pulsing for attention. He was counting the seconds until you were alone, behind closed doors where he could finally let himself go. Where he could press you against a wall, tear at your clothes, and fuck you like he wanted.

“No more games,” you whispered, leaning forward, letting your chest brush against his arm, tracing with your fingers the outline of his thigh. “That’s such a shame, ‘cause I had a really fun one in mind.”

He moved his eyes toward you, a warning buried in that dangerous glint. “Babe… what’re you on about?”

You smirked, letting your hand drift lower, brushing over the outline of his cock through the thin denim. “This,” you murmured, letting your fingers play over the hard ridge pressing against the fabric. Your other hand moved to his zipper, slowly dragging it down, teasing, letting the first inch of him spring free.

He swallowed, one hand still steady on the wheel, the other twitching near his thigh. “Babe… babe. I’m driving.”

“Then you should focus on the road, big guy.” You leaned closer, letting your lips brush the tip of him, your tongue darting out to tease the sensitive head. The warmth of your mouth made him shift in his seat, a groan vibrating through his chest. “Jesus, Harry… you’re so fucking big.”

“Fuck… don’t…” he warned, his voice tight, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he tried to hold control. “You’re gonna make us fucking crash.”

You ignored him, swirling your tongue around the tip, tracing over the slit, teasing him until he shivered. Then, slowly, you sank him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and letting the wet, slick heat coat every inch of him. You pulled back just slightly, letting the tip rest against the roof of your mouth before sliding him all the way back down again.

Harry’s hand twitched on the wheel, his chest rising and falling rapidly, groans cutting through the quiet of the car. “Jesus… you’re—shit—”

You wrapped your fingers around the base, squeezing gently, matching the rhythm of your mouth, letting your tongue tease him as you stroked. Every flick and slide of your lips made him grunt, he was shifting his hips almost instinctively, pressing against you as if trying to sink even further into your mouth.

You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, letting your eyes slide over him with mischief. Then you went back down, taking him deeper, letting your lips stretch around him, swallowing him inch by inch. You curled your tongue under, pressing against the underside, rubbing the sensitive ridge just right, making him groan and grip the wheel tighter.

He tried to focus on the road, but his breathing hitched as your mouth worked him over. You stroked him up and down with your hand, feeling the thick pulse of his erection in your palm. You sucked at the head, teasing it between your lips just slightly, making him gasp, and then relaxed your jaw to let him slide in deeper again.

“Babe, fuck…” he groaned, brushing back your hair, tangling his fingers in the strands as he tilted your head to change the angle, so you could take him even deeper.

You pulled back slightly, licking a long stripe up his length, then wrapped your lips around the base, taking in all of him with a wet, sloppy sound. You lapped your tongue over the veins and sensitive underside, sucking and swirling, feeling his pulse throb with each movement. Every little gag, every subtle throat stretch, made him moan.

Harry tightened his free hand in your hair, not to stop you, but to guide you, tilt your head, control the depth. You bobbed your head and swirled your mouth in a relentless rhythm, moving your fingers in perfect sync, stroking the base as your lips did the rest.

“You’re… Christ…” he groaned, gritting his teeth. “Too good… can’t—don’t—shit…”

You moved your hand to his balls, rubbing, cupping, feeling the heat and pulse of him as your mouth worked. You pulled back just enough to catch a gasp, then dove down again, taking him fully, the tightness in his thighs betraying how close he was.

Harry tried to warn you, his voice was rough, but he couldn’t stop the groans that spilled from his chest, the way his hips subtly pressed forward, driving deeper into your mouth with each stroke of your hand and twist of your tongue. He gripped the wheel tighter, but he made no effort to pull away, letting you take full control.

“You’re insane… my god… never felt—fucking hell…”

You hummed around him, you couldn’t help it, you wanted every inch, every pulse. Saliva was dripping down the shaft as your lips sucked.

“Fucking Christ, babe… you’re ridiculous… look at this mess…”

You didn’t care. The spit ran down the sides, pooling at the base, and some dripped onto your chin, glistening wet. You swallowed, gagged, took him deeper.

“Too… good… too goddamn good,” he muttered. His other hand left the wheel for a moment to slide down your back, gripping your ass through your clothes, kneading your flesh and tugging you closer, making you whimper as your chest pressed into him.

By the time you arrived at your place, your chin was coated in spit, his shaft glistening with your saliva, and his cock still hard, twitching and pulsing. He pulled back just enough to tuck himself into his pants, adjusting the zipper with a grimace, though his hand lingered on you for a possessive squeeze of your hip.

You climbed out first, fumbling with the keys in a daze, still flushed and dripping, and he followed. “You’re insane, you know that, babe?” he said.

“I know,” you breathed, smirking despite the mess. “And you love it.”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he pushed you against the doorframe, pressing his chest against yours, brushing your temple, jaw, and the side of your neck with his lips. He roamed his hands over your back and ass, gripping, kneading, marking you.

Inside your room, you didn’t waste time. You pulled him in, tugging your fingers at his shirt and belt, unbuttoning the pants he’d tucked himself into. Harry tugged his pants and boxers down, the fabric slipped over his hips, then down his thighs, pooling at his feet. His erection sprang free, the tip still flushed and glistening with your spot and his pre-cum in the dim light of the room.

He stepped out of the clothing, and the second he was free, you didn’t hesitate, you pressed him back onto the bed, letting your mouth fall onto him immediately, sloppy and wet, dragging all the frustration from the car into the moment.

Harry groaned, holding your head like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding. “Babe… shit… you’re gonna—fuck, just like that… so good…”

You didn’t stop. Every stroke of your tongue, every deep hollow of your cheeks, every slick, sloppy suck drove him closer.

He was shaking beneath you, moaning your name over and over. He jerked his hips up occasionally, and you swallowed and licked with even more greed.

“Holy fuck, babe… can’t… I’m—shit—” His words were broken, almost incoherent, but he still kept control.

You gagged slightly on the thick length. He bucked, groaned, trying not to cum yet, but it was impossible not to give in to the immense pleasure you were giving him.

Harry came with a guttural roar, his voice breaking, as ropes of his cum filled your mouth, some spilling down your chin, slick and hot, coating your tongue. You swallowed as much as you could, some dribbling down onto your breasts, and onto the messy sheets below.

When he finally leaned back, spent, trembling, you wiped your chin with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “Was I good, Harry?”

“You were perfect.” He pulled you close, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you tight. “Jesus… only you could do that to me, babe. Only you…” His chest heaved, still catching his breath, as he rested his forehead against yours.

Without a word, Harry grabbed your wrist, pulling you up until your hands pressed into the bed, your ass lifted slightly in surrender.

“Over my knee,” he growled, a sound that made your core clench instantly. You obeyed, letting him guide you, until your stomach pressed against the hard line of his thigh and your legs hanged off his lap. His hands lingered on your hips for a moment, gripping firmly, claiming, and the slight press of his weight made your ass raise just a bit higher.

In one quick, fluid movement, he gripped the hem of your pants with a strength that made your body shiver, tugging them down along with your panties in a single motion. The fabric pooled around your ankles, and suddenly you were bare before him, your ass round and perfect, your pussy glistening and exposed.

He settled one hand on your lower back while the other traveled downward, tracing the curve of your ass before pressing in the cleft between your cheeks. He pressed his thumb into the skin, caressing, making you shiver with need.

Then, two fingers were inside you, so thick, curling, probing, finding every wet, sensitive spot. You gasped, pressing your hips back instinctively against his hand. “H-Harry… fuck…” Your voice shook, half moan, half plea.

“Relax,” he murmured, pressing his big digits deeper. “Let me take care of you.”

You didn’t need convincing. Every stroke, every press of his fingers inside you made your knees quiver, your body arching in time with his relentless, masterful touch. He began to curl them inside you, finding the spots that made you tremble and whimper, making you push your hips back against him without thinking.

He shifted just enough to press the pad of his thumb harder against your swollen clit, tracing unyielding circles that rubbed the oversensitive nub while his fingers kept plunging deep into your dripping cunt, curling and scissoring with every wet thrust. The brutal combination of his thumb grinding on your clit while those curled digits fucked that perfect spot inside you, sent your head spinning.

You clutched desperately at his thighs, digging your nails into the hard muscle, anchoring yourself as you rocked your hips shamelessly against his hand, chasing more. The slick sounds filled the air, from the wet squelch of your pussy swallowing his fingers, to the slick drag of his thumb over your pulsing clit, and your own broken whimpers mixing with the groans rumbling from his chest.

“You feel so good,” Harry muttered, never slowing his fingers. “So fucking wet, so fucking ready. You love it, don’t you, love?”

“Yes—yes, Harry! Please… don’t stop…” Your plea was desperate, smeared with need, and he responded with a grin you could feel through his hands pressing against your flesh.

One of his hands moved to grip your hair, tilting your head slightly, pulling your attention to him, while the other continued to fuck you inside, sliding in and out. Every flick, every curl of his finger made your walls clench around him, gripping his hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“You’re mine,” he growled, pressing harder into your clit with his thumb. The word hit you like a punch, making your heart race and your pussy pulse, completely lost in the pleasure he was giving you.

You rolled your hips against him without control, grinding back against him. “Harry—oh god—yes—fuck—don’t stop!”

He chuckled, leaning close so his lips brushed your ear. “Not stopping, love. Not until your perfect little cunt can’t take it anymore.” His words were heat in your ear, igniting the fire that had been building.

Your body shuddered, squelching wetly around his fingers, and he grinned at the sound, pressing a little harder. “That’s it, take it… Take me like this, so fucking greedy.”

Every breath, every moan, every little cry you let out fed him, and he didn’t slow, not even when you felt like you were going to cum right there over his knee, dripping with your own wetness.

“You’re gonna cum for me, yeah?” he asked, curling his fingers one last time deep inside you. You could feel the heat building, the coil of need threatening to snap, your walls fluttering around him, your pussy pulsing.

“Yes… oh fuck yes! Harry—please, please—” you gasped, your body shuddering violently as your climax ripped through you, wringing him, coating his fingers with your juices, squeezing and clenching around him as you jerked uncontrollably.

He held you through it, milking every last drop of your release. “Mine… all mine… that’s it, let it all out for me.”

Your body sagged against him, trembling, coated in sweat and sticky heat, as he finally withdrew his fingers, pressing the back of his hand over your soaked pussy, smirking as he surveyed his work. “Look at that, love… your cunt all slick for me. You’re ready for my cock, ain’t you?”

You nodded, breathless, weak, watching through your peripheral vision as Harry shifted higher onto the bed, dragging your pliant body closer to his.

You settled into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing your chest to his, and your arms around his neck.

Just as he settled you fully, your phone started ringing across the bed.

“Fuck,” you muttered, reaching out yo grab it, your hips instinctively pressing back against him as if to steal a second to breathe.

“Don’t,” Harry murmured, and before you could argue, he captured your mouth with his. His kiss was demanding, possessive.

He tangled his tongue with yours, pulling and twisting, wrapping one strong hand around the back of your head, pressing you impossibly closer. You let yourself melt against him for a brief second, but reality intervened, and you pulled back.

“Just a sec,” you said, fumbling for your phone. “Fucking hell,” you widened your eyes as the screen lit up.

Dad.

Harry’s body stiffened, his cock brushing impossibly against your slick entrance, but he made no move to stop you. Just watched you.

With a long, annoyed sigh, he leaned back slightly, brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck with his mouth. You held the phone to your ear.

“Yeah? Dad?” you said, trying to keep your tone normal while Harry roamed his hands subtly over your waist, brushing his thumb dangerously close to the swell of your ass.

“Love. Just wanted to see if you got home alright,” Kevin said. “You said you’d call, and I’ve been up waiting.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you mumbled, biting your lip to suppress a moan as Harry grazed his teeth over the tender skin of your shoulder and neck. Each nip sent heat pooling lower in your body. “I’m just really tired… went straight to—uhh—straight to bed.”

“I tried to call H, but he didn’t pick up,” Kevin continued. “Don’t you think he was acting… weird today?”

“H? What? Noo—ohh.” You stuttered, pressing your hips automatically against the tip of Harry’s cock, slick and eager, nudging against your soaked entrance. “You know, Harry—he’s probably on his way home. Don’t worry, okay? Loveyoubye,” you rushed, cutting the conversation short and tossing the phone across the bed, your pulse racing as you threw yourself back onto Harry’s lap.

“Fucking hell, he’s like a clockwork.” Harry gripped your hips firmly, pressing his thumbs into your skin as he tilted you just so. “Relax, love. Just let me move you,” he murmured.

You did as he said, letting your body go slack, except for the parts that ached for him, and he guided you, lifting, tilting, pressing you down. His cock pressed hard into your wet and slick heat, and you gasped at the fullness, at the way every nerve ending screamed for more.

“You feel so fucking good, babe,” he groaned, gripping your hips tight enough to leave bruises. “Every inch of you, wrapped around me… all mine.”

“Please… I need all of you,” you whimpered, clutching at his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

You rolled your hips forward exactly as he guided you, surrendering to the grip of his hands on your waist while he controlled every second of it. He thrust your body down onto him with deliberate force, making you take every thick, veined inch of his cock in one long stretching glide that had your soaked walls fluttering and gripping him like a vice.

The drag was obscene, your heat clinging to him, your pussy lips stretched taut around his girth, dripping down his shaft and coating his balls with every drop of your arousal.

Your breath hitched, and you moaned as he pressed both big palms hard into the small of your lower back, arching you just right, tilting your pelvis so the fat head of his cock raked directly over that spongy spot inside you on every upstroke. The new angle made stars burst behind your eyelids, and every time he yanked you down, your clit ground against his pubic bone while he bottomed out deep enough to bruise.

“Look at you, riding me so fucking pretty,” he growled, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let me feel you squeeze me, love. Tighten around me.”

“Oh… fuck, Harry!” you gasped and obeyed, clenching hard as he pushed you deeper, your walls fluttering, throbbing, soaking him with your arousal. Every tilt, every thrust, every guided movement sent shivers of pleasure spiraling through your body, and your cries grew louder.

Harry’s hands were relentless, roaming your back, your ass, your hips, guiding you to fuck yourself into him perfectly. His cock filled you, every thrust hitting deep, making you gasp and whimper.

“Fuck… look at you, little cunt’s so greedy, so wet,” he growled, controlling the depth and speed of every movement. “God, love, you’re amazing like this.”

“God, yes… just like that,” you breathed, arching against him. “Harder… don’t stop!”

You felt the heat building, spreading from your core to every part of you, every nerve screaming for release. He whispered filthy encouragements, guiding your hips faster, pushing you into him over and over, making your walls clamp around him involuntarily.

“Come on, babe,” he murmured. “Let go for me… I want to see you cum on my cock.”

You couldn’t hold it. Your body convulsed, shaking in his lap, pulsing around his cock as your climax ripped through you, high and violent, loud cries muffled against his shoulder. Harry groaned deep in response, pressing his chest against yours, letting you ride out the orgasm while he kept moving you, pumping you full of his cock.

When you finally trembled to a stop, gasping, dripping with your own wetness, he pulled you closer, pressing kisses to your temple and your shoulder, rocking you gently, pressing just enough to make you ache again, reminding you that he owned every inch of you, that every motion, every thrust, every moan was for him and his pleasure.

Harry rolled you onto your back, the weight of his body pressing you into the bed. His chest was hot against yours, his arms bracing on either side to keep you pinned, and your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively. You could feel the thickness of him pressing against your core again, your slickness coating him, making him groan.

He paused just long enough to line himself up with your dripping entrance, and with a groan, he slammed himself into you. The stretch made you cry out immediately, every nerve ending alive, until he buried himself to the hilt. His grip on your hips was brutal, holding you still as he thrust deep.

“Oh, fuck, you get so fucking tight after you cum, love,” he growled, leaning down, pressing his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss while he hammered his cock into you, balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke.

You arched, moaning, digging your nailsinto his back, pressing yourself into him as he fucked you like he wanted to imprint himself on every inch of your body.

Harry cupped your breasts roughly, engulfing the soft weight of them, curling his fingers tight as he twisted your stiff nipples, hard enough to sting. The pinch made you gasp and arch instinctively, pushing your tits further into his grip while he used the leverage to yank you down harder onto his cock.

“Come on, babe, show me how much you want me,” he growled, thrusting harder, angling his hips to hit all the right spots, stretching you, filling you completely, as he drove into you deeper than ever before.

“You feel so good,” he snarled, biting down on your collarbone. “So fucking wet… can’t get enough.”

His thrusts became a violent rhythm, deep and hard, driving into you mercilessly. The friction, the fullness, the way he fucked you like he’d been starved for this… it was unbearable in the best way.

“I’m gonna… I’m close…” he growled, and you mewled, pushing up against him, clenching around him as your walls fluttered, soaking him.

“Yes! Oh, yes! I want it so bad!” You pressed the heel of your feet against his lower back, urging him to get deeper inside you. “Make me yours… fill me up, Harry!”

And then he lost it. With a loud roar, he slammed inside you, snapping forward as he emptied himself, filling you with warm ropes of sticky white cum. Your body shook around him, milking him as he groaned, panting, shuddering with every last pulse.

He collapsed partially on top of you, resting his forehead against your shoulder, still buried inside you. You could feel the tremble of him, the heat of his cum flooding your walls, getting you soaked in your and his arousal.

“Mine,” he whispered, dragging his thumb over your cheeks, twitching his hips involuntarily as he let you feel every last pulse inside you. “All mine, love… nothing’s ever gonna take this away.”

You shivered beneath him, heart pounding, soaked, aching, completely spent, and utterly his.

On the other end of your phone was Kevin. He’d been drowning his sorrows in whiskey ever since he’d heard the first five minutes of his best friend fucking his daughter. He was already onto his fourth glass.

He wanted to go there and break Harry’s nose. He wanted to kick him in the balls until he was sure he couldn’t use his dick anymore. To tell him to get lost, to convince his father to fire him.

But what use would it be? Conrad wouldn’t give two shits about what he wanted. And what would he get in return if he hurt Harry? A daughter who resented him for not accepting the man she loved. He’d lose you, the only thing that made him feel proud, the one thing he’d done right in his life.

He’d also lose a friend, a man who’d been at his side since the day they first met, who’d saved his ass more than once.

So Kevin poured himself another drink and turned off his phone.

A/N: Heeey! This was based on an idea for a dbf Harry fic that someone sent me a while back, and I really wanted to write it, especially since it’s been a while since I last wrote for Harry.

This is just my interpretation of how that scenario might play out (everyone’s free to disagree, hehe). I personally see Kevin as having a bit of a pushover personality, he can’t control his son (who isn’t even really his son, lol), married one of his dad’s mistresses who doesn’t truly love him, so I don’t think he’d put up much of a fight if his best friend crossed a serious line involving his daughter. Conrad, on the other hand, I wasn’t as sure about, but from a business standpoint, making Harry an official Harrigan would secure his loyalty, especially with his fear of him aligning with Kat otherwise. But yeah, that’s just my take.

You had vaguely known him since you were a senior in high school and had seen him and his little girl move into the trailer across from yours. You were sitting on the front porch, occasionally sipping from the iced lemonade in your hand. Summer had come in hot, and the beaming sun was relentless during the first humid weeks of July. 

Joel and Sarah had been the talk of the neighborhood — the dad and the little girl with an oxygen tank. You heard the rumors from some of your friends in the trailer park - that Joel couldn’t afford to keep up with her medical bills, so he had to sell his house and abandon the business he had built up with his bare hands. 

Still, she was a fighter until her last breath. Joel, however, died the day Sarah did. She had only lived for eleven months after moving into the park. What was once a motivated little family fighting hard against the disease soon became a single man inside of an empty shell. 

His warm smiles that he would give to neighbors who brought Sarah over toys and “get well soon!” cards soon turned into nothingness — a dark, empty expression. Joel stopped going out as much, replacing soccer balls and dirty sneakers with whiskey and cigarettes. He no longer stood out on his porch, playing guitar and smiling at you once he met your eyes from your own porch. 

Kathy, who lived directly next to you, begged her husband, Parker, to call the cops for a wellness check for Joel. On the first anniversary of her death, he didn’t leave the house for a week. 

“Mind your own business. God only knows how he’s havin’ to cope; seeing cops knocking on his front door in the middle of the night won’t help nothing.”

You had to admit you were more than a little relieved when you saw him finally emerge, tired-looking with heavy eyes. He got in his car and left before coming back thirty minutes later, a new case of beer in tow.

You spent too much time observing him, ensuring he was alright, even if he didn’t know that. With no dad that you could remember and a mother who remarried some douchebag and skipped town after you were old enough to live on your own, all you had was time. After senior graduation, your friends in the park found a way to escape to college, but you were stuck and unable to escape, just like Joel. 

While your friends went to get a degree, you found a job at a bar up the road. It was grimy and far beyond your dream, but you earned good tips. With responsibilities that caused you to stay and a deep fear of failure, you could not leave the town you’d grown up in. 

Out of desperation, you’d leaped and applied to some college several towns away. It was a spur-of-the-moment impulse, an unrealistic kind of thing. It’s not like you’d be able to afford it anyway. 

So it was a cycle: wake up, work, sleep, and do it all over again. You understood how Joel must feel, trapped in a never-ending pattern, reliving memories that couldn’t ever really go away — not entirely.

And of course, you understood what it was like being handed the short end of the stick. You both wound up in the same place, after all. 

Which was what led you to walk towards Joel’s trailer one evening. Your shift at work was about to start, but your car wouldn’t crank. You'd tried going to Kathy’s house first, but nobody answered. You couldn’t lose your job, already having too many tardies because of your piece of shit car.

The soles of your shoes crunched against the leaves on Joel’s front porch step, your eyes moving to look at him sitting in a plastic lawn chair. His hair was getting long, hanging over his eyes wildly. 

Joel bristled when he noticed you standing on his front porch step, a cigarette hanging between his lips. You’d never been this close to him. It was much easier to see how handsome he was up close: thick hair, a graying beard. Simply too easy on the eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes slipping away from your face and down to your outfit. You always dressed up for work, knowing it’d get you extra tips. Maybe you went a little overboard with the fishnets and the amount of cleavage you were showing, but it always paid off in the end.

His hips shift in his seat, waiting for you to answer his question. 

You cleared your throat, standing up straight to make yourself feel more significant compared to the giant man. “I’m sorry to bother you. My car won’t start, and I’m gonna be late for work.”

Joel glared up at you. “So?”

Taken aback by his hostility, you paused, hesitating. You knew that he was a sad man, but nobody had told you that he was an asshole.

“So… I was hoping you could give me a ride. I could pay you for the gas and-“

Joel stood up in the middle of you talking, the wood creaking under his boots as he walked to the front door and into the house. You faltered, standing stupidly on this rude man’s front porch step.

With a huff, you spun around, leaving the porch. “Fuckin’ asshole,” you muttered under your breath, suddenly jumping at the sound of the screen door slamming shut behind you. Joel had returned, this time with keys in his hand and a brown t-shirt pulled over his white wife's beater. 

“Say somethin’?” Joel asked, walking ahead but narrowing his eyes directly at your face. 

“Nope,” you quickly chirped, rushing to catch up with him. “I thought you’d left me standing outside.”

“‘Bout did,” Joel grumbled under his breath, unlocking the truck door before climbing in. It was your turn to narrow your eyes at Joel, rolling them at the asshole. Even though he was an unexpected dickhead, you had to admit that you enjoyed the way his arms flexed as he pulled himself into his truck.

The drive to the bar was filled with mostly silence, except for the hum of some Radiohead album playing on the radio. Joel had the truck windows rolled down, the wind whipping the loose strands of your hair around your face. 

You tried to subtly glance over at him, watching the same cigarette from earlier placed between his plush lips. Without thinking, you reached over, plucking the cigarette away from his mouth. 

His dark eyes snapped at you in disbelief as he watched you inhale his cigarette, the residue from your lipstick staining the filter. You weren’t sure why you needed to catch Joel’s attention, but you were sure it somehow related to how he was ignoring you. It made you crave his attention. Fucking daddy issues. 

“Now you owe me gas money and a pack of Marlboro’s,” Joel said, reaching over to swipe the cigarette out of your mouth. He eyed the lipstick stain, sighing in annoyance before deciding the nicotine was worth it. 

Your blood warmed at the thought that Joel’s lips touched where yours had just been, indirectly tasting your mouth. His eyes flickered over to you, watching him, a low frown on his face. 

“What’s a girl like you workin’ at Dazzlers anyways?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes at his remark. “I’m a bartender, not a lap dancer,” you said, prompting Joel to give you an eye roll in return.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, almost so quietly that you didn’t notice, but you did. You understood that he had been through a lot, but Christ, there was no need to take it out on you. You swallowed your pride, knowing he was your last resort to not being fired.

Despite the weird tension and the silence, you found yourself drawn to Joel’s brooding energy, glancing at him occasionally through the darkness. 

Apparently, he was more observant than you thought.

“Need somethin’?” he questioned, not even glancing in your direction. Maybe it had to do with dad spidey senses or something, but being caught had made your blood warm in your veins.

You shook your head, unable to bite your tongue. 

“Nobody told me that you were such a dickhead.”

To your surprise, Joel didn’t even falter, with almost no response to your jab at his aggressive demeanor. 

“Yeah, well, watchin’ your daughter deteriorate right in front of you can change a man,” he replied bluntly, taking a long drag of his cigarette without even looking away from the road. 

It made you instantly feel bad, regretting your words no matter how much truth they held. 

“That’s not what I meant-“ you tried to explain, but Joel waved his hand, dismissing your excuse. His large palm made a rush of air past your face, your eyes blinking at him in response.

“Just leave it,” Joel grumbled, so you obeyed. It wasn’t for long before you arrived at your job, your eyes watching the bright neon lights flashing through the parking lot. You rifled through your purse, attempting to retrieve a couple of bills, but Joel’s palm wrapping around your own stopped you.

Bright-eyed, you looked up to meet his gaze, his usual timid expression replaced with one of determination. 

“You don’t gotta pay me.”

Strong words coming from someone who was just belittling you for owing him money for gas and cigarettes.

“I don’t wanna owe you anything. Just let me give you a couple of dollars and we’ll call it even,” you said, attempting to rifle back through your bag, but being stopped by his massive palm once again.

“Who’s gonna bring you back home tonight?” Joel questioned, his concern genuinely surprising you. Before you shrugged, you allowed your defenses to fall, mostly due to your shock.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out.”

Joel shook his head, rolling his eyes at your half-assed answer. “What time does your shift end?”

You paused, pulling your purse to your chest before glancing at the front of the building. Did you really want Joel to pick you up? Was sitting through another weirdly comforting yet intense ride worth it?

When you looked back at Joel, he didn’t seem willing to take no for an answer; his eyebrows were drawn into an almost scowl-like expression. Sighing with exasperation, you finally spoke. 

“We close at midnight.”

He nodded in response, breaking his intense eye contact with you before opting out to seemingly judge the building itself. It was a rough place, with neon lights flashing and motorcycles lined up at the entrance. It certainly looked more intimidating than it actually was. 

You were surprised when Joel decided to bite his tongue, not slipping out with some smart allelic response about the place. Instead, he hummed, a quick and easy response to your answer.  

“I’ll see you then,” he replied, but something about his words made your chest burn, like it was almost a promise that he’d be there to look out for you. To protect you. 

He did wind up picking you up that night and numerous nights after you explained to him that your alternator had given out and your car would be in the shop for a couple of days. He never argued or took your gas money despite the way he grumbled under his breath when you knocked at his front door at quarter past three. 

It was almost routine to have Joel take you to and from work, and when your car was back in operation, you nearly didn’t want to tell him. Though your time together hadn’t really given you a glimpse into the man Joel truly was since he hardly spoke, it allowed him to get to know you.

You’d rambled on about your absent father, how your mom had abandoned you once she realized you could support yourself. Never did he judge or belittle you. He’d always listen and make sure you were heard. 

Despite that, he never answered your questions when you’d pried at him. Asking him about family? No go. The business he’d given up? Of course not. 

Anything about Sarah?

The first and only time you had fished for information about her, you thought he was going to toss you out of his car. His eyes narrowed and fists clenched the steering wheel, an audible growl of anger leaving his throat.

“You ever say her name again, and you can walk to work, understand?” 

You hadn’t seen much of his anger explode like that before, except during the unexpected arrival of his brother, Tommy. It was on the evening that you finally got your car back, and as you mustered the courage to walk over to Joel’s trailer to let him know that he didn’t have to take you back and forth, you noticed something. In front of his crumbling front deck was a dark pick-up truck, one that didn’t belong in a place like this. It was sparkling new, clearly waxed, with big, gleaming rims.

Before you even had the chance to think much about it, you heard a shout inside Joel’s trailer, a booming voice that almost made you scurry back to your own home.

“I already told you, Tommy! I’m not doin’ it!” Footsteps tracked through the house, heavy boots against weak plywood practically shaking the trailer. You could see shapes pass by the front window, suggesting that both Joel and his seemingly unwanted guest were about to come outside.

Now you were actually scurrying across his lawn, attempting to retreat back from Joel’s yard before you were spotted, but the front door opened too quickly. Thankfully, the heated conversation between him and who you assumed to be Tommy precluded their heated gazes from meeting yours. 

Without wanting to assume who Tommy was, he certainly looked like he was related to Joel - their intense glares were almost identical. The height, the face-shapes, all of it. Even Tommy’s deep drawl matched as he bellowed in return. 

“I don’t understand why you gotta be so goddamn stubborn. Here I am, drivin’ halfway across the county just to see you, to give you an opportunity to get out of this shithole, but instead, you’re chosin’ to live in a shell and letting yourself wind up just like-”

Joel’s frame towered over Tommy’s despite the considerable height that Tommy had himself. Something dark was brewing beneath Joel’s features, clearly quite close to boiling over. Even though you knew you were watching an intense, private moment, you had never seen this kind of emotion from Joel before. You were almost bewitched, unmoving, questioning if you should intervene to stop a potential fight from breaking out.

Tommy’s nostrils were flared, his chest pressed against Joel’s, while Joel’s fists were clenched into a tight ball, threatening to strike like a snake. 

“I told you last time. Bring her up again, and you won’t have a mouth left to speak from.”

Tommy scoffed. “She was just as much mine as she was yours, Joel. Just because you ran away when things got hard and buried yourself deeper and deeper into a hole doesn’t mean I don’t miss her.” He began to stomp off of the front porch, making his way to the truck that was parked in the driveway. 

“But that’s fine! This will be the last damn time I come over thinkin’ that maybe you’re ready to change. Go ahead and delete my number from your phone.”

Both you and Joel, as well as a couple of other neighbors who had decided to leave their houses to view the commotion, watched Tommy’s truck tires screech against the pavement. His departure was bitter and final, an angry bite to the way he spit those words.

You can’t imagine being on the receiving end of them, and when you turned your head to glance at Joel, you found his eyes boring into you. His shoulders are pulled tight, and his jaw is set, and he said nothing as he stepped back into his trailer and slammed the door hard behind him. 

Perfect timing, you thought to yourself. There’s never been a better day for your car to have been up and running again. You didn’t waste time lingering in his yard.

But before you can feel the pavement of the narrow street beneath your sneakers, his disgruntled voice cut through the air. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

You turned to face him, unsure of yourself. Joel’s an asshole, you know that much, but you didn’t think you’ve ever seen him this worked up and angry. “Uhm…about that. I was just coming to tell you that I don’t need a ride today-”

Joel scoffed and shook his head, keys jingling in his hand “Get in the damn truck,” he said, venom on his tongue. And you know he’s not mad at you, but your stomach turned at his fury anyway. “Gonna be late if we don’t get a move on.”

Tomorrow, you decide. You’ll tell him about your car tomorrow. But for now, you do as he said. While he stuck the key in the ignition and turned the engine over, you climbed into the passenger seat, which still smelled faintly of your perfume from the night before.

He pulled onto the road and started the familiar route to the bar, his movements rehearsed and, by now, muscle memory. You sat in silence as he steered with one hand and pulled a cigarette from the center console with the other. He lit it, inhaled the nicotine deep into his lungs, and let out a heavy sigh.

You wondered if you should say something. A million questions are pressed against the back of your teeth. But now isn’t the best time to poke and prod for a glimpse into the man he is outside of what you’ve seen with your own two eyes. So you decided to say something else instead, something that might grant him a little relief. “My car is fixed. That’s what I was trying to tell you. So, tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about giving me rides anymore.”

He glanced at you briefly and then shook his head. “No.”

The word is so simple and definitive in his mouth that it caught you off guard. So much so that you found yourself fighting amusement. “What do you mean no?”

“Just what I said, damn it. You hard of hearing all of a sudden?”

“Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?” You hadn’t wanted to press his buttons. Truly. But what right does he have to spew insults as if you were the one screaming at him on his front porch? Your tone was condescending as you said, “Come on. Try it with me; congrats! I’m sooo happy things are finally going your way! I’m glad I could be of help! No problem at all-!”

“Cut that shit out.”

“Me? You first.”

His jaw feathered as he clenched his teeth. He ashed his cigarette out of the open window and then sighed again, calmer this time. “Alright. I’m…”

“Sorry?”

His throat bobbed as if he tried to get the word out but it didn’t quite make it to his tongue. Instead, he just said, “Yeah.”

This time, you’re the one sighing. “It’s okay.”

Another few seconds of silence passed between you, but they were not as uncomfortable as they’d been when you’d first gotten into the truck. Less tension, less anger. And then he said, “Don’t want you drivin’ anywhere in that thing in the middle of the night.”

Your heart pinched in your chest at the words. They’re said with a certain sort of irritation, but yet they’re still so… protective. It’s not something you’ve ever had before, but in the last few days he’s given you a taste and it isn’t until now that you realized you’d developed a craving for it. “Why not?”

“Ain’t safe. Could break down again any second. Leave you stranded at midnight in the middle of nowhere. God knows the kinda people you’re servin’ at that place, would consider themselves lucky to find ya on the side of the road.” He shook his head as if to clear the image from his mind. “I’ll just keep takin’ ya.”

Even though you fought the warmth that crawled up your cheeks, you know he could tell his words did something to you. Joel’s attention left the road for only long enough to steal a fleeting glance at your face, and when he turned back to the task at hand he snorted incredulously. 

But it’s the first time that anyone has ever considered your safety and altered their routine to make it a priority. It makes you feel special and warm and…wanted. And you know it’s likely your daddy issues blurring the lines once again, but you just can’t help yourself or the way your mind jumped to conclusions. “Is that your way of saying you care about me?”

He pressed his fingertips into his temple to massage away a headache. “Stop that.”

You didn’t listen. Of course, you don’t. You leaned in closer, hands on the empty leather seat between you. “Aww… who would've thought Joel Miller would secretly be a softie?” You’d never been so close to him before, so close that you could see the brown-colored freckles splattered across the bridge of his nose.

You swallowed down your sudden nerves due to the close proximity, enjoying the way Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I said cut it out. Sit back down the right way ‘fore I get a ticket.”

It was impossible to follow his orders now, not after seeing how easy it was to rile him up.

Moving even closer, your lips a breath's distance away from Joel’s neck, you whispered, “I think you like the attention.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” he huffed back, but his voice lacked the bite he intended, much softer than the way he was yelling at Tommy earlier. His gaze flicked over to you, watching with an intense curiosity, but only momentarily. 

“I won’t tell you again,” Joel commanded, brushing you back to your seat with a gentle shove of his elbow.

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” you questioned, although you were sitting back in your seat like he asked you to. “Punish me? Spank me?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, I oughta. Maybe it’d finally teach you some manners,” Joel glanced over to catch your eye. “Anyone ever told you that you got a real weird sense of humor?”

Shrugging, you couldn’t help the slide smirk that spread across your face. “Blame it on my daddy issues.”

Joel didn’t even try to hide his disbelief, a red flush rising from the top of his collarbones and up his neck.

“Lord help me,” he whispered under his breath. 

You granted him a bit of grace, ending your teasing and opting to enjoy the sound of music playing on the radio for the rest of the ride. It was always peaceful riding with Joel, the heat of the summer breeze warming your face. 

From the heady smell of Joel’s Marlboros to the shrill voice of The Smashing Pumpkins playing over the speakers; the comfort of the situation always made you want to break down Joel’s walls. You wanted to see what he was like when he was entirely vulnerable, what he looked like when he woke up in the morning and didn’t have the opportunity to remember all his worries.

From that moment, you decided that you would get Joel to open up one way or another.

Your heart dropped a little when he pulled into the bar's parking lot, his tires crunching against the loose gravel. Joel’s long fingers were swift, reaching to the radio to turn down the music. 

Things felt weird, that same intensity from the moment you’d gotten into the car returning. It felt like he wanted to say something, his mouth twitching before his lips were pressed into a straight line.

“I wasn’t joking, y’know,” you said, hoping to break the awkward silence of saying goodbye. 

Joel didn’t say anything, the curious raise of his eyebrow speaking for him. 

“About wanting you to spank me,” you snipped back, hopping out of his truck right after you admitted it to him. You could see what appeared to be a stifled smile forming on his lips as he shook his head. It made you feel good that you were able to distract him from reality for even a couple of minutes. God knew he needed it.

“See you at midnight. Stay out of trouble,” he called back from his truck, waiting to leave until he watched you safely enter the building.

He was on your brain your entire shift, which wasn’t unusual. What was different now was the pieces of information you’d found out, ranging from his argument with Tommy and his little resistance to your flirting.

So, of course, curiosity killed the cat. On your break you found yourself googling a string of searches; Joel Miller, Tommy, Joel and Tommy, until eventually you landed on an old company website.

Miller Bros Construction Company.

It was outdated, with inquiries and testimonials from years ago, but it did answer a couple of your questions. After clicking on the “about us” tab, you saw a photo of a much younger, happier-looking Joel. 

His arm was thrown around Tommy’s shoulder, a huge smile plastered on his face. If you didn’t know every inch of Joel’s face, you would’ve considered that it wasn’t actually him. He looked so… happy. It broke your heart to know that he had become half of the man he used to be.

‘Brothers Joel and Tommy Miller have been serving the greater population of Austin, TX for several years,’ the tab read, confirming your suspicions that they were related. You glanced at Tommy, happily smiling next to Joel, directly contradicting what you’d seen earlier.

The inquiry tab at the bottom was broken, redirecting to a no longer active form.

Christ. His daughter's death had indeed ruined him. It had sucked all of the happiness out of Joel, leaving him angry and alone. He pushed everything good and decent away.

You spent the rest of your break lurking, sifting through Tommy’s Facebook page, seeing his now solely owned business booming. He had a pretty fiancé, and things honestly looked good for him. You noticed that Joel was nowhere on his page, but you would occasionally see photos of Tommy and Sarah beaming together before she’d gotten sick.

The guilt of it all had eaten at you, so severely that you decided to buy a burger plate before the kitchen closed for the night. Joel had gone out of his way to take care of you, to take you back and forth from work, even though he grumbled about it. He deserved to feel taken care of in return.

Plus, you were almost certain that his diet mainly consisted of cigarettes and alcohol. How he still looked so goddamn good was a question you’d never have answered.  

When you left work, it was like clockwork; Joel’s truck sat outside the building, waiting for you.

The sun was long gone by now, so it was difficult to see Joel sitting in the driver's seat. You’d hoped that he had cooled off from earlier, especially now that you know more about the context of the argument. 

You plopped into the passenger seat, greeting Joel only by placing the plate of food on the center console.

“What’s this?” Joel questioned, no hello or how was your shift? Typical Joel Miller.

“What’s it look like? I got you dinner.”

He rolled his eyes, pointing a finger at the clock display. “It’s midnight.”

“And…?” He raised his brows and you clicked your tongue in response. “When was the last time you had a meal that wasn’t made in a microwave?”

Joel fixed you with a stare, and something lingered in his eyes that you couldn’t quite make out. It’s as if he’s trying to decide whether to yell at you or simply say thank you. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” he stated, but there was no malice in it. 

“I know. I wanted to.” You shrugged casually because it was truly nothing to you. But apparently, Joel didn’t see it that way.

The truck sat idle in the parking lot. He said nothing for several seconds, which felt far too long. It was dark—the only illumination provided was the distant street lamps outside, but you swore you could see the corners of his mouth turn up. Not quite a smile, but something. And it made you feel so victorious that you thought about mentioning it, about making some snide remark, but know better by now. 

Instead, you teased him. “At this rate, I might as well pack a bag and stay the night here.”

Joel scoffed but turned the key in the ignition anyway. “You got a mouth on you, girl. That’s for damn sure.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t sent me away yet. So there must be something you like about it, right?”

He doesn’t agree but he doesn’t deny it, either. Still, sarcasm dripped off his tongue as he said, “Somethin’ like that.”

When he turned the radio up, a rock ballad played and put you at ease. You start to realize that these quiet moments with him are the lightest part of your days. Nothing to think about but the way the cool wind hit your face and the sound of his soft humming from behind the wheel. It’s simple and good and you feel safe.

When he pulled into the trailer park a short while later, you almost hated to see it end. For a split second, you debated inviting him over in an attempt to extend your time together. But you knew that after the day he’s had, he probably didn’t want the company. So instead, you gathered your things and hopped out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hang on a sec.”

You paused with your hand on the passenger door. “Yeah?”

Joel hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, but all he managed was, “Uh..” His eyes darted everywhere but yours. The dashboard, the steering wheel, his hands - everywhere but you.

He’s nervous, you realized. Uneasy. You tried to comfort him. “What is it?”

“I, uh…I was just wonderin’ if, I don’t know. You wanna… split it with me?” He pointed to the takeout container. “Or you could have a drink, or…do you drink?”

Your heart was doing somersaults behind your sternum. A girlish giggle left you despite your attempts to hide your excitement. Through a face-splitting grin, you asked, “Like a date?”

“Christ,” he sneered. “You know what? I take it back. Never-”

“I’m kidding!” Your laughter filled the cab of the truck. “I’m just kidding, Joel, I swear. Of course, I’ll come in for a drink.”

He looked hesitant, and at first, you thought it was because of how you’d been pulling his leg all night. By the time you had made it inside of his trailer, you realized that he was probably a little nervous on account of the mess in his living room.

Empty bud light bottles covered the surface of the side table next to his couch. An ashtray haphazardly placed on the kitchen counter was long overdue to be emptied, ash and half-smoked cigarettes threatening to spill over. Next to it were a couple of prescription bottles, the print too small for you to make out what they were supposed to be treating.

No matter how you felt about the place, you understood how difficult it all must’ve been for Joel. It wasn’t dirty or anything, just unkempt, a man overwhelmed by grief too distracted to focus on cleaning.

“It’s not much to see, but feel free to make yourself at home,” Joel said, slipping past you at the front door to place the bag of food down on the kitchen counter. You watched him momentarily, taking in the normalcy of his routine.

His movements to wash his hands before eating, the clatter of plates being pulled out of the dishwasher. Watching him in his element relaxed you. You tried to envision what it was like in the home when Sarah was still alive, filling the space with her innocent laughter. 

“I won’t bite,” Joel spoke, pulling you out of your own head. Your gaze refocused, a quiet sense of fulfillment washing over you as you watched him for a fleeting second. 

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” you chirped back, toeing out of your work shoes and heading over to his leather couch. A knitted blanket thrown across the leather prevented the back of your legs from pressing against the cold material, and you were grateful. 

“Do you get pleasure outta givin’ me a hard time or something?” Joel asked, plopping next to you. He slid a plate over to your side of the coffee table, pulling the table forward slightly so you’d be able to reach it easier. He placed two beers on the table, too, and cracked the seal of yours. It’s such a small but gentlemanly thing to do, and you try not to think too hard about how it makes your heart swell.  

You hadn’t even realized how hungry you were until he unwrapped the bag and split the food between the two of you, your stomach growling in response. 

“I just like seeing you squirm,” you joked, noticing how Joel shook his head and snorted under his breath. Both of you ate together, quietly but comfortably. 

You were sure that Joel spent most of his nights like this, in his living room with the TV flashing light across the walls of the house. It made you feel good that you were there to change his routine so he wouldn’t have to be alone.

The longer that time passed and the less food on your plate created an odd sense of pressure, that you were running out of time to pull something new out of Joel. Being in his home was an accomplishment on its own, but you still had a challenge with yourself to learn even more.

“Do you wanna, uh,” you began to speak, picking at one of your fries to fill the awkward space, “y’know… talk about earlier?”

“Nope,” he replied without hesitation, which you probably should’ve expected. Your pout was uncontrollable, discouraged by his instant lack of vulnerability. But you weren’t going to force him to talk, because he’d for sure shut down. 

“Not to be cheesy or anything, but you’re pretty decent to be around, once you stopped being an asshole all the time,” you said, finishing the final bite of your fry. “If you ever need to talk about shit, I’m probably the best option you got here. Kathy tells everyone’s business, so.”

Joel actually chuckled at that, a deep, rumbling sound that made your gut twist. “I didn’t plan on talkin’ to anybody about anything, much less Kathy. But thanks.”

You nodded, a pang of disappointment flickering through your abdomen.

That night, you thanked him for the company and he promised to meet you in the afternoon right on time. The same routine you’ve had all week. 

You and Joel get good at routines. Because the next night when you brought him dinner again, he didn’t even ask if you’d like to eat with him. He just said, “Picked up some sodas earlier. Figured you might want that instead of beer.”

And just like that, it became a nightly thing. The cooks at the bar don’t even ask what you want any more, they simply have the food finished by the time you’re ready to meet Joel in the parking lot. You had even occasionally fallen asleep in his living room, the comforting sound of the TV humming and Joel’s even breathing lulling you to sleep.

He always made sure to throw a blanket over you and quietly slip into his room, never waking you or forcing you to leave. It was an unspoken rule.

So, due to your growing interest in Joel and alleviating some of his stress, you decided to take a leap. One morning you’d woken up on Joel’s couch after falling asleep there the night before. Joel wasn’t home, which wasn’t unusual since he sometimes picked up odd jobs at the mechanic's shop in town to pay the bills. 

It was the perfect opportunity to clean his house. You weren’t sure how he was going to feel about it, but you were only going to take out the trash and leave everything else as it was. You didn’t need him hollering at you for moving his shit around.

You had a good four hours to just clean out the place, and Jesus, you needed it. It appeared that he didn’t have any other cleaning products besides bleach and dish soap, which you couldn’t really use to get some old stains out of the carpet. It had taken you an hour of rifling through your own stuff to get the correct products and supplies to make a dent. 

By the time you finished a couple hours later, you had three trash bags full of random newspapers, beer cans, and whatever other miscellaneous stuff you were sure Joel wouldn’t be upset to part with. Surprisingly, you hadn’t seen anything belonging to Sarah, no pictures hanging on the wall, no toys, nothing that indicated that anyone besides Joel had lived there.

That was until you’d decided to step into the room towards the back of the trailer. Joel’s bedroom was hardly used, his bed made and room clean, indicating that he probably spent most of his nights on the couch, so you didn’t bother cleaning that space. You were, however, curious about the spare room.

As soon as you’d opened it, you knew why you couldn’t find anything of Sarah’s. It was like a museum, a room stuck in time. Light pink paint covered the wall, the late afternoon sun streaming in colorful rays through the sheer purple curtains. The bed was made, without a wrinkle in sight, with a little teddy bear tucked in, as if it was keeping the bed warm for Sarah’s return.

You stepped in a little, taking in the small details; the photos of Joel and Sarah hugging on the wall, a little caboodle makeup box, and nail polishes lined up against the dresser. What truly broke your heart was the oxygen tank that was placed next to her bed, still attached to the mask. 

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” spoke a voice from behind you, almost causing your body to jump out of its skin. You whipped around to see an absolutely fuming Joel watching you with narrowed eyes. You stammered, quickly trying to come up with some sort of excuse.

“I was cleaning and I thought, I mean I was thinking that-“

Joel quickly approached you, his face only a mere breath away from yours. You were too anxious to even notice the closeness because you knew he was beyond pissed. You don’t think he was even this mad when he was fighting with Tommy.

“I don’t know why you think that you’re entitled to comin’ into my life, touchin’ my shit, steppin’ foot into this room, but guess what? You’re not.” He spat, stepping even closer to you. You felt tiny, like a bug ready to be squashed by a foot. 

“You don’t mean shit to me. Just because your life is fucked up doesn’t mean I need you to try to come into mine and save me. I don’t wanna be saved. Now get the hell outta my house,” he spoke, his voice unwavering and scarily calm. It took every ounce of strength inside of you not to cry, not to shout, because you knew he didn’t mean it. You had crossed his invisible line, despite not doing it intentionally.

But you weren’t strong enough to control your emotions, and eventually, the pressure of Joel’s angry words left your eyes watering. Though your jaw was clenched and your face wasn’t giving much away, Joel easily saw past the facade and noticed the tears welling up in your eyes.

And he scoffed. A quick laugh, right in your face, at seeing your tears. 

“Christ, you gonna cry now? Upset that you don’t got no daddy here to comfort you, gotta take out all your trauma on me? Fuckin’ pathetic.” 

Your tears turned from hurt, into angry, hot streams rolling down your face.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

You could feel your blood pumping in your head, so angry that you could break something. He was lucky that you made your way straight out of his house instead of grabbing all of the trash bags and pouring them right back onto the floor. 

You knew that he was self-destructing, that he was pushing you away because you were too good for him, but it didn’t make his words hurt any less. He wasn’t wrong. You did take interest in him because he was broken, similar to yourself. Despite that, it didn’t hurt any less.

As painful as it was to believe, you began to wonder if he had fooled you.

Maybe all that remained of Joel Miller was the worst part of him.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

Static from the television set tucked in a corner, a beaten leather armchair parked in front of it and a stack of vintage, VHS porn tapes on the unit. One half of “Agent 69” stuck in the VCR, balancing on its side due to the lack of care from its owner who’d jacked off in the very chair that towered over it—cum stained fist and a name on his lips, slipped out between plush flesh. Hand frantic, jerking in tandem with the buck of his hips as he flit his eyes between the TV and the wood-panelled ceiling, profanities spilling from his filthy mouth. Muttering to himself as pornstar moans graced his ears, words whispered into the night, stolen by the archangels and flown up to God: conspiring, scheming, uttering under their breath that he should not be allowed through the holy gates on judgement day. That the defiled Bible on his bookshelf and the cross that had been left for him by the previous owners, pinned to the trailer wall, was not enough for them to ignore the strained sentences that he spewed in a desperate bid for the Trailer Park Princess on her knees—red nails and red lips wrapped around his cock. A ring of colour staining the base. 

Utter filth. And Joel knew it. 

The perversions he didn’t keep to himself, laughed about bending over the pretty thing next door whilst nursing a beer on Pete’s porch—puffing away on the cheap cigars he’d stolen from the liquor store. They tasted like shit, smelt like shit and Joel would’ve been better without it, but it added to the image: kept Susan from asking him stupid questions like why he didn’t have a woman. It was her way of flirting, bikini top displaying her sagging tits, bending over the kitchen counter whilst his buddies watched baseball. 

“You got your eye on anyone, Joel?” 

“Not really, Susan.” 

Then Pete interjecting. 

“Come off it, Susan. Just cause he ain’t committed don’t mean that he ain’t got women.”

That kept her quiet, made her slink away into the hallway, slipping into their bedroom and pulling a cover-up on—suddenly insecure. 

Joel wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have some strange penchant for young women. They were just…nice to look at. Pretty and sun-kissed in the Texan heat, ass hanging out their shorts, bikini top doing much more to entice than Susan’s did. There was no harm in looking—they never knew. He prided himself on being discreet, nursing a beer in the late afternoon whilst Kenny Rogers lulled from the radio, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the porch floor—eyes trained on your open window, cracked just a tad to let the air through. Drapes open. 

At times, he thinks you do it on purpose, a gentle taunt, a silent jeer: “You can only look, perv.” 

If the invitation was there, he’d take you up on it. Because out of all the women he’d fucked, headboard bashing against the wall, a chip in the wood of the trailer evidence of his trysts, you were the only one who’d worked him up to the point of no return. The only one who’d grabbed him completely by the collar and forced him to lick your boots. 

Like Joel said, he wasn’t a pervert. You were just a fucking whore who needed to be put in her place. 

So he’d sit there, in the white garden chair he’d snatched up from the pile of scrap that accumulated just east of his trailer, and watch. Most days, you’d be doing nothing in particular, unfortunately already dressed, dirty clothes in hand and wet hair dripping down your back. Other days, the days where Joel thought he was really lucky, where he’d stumble inside with a hard-on, sit on his recliner and hastily shove whatever he got his hands on, into the VCR, skipping over the poorly acted introductions, and pretend that the moans reverberating the trailer, were yours. Images of you slipping your shorts over your hips, swaying slightly to whatever tune you were listening to, peeling your shirt off your body. No bra. Slyly stepping towards your window, catching his eye once, a look so slight that he wouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, and pulled your drapes shut. 

He’d spilt all over his hand, white on his knuckles and a smile on his lips. 

Joel would never feel guilty for wanting you, not when he had already made peace with the fact he was a deadbeat, bound to the white trash lifestyle, unemployed and living off the pills he paid for and sold for a ridiculously high price, still grieving his losses and wondering what the fuck he could’ve done differently. If he would’ve done anything differently given the chance. 

No, Joel was not a bad person. He just looked for her in every person, desperately seeking a will. And so far, you had succeeded in helping him remove the gun from his mouth—evenings spent in different, dangerous ways. 

Texan summers were unlike anything you’d experienced before, the heat so incredibly stifling that your love for the sun disappeared completely. Mornings spent on the porch, soaking in the last bits of breeze before cycling your ass to work, sweating and heaving by the time you got there, in the same condition when you rode back home and locked yourself away with every window flung open before nightfall fell and you felt you could breathe again. 

The cicadas were loud, the snakes huddled up in the shade, waiting for you to trample on them, and the beast next door, Joel Miller: terrifying, gorgeous and a fucking pervert. 

The day you’d moved into the trailer, despairing the loss of stability, ruminating upon your desperate escape from a home now dead and lost to the prairies of your mind, he’d been there. Wifebeater stretched across his wide torso, a cigarette placed on his lips, unused as it hung there, smoking away, the grey wisps begging with each dissipation into the atmosphere: breathe me in. He’d stared. Unable to be subtle no matter how slick he thinks he is, eyes flitting between your tits and your ass. Tits. Ass. Tits. Ass. A calculated dance that left a funny feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, a lurch in your bowels that made nausea claw its way up your throat. 

Tits. Ass. Then, he suddenly looked at your face, standing there on his porch, the sunrise building its way up the horizon, too early for anybody to see him looking you over like you were a dead deer he’d just shot, smirking at the notion of sawing your head off and displaying it on the wall above his mantle. Heaving boxes into the empty trailer, lot number seventeen, whilst the owner of lot eighteen wouldn’t take his fucking eyes off you, was a terrible feat. 

Once you’d shoved the last box into your bedroom, you’d shut the door, locked it tight and peeked through the window to see that he had gone back inside, retreating to the haven of steel and veneer. 

Over time, Joel became easier to manage. After the initial, awkward introductions where he’d called you princess, babydoll, sugar (almost adding a “tits” to the end of the nickname before realising where he was) your stomach reeling at the monikers, time settled your unmistakable disgust for him, the universe replaced the sickness you felt when you spoke to him with another stomach-turning anxiety that you pushed down far into every crevasse and high onto every mountain. 

You grew to enjoy the nicknames, skipping a few paces up his porch steps and ask him ever so kindly if he could come and fix the cupboard door that was swinging off its hinges, change the lightbulb because you couldn’t reach the ceiling yourself, stop the leaky tap that seemed to start drip drip dripping every month—just to bully you. 

Although you knew that Joel was a dirtbag, hearing him talking about the filthiest things, laughing as Pete clapped him on the back in praise and acknowledgement, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to treat you like a whore, he gave you nothing except a sly smile, a sleazy nickname and the occasional help around the house. Fixing things. 

So, naturally, you began asking around about Joel. Susan liked to gossip. So did Lillian, a woman who had spent her entire life in the park and, at sixty-two, had no interest in leaving. 

“I remember when he moved here,” she’d told you one fine summer evening, when the heat wasn’t as menacing and you felt content being away from the air conditioning, sipping sweet tea in Lillian’s wooden garden chairs, feet placed on the seat—chin resting on your knees. “All stoic, wouldn’t speak ‘ta anyone. I could tell he’d gone through something bad, you know me and my sixth sense.” 

She’d paused for a moment, taking a drag, a sip, a sigh before looking at you solemnly. 

“He was a catch with the ladies,” she’d muttered. “They were all after him, even this one over here,” she’d pointed to Susan who’d smacked her arm, complaining about her disrespect. She was a married, loyal woman after all. “Well, it’s true. If I were twenty years younger, I would’ve gone for him too, but it wouldn’t have done much anyway cause he didn’t touch anyone. There ain’t many pretty young ladies round here, you know you’re the only one,” she’d said plainly, addressing you with a hint of affection. 

Waving her cigarette around as she relayed every single detail she knew about Joel’s love life, telling you how after a few years of moping, he’d bring back girls in the middle of the night, fuck them, and then throw them out the next day. 

“He’s not a romantic,” Lillian had prefaced, Susan interjecting with:

“Ya think so? I think he is…if he just found the right woman-”

“Oh don’t listen to her Darlin’, he’s a man who likes to play. He ain’t lookin’ to settle, I tell you that much.” 

Listening to them both, their anecdotes, their stories, and their opinions, you concluded one thing about Joel Miller. He was an asshole. A man who had done nothing to better his life since he stepped foot in the trailer park ten years ago, a sag in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes. 

You weren’t sure if he’d mellowed since then, or if he’d just managed to conceal it better. Joel hadn’t been angry around you, not when you knocked on his door at three in the morning, asking him if he could come get the spider out of your bedroom, not when you’d accidentally run into his truck with your bike or told him that he was an asshole when you’d caught him talking about you one day in springtime. 

“She’s as dumb as fucking rocks,” he’d chuckled. “Bet she gets cockdrunk so easy.” 

He’d grumbled out the last sentence, an afterthought that was more for him than the men he was talking to, but you, stumbling around, half-asleep after your shift, were not willing to take the degradation. You’d berated him in front of his peers, slammed the door behind you, and regretted it immediately. Because, even though it shouldn’t matter, even though you thought he was pervy and angry and wouldn’t treat you how you’d been told you deserved, the last thing you wanted was for him to hate you. 

Every time he praised you, told you that you looked good as you stepped out of your home, on your way to Lillian’s for a catch-up and the cigarettes she bought you every three weeks, just for being good and keeping her company, you felt that tingle, the synaptic transmissions running down your spine every time he stepped through your door, asking what the issue with your tap was. You should’ve been disgusted when he’d left and you’d gone to the bathroom only to find the panties you’d left on the floor were gone, but you’d felt that same spark instead. A deep, sliding ache that consumed every part of you. 

Luckily for you, your sink decided to start leaking again on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Perfect time to lure him into your trailer, grab him by the neck and ask him as nicely as you could if he could cease the pain. 

Sip of beer, drag of cigarette, click of the remote to change the channel, repeat. 

A usual Sunday afternoon pastime. 

Joel would’ve rifled through his VHS’s, find something he could jack off to whilst he deliberated whether today would be the day he’d say “fuck it” and saunter on over to next door, hoping to god he’d get his dick wet by someone other than a whore, but he couldn’t be bothered to move from his seat. It was effort enough trying to change the channel, arm aching as he pressed the button, rolling his eyes as the same boring drab illuminated his TV screen. 

It was another one of those days. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, the broken glass, the notion that he would never fix it no matter how easy it would’ve been to go over to Shane’s and ask him to get it working again, all for the low price of a few pills. 

She’d left him with it and he would die with it. 

A reminder of her every time he glanced at his watch, swallowing hard as he remembered the way he’d pressed cool metal to the side of his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before realising that he never could. Because Joel was an asshole, he knew that. He was selfish and cruel and spoke about people as if they could get any lower than he already was. But more so than anything, Joel was a sad old man.

Tommy, the damn bastard, who’d left Joel to fend for himself while he went off with his new-found “true love” to have kids and a decent life, had sent a few thousand dollars and a pitiful “I’m sorry, Joel,” over the phone after his big brother had fucked up and lost his job. When Joel had been left penniless and broken. Nothing to fight for. No one to hold him or tell him that he was loved. He’d spent all his money raiding gas stations for cases of beer, bottles of whisky, anything that could numb the pain—choosing the alcohol over food, over his mortgage. When he’d lost the house, he hadn’t taken anything of hers. Even after she’d died, he’d insisted that everything needed getting rid of. Her clothes, her posters, even her damn phone. He’d slammed Tommy against the wall after realising that he was taking everything with him, that he was not doing as he was told. After that, Joel had closed the door on her bedroom and never stepped foot in it again. 

All he had of her was a damn watch, a photo that his little brother had shoved into his hands, a harsh, “Take it, you damn bastard. You’ll regret it when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” on his lips, and the memory of her in his arms when he’d felt that huge heart of hers stop beating. 

There had been many low points in Joel’s life, wandering through his existence on a tightrope that was ready to snap with every step, but none had been lower than that. 

Not even when he’d called Tommy in the middle of the night, sobbing, struggling to breathe with a clean bottle of Jim Beam in his hands, begging him to help. He’d lost his house, he’d lost his job, he’d lost his daughter. Where to next? 

Tommy, all the way in Wyoming had scraped together some money, told Joel to get himself down to the mobile park and a steady job. Start from the bottom again. 

Sometimes, Joel resented his brother for not giving him that money for a flight to the West, smiling down the phone as he informed that they had a spare room for him, his nephew cooing in his bassinet and waiting for his old uncle. 

He understood though. When he wasn’t drunk it made more sense why he hadn’t invited him to his home. 

They hadn’t spoken in sixteen years. To his nephew whom he did not know the name of, he was just the deadbeat uncle who hadn’t made it out of Texas—still alive but lost. 

Tommy would’ve probably hated him more if he was sitting on Joel’s couch, staring at the porn and the beer, the cigarettes that his little brother knew he had only smoked when he was a rebellious teenager—the occasional pull never becoming a habit, especially when his daughter came along. 

Almost certainly would’ve despised him if he knew how he felt about the girl next door, the perverse catharsis he experienced when he took himself in hand and imagined taking care of her, shushing her whimpers, making her whine with the way he stretched her open. 

Oh, and he was a bad man. A bad fucking man and he was the last thing you needed. Some poor, young girl who was doing her best to make it. Pay the rent on time, make sure she was kept fed, all whilst juggling the inescapable feeling that once you were in the trailer park there was no getting out. 

Joel didn’t see an end. He’d been here for over a decade; his drug money was not for a new house or a new life, it was for whores and booze, a carton of Marlboro reds that he got for cheap from Bill, and porn. He’d collected all the goddamn vices—became a person so unlike who he was, so far from the quietly loveable single dad he’d been hailed as years ago. 

As far as Joel now was concerned, that guy was a fucking pussy. 

That guy would think he needed professional help for the way he thought about you, would expel every single image of you naked and writhing, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts as you lay boneless and crying in his grasp. 

You were legal. What was the big fucking deal? 

Joel needed this. You were not just some throwaway material good that would leave him in debt for the next ten years—you were full and gorgeous, smart, quick-witted and made him harder than the oak tree that stood centuries-old just a little down the road from the old Palmer farmhouse. 

That day you’d heard him talking about you to his friends, the way he’d lied and said that you were dumb, when you’d come storming up his porch steps—all rage and heat—and cussed him out, he’d laughed. It didn’t matter about the taunts and the sniggers he got from his buddies who he would have no issue never speaking to again. They could go fuck themselves for all he cared because you hadn’t willingly thrown yourself at his feet and licked his boots. 

Whores were easy. No challenge with a whore, no longing, no desire, just a mutual understanding that this was transactional and she was going to moan as loud as you wanted her to whether it felt good or not. 

But you had given Joel something worth chasing. And fuck he was going to catch you, even if it meant he’d die in the chair he sat in, with nothing to show for his life except a case of Bud, an empty fridge, and a stain on his bedsheets where you’d reached for him—begging for everything he could not give.

Something about him had you checking your appearance before you walked out the door, making your hair presentable, touching up your lipgloss, blotting the oil from your face. All for a man who saw you as nothing but jailbait

You wanted to be wanted. To be looked at with a fire, an urge to grasp you and take you fully, pull you close when you cried and kiss you when you shook with the need to run far away. You wanted to be kept, to be reminded every day that you were needed, loved and desired.

You wanted Joel. 

Joel: the sad old man next door, the dangerously handsome figure in your life that stood six feet tall, jaw sharp and strong, muscles straining with his arms crossed—built big and firm. A chest you’d very much like to lay your head on. A bulge in his pants you’d very much like to see stripped bare. 

So when the opportunity came, you seized it, with an iron first, intent on capturing what had been yours since the day you’d moved to the free prison—since the day he’d stared at you, an unadulterated and irremovable, perverse desire that shook the very beings of your existence. That determined exactly who you are and how you would fall for the watchful eyes and glinting gaze that befell you every time you stepped down the rotten wood steps at the foot of the trailer entrance. 

You stepped onto them then, Chuck Taylors strapped to your feet, laces loose and lazily tied, skin smoothed from the razor you’d pressed against it in the shower that morning—all for him. The appearance every bit of expectation you had for his fantasies and ideals, hoping that the attire would thrust him further into abandoning a morality he did not have. 

The sun set rapidly behind you, the grass long and dry around your ankles, unmowed—as you nor Joel had ever discussed who would get mowing duty—and a clear head. A set destination, unstifled by a long day at work, the sweat curling along your back too harsh to be ignored and the sometimes discourteous demeanour of Joel’s so powerful that you often wondered why you liked him. Why you gave so much attention to a man years ahead of you, unable to look at you without laughing at the prospect you thought you were more to him than a pretty thing to look at whilst he wallowed in his castle of self-pity he’d built for himself all these years spent trapped and lonely. 

It all seemed insignificant that day you’d crossed the boundary between lot seventeen and lot eighteen. When you’d shakily advanced up his steps, onto the porch you grew so fond of, and knocked once, twice, thrice on the white door—stepping back to await his welcome. Hoping to god that he’d see you and take you there. 

The shuffling on the other side of the door raised your heart rate, a sweat forming on the back of your neck which you brushed away with a hasty hand, intimidated by what awaited you when the white disappeared and transformed into bulking arms and a firm chest—a tall body that you gazed up at with ardour. 

When the sight appeared, you gulped away the desire to run away, to pretend that you’d just come here for the leaky tap and that there was no other reason you had bothered him on his peaceful Sunday afternoon. No ulterior motive. Not that you just wanted to see him because he had hardly been around the past couple of days and in truth you were worried about him; you wanted to make him feel better. 

“Hi.” He struggled to conceal the surprise in his voice, seemingly struggling further to keep the thickness in his throat at bay, the redness of his eyes that displayed days of restlessness and insomnia. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” you murmured impassively, licking your lips, swallowing away the dryness in your throat at the state of him: burning cigarette in hand, flannel shirt unbuttoned and displaying the white wifebeater that lay underneath. The shape of his belly was visible underneath it, his belt purposefully unbuckled and hanging from the loops of his jeans. “I’m alright.” 

There was a twitch of his lips as he stared down at you, eyes flitting from head to toe—shameless in the way he always was. In the way you liked. 

“You sure?” 

It seemed stupid suddenly: the entire situation. The call you felt towards him, the want you had to curl up against his chest, let him hold you and tell you he was proud of you for opening up to him—telling him how fucking much you wanted him, despite knowing exactly how it would end if you were to venture further into a relationship that surpassed just neighbours. 

So instead of inviting yourself in, seducing him until he fell to his knees, tugged you by the waist and begged you for just the smallest piece of yourself, you succumbed to your insecurity, and retreated from the palace walls. 

“Yeah…yeah, it’s just that my taps leaking again.” For a split second, he almost looked irritated, eyes honing in on you, narrowing with a look of aggravation—confirmed by the clench of his jaw. You appeased him, saying, “You don’t have to come over now. I just thought I’d tell you,” and the expression slowly slipped away into something much more sinister: mirth. 

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” he said as he slinked away from the doorframe, inviting you into his home, coaxing you past the threshold as he fumbled about in the fridge and pulled out two beers. 

Contemplating, you stared at him, the flex of his muscles as he uncapped each bottle, the stature and size of him as he hunched over the counters, turning around to hold out a drink to you. An invitation. One that you had expected you’d have to give yourself—that you’d have to kick and cry before he ever let himself find you. 

“Just have a drink,” he soothed in that southern lull of his, the words rolling from his tongue with ease. As if he had practised the scenario before he knew it would befall him. “No point in worrying over your tap, I can’t do anything until I buy new washers. I’m out 'cause of you.” 

The irritation he’d shown earlier seemed palpable now—as if he was inviting you into his home simply to make you as uncomfortable as possible, hold you down by the hips until you promised to leave him alone. A taunt, a ploy to make sure you would never get what you wanted. 

However, you had never stepped foot in his trailer, had only ever been on his porch and ran your hand over the chair he frequented, wondering what it looked like beyond the four walls, and curiosity prevailed as it always did. 

Uncertainly, you stepped onto the carpet, gently closing the door behind you, and mumbled a thank you as you took the beer from his hand. 

Almost immediately, you felt like apologising for his irrational emotions. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to put you out. I’ll pay for whatever you need-”

“You pay in ways you don’t know. I don’t need your money.” 

The cryptic way in which he spoke, the casualness as he gave you a look that hinted at something you couldn’t decipher and the slow saunter to his armchair left you in a state of uncertainty. Standing there, with a beer wetting your hand, a frown on your face and a furrowed brow, you had no idea where to go next. What would await you if you questioned him—the things you would discover that were best left in the hands of God and no one else. 

Again, curiosity thrust its violent hand into your stomach and forced your feet to start moving towards him, hoping that he’d appreciate your bravery—your denial of your urges to run far away. It was noted, however, that Joel Miller could care less about bravery. That the quality itself was right down at the bottom of the ladder and that he could and would not give a shit if you welcomed his advances in spite of your lack of courage. 

Hesitantly, you planted yourself on his couch, the furniture built into the wall, curving into an L shape where you imagined he’d kick his feet up after a long day, palm the bulge in his jeans and pick from the litany of porn that you took one glance at and thought better than to stare at it too long in case he felt offended by your interest. 

The discovery admittedly took away a little of his allure. 

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, taking a sip of his beer and urging you to do the same with a single nod of his head. The slight twitch of his lips when you did so caused your body to go squirming, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as the fire raged within you—unable to be sated with the way he looked at you then. 

Just a scoff, a sip, and a glance at your lips before he turned away completely and focused his attention on the blank TV screen— his reflection the only entertainment. 

Silence grew uncomfortable, the bitter taste of alcohol coating the back of your throat, dripping down your oesophagus and choking any words that you wished to say. The heat emanating from him was overpowering even from the distance you sat apart, the scent of cigarettes overwhelming, so much so that you needed a distraction, anything to dull the rest of your senses from shutting down—all because of his powerful presence; the effect he had on you even when he sat still and awaited your call. 

“What did you mean?” The words came tumbling from your mouth, driven by an insatiable desire and lacklustre confidence you had somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach, bubbling with the acid that nestled there until it rose to the surface—bile transforming into questions that could leave you in a shell of humiliation. At his furrowed brow, you expanded. “About me paying in ways I don’t know.” 

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Sombre, all of a sudden. Staring into the barrel of his bottle, the brown glass reflecting like constellations on his face—accentuating the sharp angle of his jawline, the sunken hollows of his cheekbones. 

When his eyes nestled on yours, burrowing right into your skull, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fathom the thought of taking a lungful of air, waiting with your breath held tight inside, for his answer. 

“You shouldn’t go asking questions like that.” He sipped quietly, wetting his lips by flicking his tongue in and out, averting his gaze back to the shadow of himself in the television. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.” 

It was not the answer you wished for, eyes downcast, focused on your shaking knee as you tried to gauge some form of clarity beneath the mystery that clouded the gates to his head—what lay beneath his skull; what you wished to find. 

Against your better judgment, you pressed further, keeping the beer bottle clutched between your hands and hoping it would stay cold forever. 

“I can handle myself.” It came out more confident than you had expected, your bobbing knee ceasing its movement, your dry throat provided with moisture. A break from the anxious sweat you had broken out in. “If you don’t tell me I’ll just leave a hundred dollars on your doorstep and leave you alone.” 

You hoped quietly, in that stifling room, that he would make sure it didn’t come to that. That he would let you pay in any way he saw fit. You hoped that the sad hulk of a man sitting in the lone chair with porn in every drawer and money set aside for whores, would let you have him—bring back a semblance of light to his eyes. Find out what kept the despondency trapped so tight around him, the crown of thorns on his head expanding until it reached his feet and kept him locked in nature's prison—skin scratched, bloody and unable to be healed unless he found someone willing to cut through the overgrowth. 

He seemed to bristle at your words, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching in the manner he did when he was irritated. You’d seen it before when Dale had been drunk and had followed you home. When you’d stumbled uncomfortably to your trailer and pleaded Joel who sat on his porch, almost looking like he was waiting for you, to get him off your back. That tick, the downturn of his brow, the twitch of his lip, the look so intimidating you had rushed inside and watched through the window as Joel clapped a hand on Dale’s back and ushered him away from you.

You had no idea what he’d done after they’d left your sight but Dale barely looked at you after. The last interaction you’d had with him was the morning after when he’d knocked on your door, timid for a fifty-year-old man, and apologised. Joel had been there, like he almost always was—always dancing in your peripheral, waiting for you, taunting you—with a cup of coffee clasped between two hands and a smug look on his face when he watched the interaction. 

“You ain’t as smart as you think you are,” he uttered, slipping you away from the vignette and shattering the memory with his simple words. 

They stung. More than you cared to admit. 

Men were never this difficult, never this hard to get through to, never this confusing. He had given you every possible sign, every protection, every knowing look that confessed: you are everything I wish to have. 

It seemed every day he was further from you, every day he looked at you and thought that he was blinded by loneliness and that you were the last thing he needed to dote on. 

With the rejection, came vexation, a rumbling little thing that forced its way into your mouth—lips parting to let it out. 

“You’re not as discreet as you think you are.” As soon as they fell, the rest came following like a herd of bulls, a huge red flag flying through the air, right where Joel sat. They came for him, and you didn’t care enough to stop them. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you say.” 

The tick, tick, tick of his jaw. That subtle way his eyes narrowed, honing in on everything but the thing causing his problems, trying desperately to stop the truths from betraying his conceptions. 

“I see you, Joel. I see you through my bedroom window, using me as your personal stripper because you’re too fucking cheap to go down to the strip club and give a tip.” The push and pull was becoming apparent, the sympathy and disgust you held for him all at once growing and growing until all that prevailed was rage. That after everything, he still refused. That he was still a fucking coward no matter how many faces he pulled at anyone who looked at him wrong. You would not be deterred by the look he gave you then: one that should’ve made you shrink away in fear he would do something rash. “I see the way you looked at me from day fucking one. Just a pair of tits to stare at, a new young girl that you can prey on-”

“Stop.” 

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice was rising rapidly, your lips downturned in a scowl, unable to see the danger that befell you if you continued. “I know how you talk about me to your friends, I know that you make a show of being this immovable thing that no one can ever get to because you’re so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can’t even admit to yourself that the only thing you are is a fucking pervert. And an asshole.” 

“You are crossing a line, little girl.” 

His words fell on deaf ears, a scoff coming from the back of your throat—so many things that you wanted to say but couldn’t voice. You settled for a final, blow. One that might kick him off his feet. 

“I know you stole my panties.” Jaw ticking, teeth grinding so hard they were liable to turn to dust in his mouth. “Took them right off my bathroom floor. Could you not help yourself? Are you that sad, Joel? Are you that much of a fucking perve-” 

Silenced by the way he towered, standing upright, bottle discarded by the leg of his chair and fury dancing in his eyes—so apparent and profound you finally stopped and cowered. 

“You don’t know a thing about me.” 

You were stunned into submission, finally on the end of his intimidation—a feat that was sure to happen sooner rather than later. You were just another Dale, just another one of his victims that he shot down with narrowed eyes and a nasty tone of voice that forced you to swallow down the confidence—sending it right back to your stomach, and burning the false assurance away. 

“I have been cordial with you for as long as possible.” There was danger in the way he spoke so calmly, a tremor in your hands as he stepped forward, facing you completely, and kneeled before you—eyes boring into yours, forcing you to look at him with the hand he placed on the couch beside you. “I’ve tried my hardest to be respectable but you make it so damn difficult.” 

“I’m sorry,” you began, wishing you could take it all back, wishing that you could’ve used your boldness for better: crawled into his lap and let him hold you, sank to your knees like he and worshipped him with every bit of yourself you had.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he shook his head, the hand on the couch, moving, the weight of it resting there dissipating and falling even heavier on the side of your face. “You can’t take it back now.” 

Nerves slipped like rapids through your stomach, the damn thing churning so much you began to feel sick with the anticipation and fear you felt being closer to him than you ever had been before. Your mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again when you realised that your throat had closed, the inside of your mouth dry and unable to lubricate your words with credibility as they fell from your lips.

“You think I’m a pervert?” he asked, eyes expecting an answer, eyebrows raising to help you find a response. “Hm?” 

“Yes.” The monosyllable fell shakily, unable to lie when he was looking at you so harshly, all whilst stroking your cheekbone with his thumb and engulfing the right side of your face with one, big, warm hand. 

He nodded with knowing, his other hand falling to your bare knee. You were crowded by him, completely consumed by his presence and with a harsh swallow, you hoped that he would slip away and allow you to breathe—if only for a moment. 

“I know,” he said with finality, your cheek whacked with cold air as he removed his hand, quickly providing you with warmth again as he pressed his thumb to your chin, holding it delicately. Making sure you couldn’t look away from him. “But you like it, don’t you?” he brushed the bottom of your lip with his nail, an uncontrollable shiver running through you that he revelled in.

He’d called your bluff entirely. He’d locked you up in his cage, gave you the upper hand for just a second, made you believe that you could get away from him if you kicked and screamed enough, only to leave you hopeless as he twisted the key to the right, and threw the metal that granted you freedom, into the fire. 

“If you had an issue with me looking, you’d close the drapes. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure it ain’t too hard for you.” 

His patronisation, his demeanour that consisted of arousal and determination, had a small breath puffing from your lungs, a sudden and overwhelming heat crawling from each of his hands and into your head—breaking your rationale and leaving you pliable and willing in his grasp. He’d got you. Right there. And if he wanted you, you would let him have you. 

“And if you didn’t want me to steal your panties, then you shouldn’t have left them there.” 

It was unbelievable, the way he twisted the blame onto you, the way he made you believe in everything he was saying with a simple swipe of his thumb over your bottom lip and a look in his eyes that stopped you from questioning him. 

“Yes, Joel, I’m sorry, Joel,” were the only words swimming through your head: words that you would’ve spoken aloud had he not stunned you into silence, the hand on your knee sliding along your skin, up towards the hem of your shorts where he slipped his fingers under and skimmed the skin concealed by the denim. 

“You understand me, little girl?” 

“I’m not a little girl,” you managed, voice shaky as the warmth of him engulfed you entirely, wrapped up in the scent of him, the feel of the callouses along your smooth skin and the eyes piercing you. If looks could kill…if those pretty eyes could rip you apart with the viciousness of their stare. 

“No you ain’t,” he murmured, gripping your chin, thumb rubbing along the flesh of your bottom lip, the skin bouncing as he peeled it back and let go. “I know you ain’t.” 

There seemed a flood came over his being, a white wave of purity dowsing him, ridding him of every adulteration and forcing sense back into his head as the hand fell from your face, the one on your inner thigh taking longer to slip away before the cloud of insensibility faded and he arrived to a semblance of morality. 

You watched as he stumbled over to the kitchen, hand working over the scruff he called a beard and forced his eyes away from you. 

“Joel,” you called softly, finally gaining back a little strength now he wasn’t crowding you; forcing you to look at him and make the first move so his conscience could be clean. 

“Just go.” The words were uttered much softer than before, the delicacy of his voice surprising you but the strain that coated his throat a reminder that this was still Joel Miller. Dangerously beautiful Joel Miller with a lifetime of terror stashed somewhere in the backrooms of his mind, a darkness in the depths of his eyes you couldn’t help but be frightened by, and a story you wished he would tell. A story that stretched years back to the life before he crept past the opening gates of Shady Springs Mobile Park and left a life that you had no clue wether  had been better or worse than his life now. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and have a look at that tap. You might have to get maintenance round soon though if it keeps up.” 

“I don’t like strangers…in my house.” Your words trailed off at the end of your sentence, caught up in the possibilities of your words and how he would reply. If he would see right through you and clock how you’d only spoken because the tap was one of the biggest ties you had to Joel. If he would realise that you’d thought about getting maintenance months ago when it first started dripping but didn’t want a permanent fix, no matter how annoying. All because of Joel Miller and the way he’d perversely captured you in the plot of some barely legal porno that you would’ve turned your nose up at if it was anyone but him and you. 

You and Joel. 

The thought sounded nice—the reality a little less nicer. 

“Yeah, well…” he leant back on the countertops, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bloodshot and bordered by black—an undeniable piece of evidence that Joel perhaps wasn’t doing as well as he made everyone believe; that there was something deeper tugging at his mind and causing such aggravation. 

After a moments silence, when he looked at you and you looked right back at him, your head clear and working properly again, you diverted the conversation elsewhere—a ploy to hack deeper at his head and find what lay underneath his skull. 

“Are you okay?” Simple, easy. Not difficult to ascertain the concern laced deep in your tone because you were concerned for him. The moment he’d opened the door after days of barely seeing him, time spent cursing the fact he could peer through your windows but you could not peer through his, you knew something was wrong. That there was something happening to him. Something dangerous. Your sympathy began to overtake everything else, memory shed of all the times he had wronged you and replaced with the very little he had done right. “You look…tired. Exhausted, really.” 

“I’m fine,” he said with finality, the rage in his eyes returning but with less power this time. The fatigue was setting in, the constant running from himself finally catching up to him. 

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” It shut you up well enough, so much so that you began to lose the commiserations. You could always say you tried. “Now get out of my house.” 

It was the final thing he said to you before he slipped away, striding down the hallway, footsteps echoing until he reached the bedroom; the click of the door resounding throughout the trailer. 

You stared at the spot where he’d kneeled, a finger brushing softly over your lip before shaking away the self-pity and gently placing the beer bottle on the table that sat next to his chair. 

Looking one last time at the door at the end of the hallway, shadowed and guarded by snapping dogs, you opened the door, the damn thing creaking as if to shout to everyone within a mile radius that you had made no progress with the man you desperately wanted, and stepped out. Leaving your pride on the doorstep. 

© virginreprise

thanks for reading !

You don’t answer.

“Goddamn door’s stickin’ again,” he mutters, slamming it shut behind you with a grunt once you’re in. “Gotta hit it twice now. Like I’m tryin’ to put down a damn zombie. I swear, one of these days this whole piece’a shit’s just gonna fall apart while I’m drivin’. Hood’ll fly off, wheels’ll roll in opposite directions, and I’ll just sit there like an asshole in the middle of the road.”

Joel was a man of many words. Too many, as you always liked to say. There wasn’t a sentence he didn’t lace with a curse or a complaint, but that’s just what made him Joel.

He slaps the dashboard affectionately, like it’s a stubborn old dog. “But she’s got character, y’know? Can’t just toss her out. She’s earned her miles.”

You glance at the cracked windshield, tape curling at the edges, smelling the familiar faint scent of gasoline and old leather.

He’s already shifting into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the back of your seat. The truck lurches forward with a wheeze, and Joel mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse (once again).

You weren’t sure when exactly your life veered off of course—which wrong turn, which bad decision, which moment of weakness landed you here, tangled up with this sleazy, grumbling old man who smelled like motor oil and cheap soap and somehow still managed to get under your skin in all the worst ways.

Joel wasn’t your boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even really a friend. He was just…there. A warm body, a familiar mouth, an orgasm when you need it the most.

And yet, here you were asking your fuck buddy to help you run errands, as if that was something normal.

“Tommy called this mornin’,” he starts, like he has been waiting all day to talk about it. “Said he needs help fixin’ the fence again. I told him, ‘You break it every damn week, maybe stop leanin’ ya fat ass on it.’”

He snorts, clearly pleased with himself. “Didn’t like that much. Got all huffy. Said it’s not his fault the wind knocked it down. I said, ‘Bullshit. The wind didn’t eat three burgers and leaned on that damn thing.’”

You glance at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t notice.

“Then he starts goin’ on about how I never answer my phone. I said, ‘Maybe if you stopped callin’ me every time a nail pops loose, I’d be more inclined.’ Told him I’m not his damn handyman. He said, ‘You’re not doin’ anything else.’ I said, ‘Exactly. Let me keep not doin’ it in peace.’”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Idiot’s gonna be the death of that damn fence. Or me.”

He glances at you again, expecting a smirk, a laugh, something. But you’re just staring out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest.

Joel frowns, drums his knuckles against the steering wheel, a soft, rhythmic tap that fills the quiet. His eyes flick back to the road, then to you again.

“What about you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice casual but slightly unsure. “How was your day?”

You shrug, barely. “Forgot my eggs on the pan.”

He snorts. “Shit. Bet the whole house smells like rubber now.”

You nod, still not looking at him.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “One time I damn near burned my kitchen down doin’ that. Left the stove on, went outside to yell at the neighbor’s dog—little bastard kept barking like a maniac—came back in and the whole pan was blacker than my coffee.”

You shift slightly, arms still crossed, but your mouth twitches. Just a little.

Joel catches it. Keeps going.

“Whole place smelled like shit. Like scorched tires and disgusting rubber. Took a week to air it out. Had to throw the pan out too—thing looked like it’s been through a war.”

A quiet laugh escapes as a huff, involuntary and short.

Joel glances over, smug. “There she is.” He taps the wheel again, slower this time. “You alright?”

You don’t answer. Just shift again, pressing your hand to your stomach, feeling that sharp pain tearing through your insides.

Joel notices. But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

“Where d’you want me to take you, sugar? Grocery store? Liquor store? Straight to hell?”

You mutter, “Just grocery store.”

“Good. I was runnin’ low on stuff too.” He answers, looking at you, expecting a smile—a something. But you just look out of the window.

He asks again, slower this time. “You really good?”

You nod, but it’s tight. Joel doesn’t push—not yet. Just mutters, “Alright then,” and pulls out onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on his thigh.

The ride to the store is mostly filled with Joel’s annoying voice: a steady stream of complaints about traffic, gas prices, and some guy who apparently parked too close to his truck last week. You let it just wash over you, eyes fixed on the trees and strip malls outside the window, while your stomach cramps in slow, mean pulses.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights are too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like a swarm of insects.

You move through the aisles on autopilot, grabbing the essentials: a bottle of ibuprofen, a bag of chips you probably won’t eat, a chocolate bar you definitely will. You pause at the feminine hygiene aisle, grab a box of pads and one box of tampons—just to be prepared for everything.

And Joel…well Joel, of course, is nowhere near the checkout. You find him two aisles over, standing toe tp toe with a man in a hoodie, voice raised just enough to draw attention.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s real damn fish,” Joel is saying, gesturing wildly with a can of tuna in one hand. “You think they’re just grindin’ up mystery meat and callin’ it tuna for fun?”

The other man scoffs. “I’m just sayin’, it don’t taste like fish. It’s like…fish adjacent.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You ever seen a cow in a can? No? Then shut the hell up.”

You sigh, stepping in before it escalates. “Joel.”

He barely glances at you. “Tell this guy tuna’s real damn fish.”

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the checkout. “Come on.”

He lets you pull him away but not without a parting shot. “You’re the reason the country’s goin’ to hell, y’know that? Can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”

You don’t respond. Just shove your items onto the band and pretend you don’t know him while he mutters under his breath about “fish truthers” and something about “goddamn grocery store philosophers.”

Back in the truck, you toss the bag into the backseat and climb in, settling into the passenger side with a sigh. Joel’s already midrant, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like he’s still in the store, still arguing with the guy in the hoodie.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s fish. Tuna is fish. I don’t give a shit if it’s in a can or swimmin’ in the damn ocean.”

You don’t even care anymore.

Because this is Joel—a man who’d argue with a stranger over canned tuna like it was a matter of world security. A man who was always loud, always wrong, and always ready to throw hands over the dumbest shit.

But he could fuck. God, could he fuck. And when this whole thing started, that was the only part you let yourself care about.

The rest? The attitude, the mouth, the sleaze—you told yourself you could ignore. Just noise. Just background. Even while it’s annoying.

Joel keeps going, voice low and gravelly. “I swear, people get one opinion and suddenly they’re a damn marine biologist. ‘Oh, tuna’s not real fish.’ What’s next? Chicken’s not real poultry? My dick’s not real meat?”

You snort, but don’t look at him.

Joel catches it instantly. “You agree with me now, right?” he says, smug as hell. “Knew it. Knew you were on my side.”

You shake your head, staring out the window. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I just think it’s funny you almost fought a man over a can of fish.”

He scoffs, still grumbling about the tuna guy when his voice drops into something lower, lazier—familiar. His voice softens, just a notch. “You got everything you wanted, hon?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He watches you for a second longer, then shifts his gaze back to the road. “Need to go anywhere else?”

“No, but…thank you.”

“Oh, my polite girl,” he says, grinning all cheeky. He reaches over and pinches your cheek, rough fingers warm and calloused.

You huff, batting his hand away. “Don’t.”

He chuckles, leaning back against his seat. “Got adrenaline runnin’ through my veins. You should’ve just let me fight that dude.”

You glance at him. “You still there?”

Joel scoffs. “Ain’t lettin’ myself get disrespected like that. People piss me off,” he mutters. “Whole damn store full of idiots. Got me all wound up.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “Could use a distraction. Somethin’ to take the edge off.”

You shake your head.

He smirks to himself, voice dipping into that slow, familiar drawl. “Could bury my face in somethin’ soft. Shut my mouth for a while. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even look at him. “Shut up.”

That actually makes him pause.

“Woah,” he mutters, glancing over. “Usually you like my tone.”

You don’t respond, keeping yourself from insulting him.

He watches you for a second longer, then scoffs. “What, now you wanna get on my nerves too?”

You still don’t say anything.

Joel shakes his head, muttering, “What’s the matter with you today anyway?” Then, under his breath, half a joke, half a threat: “All stuck up. Need me to fuck it outta you?”

You roll your eyes while shifting, pressing your palm tighter against your stomach, jaw clenched.

Joel watches you for a second longer, then leans back in his seat with a low exhale. “Ah,” he mutters. “So that’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “Don’t.”

He grins wider. “You on your period, sugar?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Joel.”

“What?” he says, all mock innocence. “I’m just observant. You get all quiet and mean, start holdin’ your tummy like that. I’ve seen it before.”

You mutter something under your breath and look out the window.

He leans in a little, voice dropping. “Y’know, I used to see this girl who loved gettin’ fucked on her period. Said it helped with the cramps. Said I was better than Midol.”

You groan. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m not wrong.”

A beat of silence. The truck hums beneath you, tires rolling over cracked pavement.

Then Joel shifts, glancing at you again — slower this time. “You want me to take you home?”

You shake your head. “Don’t feel like being alone.”

He nods once, like that settles it. “Alright.”

Without saying anything, he reaches over—rough palm warm through the fabric and lays his hand over your tummy. Rubs once, slow and firm, like he’s done it before.

“C’mon,” he mutters. “Let’s go back to my van.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

He shrugs, voice low. “I’ll crank the heat. You can lay down, steal my last clean shirt, bitch about my mattress. I won’t even try anything.”

You raise a brow.

He smirks. “Unless you ask real nice.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not done.

“Could even rub your tummy,” he adds, voice syrupy. “Or your thighs. Or whatever else’s achin’. I’m versatile like that.”

You snort. “You’re a menace.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, grinning. “But I’m a menace with a heated van and a soft spot for cranky girls who forget their eggs on the stove.”

You try not to smile. Fail.

He sees it. “There she is,” he says, satisfied. “Knew I’d get you.”

You sigh, long and slow. “Fine. But I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight.”

Joel taps the wheel, already pulling into a turn. “Good. I’ll keep it to a low simmer.”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop him. And he doesn’t ask again.

Joel doesn’t shut up the whole ride back.

He’s still going on about the tuna guy, about “idiots with opinions and no taste buds” and how “this country’s gone soft, that you can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”

Every few minutes, he reaches over to poke your side, just enough to make you flinch and swat at him, which only encourages him more.

You’re too tired to argue, and the cramps are starting to dig in deeper, like something inside you is twisting just to be cruel.

By the time he pulls up to the van, the sky’s gone a dull gray, the kind that makes everything look washed out and tired. The van’s parked in its usual spot—half on gravel, half on dead grass, tucked behind a sagging fence that leans like it’s given up.

There’s a busted lawn chair tipped over in the dirt, a rusted grill that hasn’t seen fire in years, and a pile of wood that might’ve once been a table.

It’s a mess. But it’s Joel’s mess. And somehow, that makes it feel…familiar. Even safe in a twisted way.

He hops out and circles around to your side, opening the door for you with a dramatic bow.

“Ma lady,” he says, voice syrupy.

Inside, the van is exactly how you remember it.

Dim, cluttered, smelling like cigarettes, old leather, and something vaguely wooden. The red curtains are drawn, casting everything in a soft, crimson gloom. Then there’s a pile of laundry in the corner, a half empty mug on the counter, and a pair of boots kicked off near the door.

The bed’s unmade—sheets rumpled, blanket half on the floor—but it’s still comfortable. You know it.

It’s the same bed where Joel first pulled you down with that crooked grin and promised to show you some “lovin’ and care,” and then fucked your brains out.

You sit down on the edge of it now, letting out a low groan as you clutch your stomach.

Joel watches you for a beat, then makes a soft, exaggerated cooing sound. “Poor baby,” he says, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. “Need some water?”

You nod, and he moves to his tiny kitche, grabbing a bottle from the mini fridge. It’s not cold, but it’s water so you take it with a quiet “thanks.”

He eyes you for a second, then gestures vaguely towards your jeans. “You need to change or somethin’? I got a shirt you can wear. Big n’soft. Smells just like me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not a selling point.”

He smirks. “Sure it is. You love how I smell.”

You don’t answer that with a response, but when he tosses the shirt your way—a faded green thing that’s probably seen more oil stains than laundry detergent—you take it anyway.

It does smell like him. Cigarettes, sweat, and something warm and earthy underneath. You change in the cramped little bathroom, peeling off your jeans with a wince and tugging the oversized shirt down over your thighs.

When you come back out, Joel’s already stripped down to his boxers, scratching at his stomach with one hand and tossing his fannel into the laundry pile with the other.

“Gotta take a shower,” he mutters. “Sweat my damn ass off today arguing with that guy.”

You don’t look at him, but you can hear the way he grunts as he moves, the way the floor creaks under his weight. He’s big—broad and solid, with a belly that presses against the counter when he leans over it, soft and round and unapologetic. He doesn’t suck it in. Doesn’t hide. Just scratches his ribs and yawns like you’re not even there.

“You stay here, yeah?” he says, nodding toward the bed. “Look—heating pad.”

He pulls it from under a pile of flannels and plugs it in, testing it with his palm before handing it over. “Old man like me needs somethin’ warm for his back, but you need it more than me right now, hon.”

You take it without a word, pressing it to your stomach as you sink back onto the bed. The warmth is immediate, soothing. You close your eyes for a second, breathing through the ache.

Joel steps closer, leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead—rough lips, scratch of stubble, the faintest scent of wood and sweat.

“Stay here, baby.”

You don’t argue, don’t roll your eyes. Just curl onto your side, the heating pad tucked against your belly, and listen to the sound of the water starting up in the tiny shower stall.

The van creaks as Joel moves, his body brushing the narrow walls, muttering something about how “these damn doors keep shrinkin’” as his stomach bumps the frame.

You don’t look, even while the door is open.

You’ve seen it before. The way he moves like he owns every inch of himself, the soft weight of him, the stretch of his skin, the way he doesn’t flinch when he catches his reflection. It’s not confidence, exactly. It’s just Joel. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

And somehow, that’s the part that makes you stay.

The water shuts off with a metallic groan, and a moment later you hear the soft thud of Joel’s feet against the floor, the creak of the bathroom door swinging open. Steam rolls out in a wave, curling into the cool air of the van.

He steps out, towel slung low around his hips, belly damp and flushed pink from the heat. His hair’s slicked back, droplets clinging to his chest hair, trailing down the curve of his stomach.

Then, his eyes land on you, curled up on the bed like a cocoon, Joel’s oversized shirt swallowing your frame. The heating pad hums faintly beneath the blanket, but your face is pinched, one hand still pressed to your stomach, the other curled into the sheets.

Joel’s expression softens. “Oh, honey girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You look like hell, don’t you?”

You don’t bother answering. You’re too tired, too sore, too wrapped in the dull throb of your own body to do anything but breathe through it.

He crouches besides the bed, towel shifting slightly on his hips, and reaches out to brush your hair back from your forehead. His fingers are warm, still damp, and surprisingly gentle.

“There she is,” he says, voice low and fond. “My little grump.”

You close your eyes, letting him touch you. comforting. Familiar. His hand moves to your head, stroking slow, then down to your shoulder, thumb tracing lazy circles into the fabric of his own shirt.

“Hurts bad?” he asks.

You nod, barely.

He sighs. “Alright. Scoot over.”

You do, and he climbs onto the bed besides you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

The towel stays on (barely) as he settles in behind you, one arm draping over your waist. His hand finds your stomach, warm and broad, and he starts to rub in slow, steady circles.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

You hum, the pressure easing something deep inside you. He keeps going, patient and quiet, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

After a while, his hand drifts lower, to your hip, then your thigh. Kneading and soothing. His touch is firm but careful, like he’s trying to press the pain out of you with his palms.

You melt into it, tension bleeding out of your muscles one knot at a time.

Joel leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Told you I’m better than Midol.”

You don’t answer, but your body does—softening under his touch, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re warmin’ up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Feelin’ better?”

You hum, eyes half-lidded. “A little.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Good. Hate seein’ you all curled up like that. Makes me wanna fix it.”

His hand drifts up, slow and warm, brushing the hem of the shirt. He pauses just beneath your ribs, thumb tracing lazy circles into your side.

“These girls also sore?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You don’t answer right away. Just let out a soft, miserable whine and nod, eyes still closed.

Joel hums, like he’s been given permission. “Yeah, figured.”

His hand slides up, careful and slow, until he’s cupping you through the fabric. No pressure, just warmth. His thumb strokes gently along the curve, feather-light.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “All swollen. Poor things.”

You let out a shaky breath, but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. So he keeps going, slow and steady, massaging with the kind of care that makes your chest ache in a different way. Something that makes you feel safe and seen.

His hand quietly drifts lower, just a little—not quite crossing any lines, but close enough that your breath catches. He notices. Of course he does.

“Y’know,” he says, tone going sly, “I wasn’t kiddin’ earlier. Had a girl once swore up and down that a good fuck was better than any painkiller.”

You groan, but it’s half-hearted. “Joel…”

He grins against your skin. “What? I’m just sayin’. Could be medicinal. Therapeutic, even. I’m a giver like that.”

His hand slides a little farther, palm warm against the top of your thigh now, thumb pressing slow, soothing circles into the muscle.

“Bet I could make you forget all about that ache,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel. “Real gentle. Real slow. Just enough to take the edge off.”

You don’t answer, but your body does. Your hips shifting slightly, breath hitching and already a small pulse inside your underwear.

Joel chuckles, low and pleased. “That’s what I thought,” he says, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Feelin’ better already.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, just quiet and then you murmur, barely above a whisper, “I’d bleed all over your sheets.”

Joel’s hand stills for a second. Then he lets out a soft snort, amused but not mocking.

“Y’think I care?” he says, voice low and rough. “Sugar, I can throw ‘em in the machine. Hell, I’ll toss ‘em out if I have to. Ain’t like they’re made of gold.”

You don’t say anything. Just stare at his sheets, jaw tight.

He leans in, brushing his nose against your temple. “Ain’t nothin’ about you that’s disgusting. You hear me?”

You shift again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with your body. “It’s not exactly…sexy.”

Joel huffs. “Who said anything about sexy? I’m talkin’ about you. Hurtin’. Needing somethin’. I don’t give a damn what time of the month it is. You think I’m scared of a little blood?”

You glance at him, uncertain. He meets your eyes, steady and sure.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, smirking. “Hell, I’ve bled more than that just tryin’ to fix the damn carburetor.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, small and shaky.

“You know i’m right” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do that’d scare me off. You wanna lay here and groan, I’ll rub your back. You wanna cry, I’ll hold you. You wanna ride me bloody, I’ll lay down a towel and thank you after.”

Your face burns. “Joel.”

He grins, unbothered. “What? I’m just sayin’. You don’t gotta be embarrassed. Not with me.”

You look at him, really look, and there’s no judgment in his eyes. Just that same crooked affection, that strange mix of sleaze and sincerity that somehow makes you feel…safe.

You exhale, long and slow, and let your head fall back against the pillow.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Joel leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead again—softer this time, lingering.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now stand up. Let me take care of you.”

Joel shifts behind you also standing up, the bed creaking under his weight as he leans over to the far end. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, the tug of a pillow being yanked free from under a pile of laundry, the click of the heating pad being unplugged and moved.

You blink up at him, glassy eyed. “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lays a pillow down near the end of the bed, smooths the heating pad over it, then tosses a towel on top.

“Gonna make you a little nest,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “Get you all warm and comfy. Then I’m gonna fuck the pain right outta you.”

You huff, but your body’s already responding—a slow, low ache curling in your belly, different from the cramps. Deeper. Thicker.

Joel pats the towel. “Lay down on your tummy, sugar. Right here. Let that heat hit you where it counts.”

You hesitate, but only for a second. Then you shift forward, letting him guide you down. The towel’s soft against your skin, the heating pad radiating warmth through the fabric, straight into your lower belly. You exhale, already feeling the relief.

Joel stands behind you, hands smoothing over your hips, adjusting you just so. “There we go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy. Just like that.”

You bury your face into the sheets, the scent of him everywhere—smoke, sweat, soap.

Then he leans down, presses a kiss on your thigh, and whispers, “Just let go, baby. I got you.”

You feel the slow, deliberate tug of your panties being eased down.

“Is it… is it dripping blood?” You tense.

Joel pauses for half a second. Then he lets out a low, appreciative sound, voice thick with that familiar drawl.

“Nah,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “It’s drippin’ heaven, baby.”

You groan, burying your face into the sheets. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles, unbothered. “Yeah, but you’re still lettin’ me touch you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Not when his hands are back on your hips, warm and steady, not when his voice is in your ear, all gravel and heat.

He shifts behind you, the rustle of his towel hitting the floor barely audible over the sound of your own breathing.

One hand slides down, fingers brushing between your thighs, exploring your folds. “Already wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, lower: “Need me to prep you?”

You shake your head, barely. You just needed relief.

He exhales, rough and quiet. “Alright.”

He pushes in slow, careful, just the tip and then stills, breath catching in his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough. “You’re so damn tight like this.”

You whimper, hips twitching under his hands.

He leans over you, lips brushing your hip. “But feels like heaven, baby. All warm and snug and squeezin’ me like you missed me.”

You bury your face in the pillow, flushed and aching, but you don’t pull away.

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, his breath ragged, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. You’re warm and tight around him, body pulsing with heat and ache, and he groans low in his throat.

Joel groans, rolling his hips just a little. “Could stay right here all night. Just like this. Deep and slow. Let you milk the pain outta both of us.”

You whimper, burying your face into the sheets once again, the stretch deep and aching but good. So good.

Joel stills once he’s fully seated inside you, chest heaving. Then, with a low grunt, he shifts—knees bracing on either side of your thighs, his body rising over yours.

And then he lowers himself, slow and heavy, until his belly settles against the small of your back, warm and solid.

You moan, the weight of him pressing you deeper into the heat of the pillow, the pressure on your belly somehow soothing and overwhelming all at once.

“Too much?” he murmurs, voice rough but careful.

You shake your head, breath shallow. “Just…heavy.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Yeah, I know. Big ol’ bastard, ain’t I?”

You huff a laugh, even as your lungs work a little harder under him.

Joel shifts, just enough to take some of the weight off your ribs, his forearms bracing him up. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll hold myself up. Don’t want you passin’ out on me—not unless I earned it.”

You roll your eyes, but your body relaxes under him. The weight of him is grounding, comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Like being blanketed in heat and muscle and the steady rhythm of his breath.

The bed creaks again as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that rock the whole frame. The headboard taps the wall in time, a soft, rhythmic thud that fills the space between your moans and his low, filthy praise.

“Fuckin’,” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn soft under me. Like a warm fuckin’ peach, ripe and drippin’.”

You whine, half from the ache, half from the way his words go straight to your spine.

He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s it, you just lay there, sugar. Let me do the work. Let me press all that ache outta that sweet little belly. Ain’t no Midol in the world that hits like this.”

You cry out, feeling him hit that one spot in you.

Deep, dragging thrusts that make your breath catch and your fingers curl into the sheets. Every inch of him presses into you, every roll of his hips sending a fresh wave of heat through your belly.

“Shit, girl… I’m stickin’ to you. Sweat, blood, all of it. My belly’s glued to your back like we’re welded together.” He murmurs.

You’re already so sensitive—from the cramps, from the heat, from everything he’s done to you tonight. Every stroke against your walls feels like too much and not enough all at once.

And then he shifts just right—hits that spot deep inside once again, and you gasp, a high, broken sound, and your thighs tremble.

Joel stills, just for a second. “Oh, baby,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “You gonna cum already?”

You can’t even answer. It’s already happening—your body clenching around him, breath stuttering, pleasure crashing over you like a wave you didn’t see coming.

Joel groans, low and guttural. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl. So goddamn tight, milkin’ me already.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your neck—his weight just pressing you down more.

“Didn’t even have to work for it,” he murmurs, voice all grit and honey. “Just slid in and you broke for me. That sweet little body was beggin’ for it, huh?”

You’re still trembling beneath him, body limp and flushed, breath catching in your throat as the last waves of your orgasm ripple through you. Joel stays buried deep, his weight a warm press on your back, his breath hot against your neck.

He leans in. “That helped? Made your cramps all better?”

You nod, still dazed, cheek pressed to the mattress.

He grins, slow and smug. “Told ya I’d fuck those cramps right outta that pretty little belly.”

Then he looks down again, and you feel the way his breath hitches—the way your hips twitch, the way the blood is dripping down his cock.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “All that blood and slick… drippin’ down my cock like you needed it.”

You cry out under him, body limp and flushed, when Joel grinds in again—slow, deep, relentless. The overstimulation sharp and sweet all at once.

“Sensitive?” he rasps, voice thick with heat. “Good. Daddy likes it like that.”

He shifts his knees wider, bracing himself, and then he thrusts deeper. So deep. You gasp, the pressure sharp and overwhelming, like he’s pressing into something you didn’t even know was there.

“Shit,” he groans, voice thick and ragged. “You feel that, baby? That’s me hittin’ the end of you.”

You whine out loud, hips twitching, the pillow under your belly pushing everything tighter, more intense.

Joel leans in, his belly heavy on your back. “Can feel your little womb flinchin’ around me,” he mutters, filthy and reverent all at once. “Like it’s beggin’ me to stay.”

You moan, overwhelmed, and he grinds in again—slow, relentless, like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into you.

“You’re shakin’ like a leaf, baby.” He coos. Overstimmed, overstuffed, and still takin’ it. That’s my girl. That’s what I like.”

“Joel—“ you whimper, your head already floaty.

“I know, honey.”

The bed creaks beneath you both, the heat from the pad, the weight of him, the stretch—it’s all just too much and not enough. You’re drowning in it, in him, in the way he fills every inch of you.

Joel kisses your shoulder, then growls, “You’re gonna come again, baby. I can feel it. Gonna milk me dry, ain’t you?”

And with the next thrust—deep, slow, all in—you do.

Body shaking, cunt releasing all kinds of fluids and your breath knocked away.

“Second one’s always the messiest.“ he whispers, pulling out an inch and looking at all the mess you did. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that? Sweetest little thing I ever ruined.”

You’re wrecked. Muscles slack, thighs sticky, brain fogged. And before you can calm down, he moves again. Gentle, deliberate rolls inside your cunt and your body jolts like it wasn’t expecting more.

You gasps, voice all breath and disbelief: “You’re still? Joel… I can’t take no more…”

And he just leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand now sliding up your ribs to hold you still.

“Shhh… hush now.” A low, lazy murmur. “You said that last time. And look at you—still here. Still takin’ it.”

He starts pressing in deeper, making you see stars.

“Mmm… this one’ll fix those cramps up real good. Better than any damn pill ever could.”

You try to speak, to protest, but all that comes out is a broken moan. Your legs twitch. Your breath stutters. And he feels it—the way your body starts to tighten again, even before your mind catches up.

He slows down, just enough to make you feel every inch, every drag of him inside you. His hand stays between your legs, fingers slick and steady, working your clit with maddening precision. You’re trembling, overstimulated, breath hitching with every pass of his thumb.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re sensitive.”

You whimper, hips twitching, trying to pull away—but he just follows, keeps you pinned with his weight and his mouth at your ear.

“But you’re takin’ it so good,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ good for me. Just one more. You can do that, can’t you?”

You shake your head, but it’s useless—your body’s already betraying you, clenching around him, grinding into his hand like it’s got a mind of its own.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me feel you. Let me help. Gonna fuck those cramps right outta you.”

And then he adds: “That little belly will thank me later.”

You’re too raw, too full, too far gone—and he knows it. He wants it.

“Cum for me,” he growls, thrusts deep and slow. “Give me that third one. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do—again—with a cry that’s more sound than breath, your body seizing around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your overstimmed, aching core.

Your thighs clamp under his hips, your cunt pulsing so hard it borders on pain. You sob through it, too sensitive, too full, and still he doesn’t stop, dragging it out until you’re writhing, begging, soaked and ruined.

He groans deep, guttural, and his hips stutter, grinding in deep, and staying there. His voice is a rasp: “Fuck… that’s it. That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it.”

You feel him spill inside you, hot and slow, his whole body pressed tight to yours, breath ragged against your neck. You’re shaking. Floating. Gone.

“God damn it—my fuckin’ back—” he grits out, voice cracking as he drives in deep one last time.

He groans, loud and low, like it’s being torn out of him, and you feel it—the heat, the weight, the way he spills inside you like he’s been holding it back for hours.

“Shit… that’s it… that’s it…” he mutters, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body trembling. “Gonna need a fuckin’ ice pack after this. Jesus.”

You can’t help it—you laugh between all that overstimulation, breathless and wrecked, still clenching around him.

He huffs a laugh too, catching his breath. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, woman. I just threw my back out makin’ you see stars.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, heavy and warm, muttering into your skin.

“You good, darlin’?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Still breathin’? ‘Cause I ain’t sure I am.”

You hum something soft, too gone to answer, and he chuckles—a slow, wrecked sound.

Finally, with a grunt and a muttered “Alright, here we go…”, he shifts his weight, pulls out slow, and pushes himself up. His knees pop again. His feet hit the floor of the van with a heavy thud, and you groan because you can’t feel your body.

“Sticky little thing. You know what you look like down there? Goddamn…like strawberry cream pie, baby. Red white and split open and spillin’ sweet all over me.”

You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “Ugh, Joel… you’re so disgusting.”

He just grins, slow and lazy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Yeah?” he drawls, dragging two fingers through the mess and smearing it along your thigh. “Then why you blushin’, huh?”

You try to glare at him, but your face is hot, your body still trembling, and you can’t stop the way your hips twitch when he touches you again.

“Shut up,” you mumble, voice thin and wrecked.

He grabs a towel, wets it from the bottle, then kneels between your thighs.

But before he even touches the towel to your skin, he leans in and drags his tongue through the mess he left behind. Blood, come, sweat all of it.

You gasp, hips twitching, eyes flying open.

“Joel—”

He just chuckles, low and wrecked, licking his lips like he’s savoring it.

“Tastin’ like honey,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “Sweetest thing I ever put my mouth on.”

You groan, half mortified, half melting, and he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Then he takes the towel and starts to clean you sweet and slow, gentle strokes, careful not to press too hard.

“Easy now,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you, darlin’. You earned it.”

He leans over, brushing your hair back from your face.

“Y’wanna stay like that, or y’want me to change you?”

You groan into the pillow. “Can’t move.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you up, sweetheart.”

He slides an arm under your belly, the other under your chest, and lifts you slow—careful not to jostle you too much. You wince, legs trembling as you shift upright, and then you see it.

The sheets.

Blood and come smeared across the fabric in thick, dark streaks. A mess. Your mess.

You gasp, eyes going wide. “Joel—your sheets—”

But he’s already shaking his head, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. Sheets can be washed. You? You’re what matters.”

You blink at him, still dazed, still flushed, and he smiles, soft and crooked.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up proper.”

He helps you to your feet, one hand steady at your waist, the other grabbing a clean towel. The van rocks gently as you both move, and he groans again.

“Goddamn suspension’s worse than my knees.”

You laugh, leaning into him as he guides you to the little bathroom, and he mutters something about “gonna need a chiropractor and a cigarette” under his breath.

Btw guys, i finally have an Ao3 acc. I’m trying to post all my fics also there but i can’t promise anything because i’m struggling to understand that damn website lmao😭 but if you like to check it out here is the link!

I hope yall enjoyed sleazy!joel hehe and again, happy new year everyone! I hope you all started safely and happy and i hope this year will be just a little bit better! 🫶🏻

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You’ve never known darkness like this.

A darkness so thick, so absolute. There was no moon, no stars, no relief from the smothering, blinding darkness. It was just…black. The kind that makes your head swim, makes your ears strain for sounds that aren’t there. Or ones that are. You don’t know what’s worse.

You’ve been running for what feels like forever.

Your lungs burn, your legs are lead, each step feeling heavier than the last. The underbrush fights against you like mangled hands—branches clawing at the flesh of your arms, brambles catching on the exposed skin of your thighs. The uneven ground is a cruel thing, tripping you up again and again, sending you crashing into tree trunks, the bark scraping into your palms as you barely catch yourself before hitting the dirt.

But you don’t stop.

Because something or someone is behind you.

You don’t know how far. You don’t know how close. But the sound of it has been chasing you, steady and relentless—the snap of branches, the dull thud of heavy footsteps somewhere just out of reach.

You’ve completely lost track of time. Your one and only source of light was left behind what feels like a lifetime but was only a matter of days ago. There was simply no time to think of your flashlight back in your tent when you had to run. But you don’t know how long it’s been since then. Everything past survival has blurred together.

You don’t know where you are.

But you have to stop.

You have to stop.

You won’t make it much farther if you don’t. Your legs are giving out beneath you, every step turning into a stumble, every breath dragging too hard, too deep, too loud. Your hands shake as you catch yourself crashing down between the thick, twisted roots of a tree, ignoring the ache in your knees, the sharp edges of the bark biting into your spine as you press yourself against it.

It’s quiet now.

The first real silence you’ve had in hours. Maybe it’s over. Maybe you ran far enough.

You think of your only saving grace, stashed deep in your pocket, and you dig your fingers past fabric and grit, searching for the thin slip of cardboard. When you finally pinch the matchbook between your fingers, pulling it from the confines of your shorts, you blindly flick it open. Your hands are clumsy, stiff and shaking.

Five matches left.

You hesitate. It’s not safe here, but the dark is worse. You can’t even see your hands in front of you. Can’t see anything. It’s like your eyes are stretching, playing tricks on you as they try to pull something—anything—out of the blackness.

You pull out a match, feel for the strip, and strike it fast.

The spark flares bright, too bright, your pupils contracting hard. The flame wavers between your fingers, small and flickering, but enough to push the dark back. Enough to let you see—

Movement.

No. Not movement. Reflection.

A quick, sharp gleam across the clearing. Faint, almost nothing, but there. Something smooth catching the light and throwing it back at you in a thin, distorted line.

You squint, trying to make sense of it. Not water, but almost like glass—warped, uneven.

Then you see it. A round, fogged-over lens, slightly misshapen, reflecting the weak glow of the match. Another next to it. Not eyes, but something meant to mimic them.

And metal. A hard, curved surface, dark but slick enough to catch the light, the shape of it unmistakable now.

A gas mask.

Your stomach turns violently, bile rising in your throat.

The figure doesn’t move—if it even is a person, you can’t be sure. The lenses catch the weak light, blank and unblinking. It could be a trick of the dark, your eyes playing games with the shapes between the trees. You feel like you can hardly trust them anymore.

Your match goes out.

Your breath catches, sitting too high in your chest, refusing to move. Reaching for another match, your fingers stiff, you fumble for another. Four left. 

You strike it fast. The flame bursts to life, searing bright for just a second—just long enough for you to see—

Nothing.

No reflection. No mask. No shape standing where it had been before.

But the night is no longer still. And beyond anything else, you know for certain that you are no longer alone in the darkness.

There’s something else now, shifting in the brush, the dry snap of twigs underfoot. Not the wind or an animal. The sound is deliberate, heavy in a way that makes your skin crawl. You push yourself back into the tree, feeling the rough bark dig in, grounding yourself in pain, in something real. Your eyes dart, straining past the reach of the weak light, desperate to find what you know is there.

You hear him before you see him.

"Hey, kiddo."

Something presses against your face before you can scream. Cloth, warm from body heat. Your hands shoot up too late, fingers grasping uselessly at a grip too strong. The scent floods in fast, thick and sickly sweet, curling through your lungs as you gasp.

The match drops from your fingers, the light immediately snuffing out as it hits the dirt. Your limbs go weak, your thoughts stutter, tilt, and a numbness spreads through you like ink in water.

And then, like the night around you, your vision goes black.

You’re not entirely sure if you’re in the same place or not.

The last thing you remember is the scrape of his voice in your ear, low and thick as the cloth smothering your mouth. The sickly-sweet scent still clings to the back of your throat, coating your nostrils like tar. Your throat burns for water as your stomach churns, but the instinct to stay still, to stay quiet, keeps you from gagging.

Rough bark digs into your skin, so you make up your mind that you must still be up against a tree. The rope pulling your arms behind the trunk is tight, thick and coarse around your wrists. It bites into the skin like it was tied with purpose, meant to hold. You tug once—useless. The knots don’t budge.

You try to move your feet, to stand, to kick free, but it's no use. They’re like dead weight, sore and leaden from your exhaustive hike through the unknown. The dirt is dry beneath your bare legs, your denim shorts beginning to ride up your thighs as you squirm around. 

You haven’t opened your eyes yet. You don’t want to.

You force your breath to steady despite the cotton mouth dryness behind your lips. Inhale. Exhale. You tell yourself you’ll open them on the next count of three. Or the next.

You’re busy willing yourself not to cry when you hear the heaving footsteps around you, no other sound joining them. No crackling fire, no sound of any nocturnal creatures. You wonder just how far from any nearby camp you are anymore. 

You open your eyes the first time to the sound of a match being struck. The bright orange light flickers against the back of your eyelids before they flash open, the sight of the gas mask is so close now that you flinch as it crowds your vision. If it wasn’t for the flame flickering against the glass, you might be able to see the eyes behind it. The lenses are fogged up, catching the firelight in warped, fractured shapes. The filter hisses slightly as he breathes in slow, deep inhales.

Thick, calloused fingertips press against your jaw. You flinch, trying to pull away, but his grip is firm, pressing your head back against the rough bark behind you. The flame flickers between you, throwing long, shifting shadows.

The match burns out, the darkness swallowing you again.

Only two left now.

You can still hear him, like without your vision your other senses suddenly come alive. The dull, mechanical sound of air pushing through the filter. The rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his body so close that the space between you feels like it’s shrinking.

“Hello, darlin’,” he whispers, all southern warmth stretched over something sharp, like velvet hiding a blade. His finger swipes against your bottom lip, and you realize it’s cold and wet with water. Your mouth opens without meaning to, your body responding before your mind can catch up. The moment the moisture touches your skin, something inside you claws forward, desperate.

Before you even realize it, your tongue dips out to taste it.

His low laughter makes you feel filthy.

His fingers leave your mouth, tracing along the lines of your face instead. The way he holds you is rough and unyielding.

"You know," he says, his voice curling low, slow like molasses, "I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

Your body goes rigid.

"I’m sure they were real nice folks."

The memories you’ve kept locked away, stuffed deep in the pit of your mind, tear their way to the surface. Images, voices, flashes of what you lost to the masked man with a crowbar.

“But you…” he continues despite how hard you squirm in his hold, “I just couldn't resist.”

His left hand presses against your bare calf, and slides upwards- until his fingertips graze the hem of your shorts. Goosebumps rise under his wide palm, you try to ignore the heat that's beginning to pool between your thighs– there’s a part of you that realizes that you shouldn't be enjoying this, but your body is already starting to want it.

His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles over your thigh. Sightless in the dark, every other sense sharpens. His skin on yours, the heat of it, the grit of his callouses, like you can feel him more clearly than you’ve ever seen him.

And his scent. He smells like sweat, leather, something burnt. It clings to the air between you.

His hand rests wide and heavy against your leg, fingers splayed like he owns the ground you’re sitting on. 

And he’s humming under his breath.

It’s soft at first, barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears. But after a moment, it clicks. He’s matching the rhythm of your heartbeat. The steady, frantic pulse trapped in your throat, the way your chest rises and falls unevenly, he’s humming along to it like a song only he can hear.

Then, his hand lifts from your face, and absence of touch should be a relief. It’s not.

The sharp crack of a match striking fills your ears. Another flare of light floods your vision, pupils shrinking fast as they try to adjust. 

Your eyes squint against the burst of light. It sears into your vision, blinding for a moment before adjusting, and in those few seconds, you see him clearly. The flickering glow dances across the fogged-up glass of his mask, catches on the curve of the lenses, and for the first time, you see his eyes behind them.

Brows furrowed over hazel irises, pupils blown wide. That wicked glint has nothing to do with the matchlight. He’s looking at you with an intensity, like a predator watches something cornered.

He’s taking you in.

“What a pretty little thing. My girl.”

Ah.

The words land like a brand, something final and irreversible. Your breath snags, your body going stiff, muscles locking against the weight of ownership in his voice.

"C’mon now," his voice is soft again, deceptively gentle. The matchlight flickers between you, glowing bright as his hand moves from your leg to press into your jaw again, holding you steady, keeping your lips just slightly parted. His eyes track from your mouth back to your own wide stare, pupils swallowing whatever color was left.

"You were doing so well a moment ago."

He lets his hand fall back to your knee, nails scraping light, teasing lines up the inside of your thigh. Your breath stutters, body trembling against your will, and when his fingers dig in just slightly, a soft gasp slips past your lips.

“Oh, there we go,” he says quietly.

The match goes out.

Only one left.

You expect him to strike it immediately, but he doesn’t. The air feels thicker now, the kind of silence that’s only there when someone wants you to feel it. The realization makes your skin crawl—he’s waiting. He knew how many you had left. He’s drawing it out, pulling the tension tight, making sure you feel just how little control you ever had.

The sudden click of his mask clangs in the dark night as the vision of him burned into your retinas starts to fade. You hear the thud of it on the forest floor, and suddenly his breathing is quieter, though closer.

Your ears strain, waiting for the next move.

And then you realize just how close he is when something wet and muscled presses against the underside of your top lip. 

A sharp, obscene sound leaves his throat at the first taste of you. His tongue drags along the inseam of your lip, slow and savoring, his free hand tightening back around your jaw, keeping you still. You should turn away. You should pull back. But the sudden flush of heat rolling through your body keeps you rooted in place, keeps you from moving at all.

His lips press against yours—not applying pressure, just there, ghosting over your mouth, the barest contact. He breathes into you, slow and controlled, and when you exhale, he inhales sharply—like he’s drinking it in. Like he’s stealing the very breath from you.

It’s too intimate. It makes your stomach twist, makes your skin prickle with something ugly and deep and wanting.

His tongue swipes over your lower lip, and the moan that escapes you is involuntary, slipping free before you can stop it. His mouth curls into a smile against yours, slow and knowing, before he presses deeper, taking. Your tongue meets his, a slick, tentative slide, and the moment you respond, his fingers push further up your thigh. The movement makes your hips shift forward slightly, an instinct you don’t want to acknowledge.

You’re almost ashamed of how much your body responds to him.

He pulls back, just enough to catch your lower lip between his teeth, teasing, testing. His hand on your thigh moves, fingers trailing higher, just below the thin barrier of your shorts, pressing against the soft fabric stretched over your core.

“I knew you’d want this,” he murmurs, voice rasping against your skin as his lips trace up your jawline. His middle finger slides beneath the hem of your shorts, pressing into the damp heat of you, and your body jerks hard in response.

A breathless moan pushes out of your throat. You can’t stop it.

“That’s what made you so different from them, sweetheart.”

His words coil through your spine, wrapping tight and unrelenting. Your hips stutter, rocking forward into his palm before you even realize you’re doing it. His breathless laugh is pure satisfaction, curling against your throat as he pushes his middle finger under your panties and against you, teasing, taunting.

He groans quietly at the feeling of your pooling slick, his finger rubbing slow, lazy circles over your clit, coaxing another trembling sound from your lips before he presses into your clenched entrance. Another finger joins the first, stretching you open, and the sensation forces a choked cry out of you as your body arches against the restraints.

“Oh, you love this, don’t you, sweetheart?” he says, voice dripping with certainty, "Just like I knew you would."

You do. And you hate him for it.

His fingers move inside you, curling just right, pressing into the spot that has your stomach tensing, your thighs trembling. You can feel the slick heat between your legs, against your own skin of your thighs, the way your body responds faster than your mind can catch up.

His other hand lifts from your face. The snap of a match striking cuts through the dark.

The firelight licks across his bare face, and he’s devastatingly handsome in a way that makes your stomach drop, that makes you forget to be afraid of him. Gleaming eyes catch the flame, and his beard, salt-and-pepper and close-cut, frames full lips slick with your spit.

“That’s right, darlin’,” he murmurs. His fingers don’t stop moving. “Been watchin’ you for a long time. Even before I killed your little gang back there.”

But before you can react, his mouth is crashing against yours, tongue and teeth and heat, swallowing the choked noise you make as his fingers push deeper, thrusting slow and controlled, forcing you higher, closer. The pressure coils in the pit of your stomach, tightening, unbearable, the tension building so fast it almost hurts.

His voice is still against your mouth, words pressing into your lips like a brand.

"You know my name," he says. His thumb circles just right, pressing against your clit with devastating precision. His fingers curl inside of you, and your entire body locks up, legs trembling, muscles pulling tight.

"I wanna hear it when you come around my fingers." he growls, “Say it.”

Your body breaks open around him, a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. A sound between a prayer and a plea.

"Joel."

♰ hunter!ellie, who was convinced your clan had murdered her loved one. you were an ancient vampire, well aware that her order had been exterminating your kind for centuries. it was never a war of right and wrong.

♰ the townsfolk said the castle was cursed. that every night, when the fog slid down the hills, something ancient breathed within its walls — velvet and venom, beauty and rot.

ellie didn’t believe in curses. she believed in blood. in screams. in her father’s name carved on the back of her memory like a wound that never healed. she came for your head, not your heart. though the distance between them turned out to be frighteningly small.

♰ her crossbow string sang every time she thought of you. sometimes she’d shoot into the dark just to hear the echo fade.

♰ the town was rotting from the inside.

people nailed garlic to their doors, whispered prayers with wine-stained lips, and sent daughters into the woods, hoping one would not return.

you took care of those poor women traded for the peace of their fathers. there were many who made it through your tender hands and your greedy lips. some of them begged you to dry them out completely — to turn the pulse into silence, the fear into calm.

others begged for life. and what life was it they were so desperate to keep? poverty, plague, and endless cruelty of the open world.

you draped them in silks and laces. you poured them wines older than the country. you showed them your gardens, your libraries, your mirrors that refused to reflect you. you gave them warmth — or something close to it.

and when the rivers of wine finally ran dry, you drank their blood, gently as a kiss. you watched their faces go pale, not out of malice but out of ritual. you mourned them in silence.

♰ ellie came on a rain-drowned horse, carrying the silver bolts and the promise to end you. she was their salvation, their last desperate prayer with a human face. but when she saw their fear — not of you, but of each other — something twisted in her chest. hatred, she realized, made everyone look the same. it hollowed them out, left them trembling and cruel.

♰ when she reached the gates, the sky opened — a crack of thunder split it apart, as if the heavens themselves tried to warn her.

she didn’t listen. hunters never did.

♰ you didn’t hide. you waited. centuries teach patience, and you’d learned to let hunters come to you.

there were fires. they couldn’t warm you. there were rains of holy water — they couldn’t cleanse you. there were bullets and stakes — you used them to light your hearth.

♰ maybe your clan killed her father. maybe it wasn’t even you. but what are facts, when revenge has already chosen its shape?

♰ the first time she saw you, she didn’t think you were real. no monster could look that human. no human could look that divine.

♰ you waited for her in the hall, where candlelight trembled upon marble pillars. you’d seen many like her before: young, fierce, foolishly brave. but only one of them had eyes like that — green, burning with purpose and grief. hundreds of lives ago.

“so this is the last of the hunters,” you murmured, voice soft as the rustle of silk.

 “and you’re the last of the devils,” ellie didn’t waver.

you laughed.

“do you believe that?”

she had to.

belief was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

♰ the first fight was brief. she drew her blade; you moved faster than wind. the air smelled of steel and rose ash.

you had never favored blades. they were loud and messy. your weapons were silence, a lingering touch, a whispered secret in the dark. you simply didn’t need a sword to tear flesh.

when your teeth grazed her wrist — not biting, only testing — she struck back, slicing your shoulder open. instead of blood, something darker shimmered on your skin, catching the moonlight like liquid night.

you smiled through the pain, your lips a deep red wound of mockery.

“is that all your faith gives you, hunter?”

later, when she washed her blade in the basin, she thought she saw your reflection in the water — smiling at her through the ripples.

♰ she was wounded.

your claws tore through her shoulder, her blade kissed your ribs — a trade, almost tender in its symmetry.

you healed within hours. she did not.

the wound on ellie’s side festered, a slow-burning sun beneath her skin. she rode back to the town, half-conscious.

the people looked away — saviors don’t bleed. they gave her a room in an abandoned house near the chapel, where no one dared to light candles.

days passed in delirium. she drifted between life and death, and in that narrow space she saw things that made no sense. your voice — younger, softer. your hands — holding her face in another lifetime.

she remembered a hand — yours — pulling her out of the fire once.

she remembered dying.

she remembered that you never did.

sometimes she saw you standing by the door, your shape wavering in the candleless dark. sometimes you were sitting at her bedside, tracing invisible signs over her chest, as if sealing a promise. you fed her a few drops of your own blood — enough to keep her breathing, not enough to change her.

watching her writhe in the half-light, you wondered what gods you’d angered to make love return to you like this — wounded, vengeful, and wearing a hunter’s heart.

when the fever broke, her purpose remained — but it no longer felt clean.

it had teeth now. it breathed your name.

hatred shouldn’t feel like longing.

♰ for her, you employed a different kind of violence: the violence of unbearable gentleness, of showing her a world beyond her narrow creed of death.

♰ ellie was prepared for fungs and fury. she was not prepared for you. not prepared for the haunting melodies from your grand piano that drifted through the forest to her room, or for the single, perfect black rose you left on her windowsill, still wet with a dew that did not burn you. she fell asleep with the memory of your voice and woke with the scent of your perfume on her clothes.

you were no longer a target; you were a ghost living in her mind, rent-free. she wanted to see you bleed. she wanted to see you smile. there was no difference anymore.

♰ ellie came back to demand the answers.

the castle was awake that night.

torches flickered on the walls, though no hand had lit them. the great doors opened before she could touch them, groaning like a creature that recognized its master.

you waited for her in the same hall as before — the candles bent toward you like worshippers.

ellie stormed in, her voice furious.

“what did you do to me?”

you tilted your head, calm as moonlight.

 “i let you live.”

her blade was already in her hand, the edge catching the candlelight like a sliver of dawn.

“why do i know you?”

you stepped closer, until the cold gleam of the blade caught the hollow between your collarbones. it draw a bead of dark blood that slid down your skin. ellie’s hand tightened on the hilt, but she didn’t flinch.

“because once, long ago, you promised you’d find me again. you did.”

“you’re lying,” she spat back.

you leaned into the edge a little more, a ghost of a smile curling your lips. then, slowly, you reached up — your fingers wrapping around the blade. you guided it down, pressing it to your chest, right over where your heart no longer beat.

“do it, then,” you dared. “end the monster.”

ellie’s hand trembled. she pressed — the blade bit into flesh, crimson blooming under her hand. but her knuckles turned pale, the sound of her own pulse roaring in her ears.

“come on,” you said, almost tender. “what have you ever created besides graves?”

she screamed in frustration — raw, breaking, human. the blade clattered to the stone floor. the sound was louder than any gunshot.

you wiped the blood.

“believe what you will, hunter. but you came here because something called you back. and it wasn’t revenge.”

♰ hatred, you discovered, was merely obsession’s crude cousin. and what was love — if not the most beautiful, eternal obsession herself?

at first, ellie still came to the castle gates with her blade. she didn’t ask to be invited in — she demanded it. but with each visit, the blade stayed sheathed a little longer. she began to bring questions instead of weapons.

“what do you eat, if not us?” she once asked, her tone caught somewhere between disgust and curiosity.

what does it feel like — forever?

do you still feel cold?

do your flesh rot? or your memory?

you answered, softly. she listened.

and when you asked her, “and you — what does guilt feel like?” she didn’t answer.

♰ the first time she stayed past dusk, she said it was to “make sure you don’t hunt.”

the second time — she said nothing at all.

she watched how you moved through candlelight, how your reflection refused to live in mirrors.

you poured her wine you knew she wouldn’t drink.

still, she didn’t leave.

♰ she began to look for your traces in the little things. in the scent of rose oil left on her gloves. in the single hair caught in the pages of her book.

she started bringing you relics she found on the road — a rosary, a piece of stained glass, a pressed violet. things that once would’ve been your destruction. now, her offerings.

♰ once, she brought you a book. old, half-burnt, bound in leather — one she’d taken from an abandoned chapel.

you turned the fragile pages with care. she watched your fingers brush over the holy verses, expecting you to flinch. you didn’t.

instead, you murmured something about faith being older than names.

and ellie, who once thought words like “mercy” and “grace” belonged to the weak, found herself asking what you used to pray for, before eternity claimed you.

♰ you showed her the portrait gallery — centuries of faces she’d only read about in old hunter records. names crossed out in her books, but here they still smiled from their golden frames.

one wall was filled with your portraits — not because of vanity; just to remember, instead of any mirror. painted over the centuries, framed in gold and dust.

but one of them stopped her breath — a woman who looked like ellie. the same green eyes, the same scar on the brow. beneath it, a name she didn’t know. a date, long before her birth.

ellie tore the frame from the wall.

♰ when you asked, “why do you keep coming back, hunter?”

she lied, of course.

“to finish what i started.”

but you both knew she’d already lost the battle she came to win.

♰ one evening, she found a violin in your study — the strings brittle, the bow forgotten.

she tried to play, and the sound came out trembling.

you laughed.

“it’s been a long time since anyone dared to be bad at something here,” you said.

and for the first time, ellie smiled. not like a hunter, but like a girl who’d forgotten what the war was for.

♰ but forgetting it was a sin. peace was never hers to keep.

they came at night — a sea of light and anger. the same fire ellie once led them with now lit their torches, pointing at her. in each one she saw her own reflection: the same hatred she’d once sworn by.

they called her traitor, heretic, cursed. they said her blood would cleanse the town. and she understood, standing there before them, that the only difference between their righteousness and her vengeance was you.

so she raised her weapon — not to defend, not to destroy, but to stop the endless loop of fire. her hands no longer shook. for the first time, she wasn’t afraid — not of death, but of mercy.

she pointed it at the crowd.

♰ and she killed for you.

not because you asked, but because the line between her revenge and your survival had blurred into the same nightshade shade.

by the time she realized what she’d become, it was too late. she was the monster they’d warned her about.

and you — you were the only one who could still look at her and see a soul.

♰ the revenge is not to kill, but to reverse the mind. it’s a chess game, not a sword fight — and ellie had always been bad at games.

♰ and maybe it was never about saving anyone. maybe it was about finding someone who could destroy you — but always chose to let the world burn for you instead.

Ellie’s eyes landed on you— but they weren’t concerned or curious. They were lustful.

“It’s okay, I know,” she smiled.

“What? But how do you—?”

“Shhh,” Ellie pressed down where your bladder was.

Your eyes widened, a small squeak leaving you as you pulled away from her instinctively. Your legs were shaky but Ellie didn’t seem like she’d give up on this anytime soon. Her hands grabbed at your thighs, fingertips digging into your flesh— Ellie pulled your legs up and hooked them around your waist firmly so you couldn’t move them away even if you wanted to.

“I know you gotta pee, dirty girl,” Ellie kissed your temple, “just let it out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

As if to emphasize the embarrassment of the situation, the strap head ground against your g-spot deliciously causing tears to spring to your eyes. Your fingernails dragged down red marks down Ellie’s bare back making her moan into your neck. Her hands shook, deep breath exiting her chest.

“You’re so tight around this stupid strap, aren’t you? Fuck, if only,” thrust, “I could,” thrust, “feel it.” Ellie grunted, “soak us up, slut.”

Her hand pressed your bladder again. You let out a choked sob, covering your face with both hands as you felt the first trickle of shame down your inner thigh.

After the first bit made it out of you, you didn’t have control anymore.

It splashed out, soaking both you and her along with the bedding underneath. You let out a small sigh of physical relief.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful when you lose control,” Ellie whispered, making you blush more as humiliation burnt in your chest.

You realised— you had orgasmed just as you pissed yourself.

chris had announced to you that he’d be spending the week up at the ski lodge, he didn’t formarlly invite you, but his tone indicated that you should come.

you tried to act clueless about the plans, when in reality,  josh had told you about the trip almost week ahead of time. and you were already planning your outfits.

arriving at the lodge was new to you but it seemed to be familiar for chris and everyone else. 

you two seemed to be the last to arrive and chris was quick to blame it on your slow packing. 

when everyone was in their own personal rooms, unpacking and getting ready for whatever josh said he had planned for tonight. 

josh wasn’t one to hide his bias, which is why you got a room to yourself. mainly because he was one to sneak in mid–night to ‘surprise’ you and he didn’t want any cockblockers.

while unpacking, back turned towards the door of the room. it was a strange and hollow silence that fell through the lodge but it was comforting, everyone in their own niches, doing their own stuff. it felt nice. 

you didn’t hear anyone step into the room, because the feeling of rough hands snaking around your hands made you jump up a lot harder than expected, causing your heart to temporarily stop.

when you turned to meet the hands with a face, you glared at the familiar pair of green eyes met yours.

“shit, josh! you can’t just do that to a girl. scared the crap outta me.” you muttered the last sentence, resting your hands flat on the shirt beneath his flannel. the smile that was on his face was killer, immediately calming all of your nerves.

josh let a hand laze against the small of your back, the other one tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

it was an intimate act you were used to, meaning that he wanted to see more of your face which he liked so much.

“sorry. y’know i mean well.” he teased you, holding you flush against his chest, his face only an inch away from yours. 

you almost pushed yourself back, not trying to escape his grasp but keeping a respectable amount of space between you. “mm, door ‘s open, someone could see.” you muttered, staring over at the open grand door to your bedroom, holding your bottom lip between your teeth when you looked back up at him.

all he did was hum back in response, ducking his head down to latch his lips onto your neck, kissing the skin slowly. in a way that caused you to melt against him. you weren’t slow to respond, mewling between closed lips at the physical affection.

“j– josh…” you weakly protested, his hot lips on your skin making your entire body feel warm.

your reaction only made him move his lips up higher, biting your ear and inhaling your scent. “i’ve missed you, doll. don’t you miss me?” a warm whisper against its shell, his hands grabbing the fat of your hips in response. 

the way he spoke to you sent everything rushing right to your core, along with the idea that anyone could walk right past the open door and see what was going on.

his lips were like drugs, every time you two were alone together he couldn’t keep them or his hands off of you. you weren’t complaining, but right now, it was far too risky.

anyone could see. chris could see. and the first thing that he ever told josh when introducing you two was to not fuck you.

it’s safe to say josh went far beyond that boundary.

a sudden grab against the fatty tissue of your ass made you yelp, jumping up against him then staring at him with a familiar glare. 

he chuckled down at you shaking his head. “whoops. ‘m sorry, pretty thing. my hands, they got minds of their own.” he said as he placed an apologetic kiss on your jaw, simultaneously placing a quick slap against your ass cheek.

with that, he slipped away from you, walking out of the room with his hands behind his back and whistling some stupid tune like some cartoon character.

you just glared at his sexy back while he walked away. the way his arms filled up the flannel, how his forearms looked with the sleeves rolled up, and his messy hair shaping his face.

there was no way you were going to be able to keep your hands off of him for an entire week. 

 ╴⊹ꮺ˚

the night came quicker than expected. everyone seemed to be cozied up on the living room floor by a fire, watching some 2000s slasher film and playing twister.

you were contorted somewhere between emily and ashley, holding yourself up with the strength of your right arm, practically collapsing and ruining the entire tower.

after lying on your back and choking on laughter, someone mentioned playing drinking games and you were so in. 

‘never have i ever’ someone makes a statement, if you’ve done it, you drink.

at first, it was simple things like: “never have i ever blacked out” or “never have i ever shoplifted.”

until somewhere, everything got lost in translation.

it was emily’s turn to speak, running her finger around the rim of her solo cup. “okay, okay. never have i ever… fucked somewhere i wasn’t supposed to.” she was clearly drunk, but there was a quiet giggle behind the words she slurred against.

josh sat right across from you, staring right at you and no one else when he lifted the cup up to drink from it.

unfortunately, you did too, taking a small sip.

the only other people who did were jess and surprisingly… matt?

but for some reason, emily only questioned you. “well look at that, she isn’t a prude after all! share with the group, y/n.” she leaned in a bit, as if she wasn’t budging.

your lips were pursed into a tight line, shaking your head. but as you stared at her, you couldn’t ignore the green eyes that beared into the side of your face. “y’know… that’s a story for another day.” you weren’t at the state of drunkenness where you share all your personal business yet.

thank god.

“yeah, good. i don’t wanna know anything about that.” chris blurted out, shivering in a grossed out way. you totally forgot he was even sitting there, alongside ashley, who managed to giggle at every little thing he said. 

you shot him a stare, flipping him off but disguising it as if you were holding up your cup.

the game ended with jess and emily drinking the most. not a shocker if you were honest, but it was still funny seeing them escorted upstairs because they could hardly walk. 

you insisted on staying behind to clean up, denying help from anyone else. as the living room began to empty up, the trash bag was only filling up. 

looking outside to a pitch black forest sent a certain chill up your spine, you didn’t hesitate to walk over towards the large window, closing both curtains.

turning around on your heels, you were met by a familiar, broad and tall figure.

josh’s sudden presence earned him a squeal from you.

“fuck! i need to put a bell on you or something.” you said, craning your neck up to get a good look at him. poking whatever part of his chest was right in front of you.

he just responded with a chuckle, letting you push past him so you could finish cleaning up. “oh. i didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff, princess. i don’t mind trying it out.” he crossed his arms in front of his chest, taking in the way you walked. how your shorts rode up each time you bent down to grab something. 

somehow, in some fucking way, he was hard as hell. the way your hips swayed, how you were just pressed up against him, and the way your perfume teased his nostrils even if it was from a few feet away.

his erection dared to tent up against his pants, it’d been a long ass time since he’d fucked you, and the last time you guys did– a phone call from chris interrupted it. ruining the mood completely. 

so to say he had been craving you for a while would reach the brink of an understatement.

when you finished tidying everything up, you stared at the living room while standing beside him.

“good as new, yeah?” you chirped up at him, staring at him from where you stood, your fingers threatening to intertwine with his. he felt it, the space between you two being almost illegally small. he let out an exhale through his nose.

somewhere, deep down, you wanted to jump his bones so bad. but you thought you had to be mindful of the people around you. too scared of getting to caught up and being discovered mid-session.

josh gave the living room a good glance over, grabbing your hand and tugging you against his chest. he grabbed your hips, a familiar and warm feeling. 

“mmm… good as new, baby.” replying to your question with a charming and pantie-dropping grin that almost made you audibly moan out. without even letting you think, he was crashing his lips with yours, sliding a hand down the back of your bare thigh, grabbing at it and manuevering your entire leg to over against his side.

taken aback at first, you were somehow hypnotized, grabbing at his face and neck while kissing him back. lips bashing against each other in a familiar dance.

his tongue teased your lips for entrance, once allowed, he was completely attacking your mouth. he was hungry. free-hand grabbing at your ass while the other kept your leg stable by him from beneath your knee.

if he hadn’t been cradling you the way he was, you would’ve collapsed into putty on the ground. 

the once quiet living room was full of lip-smacking and harsh huffing the two of you created, it was overbearing, making you beyond dizzy.

at some point, josh rushed his lips to a spot where your neck met your shoulder, attacking the soft skin with his tongue and teeth. 

when you felt the formation of a bruise you tugged at the hair on his nape, signalling him to stop. “hey—! stop that…” you tried your best to protest, but he just kept kissing your neck so delicately, it made your lest few words fade out into a soft moan. 

at some point, biting your jaw and tugging at your bottom lip, he rutted his hips against yours. groaning against your lips. you could smell and taste the alcohol. “wanna fuck you… s’bad. miss you, miss you so much–” he was so drunk. maybe even more drunk just from kissing and rubbing all upon you.

it was all too much, you felt like the walls were closing in and as if the air was being bumped up at a thousand degrees. 

you wanted to be in some kind of control. fed up of being caged in against a wall.

pressing your lips against him in a softer and delicate kiss, you pushed your feet against him, shuffling throughout the living room until you reached a part of the sofa. you broke the kiss, earning a sound of discontent from josh.

which was quickly replaced by a soft ‘oh?’ when you pushed him down onto the couch, straddling on top of his manspread. 

reluctantly, your hands made their way to his shoulders, elbows lying on top of them. 

he grinned up at you, grabbing at your hips from beneath your shirt. the cold of his hands made you shiver. 

josh’s lips found yours again, kissing you sloppily and with more fever than before. his hands rode up, when he felt that you had no bra on, he let out a content-filled groan into your mouth.

the second he got his hands on your bare breasts, he rubbed both of your nipples within his thumbs, earning a soft mewl from you.

your back arched in place, body overwhelmed from the sudden pleasure after not feeling him against you like this for so long. you grabbed at his hair in the way you knew he liked, being unable to control the way your hips rutted against him.

the more you reacted, the more he played with your tits. a look of complete hunger and lust painted over his face as he watched you. “could make you come just from this. ‘s been a while, you think you could just sit on it, no prep?” he murmured against the skin on your neck, his fingers never ceasing on your buds. 

his voice rang through your ears, in all honesty, your mind was too blank to even fully understand what he said. all you did was reply meekly with a soft nod and a quiet moan.

josh flipped your shirt up, locking his lips around one of your nipples, his thumb flicking the other.

jaw slack and hips ruttening, you moaned out, unintentionally. it echoed through the bottom floor– causing the two of you to stop completely. 

josh’s eyes were locked on you now, wide and he looked as if he was trying not to laugh,

a hand slid its way to your face, his palm cupping right on top of your mouth.

“i’m gonna fuck you now, want y’to ride me. but you gotta be quiet,” his mouth moved against your ear while his free hand tugged your shorts down, you held yourself up so they could fall past your knees. “can you do that for me, baby?” a soft stripe against the shell of your ear as he felt you through your panties, grinning against your skin at how soaked you already were.

at some point in time, he freed himself, a hand hovered on the bottom of your bare ass, holding you up. “shit. sit on it, c’mon… need it bad.” he was on the pitch of a whine, but right against a gruttal groan.

you did just that, his command didn’t even need you to think twice, you were doing it the second he asked. 

as you sank down on it, just from the tip, it was like being cracked apart. you knew it had been a while, but you didn’t realize how long it had been until now.

he had bottomed out. all seven inches. you dared to scream out, his hand quickly rushed to your mouth, he looked at you, scolding you without words.

“gotta be quiet, baby. d’nt wanna get caught.” josh spoke to you breathlessly, letting you grow comfortable before he stared moving your hips for you.

you were moving, hard. eyes shut and jaw slack as he was hitting every spot inside of you. your hands were grabbing at his shirt for stability, everything was being thrown at you all at once.

it was when he started pushing his hips up against yours that you snapped. your rhythm met his as you completely forgot how to think. you lost control of the noises that slipped out of you, blabbing out things before thinking.

josh’s teeth sank into the exposed skin of your shoulder, hands grabbing onto the flesh on your ass. he gave up on trying to keep you quiet, the obscene noises of your wet cunt and skin slapping masking any moan you let out.

with every timed he thrusted up into you, a louder noise was pushed out of you. your hands lifted up majority of his shirt, nails managing to dig into the skin of his back as he fucked you.

josh’s words were on the line of incoherent. “missed t’s pussy so bad. tell me you’re mine, all mine, baby.” he slurred out in a low growl, grabbing at your skin in a way that would leave it marked up. 

the physical pleasure of being so full and stretched along with his words made you rut against him at a quicker pace.

it was when he started to match you that you lost all sight of your surroundings. the more he fucked you the quicker you lost all of your self control.

already clawing at him and yowling like a wild animal, there was no window open for self-respect any more.

legs trembling and mouth wide open, with every quick thrust you were closer and closer, the more he hit a specific spot, the closer you became.

“y– yes.. holy sh– shit, right there…!” you rode against him, trying to match his pace as you bit against his ear, riding towards your orgasm.

and it hit you hard. you came with a loud moan, body freezing up, and back arching so your chest was flushed against his. you swore you saw some kind of stars, vision spotting and brain melting out through your ears.

your eyes rolled into your skull but he kept fucking you.

the way your walls squeezed against his girth, he was biting on his bottom lip as he held you in place, using you to finish. 

his brows were knitted and furrowed, eyes low and dazed. “f– fuck, g’nna fill this pretty pussy up. ‘m bout to fill you up, get you so pregnant.” josh could only babble out, pussy drunk out of his damn mind.

with three more, hard and quick thrusts, he was spilling a thick and messy load deep inside of you with a low, bass moan.

sweat was pooling up against his forehead, hair sticking against it, bottom lip permanently stuck between his teeth.

you slumped down against his chest, resting your head against his shoulder.

he stayed inside, letting you lie there on top of him as he ran a hand along your head, placing a kiss against your forehead.

in a quick moment, you twitched, a sign that meant you fell asleep.

josh smiled against your hair, taking in your smell. 

usually, he’d clean you up then put you into bed and move to sleep in his own, but this time it felt different.

he felt, comfortable. like he wanted to be here just a bit longer and take you in.

fuck. he was in too deep. and no one was getting him out of this one.