Rose 🌹🖤

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

The sound of the slap echoed three times before you even felt the pain, it was sharp, hot. It didn’t help your already excessive sweating. Colours radiated off every surface as your head, heavy as a dumbbell, swung to meet the eyes of the officer above you, his yelling a piece of reality through your gas born haze.

“ANSWER ME YOU SISSY STREET SLUT! Did you, or did you NOT fry that son of a bitch ta hell an’ back?!”

Your palms were sweaty, itchy too. Your nails dug into them when they weren’t being wiped on your trousers, desperate to get rid of the shaking feeling that the skinnerman could be around every last corner. You tried to answer, your voice a leaf in a hurricane, barely hanging on.

“I didn’t— did I? I was told to- I had to- he told me to!”

Muttering only got you a fist to the ribs, you cough and sputter as your head pounds itself against your skull. The sweat was visible now, and the officer leading this investigation noticed.

“The fuck you sweatin’ for? Is it cause ya know you’ve been caught, you maggot fuck?”

He noticed the shaking next, it rung a bell in his head. He remembered the countless druggies going into withdrawal in his police station before Sinyala, he remembered one guy curled up in the fetal position, crying and shaking about God coming for him personally. He was arrested for public intoxication.

He remembered how he got into the heads of those people. It was such a good feeling. Not only did he feel like god but he was praised for it. Wouldn’t harm to try that again, right?

He leaned back against the wall with you, smoking his cigarette before offering you one of your own, although you couldn’t really refuse since he’d already lit it with his cattle prod.

That first drag was electric, literally. The moment it touched your lips, you got a little shock, made the shaking worse. Coyle barked a laugh as he watched, muttering about some drug addicted people before he spoke again.

“I used to do what you do. Get high of the psychosis bombs or find the pusher for a hit.”

It was a plain old lie, and you knew it, but you let him keep talking.

“It felt great, colours I hadn’t seen in years, lights as pretty as a sunset over a farm. I could almost taste the coffee from my home towns’ diner. Ladies were awful purty. Sweet voices like songbirds. Then the shakes would happen, ya know what I did?”

Oh he was waiting for an answer.

“What?”

He took a drag of his cigarette.

“I laid down, turned on the radio and closed my eyes. Ya wanna give that a try?”

“…sure.”

The shaking didn’t stop as you laid flat on your back, the concrete digging into your aching spine, the radio crackled to life only to spew more of the teachings Murkoff gave.

“Don’ worry. I know how to get all this bullshit out yer ears, gimme a second.”

A smack and a twist, and Sinatra came through, it was beautiful, warm, but not enough to make you sweat more. You closed your eyes as Coyle leaned back against the wall once more, deciding to be patient enough let your body relax before he continued his line of questioning.

ೀ 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝒻𝒻 °❀.

• Withdrawal Symptoms 🎀

˚⟡˖ ࣪ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

• Your Love Makes Me Lonely 🥀, 🔥 ‼️

𑣲𝒮𝓊𝑔𝑔𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 ໒꒱

• Public Intoxication 💋, ❔

• I’m Your Man 💋

۶۟ৎ 𝓢𝓶𝓾𝓽 ⋆˚꩜

• Love Me Like A Criminal 🔥 🕷️

˚⋆𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀˙

•

ᢉ𐭩⋆˚࿔ 𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 ⋆｡°·☁︎

•

𑣲⋆𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨｡˚

The flowers were the first thing you noticed.

Javier stood outside your door with a bouquet of pink roses tucked awkwardly against his chest, looking far less comfortable holding them than he ever did holding a gun. His shirt clung to him from the afternoon heat, the top buttons undone, his hair damp and messy.

For a second, you just stared. “You bought me flowers?” you asked, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.

Javier glanced down at them, then back at you. “That’s usually what it means when a man shows up at your door carrying flowers.”

You took the bouquet from him, smiling as you brought the roses closer to your face. “I’m just surprised you knew where to buy them.”

He followed you inside and shut the door behind him. “I know how to buy flowers.”

“You forgot toilet paper three times last month.”

“That’s got nothing to do with flowers,” Javier muttered, but the corner of his mouth lifted when he saw you trying not to laugh.

While he complained, you untied the thin pink ribbon wrapped around the stems. Then you reached for his hand.

Javier watched suspiciously as you tied the ribbon around his wrist, finishing it with a small bow. “What are you doing?”

“Making you pretty.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was no real annoyance behind them. “Take it off.”

“No.” You adjusted the bow and smiled at your work. “It suits you.”

Javier looked at the ribbon, then at you. He shook his head, but instead of removing it, he slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him. “You’re lucky I like you,” he murmured.

“Only like me?”

His expression softened. He brushed his thumb over your side before leaning closer. “Don’t push it.”

You laughed against his mouth when he kissed you.

The ribbon stayed on his wrist all afternoon.

thank you for reading!

💌 @idknananchimaybe @pascalispunktexas @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @ningaispunk @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2 @goonersquad101 @loveoverpride @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls @javierarchieve @shadowqueen2024

It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention. You spend the afternoon and early evening on the couch with Sarah, watching cartoons and then watching as she played with her dolls, colored her little books and ran around the couch pretending to be a shark when she got hit with a particularly strong case of the zoomies. He sits down eventually, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch— Sarah is passed out on the rug in front of you, surrounded by pillows and blankets in something that is a mix between a pillow fort and a nest. 

“I’m sorry.” Joel says, his voice gravel-like. He doesn’t look at you, stares instead at his hands fisted over his thighs. “For everything.” 

You think he’s not talking just about what has happened to you. There’s a weight to the world ‘everything’ that makes you think back to his wife, to the scar on his temple and how he tried to kill himself over it. 

“I know. I’m sorry too.” You open your hand, palm up. Joel takes it almost immediately, fingers interlacing with yours. “I was scared.” 

“I was too. Had no idea where you were, what happened—” He swallows quickly, the raspiness of his voice thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t have sprung none’a that on you. And I’m sorry about— I didn’t mean to call you—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head. The hurt is still there but dulled, muffled by everything else: In the grand scheme of things, getting your feelings hurt by being called a dead woman’s name seems like the least of your worries. “Thank you for saving me.”

You don’t realize how much you mean it until you say it. You had wanted to die. You thought it’d feel like relief, finally letting go of all the hurt and pain and hopelessness but those few seconds of the car swerving off the road— The panic and the desperate desire to survive makes you realize that, deep down, it’s not death that you seek. 

It’s comfort. 

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looks you dead in the eyes, his often sorrowful eyes now clouded with a different emotion. Devotion. Love. Kindness and pain and everything in between. 

“I’ll always save you.” 

You kiss him. His lips are dry and chapped but his hands are warm when they cradle your face, a brief hesitation on his part before Joel kisses you back. One of his hands moves to the back of your neck, tangling with the hairs at the base of your skull; you crawl through the distance between the two of you, climbing on his lap without breaking the kiss. It’s nothing like any other kiss you’ve ever had— Your body molds against his with perfection, his hands gripping your body and pulling you close, his tongue pushing into your mouth. 

You’ve never been much of a kisser— It always felt like a means to an end, something to signal that you want more and you actually often find your mind wandering off, your thoughts running away from the situation but this time all you can think and feel is Joel. He kisses you slowly but unhurried, exploring your mouth and whatever he can reach of your body, trying to figure out what makes you tick. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Joel shushes the desperate little noise you make with a concerned look towards the toddler sleeping a couple of feet away. 

“Bedroom.” You beg against his lips, drinking down when his breathing falters in your mouth. “Please.” 

Joel’s hands grab both of your asscheeks, raising the two of you from the couch as if you weighed nothing— You bite down on your lip to hold back the squeal, not wanting to wake Sarah up as he quietly pads down into his bedroom. He lays you gently on the bed before coming back to lock the door; the tent on his sweatpants is impressive when he turns back to you: You’ve seen Joel naked a couple of times now and you know he’s big but you hadn’t seen him hard before and, even with his clothes on, you’re intimidated. He stands by the edge of the bed, fingertips running slowly up your calves, drinking you down just as you do him. 

The wolf never made you afraid before. Even with blood on his snout, even as you watched him tear a grown man apart, you were never scared— You were never afraid of Joel either, not in the true, primal sense of the word. But now, laying back on his bed as he watches you, you finally see the danger that ripples beneath his skin. His brown eyes are nothing short of predatory when he kneels on the mattress, aquiline nose running up the inside of your calf, his breath ghosting over your skin light enough to leave goosebumps in their wake. 

“Been dreamin’ of this.” He tells you, big hands locking around your ankles. You’re putty in his hands, giggling when he pulls on your legs, tugging your ass further down the bed. “Havin’ you on my bed. My mate. My girl.”

You open your mouth but whatever witty response dies before you can conjure it, Joel’s mouth latching into the inside of your thigh— He bites down hard and your hands fly to his hair, though you’re unsure whether to pull him away or pull him closer. Joel soothes the bite with his tongue, lapping at the indent of his own teeth before he crawls higher, pushing the soft material of the boxer shorts out of the way so he can bite again, closer to the junction of your thigh. 

You’re about to pull the shorts down yourself when Joel moves just a little higher, the bristles of his mustache tickling the softness of your stomach as he pushes your shirt up, kissing the skin as it is exposed. It’s involuntary, your body curling in and pulling away from him as you laugh, the noise pure instinct to soothe the bluntness of your movements as you shove your shirt back down.

“Ticklish?”

“Yup.” It’s true but not at the same time. Sure, you’re a little ticklish, but not like that— It’s a gut reaction, instinct telling you to hide and pull away as if he isn’t already aware of your size. Joel’s head cocks to the side and he leans back a little, searching your face.

“Okay. I won’t touch you there.” He breathes out, and you can tell Joel doesn’t believe you entirely. He doesn’t push it, however, choosing instead to bring his mouth back to yours, thick fingers playing with the elastic band of your shorts. “Can I take these off?”

You wonder if you should be offended that he’s all of a sudden walking on eggshells but you don’t; if anything it makes you a little giddy when you nod and Joel smiles against your lips as if you’ve just given him a gift. He tugs your shorts and underwear in one go, discarding them to the ground without taking his eyes off of you. Joel sits back on his knees, his hands running up and down your calves. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, voice reverent as he drinks you in. “Spread your legs f’me.” 

In any other instance, you might’ve felt self-conscious about letting someone look at you so intimately but Joel stares at you like you’re the single most divine thing he’s ever seen. It fills you with enough courage to do as he tells you, your bent legs falling apart. 

“I need to taste you.” Joel says, leaning forward to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. His eyes find yours, darkened with desire. “Will you let me?”

“Please.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes a V with his fingers, spreading your pussy open before latching his mouth to your clit. Joel makes out with your cunt, slow and messy, the pressure of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth enough to have you squirming but not enough to properly get you off; you tug at his hair, fingers tangling with his curls, whining. 

“I want you inside me.” You breathe out, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Joel suckles against your clit. “Please, Joel, I need your fingers.”

He hums against you, a single digit twirling your entrance until you’re pushing your hips against him, bucking on the bed. Joel chuckles as he finally relents and pushes a single finger inside; even a single digit is a stretch, both from the thickness of his fingers from the amount of time you’ve gone without, desire curling low on your stomach. 

“Joel—” 

He shushes you, then, and the sound brings a new wave of wetness between your legs. “Calm down, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.” 

You try to do as he says, letting your body melt against the mattress; Joel looks entirely pleased as he dives back into your pussy, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he flicks his tongue this and that way— You can tell that he is exploring you, trying to figure out the best rhythm and pressure to have you shaking and that’s not really something you’ve ever experienced with a man before: Most of them simply assume that their moves are a universal like, always too pleased with themselves even if most of the sounds you make are fake. 

Joel is a quick, eager learner. He suckles on your clit when he sees the way your chest heaves at that, crooking two fingers inside of you and slowing down their thrusting when you bring both of your hands to your face, trying to stifle your moans. Your thighs clamp down the sides of his head when he pushes a third finger in, rubbing them slow and steady against that single spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; you choke down the noises threatening to escape from your mouth, one hand on his hair and the other trapped between your teeth, not wanting to wake up the other residents of the cabin. 

His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you down on the mattress as his fingers push in and out of you, his tongue running circles on your clit; the ball of your feet knock into his ribs as you come, body shaking underneath him— Your jaw goes slack as pleasure shoots down your spine, going fully silent as you get lost in it. Joel slows down but doesn’t stop, licking you through your orgasm before he finally pulls away. 

You tug on his hair before Joel can pull away entirely, yanking on his curls as you breathe his name. 

“Joel—” You say, and his nose crinkles a little with the harshness of your tug but he still smiles, the lower half of his face glimmering in the pale bedroom light. “C’mere. I need you.” 

Joel kisses your arm, the only part of your skin that he can reach, before gripping your hips and flipping you over; it makes you bounce on the mattress and you cackle, half from glee and half from surprise— You’ve never been with a man strong enough to manhandle you like that, and you bite down on your bottom lip, arching spine, ass in the air. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart.” Joel mumbles behind you, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your back. “Look at ya. Drippin’.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, catching for a second before Joel slides his cock down your slit and it has you whining, pushing your hips against him. You call out his name a little louder and Joel shushes you again, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out; the sensation is enough to drive you crazy, biting down on your thumb to keep you from complaining again. 

When Joel finally plunges inside of you, it’s blissful. He makes a choked sound between a moan and a groan, holding himself very still. The stretch hurts at first but you wiggle against him, trying to signal for him to move— His fingers dig into the fat of your hip, his other hand coming to steady you on the small of your back. 

“Fuck— Just— Gimme a sec, darlin’.” Joel says, his voice strained. “ ‘S been a while.” 

He starts slow, his thrusting as exploratory as his mouth had been, pulling out halfway before sliding back in with enough force to punch the air out of your lungs. You arch your spine a little further, nose buried in the pillow that smells so much like Joel you feel entirely encompassed by him. All you can hear, feel, smell— It’s him, the little grunts he’s trying to stifle, the calloused hands on your skin, his scent on the pillow and in the air. You reach back without thinking, grabbing Joel’s wrist and pulling him towards you. 

Joel topples on top of you, breathy laugh against your ear before he rearranges himself, one arm next to your head, the other sliding between you and the mattress, wrapping around your hips and pulling you backwards just enough— The new angle hits different, deeper somehow, his entire weight settling on your back.

“Fuck,” he pants near your ear, chest hair brushing against your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So sweet. Made f’me.”

His thrusts have you wailing, Joel’s teeth scraping the side of your neck whenever he’s close enough— Never biting down, but teasing is enough to drive you crazy, one hand reaching back to grab at his hair, fists of curly grey and brown locks between your fingers. The arm by your face comes forward, Joel’s thick fingers closing your mouth shut: His hand is big enough to cover the lower half of your face entirely, your breathing erratic behind his glammy fingers. 

“Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.” Joel whispers, knees digging into your thighs, spreading you even further. He stops moving, buried to the hilt inside of you. “But I’m gon’ need you to be a good girl and keep quiet, ‘kay? Don’t go wakin’ up the whole house.”

You nod and, even though Joel starts moving again, he doesn’t pull his hand away from your lips; he uses the leverage of holding your face hostage to pull your head backwards, bending your spine in a way that makes him feel even bigger inside of you. Joel whispers a string of dirty praises in your ear as his cock pistons in and out of you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being, how much he loves your sweet pussy and all of the nasty little things he has planned for the two of you. 

You feel the change in the air before you can properly recognize what it is. Joel feels heavier against your back, his chest pressing down on your back to the point of becoming just shy of suffocating, the hair on his chest coarser, rubbing against your shoulder blades with such friction you think you might get beard burn, his thrusts sharper and not as rhythmically. 

But, above all, Joel goes silent. His breathing is still heavy, still stuttering after a particularly hard thrust, but he’s not moaning anymore, isn’t saying your say or the dirty, sweet nothings he’s been whispering in your ear all night. 

You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him so you can check in and make sure everything is okay but the image reflected in the window makes you stop— Joel looks like himself and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. His face is buried on the back of your neck, hidden away from view, but his shoulders seem broader, his hips and thighs thicker, his biceps even more defined than they already are. His hair, the soft curls still trapped between your fingers, seem thicker like this, fuller and longer.

You tell yourself that you’re seeing things. It’s the warping of the window pane, it’s the soft lighting, it’s your brain turning into mush because Joel’s cock keeps hitting repeatedly into the deepest parts of you. And then Joel’s teeth scrape against the back of your neck and he growls— A noise that doesn’t sound human at all, deep and rolling and menacing, the sort of rumbling sound human anatomy shouldn’t be able to produce.

Your cunt spasms around his cock and you shake, the orgasm hitting you like a freightrain. It’s too much and not enough all at once, your entire body set ablaze; you push back against him, head thrown back, yanking at Joel’s hair with far more force than you ought to be using. 

Your body is soft and pliant when he shifts positions, pushing one of your knees higher up on the mattress, leaving you even more open and exposed; Joel’s cock punches in and out of you with rapid precision, now chasing his pleasure more than yours in deep, long thrusts that have you drooling on the pillowcase, unable to catch your breath. 

Joel pulls out with a pained whine and you’re too tired to turn around, fighting to keep your eyes open as you listen to the slick sounds of him fisting his own cock, followed by the sticky warmth of his spend as it covers the roundness of your ass. He presses a kiss on the space between your shoulderblades just as you start to recover your breathing.

“I’ll be right back.” He says, his voice soft like you’ve never heard before; you just give him a thumbs up, smiling when you hear him laugh.

Joel cleans you with a warm towel and so much care it makes you almost embarrassed, peppering kisses to your clammy skin and saying how well you’ve done for him. He helps you redress, fixes the place where the fitted sheets came loose, and then pulls you to his chest. You slide a hand underneath his shirt, fingertips playing with the wispy hair on his chest.

“Joel?” You call out, wanting to ask him about what had happened before — how you’re fairly certain you’d seen him half-way into shifting before he somehow got it under control — but you’re unable to, because the only response you get is a loud, reverberating snore.

Tommy brings a bag with your belongings two days later. He doesn’t say anything, just drops it by the bed, pats you on the shoulder, and says ‘the old bastard reckons it’s time ya start wearin’ yer own shit again’ before he steps out of the room; you haven’t seen either Miller men all day, with Tommy busy trying — and failing, because it seems like the damage you've done is mighty permanent — to fix up the truck and Joel at work. You go through the bag carefully, pulling out your clothes — the clothes that Joel chose from your closet — and finding them a home next to Joel’s flannels. 

You wonder if you should feel like it’s some sort of violation, that Joel had gone to your house while you took care of his kid and picked out your underwear, but you don’t. 

If anything, it makes you feel seen. 

It’s the pounding on the door that wakes you up. Your mouth is parched, muscles pleasantly sore, too warm from Joel’s steady presence behind your back; Joel grumbles, not fully awake, but Tommy’s insistent knocking drags the both of you up. 

“Joel— For fuck’s sake, Joel. The cops are here.” He says through the door, his voice so panicked he can barely hide it. “They wanna talk to both of ya.” 

It’s ludicrous, but the first thing you think about is the pens you stole from the pharmacy— The used, old pens that you stole out of pettiness and you think the police are here to arrest you for it. But then, as you hastily get dressed, you think of the car accident you were in and panic sets even deeper; you’d been driving while drunk, and you fled the scene— You don’t remember any of it, maybe you injured or killed someone. Maybe you drove into some ancient protected tree. Maybe they’re here to charge you for the damage you did to the cement safeguard next to the road. 

The truth is, somehow, a lot worse. The cops — Josh McKenley and Chad Hobbs, one of them who you went to school with, the other who is a year older than you at most — kindly ask you to step outside while one of them stays inside with the men; Tommy has Sarah perched on his hip, distracting her with breakfast but you can see just how worried he is. 

McKenley steps out with you, Hobbs stays inside, arms crossed over his chest while he stares at Joel as if he is some sort of deviant criminal. 

“Josh, what the fuck is going on?” You ask, hugging yourself. You almost want to ask if this is about the car but you don’t, biting your tongue at the very last minute; the last thing you need is to incriminate yourself. 

Josh, on his part, shifts from one foot to the other, his bovine eyes scanning every inch of your body. 

“Céline called.” 

You lean back against the cruiser when your knees threaten to give out. “What do you mean?”

“She’s worried about you. Been trying to call you—”

“I lost my phone.” You bring a hand to your forehead, hating the way your fingers shake. “This is a wellness check? How did you even find me?”

“We didn’t know we’d find you here, but we figured we should look ‘round after we realized you hadn’t gone home in days. Honestly, after what Céline said, I thought we’d be searching for a body.” 

Your stomach churns unpleasantly. You can barely remember what you said to her, far too drunk to make any sense of it but you know, you know it had been bad. Josh looks at you more carefully, and you know what he sees: The scrapes and bruises that remain from your accident, fading but still there, and the way you tremble like a leaf in front of him. 

“I’m alright.” You say and, even though it’s true, it sounds like a lie. Josh cocks his head to the side. 

“We can help you. We’re going to help you. Céline told us that the guy is dangerous, that you were scared, but we’re here now.” 

“Josh—” You shake your head, but he keeps talking over you. 

“We’ll pretend that we’re bringing you in for something else, and then we go down to the station, you report him and he won’t be able to keep you here anymore.” 

“He’s not holding me hostage. I’m here because I want to.” You push the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Céline doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I lost my phone and I lost my job, and Joel’s letting me stay here with him while I figure something out, that’s all.”

“You’re hurt. Are you going to tell me you just… What? Fell down the stairs?” 

“Car crash, actually.” You huff. “I was driving from Céline’s place and lost control of the car. It’s fine now, nobody else got hurt and Joel and Tommy already brought the car back.” 

Josh’s eyes turn into narrow slits and you can’t tell he doesn’t believe you, but you’re sure there’s not much else he can do. There’s a heavy moment of silence while he stares you down, maybe waiting for you to crack, before he eventually nods. 

“Okay.” He says in a tone that doesn’t make anything seem okay— It’s half a challenge, half a threat. “Do you want to explain why you told Céline that he’s the one killing people ‘round town, then?”

“I never said that.” 

He hums, shifting from one foot to the other, effectively blocking your view of the house. 

“That ain’t what Céline said. She said—”

“I don’t care what she said. Do you even hear yourself? You think, what— That Joel faked the animal attacks? Josh, that’s crazy talk.”

“What I think it’s that it’s mighty interesting that folk only started dying after he came into town. And I think it’s mighty interesting that you are the only person that’s seen the animal and got out alive. If you’re not being held against your will, and if you know what happened— That’s accessory to murder.”

You laugh, then, because you can barely believe what you’re hearing; it’s not a funny, happy laugh but rather the noise of pure despair. 

“Holy shit, you’re so fired.”

“Is that a threat?” He asks, eyebrows raising high. 

“Are you seriously thinking about charging Joel for murder because Céline said so? You can’t just— Humans don’t do that. They don’t eat and tear each other apart like that. If there was a single chance that it was a person faking an animal attack, don’t you think the coroners would’ve caught it?”

There’s just a hint of uncertainty on his chubby cheeks before Josh puffs his chest again, clearly trying to seem taller and more in control than he has ever been. 

“I think it’s part of my job to do my due diligence when an accusation is made. And if you and Mr. Miller don’t have anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so upset about me asking a couple of questions.”

“Does your dad know about this? That you’re here harassing me and my boyfriend over gossip?”

“The Deputy will be informed of our official investigation as soon as—”

“That’s fucking fantastic. Alright, go in there and ask Joel if he’s the big bad wolf that has been eating people.” You wave at the front of the house, and then promptly shove your hands into your pockets once you notice just how badly you’re shaking. “Please do. And then go home and tell your daddy what you did. You’ll be the joke of the entire fucking town, Officer McKenley.”

You sidestep him and it’s only then that you realize just how loud you’ve been, with Officer Hobbs and Joel both standing by the front door; the police officer seems uncertain, torn between coming closer and staying with the suspect, and Joel looks like he’s a split second away from rushing down the stairs. 

“Hey, Hobbs!” You yell, giving what you can only hope is a smile that is more acidic than you truly feel. “Did you know your partner here thinks Joel Miller is a werewolf?! Is that what you idiots are up to nowadays? Monster hunting?” 

By the look on Officer Hobbs’s face you can see that he, indeed, was not aware of the murder accusation Josh decided to throw. The man’s eyes fly from Josh’s face to yours and then to Joel, who simply raises both of his eyebrows. Josh is already speaking a thousand words per minute trying to explain to his senior the conversation he had with Céline but you don’t pay any attention to it; all you can do is focus on the officer’s face, the way he burns red and how you can tell he’s trying to show an united front even though he clearly feels like an idiot. 

“This is just a wellness check.” Hobbs says to you eventually, having all but dragged Josh back into the cruiser. “A friend of yours was concerned.” 

“I know. And I appreciate it. But going from that to saying that my boyfriend is killing people? I mean…” 

Hobbs nods, once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks like he’s agreeing with you, but his eyes linger on Joel’s figure behind you for a beat too long before he finally drives away.

You, Joel and Tommy reunite after you help Sarah brush her teeth and then Joel pulls out a fairly large collection of crayons and papers, enough to keep the little girl occupied while the three of you talk things through by the kitchen table. 

“They can’t… They can’t do anything, right?” You ask, watching as Tommy paces back and forth— Joel is leaning against the table, his body entirely still even though you can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. “I mean, even if they try to say you faked the animal attacks, that’s easily disproven.”

The silence that settles is full of answers you don’t like. Your head snaps towards Joel, who is looking intently at the wall. 

“The DNA could match.” He says, at last, just as you open your mouth to beg for the reassurance that isn’t coming. “If there’s any saliva left, or— Maybe the fur, I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound as judgemental as you do, but— Considering he’s the one that has been murdering people for almost three decades, you figured he should know at least how much risk he’s been putting himself in. 

“No, I don’t. This shit didn’t come with a manual.” Joel snaps. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not aggressive, but the words are still much sharper than he’s ever spoken to you. Tommy’s pacing falters for a moment as his eyes bounce between the two of you. You preen, ready to snap back at him, but—

It’s your fault, really. 

You close your mouth shut with so much force your teeth clack. If you hadn’t said anything to Céline, if you hadn’t sent the e-mail and if you hadn’t had your little outburst at the bar, none of this would be happening. Joel and Sarah and Tommy would be safe, their lives completely undisturbed; and now here you are, all but squatting in their house, bringing the cops to their front door. 

Your head falls forward, burying it in your hands. 

“We’re panicking over nothing.” Joel says. “The Deputy is never going to open an investigation on you ‘cause of what some lil’ girl had to say.”

“Officer McKenley is his son.” You say, your voice laced with defeat; the heels of your palms dig into your eyesockets, little flashes of brightness popping behind the darkness of your closed eyelids. 

“Even better for us. He ain’t gon’ let his kid embarrass himself like that.”

“We should just pack up and leave.” You raise your head at Tommy’s voice, the first time he spoke since the conversation started. His arms are crossed over his chest, mustache twitching. “The truck won’t take us long before it shits itself out again, but I can get us a new car today, we pack our shit and get out of town in the middle of the night. If we leave before they can properly open an investigation we’ll be down in Mexico by the time a judge allows them to exhume one of the bodies.” 

“Runnin’ is only going to make us look more suspicious.” Joel shakes his head. “They ain’t got anythin’ on me. We stay put, keep workin’ and goin’ about our business. And you—” Joel pulls his cellphone from his pocket, the black glass square tumbling on the table when he throws it at you. “Call your friend and tell her you’re fine. We need her to think she overstepped and overreacted.” 

You don’t want to call her. You don’t want to talk to Céline at all, even though you understand why she did what she did— You would’ve done the same in her shoes. Hell, you probably would’ve driven yourself back home to check in on her. So, while your brain understands the logic, understands she was just looking out for you, your heart doesn’t seem to agree. 

You pick up the phone anyway, though, because you’re the one that fucked everything up in the first place. 

“I don’t know her phone number.” You say, swiping left and right trying to find the Instagram app. Joel doesn’t have much other than the pre-downloaded apps, a guitar tuning app and some games that are clearly meant for Sarah. “Where’s your Insta? I need to message her there and ask her to FaceTime me.” 

There’s a beat of silence where Joel blinks at you, his face entirely blank. Tommy snorts, which turns into a full blown cackle when Joel turns to stare at him. 

“You might as well be speakin’ Greek to him, kid.” Tommy shakes his head, checking his watch before he looks back at Joel. “You sure you want to play this by ear? If we’re goin’ to keep on movin’, we gotta be at the Arlington’s by ten to get started on their bathroom.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Joel gives a final nod, tension radiating off of him. He turns back to you then, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper teeth as he hesitates. 

“I got it.” You tell him, waving a hand. “Go play in someone else’s bathroom, I’ll find a way of contacting Céline, and then I’ll take Sarah for a walk.” 

Joel kisses both of Sarah’s cheeks before he leaves, promising that he’ll be home by dinner with a treat if she behaves. You don’t think Sarah is capable of misbehaving, really, but she gives him a toothy grin and requests Reese’s as her bribery of choice. He kisses you too before he leaves, a long kiss on the lips, his big hands cradling your hips like the last thing he wants to do is let you go. 

“Do I also get a good girl treat?” You ask, voice low and teasing. Joel’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers squeezing your hips. 

“I left my card and cell on the counter.” Even though Joel doesn’t answer your provocation with words, the fire that burns in his eyes is more than enough. “Call Tommy’s phone if you need anything, okay?” 

“Can you—” You hesitate, fixing his flannel even though it’s not out of place at all, unsure if you even should voice your request. Joel squeezes your side again, head cocking to the side. 

“Anything.”

“Can you check in throughout the day? Whenever you’re free.” 

You burn hot with shyness by the way his eyes soften at that, and Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping away. “Yeah, of course, darlin’. I’ll call on my lunch break.”

Céline answers your Instagram message in less than ten minutes, and the two of you settle on a FaceTime call just as Sarah goes down for her afternoon nap. You’ve cleaned up a little, wearing a shirt that you don’t think she’ll be able to tell is Joel’s, and you’ve even added just a little bit of make up to the still fading bruises on your face; it’s not the make up or your hair being done that strike you as the most odd when you look in the mirror, though— It’s the fact that you look healthy, no bags under your eyes or ashiness to your skin, your cheeks rounder and even your eyes seem lighter, not in color but in brightness. 

You don’t remember ever looking this good before, and it makes your smile a little wider when Céline finally answers the call. 

It’s every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be: Céline is surprised and suspicious, and you can see her craning her neck to look over your shoulder as if she’d be able to tell if you were being held at gunpoint. You tell her about the car crash, about losing your job and your phone and about staying at Joel and Tommy’s place because you didn’t feel well enough to be by yourself. You walk around the house as you speak, trying to make it seem casual as you grab a pre-made iced coffee from the fridge — the expensive brand, the one you never would’ve gotten on your own money —, but it’s mostly just so she can see you’re truly by yourself, minus the toddler that sleeps in the little tent in the corner of her bedroom. 

“You… Look good.” Céline says at last, after the both of you have apologized for everything that went down in Jackson— You know it takes a lot for a woman like Céline to admit defeat, always so used to people bending at her every whim, always ignoring and overlooking any of her flaws. “Happy.” 

“I am.” You bite down on your lip, giving the camera a small smile. There’s a lull in the conversation, the first one since she picked up the phone, and you take the opportunity to bring up the real reason for the call. “Josh came around. Though he’s going by Officer McKenley now.”

Céline’s face goes from its normal color to incredibly pale before burning bright red. 

“I was worried about you.” 

“I know.” 

The two of you fall silent again, though it’s heavier this time, pregnant with all the things you want her to say.

“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you. You left drunk and crying, wouldn’t pick up your phone. And then there was the whole thing about him killing people. And the stalking.” 

“Like you said, I was drunk and stoned. I was just saying bullshit for the sake of it.” You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation where you need it to go. “Did you send him my e-mails?”

“The e-mails where you describe the terrifying, weird old man that has been breaking into your house? Of course I did. I don’t care if the two of you kissed and made up, I thought you were in danger. Thought they were going to find you raped and killed somewhere.” 

“Did you— Was it, like, an official report or something? Because if it’s official then— Shit, I don’t know, they’ll probably have to look into it even if I said I’m fine.” 

“I called Josh’s personal phone. I don’t know if he ever filed a report on it.” Céline shrugged. “Just tell them you lied to me. If he didn’t kill anyone, then they’ll investigate a bit and drop it when there’s no evidence of anything.” 

Céline’s face remains impossibly blank, her tone entirely diplomatic, but you can see the way her eyes scan your face and you know she’s trying to catch you in a lie. She still thinks Joel is the killer, you realize, and you’re not certain there’s much you can do now to change her mind. 

“You know how people gossip in this fucking town.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly to hide your face from her scrutiny than anything else. “People are going to show up to our house with pitchforks and silver bullets the second they hear he’s a person of interest.” 

“I’m not going to apologize—”

“Yeah, you said that already.” You cut her off, your tone clipped and sharp. 

Céline offers you a small smile. “Just handcuff him to a radiator during the full moons and you’ll both be fine.” 

Her words, although they’re not really funny, pull a snort out of you. “He would look good in handcuffs.” 

Céline’s face twists, but she still laughs. 

“Is he good to you? Treating you right?”

“Better than anyone.” You say, having to bite down on your tongue to hold back a bitter remark about how she’d basically called you an attention seeking whore the last time the two of you were together. “He’s good with his daughter, and his brother. Takes care of everyone. Hard worker, too.” 

“Yeah, okay, well— My door is always open if things go south, alright?”

You think back to how horribly it ended the last time you saw each other but you still smile and nod. 

You don’t know what the future really holds, your relationship still so new and fragile, but you don’t think you’ll need her charity ever again.

For the next few weeks, you watch as Joel grows antsier and antsier. He agrees to lay low, to not hunt while there’s still a chance the police are looking for a reason to pin the killings on him, but you can see just how much it affects him. Joel gets snappy, his words clipped and short, fucking you rougher and rougher every time— Never staying still for too long, fingers tapping on his thighs or feet tapping on the floor whenever he’s sitting down, always finding something to fix around the house when he’s not working. 

He’s hungry, you can see it in the burning of his eyes and the tension of his muscles. 

“Can’t you just have a raw steak or something?” You ask him during one of the few afternoons in which he’s home, the house finally falling silent after you spent forty minutes trying to get Sarah to go down for her nap. “I’m sure it’s not the same as a person, but it might help you hold on for a couple more days, right?”

“It’s not the meat that the wolf is cravin’.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch as if he’s playing the piano. “It’s the hunt. The chase.” 

An image comes to the forefront of your mind, the wolf with his teeth bared and nostrils blown wide, and it makes desire churn in your stomach. For the first time in weeks, Joel’s body goes entirely still, his sharp inhale reverberating through the two of you. 

“You’re not thinkin’ —”

“He wouldn’t kill me, right?” You ask, thighs squeezing together, cutting him off because you don’t think you can handle it if he says it out loud.

“I don’t think so.” 

His words aren’t all that reassuring, but they only make you wetter. 

“Are you— Sweetheart, are you sure?”

You finally look back at him, holding his gaze. 

“You’re the one that told me he could come out to play sometime.”

Joel growls. He’s sitting there, fully human, but the sound that leaves him is one that you don’t think human vocal chords would ever be able to produce— Similar, but not the same, as the one he’d done the first time the two of you had sex, when he was starting to lose control over himself.

“Go put on your shoes.” He tells you, voice low and full of gravel. “I’m givin’ you a forty second head start. Make ‘em count.”

Your underwear is fully damp by the time you finish putting on your boots, Joel standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him even from afar, his back muscles rippling underneath his cotton shirt as he sips from a water glass; you only hesitate for a moment before reaching underneath your dress, pulling out the pair of black cotton panties you’re wearing and letting it fall on the ground. You think of those cadaver dogs, the ones who can find a person just by the smell of their clothing alone, and goosebumps erupt all over your body as you turn on your heels and run out through the backdoors into the darkening woods. 

In hindsight, you probably should’ve prepared better. You don’t have your phone, and you don’t have a flashlight, or a coat— It gets dark incredibly fast as soon as you’re past the treeline, the old trees tall and imposing, blocking the fading sunlight just the same as it blocks the house. You’re not planning on making it too difficult for Joel to catch you, maybe a little dodging him before the wolf finally catches up to you but, the further you go into the darkness, the more it becomes real. 

The forest falls silent all of a sudden, the birds and the toads and the crickets silencing so fast you hold your breath; it’s almost as if the animals can sense something you can’t, as if they’ve all been warned of the predator that has entered the territory, every living thing going into hiding as Joel takes the reigns of nature. 

You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting around before you find a small pathway between the trees. The man-made kind, the grass stomped over, tree branches carefully removed out of the way; it’s narrow, not visible unless you’re really looking for it, but you rush forward just as you hear the first branch creaking and snapping behind you— Too close. 

Your legs push you forward, instinct taking over as you run through the small pathway before taking a sharp turn to the left, mingling with the trees; the space is so small that branches scratch against your face and you think momentarily that you’re safe, that the path you’re on is too closed off for the wolf to follow.

Above your labored breathing you hear the heavy and fast sound of his footsteps— You wonder if it’s on purpose, if he’s being loud to scare you, and it surely works. It makes you panic, in fact, heart hammering inside your chest. You think the sound is coming from your left so you run to your right, jumping over rocks and almost falling over when you step on a moss-covered root; it leads you to an area where the trees aren’t as clumped together, more space for you to see and less claustrophobic. The moonlight shines above, peaking through the top of the trees, and you narrowly miss a depression on the ground that would’ve absolutely sprained your ankle. Air becomes harder, your lungs and thighs burning as you duck underneath a thick branch, skidding to a halt as you hide behind a giant, imposing willow tree. 

You drop down, knees to your chest as you try to take a proper breath. You can hear the rustling of the trees, the barely audible creaking of twigs and loose leaves under Joel’s paws as he stalks closer to you; your throat tightens, trapping the air inside your lungs. You can tell that he is right there, just on the other side of the tree, his breathing loud and controlled. 

One, two, three— You count his steps, measured and certain, approaching you from the left. You fix your stance, hands on a thick tree root as you prepare to run.

It all happens so fast you barely have time to understand what is going on. You launch yourself to the right just as you hear another creaking from the left and you make it exactly four steps before you’re lunged forward and down; You spin, trying to escape the animal’s grasp but all you manage to do is land on your back, Joel’s heavy weight settling on your chest. His body covers yours like a weighted blanket, wet nostril bumping against the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. You push his head away like Tommy had done the night of the accident, trying to wiggle yourself from underneath him but, unlike last time, the wolf doesn’t pull away kindly. Instead he growls, low and long, his chest rattling against yours. 

Your muscles freeze, much like they’d done that first time Joel hijacked your body— There are no words this time, no audible command other than the growl but your body responds as if it understands the wolf’s orders, laying pliantly underneath the stars.

“Joel—” You start, trying to call his attention, but the wolf doesn’t seem to mind; it nuzzles the side of your neck and then your collarbone, wet nose tickling against your sternum as it travels lower and lower. You open your mouth, ready to try again, but the words are cut off by the sound of the wolf’s teeth tearing through your dress. The cold air hits your chest for barely a second before his warm breath takes over, tongue impossibly large and unbelievably soft as it laps at your nipples. You shift again but, this time, it’s to accommodate him better between your legs; his belly is warm and soft against you, soft fur that you know you’re soaking with your wetness as you grind up into him. His tongue travels lower, teeth scraping against your stomach as he tugs at the scraps of your dress until you’re fully nude.

You look down, the wolf’s giant head between your legs, but all you can focus on are his eyes. 

Joel’s eyes. Warm and kind and human, staring up at you in a way that is uncannily similar to his human form when he checks in on you— You nod, unsure if you even have it in you to give him any sort of verbal consent, but the small movement is more than enough; his tongue is so large that it encompasses your entire cunt in a single swipe. It’s so different from anything you’ve ever experienced but, at the same time, you can still recognize Joel’s movements in the way he laps at your clit, the tip of his tongue toying against your entrance in sharp, certain circles. It’s just a little clumsy, his teeth and snout getting in the way but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, hands gripping the grass until chunks fall out as you try to ground yourself. You bite down on your bottom lip, awfully aware you’re in a public setting even though there’s no one around, but you think back to Joel’s words that first time you had sex. Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.

You come with a scream of his name on your lips, tufts of grass and dirt underneath your fingernails, hips pushing up into his mouth. 

You’re still trying to regain your breath when Joel crawls back over you, whining softly as his snout bumps into your cheek. The fur sticks everywhere, glistening with your slick the way it had done with your blood so many moons ago, and you giggle, scratching the space between his eyes.

“I’m okay. That was—” You giggle again when he starts to purr, chest vibrating where it presses against yours. You feel the head of his cock bump against your thigh, scorchingly hot and leaking, and a fresh new wave of wetness dribbles down your thighs. “Do you want me to turn around?” You ask, still petting his head. “On all fours?”

Joel whines again, and the way he presses his body even more against yours seems like enough of an answer. You press a kiss to his snout, legs spreading even further when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance. 

He’s even bigger like this. Joel in his human form had already been a task to take in, but this is something else— You take a deep breath, your fingers digging into the soft fur of his pectoral, your body screaming to push him away but you remain still. He pushes himself inside in two strokes, and the second one has you wailing; for a horrifying moment, you think you won’t be able to handle him, the burn of the stretch and just how full you feel not subduing as quickly as you expect it to. 

“Gimme a second.” You say when he starts grinding, legs clamping around him. “Just— please, just a second.” 

You bring a hand down to your clit, forcing your tense muscles to relax, rubbing soothing circles until the pain melts away, his thick cock pressing against that perfect little spot inside of you even when he’s not moving making you hungrier. Joel runs his nose down your cheek to your collarbone, sharp teeth scraping against the soft skin of your shoulder. You clench around him, his cock feeling impossibly warm inside of you— He growls, the noise reverberating between the two of you before his hips pull back ever-so-slightly, snapping harshly against yours. It makes you wail, the tip of his cock hitting against your cervix with every fast, jerky thrusts that he gives you; You’re babbling, begging for more and crying that it’s too much, your hand falling away from between your legs. You hold onto him, clutching the fur as Joel ruts into you, his thrusts so harsh they push you upwards on the grass. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes to come, head tilted to the side, drool pooling on the side of your mouth and down your cheek as your body convulses underneath him, clamping down on him so tight that he might’ve slipped out if he wasn’t buried so deep inside of you. 

Joel comes with a growl on his throat and his teeth sinking into your shoulder painfully enough that you think he might snap a bone— You scream, both from pain and from pleasure, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of you. He grinds against you as he comes and comes and comes, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit and hurtling you into a third orgasm, the sort of wave of pleasure that has your throat constricting and your eyes rolling back, pebbled nipples rubbing against his chest as your spine twists up. Joel remains locked into you even as you tremble from the overstimulation; he feels even bigger, swelling inside of you and stretching you even further, a mixture of growling and whining rumbling in his throat. And when the aftershocks of your orgasm start to subdue, you realize he’s still coming, still filling you up, teeth clamped down on your shoulder as your lower stomach swells. It’s an odd sensation, feeling his come leak from where he’s still buried inside of you, feeling it push against your bladder in a way that makes you feel him all the way up to your stomach; you think he’ll be leaking out of you for days, thick and warm where he fills you up. 

He doesn’t move, caging you protectively when he finally calms down, his head tucking above yours. His neck is soft where you nuzzle into it, so satiated and exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.

You wake up to Joel’s face — his human face — hovering above yours. His hand is cradling your jawline, and he’s covered in his own blood, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead; a thick glob of congealing blood slides down the beautiful curve of his nose and plops on your cheek. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry.” He says, wiping something from your cheek— It leaves behind a wet trail that you can’t recognize whether it is blood or sweat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I should’a shifted back earlier— How bad does it hurt? ‘M gon’ get you home, or— Or a hospital if you need, alright?”

You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Your body is sore, maybe a little more than it should be, but it doesn’t feel hospital worthy. The worst pain is from your shoulder, in fact, the bite mark throbbing and irritated.

Above all, though, it’s hard to miss how you’re covered in blood. It’s like a scene from Carrie, thick deep red blood dripping down your body, lathering you in it— It’s too much to be yours, and it’s everywhere, from your neck all the way down to your shins. There is a gunk of fur stuck to your left thigh, which Joel pulls away hastily when he notices you staring down at it. 

“I had to—” He stalls and, although you can’t see the color of his cheeks underneath the blood, you’re willing to bet he’s blushing. “I had to shift still inside— Would’a hurt you even more if I didn’t.” 

“Thank God I wasn’t here for it.” You snort, wiping a hand over your eye— Between the remnants of blood and grass on your fingers, you don’t realize you’re making it worse until after you’ve done it. “You didn’t hurt me, Joel. I’m okay. More than, really.” 

He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging with relief. 

“Thought you were gonna hate me.” 

“Joel,” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “You eat people and I don’t hate you for it. This is nothing.” 

Joel’s head snaps to the right just a second before you hear the snap of a branch. 

There, between the trees, is a man. Officer Josh McKenley, at the two of you with wide eyes and a raised rifle. You can only imagine what it looks like, two people naked and bloodied in the middle of the woods, embracing in a pile of torn clothes and gore. 

“Step away from her.” He demands, the gun pointed at Joel. “You okay, miss?”

Even though it would seem that he’s trying to protect you from Joel, you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your body— Slower than they need to, taking in details more than searching for injuries. You curl in on yourself, trying to hide your body from view. Joel growls, and McKenley’s attention snaps back at him. 

 Despite being fully naked with a gun pointed at him, Joel doesn’t seem worried; he has two hands stretched out in front of him, legs slightly bent, ready to pounce. He waits, though, stepping away from you as instructed. 

“I’m going to call for back up.” The man warns, fumbling with the gun as he reaches for his left pocket. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.” 

Joel moves. He jumps on the man so fast it makes you shriek, the loud noise of the rifle going off ringing in your ears and drowning out the way McKenley screams, both from surprise and pain as the two of them topple to the ground.

You expect Joel’s shifting from human to wolf to be as slow and gruesome as the deshifting, perhaps the bone-breaking and agonizing process like a scene from An American Werewolf in London but it’s not: It happens in the blink of an eye, the hair on his head growing thicker and spreading, the muscles on his black rippling as his skin stretches and his bones shift into something else. And then you blink, and McKenley is crawling backwards, mouth open in terror, the wolf’s head down to his shoulders as he stalks his prey. 

It’s only then that you finally feel the pain. It tears through your bitten shoulder, burning, a small round hole that pierces through one of the teeth marks that gurgles fresh blood. 

“Joel?” You call out, hand shaking as you bring it to press down on the bullet wound. It hurts too much, pain searing and blinding, making you pull your hand away instantly. “Holy fuck.” 

The wolf’s head turns, staring at you— It’s the split second that McKenley uses to run away, his rifle forgotten in the overgrowth as he flees through the path he came from. Your vision swims, the wolf coming in and out of focus as you lean back, scraping your arm against a tree before you manage to put yourself in a mostly upright sitting position. Joel howls, that same deep and loud noise he’d made to call out for Tommy after the car accident, before coming to your side. He gives the wound a single lick before you manage to push him away; he whines, trying to get you to move your hand out of his snout. 

“Unless that tongue can pull out the bullet, I don’t think you should be doing that, buddy.” You say, your voice sounding slurred and foreign in your ears. “Just— Fuck, Joel, it hurts. Just shift back and get me home, please.”

Tommy is in charge of packing while Joel patches up your arm in the bathroom. You’re not proud to admit that you almost pass out as he digs through your shoulder for the bullet, barely hearing the string of apologies that leave his mouth as he works as fast as he can. It’s clear that he’s done this before, a well-stocked first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and precise movements from his hand. 

You keep your eyes averted from the wound, trying to stay as still as you possibly can. 

“Do you think it’ll stick?”

Joel hums, distracted. “What, honey?”

“The bite. Am I— Am I gon’ turn into a wolf too, now? You said it spreads through biting and genetics, right?” 

“No, ‘s not a full moon tonight.” He runs a finger close to the bite mark, stopping his stitching for a moment. “I’ll fix it as soon as I can shift again, okay? Reckon I can make sure it won’t scar.”

You don’t want it fixed— You don’t want to be a werewolf either, but you like the idea of Joel’s teeth-shaped scar a little too much. But you simply hum, ending the conversation, too tired to voice any of those feelings. He kisses the stitches once he’s done with them, and then helps you into the shower— It’s the first time you’re in the shower with him and it’s certainly not what you pictured, both of you rushing through wiping each other clean while Tommy rushes from room to room, trying to gather as many essentials as he can without waking Sarah up. 

You’re not sure at which point they’ve decided to flee. You’ve run into Tommy on your way back to the house, Joel carrying you in his arms. ‘Cop caught me mid shift.’ is the only explanation he gives but that seems to be enough to enable some sort of crisis protocol. 

There’s a single, curt knock on the bathroom door just as Joel helps you into your sweatpants.

“Can you wake Sarah up f’me?” He asks you, knuckles brushing softly over the bandage on your shoulder. “Don’t pick her up, can’t have you strainin’ yourself. Just tell her to pick out her favorite toys, that we gotta go on a trip.” 

You do as you’re told, arm placed in a sling that Joel pulled together out of gauze and sheer willpower, hair still dripping wet down your back. Sarah is curled up on her toddler bed, a protective wall of stuffed animals between her and the safety guard, her little thumb stuck inside her mouth. 

“Sarah?” You call out, softly, trying not to spook the little girl as you push the curls away from her face; her hair is wild and frizzy and you make a mental note of telling Joel to buy her one of those toddler bonnets. “Wake up, puppy. We gotta go.” 

“Mama?”

It breaks your heart, watching her little doe eyes blink without recognition— It almost hurts more than Joel calling you by her mother’s name, the cold proof of a little girl that still yearns for someone you could never be. 

“Hi, sweetie.” You coo, pushing down the safety rail. “Y’wanna go on an adventure? Your daddy planned a trip for us.”

You sit by her bed as you watch Sarah toddle around the room, collecting her toys and shoving them inside a purple backpack covered in sequins, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t ask the million questions you expect from a child so young, she just accepts what you tell her and then gets to business. 

It takes Tommy exactly fifty-five minutes to leave the cabin with the half-functioning truck and come back with a fully-functioning car. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he prepared for it even though Joel told him not to. 

Joel doesn’t let you help with anything other than carrying one of Sarah’s stuffed toys that didn’t fit her backpack and, if you’re being honest, you don’t try too hard to help— Your shoulder throbs even after you’ve taken a couple of painkillers, your muscles sore from… Well, everything. Instead, you sit inside the champagne-colored sedan with Sarah, trying to distract her from what is happening; there is a nervous energy in the air, both Tommy and Joel wound up tight, and you can see the moment she picks up on it, fussing when Joel buckles her into the car seat. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, pushing your head between the two front seats. Tommy is driving, and Joel holds a map that looks so old you think it might be close to you in age. 

“North.” Joel responds at the same time that Tommy says: “South.”

They both look at each other for a split second before Tommy continues. 

“Mexico. I have to, Joel.” His voice is tight and urgent, hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Been feelin’ it for weeks now.”

“Mexico it is.” Joel nods before he turns to you; his face is now so close you can see the different shades of hair on his mustache, his bottom lip marred with teeth marks. “Tommy’s feelin’ the pull.”

“Pull?”

“That’s where my mate is. Somewhere in Mexico.” Tommy is the one that answers. “‘S why we came here of all places. Joel felt you callin’ out to him.” 

Despite everything, your lips pull into a small smile.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER. 

Rainy season means stuffy, warm days and unpredictable downpour of rain showers in the middle of the afternoon just when you think the heat is finally going to get you. You’re slowly learning how to adapt, your body craving the rain just as much as it craves the sun. The rainy days are usually easier to handle during the week, while Sarah is in pre-k and you’re at work all afternoon— During the weekends it means Joel has to stay at a job site for longer, and that you’re trapped inside the house with a tiny, bored little girl. 

“That boyfriend of yours is coming to pick you up?” Joel asks, leaning against the kitchen sink. Disdain drips off of the word ‘boyfriend’ but, at this point, you think he does it mostly to annoy you and not really because there is any jealousy. 

Your ‘boyfriend’ is Raúl, a single father to a little girl around Sarah’s age. The girls met on Sarah’s first day of kindergarten and even though Ellie doesn’t speak English and Sarah doesn’t speak Spanish, the two girls attached to each other’s hips— They share toys and food and are even starting to trade words in their languages; Sarah has taken the habit of pointing out every perro she sees on the street (her uncle Tommy included, once) and you know that didn’t come from her. 

“Yup.” You say, pulling the glass of mango juice from between Joel’s fingers just as Tommy bursts into your home— He’s been living on the floor above yours, but it seems like your kitchen is the Central Station. “He’ll pick me and Sarah up in, like, fifteen minutes. G’mornin’, Tommy.” 

“Morning.” He says, stealing a slice of bacon from Sarah’s plate. “Who’s coming to pick you up?”

“Mommy’s boyfriend.” Sarah pipes up, licking honey from her fingertips.  

“Raúl.” You correct her, elbowing Joel when he cackles at the look on Tommy’s face. “Who is a friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. His daughter has a playdate with Sarah.”

“Don’t forget it.” Joel taps the little pill container on the counter before he moves back to the living room. The kitchen is small and, although the brightly lit windows make it seem bigger than it really is, the place gets just a little crowded as Tommy shoves his head inside the fridge. 

You roll your eyes, but you pick out the antidepressants and swallow them with the mango juice anyway; truth is, even though you keep complaining about the pills, the wonders that they’ve done to your life are something you don’t think you’ll ever take for granted— The pills and Dr. Canul, the therapist that has been seeing you ever since settled down in Puerto Morelos. 

It had taken your little family — your pack — about eight months to figure out a town to finally settle roots, living in cars and cheap motels for so long you thought it might affect Sarah’s development; Tommy was the one guiding the four of you, never settling anywhere for longer than a month before his mate started to pull him somewhere else. It got to a point where you were certain he was making it up, or perhaps confused by his feelings, but Joel had blind faith in his brother so every other month you packed up your car and left for a new place. 

Puerto Morelos had been your home for almost ten months now, and it was such a dream you feared the day Tommy decided his mate wasn’t there anymore— Sarah is thriving in kindergarten, Dr. Canul is the nicest doctor you’ve ever met, and your little house near the beach is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your job, too, at a local artisan shop where you get to sell your paintings while manning the register; the owner is an old woman that had been kind and patient, teaching you how to weave baskets and huipiles, never faulting you or making fun of the way you still tripped over your ever-growing Spanish vocabulary. She simply corrects you with a soft ‘no, mija’ and, during one particularly exciting afternoon, threatened to beat a teenager with the bat she keeps in the back of her shop after he made fun of you. 

Life is good, more than— Life is everything you’ve ever dreamed of, in the community that embraced you and your family, with the ocean breeze and the hot sun and the sense of belonging that you’ve never found anywhere else. 

The thought that Tommy might take that away at any moment keeps you awake at night. You understand his connection to Joel, understand that their need for each other goes much further than simply a sibling bond: They’re a pack, and their wolves are social creatures that need each other to be fully at peace. Still, you fear the day you’ll have to mourn your home. 

Raúl knocks on the door just as Tommy shoves the last piece of bread in his mouth, his tanned cheeks full like a chipmunk as Sarah runs to yank the door open. 

“Hola, cielito.” Raúl says but she’s barely listening, already grabbing Ellie and yanking her inside. They squeal together and run to the back of the house. “Hey. Front gate was open, I figured I could—”

You don’t really understand what happens at the moment but, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious. Raúl freezes halfway through his sentence, his eyes glued to the looming presence over your back; he stares at Tommy for a second too long before plastering a smile that is visibly fake. 

“Joel, right?” He asks, offering a hand. Tommy doesn’t answer, mouth still full, not really chewing anymore. You resist the urge to elbow him, choosing instead to answer. 

“Tommy, actually. Joel’s brother. Say hi, Tommy.” You finally give in and elbow him in the ribs when Raúl’s fake smile falters, his hand already halfway down before Tommy spurs into action, grabbing it between both of his. 

It only dawns on you what is actually happening when Tommy brings Raúl’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it before dropping entirely. Raúl’s eyes dart to you, shoulders visibly relaxing when he sees the way you’re tying — and failing — to hide your smile. 

“We kinda had a change of plans.” You tell him, neck craning as you try to catch Joel’s attention— He has his back to you, lacing his boots and mumbling something on the phone. “I have some errands to run, my prescription expires today so I really need to go get it and I forgot to defrost the chicken so I can’t make lunch and, uh, Joel needs my help with some stuff. Tommy’s chaperoning the girls with you today, if that’s alright?”

Tommy frowns at you, his eyes fleeting to your face before rushing back to the man still in front of him. “Joel said we—”

“Like I said, change of plans.” You cut him off. “Can’t go into work with all this rain, so you both get the day off. Well, he gets the day off. You get to babysit your niece.” You smile at Raúl, who is biting down on his bottom lip and you can tell you haven’t been able to fool him. “Tommy’s great with kids. Loves them to death. Always wanted one of his own, right?”

“Uh—” 

“And Sarah loves him.” You go on, not letting Tommy get a word in. “Ellie will love him too, you’ll see. He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and he charms all of the old ladies wherever he goes, but he’s a sweetheart. And— Uh— A great chaperoning partner. You guys should go grab some ice cream later.”

“Ice cream sounds nice.” Raúl agrees, eyes shining with mirth. 

Tommy nods a second later. “Yeh— Yeah, it does.”

“Great!” You say, clapping your hands. Joel is finally looking at you, both of his eyebrows raised. “Now off you go. I want a day off with my boyfriend.” 

The house is all but empty before Joel can finish lacing up his boots. From the kitchen window you watch as Tommy opens the car door for Raúl, giving him a thumbs up when he looks back at you for a second; Tommy offers you his middle finger, but he’s smiling from ear to ear. 

“Is there a particular reason why you just gave my brother a day off without tellin’ me first?”

“That’s his mate.” You say, surprised Joel didn’t pick up on it. “I’ll handcuff them together if I have to before I move out of Puerto Morelos.”

He laughs, his hands coming up to wrap around you. 

“And here I was thinkin’ it was because you wanted the house all to ourselves.” 

Your arms settle on his shoulders on their own, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. Joel seems happier too, more at ease than he did when the two of you met— His eyes shine more, his smile brightening more often. That sadness you’d noticed when you first saw him is completely gone, his face constantly sunburnt and his hair frizzy from the salt air. 

“That sounds pretty neat too.” 

THE END.

The stench of blood and viscera lingers in the air as you stumble through the threshold of the secretary's office bathroom, your lungs burning from the chase. Behind you, the Warden's body lies brutalized on the desk in his office. Your hands shake from the effort it took to beat your way through his stomach.

You tell yourself it's just the adrenaline, but you know better.

Of all the reagents sent in to this trial, you were the one who understood the trial victim the most. Seeing the Warden in the shower room, on his knees for Sergeant Coyle, made your chest ache. Ducking away, you hid your flushed face from your team while they watched. They'd never let you hear the end of it. None of them would get it.

Without your team, the only trials you did solo were either at the police station or the courthouse. You spent hours following Coyle around his domain, listening to him rant about anything and everything.

Not to mention the countless times you let him catch you, just so you'd know what it was like to touch him. Most of the failures on your record were from getting too carried away letting Coyle throttle you.

But now, with Coyle hot on your heels, it feels different this time. You lock the door behind yourself, but it's pointless. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The door on the other wall is barricaded, and every hiding place is occupied by junk.

You're terrified to face the prime asset breaking down the door. After what your team just did, there's no way he'd let you leave here alive.

The doorframe splinters at the latch. Leland Coyle crashes through the door like a raging bull. Huffing and puffing, his sights are set on you. His face is flushed and dark, mottled red as sweat beads down his face. Bloodshot eyes stare you down with an intensity that makes you weak in the knees.

Your feet carry you backwards, away from him, until you hit the edge of the half-wall jutting out from the shower.

You're stuck.

"Commie shitbird!"

You flinch and cry out, "Please, I'm sorry!"

"Do you have any idea–" he roars, pointing at you with his free hand, "how long it takes to train a mouth?"

You know he's not really looking for an answer, so you keep quiet.

"Months! Months I spent trainin' him," he spits, "y'all broke my toy!"

"I'm sorry!" you cry out, throwing your hands up in surrender, hoping any sane part of this man would take over.

"Sorry ain't good enough," he growls around his cigarette.

The rational part of you is telling you to stun him, but your rig is still on cooldown for another minute. Long enough to die. Twice. You press your lower back into the wall and look around, trying to brainstorm.

To your dismay, there's nothing. From the shower to the floor– it's all barren except for some used condoms and trash. It's like someone cleared the room of anything useful before you even showed up.

Coyle advances until he's looming over you, dripping sweat onto your clothes and puffing on that cigarette.

The smell of his tobacco turns a light on in the darkest part of your brain. He never smelled pleasant any time you've run into him, but whatever brand he smokes is smooth. It doesn't make you crinkle your nose and hold your breath; it makes you want a taste.

You look up at him pathetically. He could squash you like a bug and move on to the next reagent without a second thought. The thought makes you shrink down, making yourself a smaller target.

"Take a look at you," he murmurs, anger slowly subsiding as he looks you up and down, "Shakin' like a leaf. Ain't no need for all that, now is there?"

"Uh– I–" the words get caught in your throat and die there.

Coyle's ungloved hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb dragging across your skin. So many times you've imagined those thick fingers digging into your soft flesh, leaving bruises all over you…

But having him here in front of you, all heat and leather, those fantasies seem foolish.

"Cat got your tongue, Honey?" he asks condescendingly.

You nod, and he grins wickedly.

"That's alright. We'll get that tongue workin' in no time," he presses his thumb against your lower lip and you're tempted to bite it off, "See, my Warden knew his place was on his knees, takin' what I give him, and he was grateful for it. Begged for it."

Your reflection in his aviators is blurry, but you can still see the fear in your face as his hand slides down your neck and he rests his palm right up against your pulse.

"Y'all took that from me."

A gulp catches in your throat.

"So, I've decided you are gon' be his replacement. Eye for an eye kind of thing," he explains carefully, patting your neck.

"You don't mean–"

"Well, you certainly got the frame for it. Built for comfort, ain't ya?" he says smoothly, nodding down at your body and chewing on that damned cigarette.

On the outside, your cheeks are burning hot. You don't want him to know how badly he's getting to you, but you can't control how your body is responding.

You're divided. Any other day, you would have crawled right up to him. You would have begged him for the privilege.

Even while you're squeezing your thighs together to quell the tingly warmth, you know this is wrong. This isn't some late-night fantasy while you're alone in your sleep room. It's Leland Coyle in the flesh. A valued Prime Asset; unpredictable, violent, and not afraid of taking what he wants.

All you have to do is figure out a way to get past him and you'd be fine. The rest of your team isn't gone, yet. You could make it to the shuttle if you ran fast enough. There's still time, right?

Apparently not.

"So how 'bout it?" Coyle leans in impatiently, his cigarette threatening to ash over you as he speaks.

You try to nod, but your neck won't cooperate.

"I'm gonna need words, Honey."

You open your mouth and a whole lot of nothing comes out. Coyle graciously waits a few seconds, giving you time.

"See, I can tell by that look," he mumbles, "you're thinkin' real hard 'bout runnin'. That little stun of yours is coolin' down. I know you're just itchin' to knock me in the head with it."

Shaking your head frantically, you stutter, "N-no. I'm not."

"Well then, the next thing I wanna hear outta that pretty mouth is 'yes, Daddy.'"

"Yes… Daddy?" you whisper, looking at him uncertainly.

"Nah. Like you mean it," he pats the side of your neck roughly.

Your heart jumps. You need to do this right.

"Yes, Daddy," you say sweetly.

"Oh, Sweetness," he groans, slipping his thumb around your throat and squeezing with enough pressure to remind you what he's capable of, "you're gettin' me all kinds of worked up, and we ain't even started, yet."

You swallow thickly, letting out a shaky breath. Maybe this won't be so bad.

Coyle lets go of your neck, dragging his fingers along your skin before pulling away. He steps back, pulls the cigarette from his mouth and tosses it on the tile.

Using his cattle prod, he gestures to the floor.

"First order of business, I got to know if you can follow basic directions," he leans back slightly, resting his free hand on his belt buckle, "Sit."

You stare at him, dumbfounded by the command after everything else. Sit? Like a dog?

Coyle frowns at your confusion.

"On. Your. KNEES!" he barks.

You drop.

The tile slams against your knees, but you don't wince. You wouldn't dare. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look up at him, breathing in shallowly. His shoulders relax as you obey, kneeling at his feet like you were made to be there.

"Good girl," he hums, dropping into a squat. His fingers thread through your hair, petting and lightly scratching at your scalp, making your eyes flutter, "You take direction when it's given with the proper… motivation, huh?"

Coyle drops his cattle prod to the floor and his gloved hand cups your cheek again. He's turning your head this way and that, like you're livestock at an auction. He rubs his thumb over your cheekbone, around the night vision goggles implanted in your temple, and traces the shell of your ear gently. His touch is methodical, cataloging every inch of you. Determining your worth.

"Open," he commands, bringing his thumb to press on your lip.

Your jaw trembles. You part your lips, and he grunts in approval, thumb pressing against your tongue, groping the wet heat of your mouth. You try your best to ignore the shameful way you lean into his touch.

"Real responsive," he mutters.

His hand slides down from your hair to grip the back of your neck, tightening and testing the give of your flesh. His leather gloved hand moves to your chest, avoiding your ESOP. He feels along the sides of your breasts.

Then lower, fingers spreading across your belly through your shirt as you suck in a breath. He squeezes you, assessing the softness there with undisguised hunger.

Coyle nods, satisfied, "Good weight distribution. Not flinchin' from proper handlin'."

You feel like a show animal, preening under his inspection, desperate for his approval. You arch your back slightly, pushing your chest out, presenting yourself for his evaluation. It's ridiculous and pathetic, but his smile returns.

"Oh, you want me to like you, don't you?" he lets out a laugh and taps the ESOP on your chest, "Let's get this thing off'a you."

He tugs at the straps of your ESOP, leaning in close to reach around and unhook it from the back, then the front. Easily, he pops the cable connecting your night vision goggles and tosses the strappy contraption across the room.

Completely unarmed now, you lean away from him and sit back more on your heels. Being so close to him seems a lot more dangerous now.

Coyle returns to cup your breasts, kneading roughly. Once again, you catch yourself leaning into his touch. You can't remember the last time someone held you like this. Despite the person the hands are attached to, it feels nice. You know you can't deny it as a soft whimper tumbles from your mouth.

"That's better, ain't it? Damned thing seemed kinda tight," he says, cocking his head at you.

"Thank you," you say quietly, sighing from the way his fingers brush across your nipples through your shirt and thin bra.

He smirks, "The way you're actin', kinda seems like you're wantin' me to pick you up and take you home."

You take a deep breath and hum in agreement.

"You'd like that, wouldn't ya? Bein' kept. Fed from my hand, and trained up right so you know exactly how to please a man like myself."

An involuntary whine escapes your throat, and you nod hesitantly. Coyle lets go of your breasts, resting his forearms on his knees as he grumbles something under his breath.

"Ohh-kay, Honey. You'll do," he decides with a curt nod, "Gonna take some work, some real disciplinin', but I'm thinkin' you might be worth the investment."

Coyle pulls his cattle prod from the floor and stands up, towering over you.

"Follow," he commands, turning on his heel.

You scramble to get your feet up under you, knees fighting as you push yourself up. A sharp whistle pierces the air. You freeze, half-crouched, and look up at him.

"Never seen a mutt walk on two legs before," he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder.

Your knees hit the tile again, then your palms. The floor is gritty with grime and sticky with substances you don't want to identify. Something sharp pokes into your right palm, probably glass, but you hope it's just a pebble. You don't stop to check.

You lower your gaze and crawl after him as he strides out of the office area, trying to keep pace with his gait while your knees scrape against the concrete.

Coyle leads you down the stairs, one heavy bootfall at a time, never looking back to see if you're still there. He knows you have nowhere else to go.

The panopticon opens up before you; a vast, circular hell of iron bars and windows. Coyle stops in the center in front of the, silhouetted against the red emergency lights still strobing across the walls. You crawl to his feet and wait, ignoring the chafing of your thighs and tightness in your lungs.

From somewhere behind a metal gate directly across from you, a biter yanks against their chain. They growl inhumanly and bark. Your first instinct is to reach for your stun. You lift a hand to your chest before remembering that you're still unarmed.

The alarms shriek louder, and the overhead speakers crackle to life.

"Ten seconds remaining to reach the shuttle. Nine. Eight…"

Coyle grunts, "Sit."

You fold back onto your haunches, heels tucked beneath you and hands resting on your thighs. You stare up at Coyle's face, searching for any hint that he might let you go before the shuttle leaves.

"Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.…"

He doesn't acknowledge you. He pulls a fresh cigarette from his belt and flicks his cattle prod to life. The electricity pops and crackles as he touches it to the tip, sparking the cigarette to life.

"One. The shuttle is now leaving."

The alarms cut out. The red lights stop their frantic pulsing. Inside your chest, the last bit of hope you had withers. You're not getting out.

You're not going back.

Coyle takes a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

"Y'know, y'all made a pretty big mess killin' my Warden," he says, rolling his shoulders and settling into his stance like a man on his fifteen minute smoke break, "Hell, it's a good thing we came to this here agreement, or else your fine ass woulda ended up as set dressin' for the next trial."

He shifts his weight, grabbing his crotch through his pants and adjusting himself with a grumble. He's acting antsy and impatient, and it's making you nervous.

Shuffling feet catch your attention as a grunt rounds the corner from Block A, pausing when they spot you on your knees. They straighten up, machete snapping up into a ready position, and begin stomping toward you.

"I LIVE HERE!" they grunt, raising their machete high.

You look up at Coyle, expecting him to intervene.

He just sighs exaggeratedly, and winds his arm back. The cattle prod whirs to life as he holds it like a baseball bat. While the grunt closes the distance, you scramble to crawl backward when Coyle swings.

The crack of electricity and metal meeting their skull echoes through the panopticon. Blood spatters across the floor, a few hot droplets landing on your arm. The grunt drops like a sack of potatoes, landing inches to your left.

Coyle shrugs and spits on the floor beside their head, "Can't seem t'keep people from puttin' their hands on what's mine today."

He looks down at you expectantly and cocks his head.

"…thank you, Daddy," you whisper, lip trembling slightly.

"You're welcome, Honey."

He steps in front of you then, close enough that his crotch is level with your face. His bulge strains against the fabric, undeniably hard. He unhooks his battery pack and sets it on the ground alongside his cattle prod, metal clattering against the floor.

"Time for you to show Daddy some appreciation for keepin' you safe," he says lowly.

His gloved hand comes down on the back of your head heavily, insistently shoving your face into the heat of him. You can feel him flex briefly as his cock presses against your cheek.

Slowly, you respond. Your fingers find his belt buckle, fumbling with it until it comes loose. You undo the button, drag the zipper down, and pull his pants and underwear down together.

The stench hits you first. It's a sharp scent of stale sweat and musk. You recoil, fighting back a dramatic gag, and force yourself to push forward.

His cock is thick and veined, covered with scars in various states of healing. A dark bush of pubic hair frames the base, and a tiny bead of precum glistens, drooling from the tip.

"Go on, now," he urges, "Little justice ain't gon' bite."

You extend your tongue, licking the head. The precum is salty, mixing oddly with the tangy sweat coating his skin. You try to keep yourself from gagging again, but it doesn't work.

You pause, expecting punishment, but he doesn't do anything.

One relieved breath later, you take him into your mouth, resting your hands on the sides of his thighs for balance. He grunts in approval above you. His gloved hand curls into a fist in your hair.

Your mouth is dry and cottony with fear, but you try to accumulate what saliva you can. It's been a while since you've done anything like this. Months? Years? You aren't sure at this point. Fortunately, muscle memory kicks in soon enough. You're bobbing on his length without much need for his guiding hand, finding a rhythm that makes his thighs tense under your palms.

"That's it," he groans, "Bein' such a good girl for me."

He releases his grip, opting to pet your hair instead while you move. Tingles rush down your spine as his nails just barely scrape your scalp. You hum around him, appreciating the praise and his oddly gentle touch.

"Gettin'… kinda… close," he warns you, voice strained.

Already? Either you must still have some skill or he's dying to finish what the Warden started for him. You speed up your pace, eager to please. And eager to end this before your legs fall asleep.

"Hey now," he yanks on your hair, irritation creeping in, "Slow down. Ain't no rush."

You take it slower, drawing back until just the tip rests on your tongue, then sliding forward until your nose brushes against the bush of curly hair at the base. You go as far down as you can until you gag, throat convulsing around him.

Holding yourself there, tears spring to your eyes. Everything in your peripheral blurs, but the way he moans, calling you his "perfect puppy," makes you feel like you would hold yourself there until you suffocated if it meant he'd keep praising you.

Coyle tightens his grip on your hair, painfully. His thighs stiffen under your hands and he stops moving. Above you, he's growling obscenities through gritted teeth.

"Fuuuck. Sweet puppy, takin' me–" he moans, cock twitching in your mouth, "so– ugh– damn well."

You force him as deep as you can handle, drool dripping from your lips. Hot cum spurts down your throat while you try your best to swallow around him. You want so badly to make a good first impression, which means wasting none of what he gives you.

When it seems like he's done, his fingers loosen in your hair fractionally, you pull back enough to get a good deep breath through your nose. You smile with him still in your mouth, feeling a sick sense of pride.

Suddenly, he forces your head back down onto his cock, hard.

"I'm real sorry 'bout this, Sweetness. I just can't hold it," he says, flicking his cigarette to the floor and patting your face with his ungloved hand.

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes as warm and salty liquid trickles down your throat, filling your mouth. He grins, tilting his head back. You realize too late what's happening. Bitter and acrid, piss drips from the corner of your mouth as you attempt to swallow as much as you can without choking on it. Your fingers dig into his thighs, but he keeps you still.

Coyle groans while he does it, savoring the moment.

You struggle to keep up with the flow. It's too much all at once. Your lungs burn, screaming for mercy. All you can do is push against his thighs as you cry, protests muffled by his cock.

When he's actually done, bladder empty, he tugs you off of him. You gasp for air, sputtering as piss streams down your chin onto your already ruined clothes. You can't look up at him.

He pulls his pants and underwear back up, buckles his belt, and picks up his battery back and cattle prod. Without a word, he saunters off toward one of the exit doors, leaving you behind.

Before he reaches the doorway, Coyle realizes you're not following him. He whistles in your direction and snaps his fingers.

"Heeere, girl."

The words echo, but your knees feel glued to the floor. You're coughing, aggravating the burn in your throat. Catching your breath seems impossible. You turn toward him, but your eyesight is blurred by leftover tears.

"Don't make me say it again," he shouts.

Your hands find the floor. The concrete is cold, sticky in ways you don't like.

"Last chance," he calls out and you can hear the smile in his tone, "Come here, or I come get you… you don't want me t'come get you."

You spare a glance to the grunt laid out beside you and then you crawl. Even with your knees hurting, palms slipping on the wetness coating everything, you somehow make it over to him. You don't look up. You wait for his next command, staring down at his boots.

-

Time moves on. Days blur into weeks, marked by Coyle's moods– the times he's gentle and the times he's not.

He keeps you in a solitary confinement cell, deep within the prison. There's a cot with a thin mattress, a bucket, and a heavy iron door.

"It's for your own good," he tells you, like he's doing you a favor.

Like Easterman or the other assets are wolves at the door instead of him being the one who leashed you.

He did eventually bring you your own collar. A heavy, metal thing with one looped ring meant for a lead. It's a little tight around your neck, but Coyle promises he'll make you a bigger one soon.

Sometimes, when the rest of the facility is quiet, he clips a leash to your collar and lets you walk beside him.

He calls it stretching your legs, though you know better than to walk upright. You crawl through the corridors on hands and knees, while he strolls leisurely with his cattle prod swinging at his hip. Coyle keeps you close; close enough that his boot occasionally nudges your ribs when you lag behind. Close enough that he can reach down and pet your hair when you keep pace properly.

"Easterman's been askin' 'bout you," he mentions casually one evening, fingers brushing through your hair and grazing your scalp.

His name makes you cringe.

"Thinks he can take what's mine again…" Coyle says angrily, "Ain't gon' let nobody hurt my sweet puppy dog. You belong t'me."

He keeps his promise about training you right. Every morning he drills you until it's instinct. How to sit at attention when he enters your cell. How to speak, or rather, how not to. You're not allowed to use his name, except for the one that he chose.

"Who am I?" he'll ask, standing over you while you kneel at his feet.

"Daddy," you whisper. It makes your cheeks burn every time you say it, especially when he gives you that slow, pleased smile.

"That's right. My good girl."

He teaches you what he expects. Silence unless you're spoken to, eyes down unless he lifts your chin, and immediate obedience without hesitation.

His lessons are enforced with pain when you fail. If it isn't the cattle prod pressed to the chub of your inner thighs, then it's his belt across your ass or his hand across your face and around your throat until you lose consciousness.

But when you succeed… when you anticipate his needs before he voices them and when you crawl to him the moment he snaps his fingers, the rewards make everything feel worthwile.

-

Two weeks in, Coyle comes back after a trial with blood drying under his fingernails and rage simmering on his face. You can tell by how his jaw is set that something went wrong, and he's looking for a place to put that anger.

"On the bed. Face down," he says flatly.

You hurry to obey as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. The bed frame creaks as you position yourself, pressing your cheek to the thin sheets. You hear him unbuckling his belt. As the leather slides through the loops, you flinch before the first strike even lands.

The first hit is agonizing.

There's a half-second of nothing, then white, hot heat crosses the expanse of your ass that makes you cry out into the mattress. He doesn't speak. He doesn't praise or condemn you, and you don't expect him to. You let him work through whatever he's carrying. You let him take it out on you.

By the time he's finished, you're a sobbing, trembling mess.

And then, his belt hits the floor. His hands replace it. Calloused palms smooth over the welts he raised, tracing them gently. You flinch, but push back into it. You hate that you can't help it.

"Easy, Honey," he whispers, "You done so good for me."

Coyle drags his hands over your hips and squeezes. One stays on your hip while the other drifts across your ass again, then lower. His fingers dip between your thighs and he coaxes you to pleasure with the same lack of patience he used to inflict pain. When you finish, moaning and gasping and dripping all over his hand, he tells you how good you did. He says you were brave, pets your hair, and calls you his favorite puppy.

You'd take the belt every day if it always ended like this.

-

Three weeks in, he finds you touching yourself without permission. You're alone in your cell, bored out of your mind, when he unlocks the door unexpectedly. Your hand freezes between your legs, cheeks flushing crimson as he stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

"Ain't this a pretty picture," he drawls.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," you stammer, pulling your hand away and closing your thighs, "I didn't mean–"

Coyle steps inside and shuts the cell door behind him, crossing over to stand by your bed. You look away from him, mortified.

He tsks, "Didn't mean to? Or didn't mean t'get caught?"

When you don't answer, he sighs, "Look at me."

His eyes are hidden behind those damn sunglasses, but you look up at them anyway.

"Sweetness, you know what happens t'dogs that stay humpin' things without permission?" he asks.

"No," you shake your head.

"They get fixed," he pauses, "Or they get put down."

"Oh…"

"Spread your legs," he demands.

Shame makes you hesitate, but you obey. He looks at you for a beat and then kneels, leaning in to finish what you started. His mouth is hot, his beard rough against the plush of your inner thighs, and he brings you to the edge quickly.

All that, just to pull back just before you're about to explode.

"Please," you whimper, hips chasing his mouth.

"Please what?" he chides.

"Please, Daddy, let me–"

"Let you what? Let you cum? After you been in here touchin' what's mine without askin'?" Coyle smiles at you, eyes hidden by those dark aviators. You wish he'd take them off.

You whine desperately and he laughs at you, genuinely amused. He squeezes the meat of your thighs appreciatively.

"Well, I reckon I can make an exception since you asked so nice," he says, but doesn't move.

He stays kneeling there, breathing against your skin and watching you squirm.

"Thank you," you whisper, "Thank you, Daddy."

"Mmhmm," Coyle hums.

It's not really approval. His thumb presses into the crease of your thigh and drags it along painfully slowly, tracing the width of your leg.

When he finally lowers his mouth again, he's rougher. Your hips buck into the sensation before you can stop yourself. He pins you down with one hand pressed into the softness of your stomach.

"Stay. Still," he growls.

You're babbling nonsense. You know you are– "Please," and "Daddy," combined with sounds that aren't words at all. He adjust his angle, pushes two thick fingers into you, and curls them until your spine arches off the mattress.

Static bursts behind your eyelids as you grip the thin sheets and your body goes taut, but he doesn't stop. He slows down, keeping his tongue on you. The aftershocks hit you until you're oversensitive, whimpering, and trying to clamp your thighs down on his head.

Coyle gets the message and pulls back. His beard shimmers in the light as you pant, chest and stomach heaving. When he looks up at you, he licks his lips hungrily. You hear his belt jingling, coming undone and the whisper of fabric as he shoves his pants down. He's on you in an instant, settling between your legs.

"Gon' fill you up, Honey," he mutters, guiding himself into you with one hand.

He wastes no time sinking his cock inside of you, gripping your hip with his other hand. Inch by inch, your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back.

The way your body yields to him, soft and welcoming, has him setting a harsh rhythm. Possessive, deep thrusts make the cot shake against the concrete wall. Your gasping breaths and his grunts fill the cell.

"Good puppy," he pants, leaning more of his weight on you, forcing your legs onto his shoulders and pressing your knees toward your head, "Such a sweet girl for your Daddy, huh? Takin' me so fuckin' deep, like some cheap whore."

You whine beneath him. Coyle's hitting something inside you that makes your legs spasm. You're back to moaning nothing but nonsense. A broken mantra of "please, please, please."

He speeds up, hips snapping harder as you feel the shift in him. His breathing is ragged as he slides a hand under your hip. He lifts you into his thrusts like you're weightless, arranging you however he wants.

"Gonna cum in you, Sweetness," he groans, "You want Daddy's cum inside you?"

You nod wildly, "Please, Daddy–"

He buries himself inside of you and stills. You feel the pulse of him. His hips jerk involuntarily against you as you feel the heat flooding you. He stays there, pressing you into the mattress with his weight until the tremors stop.

His hand still grips your hip, fingers kneading the soft flesh until you're sure he's going to leave more bruises.

"God damn," Coyle breathes out with a laugh, "Swear you're the tightest little fuckpig I've had in a while."

You feel empty when he pulls out of you, coating your thighs and sheets with cum. You know what happens next. He's going to pull his pants up and leave, expecting you to clean yourself up as best you can.

🚬 | ⚖️ | 🚬

⛓ | ⚡️ | ⛓

🚬 | ⚖️ | 🚬

He’s tall, broad, graying, and stern. His dark brown eyes apprise every counselor in front of him as the group gathers on the camp’s front lawn two weeks before opening day. He goes over the rules and expectations of all staff members. You pay attention even though it’s the same old drill: no fucking around during working hours, make sure the campers are safe at all times, please report injuries and have them sent to the nurses station, et cetera. You could recite the rules by heart.

Only one thing has you concerned.

You raise your hand to speak. Joel glances over at you but continues talking, stressing the importance of keeping away from drugs and alcohol during the next two weeks, especially once the campers come on opening day. You know all that. Still, you wait with your hand raised until Joel sighs, giving you time to speak.

“What happened to Frankie?”

Joel tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “Francisco Morales won’t be here to help us set up. He’ll be here on the camp’s opening day.” He snorts, arms crossed as he eyes you up and down. “What, is he your boyfriend or somethin’?”

“No..” you reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from creeping up your spine. Of course you and Frankie hadn’t set any firm definitions about what you are, but the past two years you’ve spent here have also been spent by fucking him in the woods during early morning hikes, blowing him in the storage shed, and sneaking him into your cabin to have him go down on you all night.

You have his number, but there’s been no answer when you’ve called before driving up to the campsite. You wonder what’s keeping him from being here.

Piper, the girl you’ve hated since you’ve been counselors together these past few years, shoots a smug look your way as the meeting is adjourned, and she walks off with Joel’s arm around her waist. She glances over her shoulder at you, giving you the finger.

She’s just jealous because Frankie chose you over her two years ago. She hasn’t let you alone in peace since.

Joel is a hard task master. At dawn he has the counselors up and jogging through the trail in the woods and chopping firewood before breakfast. Swim safety is in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst, the air humid with the scent of sunblock and stagnant lake water. At the very least you’re given some time to lay out in the sun afterward, drying off on the warm boards of the dock.

Back at the cabins only two people are unaccounted for – Piper and Joel. The other counselors make crude guesses as to where they are and what they’re doing. You’re elected to go and find them before it gets dark. Piper has dinner duty and Maya refuses to do all the cooking alone.

Slipping on your jean shorts, your towel slung over your shoulders to catch the water droplets from your still-damp hair, you set out in search of Joel and Piper.

The sun is just starting to set when you find them in a thick copse of trees near the edge of the forest, Piper pressed against a tree as Joel’s fingering her, his hand down the front of her red bikini bottom as he plunges inside her, head bent close to her ear, muttering dirty things. You stop, half-hidden by the trees as you watch them, your own pussy growing wet just bearing witness. You know you should turn and leave, forget you ever saw this, just tell the others that Piper and Joel are coming back soon.

But you’re frozen to the spot, watching them in the secrecy of the woods, your own hand ghosting over your clothed clit, imagining what Joel’s thick, rough fingers must feel like.

There’s a sharp snap of a twig that echoes in the air, causing Piper and Joel to quickly part. You’re already hurrying down the path, shame and lust heating your cheeks.

Everyone is split up in pairs, the counselor bunks only small enough to house two comfortably, and unfortunately Joel assigns you and Piper together. You tell yourself it’ll just be a couple months and most days will be too busy for you to have to deal with her very much.

Piper grabs the top bunk before you have a chance to claim it. But once you’re settled in the bottom, she makes you switch back after she finds a spiderweb too close to the ceiling.

But even your nights can’t be peaceful. Joel sneaks in after lights out, and you have to endure the soft giggles and moans coming from the bunk below you. The entire bed frame rocks with Joel’s thrusts as he fucks your bunkmate.

Great, just great.

They make no effort to hide whatever’s going on between them. His hand is permanently on her ass, barely clothed in the camp counselor uniform shorts, his entire paw covering her ass cheek. The others don’t notice or don’t care, too caught up in their own romantic entanglements.

It only makes you miss Frankie more. Out here in the woods you have no way of contacting him except through the main office line, but Joel stands right in front of anyone who wants to call home, dials the number on the rotary phone, and waits with arms crossed as the call is made. Nobody does personal calls while he’s in charge.

You try to keep yourself busy with helping get the camp ready. The grass near the cabins is maintained, repairs are made to the buildings themselves (which Joel oversees, and you can’t help but to check him out a little while he’s fixing the sign above the infirmary – he looks too good with a hammer), checking that the generators are working properly, and that the electrical system and water pressure are good.

There’s so much to do that by the time you climb up into your bunk you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

The only thing that could possibly wake you is Joel fucking Piper in the bunk below yours.

Joel’s grunts and groans, paired with Piper’s moaning and gasping, keep you awake. You lose count of how many rounds they go, the entire bed bunk frame shaking with their movements. And at one point you can’t help it as your fingers travel beneath your sleep shorts, finding your wet pussy and tracing your slit. Two fingers fit inside you easily as you lift your legs to get comfortable. Closing your eyes you start fucking yourself on your hand, imagining Joel’s fingers inside of you instead of yours.

You’re trying desperately to keep your whimpering to a minimum but you doubt they’ll hear you over their own sounds. Your fingers match the pace of Joel’s thrusts, though you imagine his cock is a lot bigger than your two fingers combined. And the way he’s been fucking Piper for almost an hour solidifies the fact that his stamina is good.

Your fingers glide over your clit, circling and swiping, your hips arching up as you chase the friction you so desperately need for your release as you listen to Piper’s moans and Joel’s increasing grunts. Eyes squeezed tight you plunge your fingers as deep as you can, timing it just right with Piper’s final, momentous scream. You try to keep as quiet as possible as your release coats your hand, clit throbbing, legs quaking.

Joel corners you after breakfast the next morning, barring you from following the others to the field where a soccer match was planned. Instead he drags you to the boat shed. You hate it there. It’s dusty and cramped and there are cobwebs in the corners.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your heart in your throat as Joel peers down at you, something unreadable in his deep brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he mimics you. “You think I don’t know you were gettin’ yourself off to me and Piper last night?”

The blood drains from your face, leaving you cold. “Wh-what?”

“Stop actin’ innocent. You weren’t exactly quiet. Piper was laughin’ at you, sayin’ you’re a lonely little virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” you tell him tersely.

“Really?” Joel’s voice is full of derision. “Prove it.”

The blood drains from your face. “H-how?”

“You’re a smart girl. You know how.” But just to be mean he explains it in detail. “How about you bend over–” he slaps the hull of a nearby canoe and puts his hand on your lower back, pressuring you towards it. “--pull those pretty little short-shorts down and let me check for myself.”

“You’re not serious,” you sputter.

“You afraid or somethin’?” he smirks.

You’re not afraid per se. But you’re definitely wet enough so that he’ll tease you if he finds out. “Of course not,” you stand up to him boldly.

He looks amused by this, and the way he cups his bulge in his own shorts shows he’s more than a little turned on. Your eyes drop down to where his thick cock is hardening under the skin-tight fabric.

With determination in your eyes, you’re certain of yourself when you reach up and grab Joel by the nape of his neck, kissing him. His eyes go wide at the initial shock of surprise, but then they close, a deep and satisfied growl in his chest as he kisses you back, his tongue slipping past your lips. Your gasp turns into a soft moan as his large paw on your lower back presses you closer to him, rubbing his hard-on against you.

“I bet this pussy’s already soaked,” he mutters, finally breaking from the kiss to nip at your neck. “But first..” he pulls away, a devilish look in his eye. “Lift up that shirt, honey, and lemme see those pretty titties.”

You scoff despite the fact that you are indeed soaked, but you’re already this far in. You might as well go all the way. You lift up your shirt, your white lacy bra on full display. Joel’s big meaty hands pull down the cups, palming your tits with his rough bare hands, bouncing them in his palms. “Look at these.. you gonna lemme suck ‘em?”

Fuck. This isn’t going how you expected but you can’t complain. You nod and he immediately pulls you close, picking you up and pinning you against the canoe as he takes your nipple in his mouth, groaning, using his free hand to pinch your other nipple. “So sweet,” he groans, releasing off you with a wet pop before sucking on the other.

“Joel!” you gasp, a fresh wave of wetness seeping through your underwear.

“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ there,” he mumbles, helping you shimmy out of your shorts and pressing you forward against the boat. He lands a quick spank across your ass cheek, chuckling at the way your flesh jiggles and the sound of your yelp. Then he spreads your cheeks wide. “Look at that.. pretty as the mornin’ dew..” He kneels down and laps at your honey, making you moan. Almost too late you catch yourself, muffling your own sounds with your palm.

His large, rough hand trails down your spine, keeping you in place as the thick head of his cock slides through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing you as he slides between your cheeks. You mewl in protest as he chuckles. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a virgin. Not the way you’re actin’ so greedy for my cock. Well darlin’, take it..”

He eases into you, using shallow thrusts and you can’t help but exhale, the rush of breath leaving you in surprise before he angles you down, sliding in to the hilt. “You’re full of me now,” he grunts out, holding steady to your hips. “God damn, tighter than a nun’s asshole.”

Your walls flutter around him with each stroke, your hands bracing you against the smooth wood of the upturned canoe. You whimper in time with each smooth thrust. Each time Joel bottoms out you feel it deep in your belly, probably deeper than anyone’s ever gone.

“Wish you could see how you’re soakin’ me,” Joel grunts, giving a few quick thrusts to let you hear the sound of your sloppy pussy. “How do you like it, darlin’? You want me to make a mess of you inside, or do you need me to pull out and shove this cock down your throat so you can swallow my load?”

“I-inside,” you pant. “I have an IUD.”

“That’s a relief,” Joel mutters, speeding up, one big hand wrapping around your front to tickle your clit. “C’mon, baby, need you to come on my cock before I bust inside you..”

He slows down just enough for you to work your way up to it, the heat building in your belly and your core, moaning at the way he lifts your hips to meet each thrust, sweat gathering at your temples. “Joel,” you whine, thinking of nothing but the way he’s fucking and filling and stretching your cunt. With an expertly angled thrust home you fall apart, moaning his name as you squeeze around him, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you until he swells inside you, his hot cum painting your walls. His cock is still twitching in the aftershocks when he finally releases his grip on your hips and pulls out of you. You quickly shove your underwear and shorts back on to catch his leavings already starting to leak out.

“Smart girl, bein’ on birth control,” Joel mutters, stuffing himself back into his own shorts. “I wish Piper was responsible like that.”

You school your features into nonchalance after you pull your shirt back down. There’s a little stab of guilt when you realize you’ve just fucked your bunkmate’s boyfriend.. even if she is a bitch. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently.

He reddens, as if he shouldn’t have spoken. “You’re sworn to secrecy, alright? Piper’s pregnant.”

“What?” Joel immediately clamps his hand over your mouth. He still smells like sex.

“Shut. Up,” he warns. “If I find out you told anyone else you’re packin’ your bags and goin’ home. Understand?”

You nod and whisper “Yes,” when he removes his hand. “It’s yours?”

He scoffs. “She says so. Still– not a peep. Got it?”

Piper becomes grumpy when Joel’s visits make an abrupt stop. But she’s no bitchier than usual, likely trying to get back into Joel’s good graces. Little does she know he’s only stopped coming to her because he’s taken up fucking you instead – in the storage shed, in the empty cots in the infirmary, the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. He maintains the position that he doesn’t like you very much while you’re in front of the others, sometimes giving you tasks you have to complete on your own – with the sole purpose of finding you to hook up.

The last night before the campers are due, everyone lets loose. Couples sneak off into the woods with sleeping bags and sinful intentions, some stay on the pier by the lake, drinking and laughing.

You’re the only one who’s made it to your bunk at an appropriate hour, wanting a full night’s rest before the big day. But your sleep is interrupted when Joel and Piper come in, slamming the door behind them, all over each other, kissing and giggling. With a silent groan you put your pillow over your head, already expecting to drown out the noises they’re about to make, which are going to keep you up all night.

They’re in the bottom bunk, a little quieter now that their mouths are busy. But soon there’s that familiar rocking rhythm and the sound of Piper’s moans and squeals, coming to a crescendo. Once again Joel’s stamina is off the charts. You’re in the middle of pleasuring yourself, two fingers shoved as deep as you can go, when everything stops and you hear Joel murmuring. There’s a creak as he gets out of the bunk, and Piper giggles as he positions her facing away. Now Joel’s eye level with your bunk and you gasp as you come face to face with him. He winks at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper as quietly as you can.

“She caught up with me. I couldn’t shake her,” he explains just as softly. “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Bring that pretty pussy to my face.”

Without hesitating you lift up your nightdress, scooting to the edge of the bed, thighs spread around Joel’s face as he fucks into Piper – oblivious to everything going on – in the bottom bunk. He’s got his dick buried in her while he’s eating you out. You’ve never experienced anything hotter.

You hear Piper’s staccato cries as Joel pounds into her from behind, his own moans humming through your flesh, heightening your arousal, your clit standing at attention between Joel’s lips, his mustache tickling your soft skin. You already know you’re going to come when your legs start shaking, toes curling at the waves of pressure building up in your very core.

“Joel!” you try to whisper as softly as possible. “Joel!.. I’m gonna come!”

He only smacks harder into Piper, her own cries louder than yours. “Come for me,” he whispers back, the tip of his tongue giving one teasing swirl around your pearl before he dives back in. Your back arches off the bed, lightning shooting through your veins as your cunt pulses, drenching Joel’s mouth as you come. He groans, licking up every drop, watching you through his lashes. “Good girl,” he whispers, backing off when you become too sensitive, his lips warm on your inner thigh, stubble scratching at your soft skin as he pulls off of Piper, turning her around so she’s sucking him off.

You hear her moaning and sighing, gagging on his cock. Meanwhile Joel lazily fingers you, scissoring his digits inside your sloppy pussy, his eyes black and glossy while Piper deep-throats him. Your fingers card through his hair as you ignore the softening of your heart in seeing him so tame and vulnerable.

Your name is on his lips but he moans Piper just in the nick of time, his breaths growing unsteady as he comes close to the end, getting ready to bust in Piper’s mouth. You take his head in your cupped hands. “Come, Joel.. give her what she wants,” you whisper. He groans, his thrusts getting sloppy as he fucks his girlfriend’s throat, stilling at last, his features tensing then relaxing as Piper gasps softly, swallowing his thick load.

The next day Joel treats you the same as he always has. Everyone’s minds are on the Opening Day festivities ahead, even if some of the counselors look like they’ve only had a couple hours’ sleep. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not just because of last night, but because you’re genuinely excited for summer camp to officially begin.

The campers hurry out of the stuffy buses and onto the rolling green grass, toting duffel bags, wearing the gold and blue camp tees and ball caps, eager for their summer to begin. Everyone is assigned to a counselor, and as soon as your group is ready you start to lead them to their cabin. You have a full day ahead: a quick icebreaker so everyone can become acquainted, a scavenger hunt that will enable the kids to work as a team, then a game of capture the flag, then lunch. You have your day cut out for you, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll cross paths with Joel again..

Your thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting back at the buses. All the counselors turn to look, surprise written on their faces as they find one more latecomer to Camp Happy Trail.

Frankie Morales, adjusting the Standard Oil cap on his head, dark curls already sticking to the sweat on his neck, hurries off the last bus. His royal blue camp tee clings to his torso like sin, accentuating his broad frame. You’re speechless when he reaches you, putting his arms around you and lifting you off the ground before landing a big kiss on your lips. The campers are grossed out, giggling and making faces.

When he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, just as shocked as you are to see him finally arrive. “I missed you, babe,” he says, planting one more kiss on your forehead. “So what have I missed?”

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