rory!🌀

You can’t decide what pains you more; hearing the others characterize him as an unthinking, unfeeling brute good only for killing, or the fact that he agrees. As if the same hands that stipple the innards of violet snowdrops and mold to your body like a potter shaping clay were meant only for destruction. Well, you know better.

Arthur sees everything. Arthur sees you.

“Don’t’chu try an’ hide from me, lil miss.” His voice is rough with sleep and teasing.

You hear his journal close with a soft thud on the nightstand, pencil clattering beside it, the hiss of his cigarette crushed in an ash tray, the chair scraping across the floor as he stretches to his full height. The mattress dips around you like a moat as he castles you with those thickly-corded arms. Chasing you with his lopsided grin as you make a giggling escape under the sheets.

Bound in his hold, he pulls you flush against his chest, nudging your knees apart to make room for the trunk of his thigh to nest between them. His stubble rasps against the slope of your neck with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. Your breath hitches, your back arches, and the ample flesh of your rear bids good morning to the familiar press of his arousal. He hums approvingly, warm and resonant. You smile and shiver.

You still flinch, sometimes, when he fills his calloused palms with your belly, when the soft flesh of you spills from between his fingers. In your girlhood, your mother chastised you against the sin of greed for every inch of your dresses that needed letting out. Your young body felt like a living betrayal, the supplication of half-eaten suppers an inadequate penance - you grew anyway.

And now that you’re full grown, finding a man who finds rest in your roundness and calls you "angel" feels like cheating at salvation. A man who insists you “really sit, damn it” when he pulls you in his lap by the campfire, unashamed of who sees. Who juts his chin and asks, “what, you think I ain’t strong enough?” when you gulp with doubt. Who lifts you by your thighs and mounts you to the wall like a canvas. Who proves bliss to you again, and again, and again.

For you both, love is an exercise in believing you deserve something good.

“S’early as sin.” You purr. “What you doin’ up?”

“Scribblin’.”

“Show me.”

He sighs, hot breath fanning over the nape of your neck. He lifts his head to look at you, expression stoic, a silent debate as he measures your curiosity against his self-consciousness. Relenting, he props himself up on his elbow with a grunt and reaches over you to pull his journal off the nightstand.

“Met this artist feller in a bar ‘round here.” He explains, flipping it open on the bed in front of you, thumbing through the yellowed pages. Flashes of elegant handwriting interspersed with graphite sketches of flora and fauna, wildlife and points of wonder, glimpses of his soul even you don’t often get to see. “Charles…somethin’ or other. European. Gave me a sketch he did of some other man’s wife. Kinda wanted to try somethin’ like it…only she weren’t exactly sleepin’, I figure…”

You only half hear him, stunned as you are by what you see. A rendering of you lying in peaceful repose. For a sketch so quickly made you marvel at the exquisite detail; your eyelashes fanned over your rounded cheeks; pouting lips over your soft chin; how the sheet waterfalls over the curve of your hip like a silken gown. The line work is honest, accounting for every peak and valley. You trace the horizon he made of your body, each dip and fold made vivid with careful shading and texture.

Oh, he loves you. He must do.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Ain't finished yet."

“S’real pretty, Arthur.” You breathe, eyes stinging.

He ducks his head, voice thick with tenderness. “Naw. Reckon that’s just you, sugar.”

Carefully, you close the book. Lying back on the pillows, you open the sheet and beckon him over the threshold. He goes home to you, hungry.

Nobody ever calls you in the middle of the night. Hell, no one even texts you in the middle of the night. It's why your volume remains on every day. The most action you'll get is a ping from your work email, and you've silenced that feature during the overnight hours long ago.

You may work like a dog, but you draw the line at anyone fucking with your sleep.

So when your phone wakes you with your ringtone—not your email or text sound, but your ringtone—you assume someone died. Has to be, right?

You're still groggy as you frantically reach for the phone, heart in your throat and eyes half open while you try to mentally figure out what time it is in London—would your sister call you and forget to check the time zone? Was she hurt or in trouble?

"Hello?" you answer without even looking at the caller ID. Your voice is thick and you sound like a frog. You clear your throat and try again. "Hello?"

There's shouting on the other end but it doesn't sound like an emergency. Not exactly happy shouting, either. Just... loud as all hell. And a whole bunch of voices, too. You blink and rub your eyes.

"Oh, h-hey! Hey, honey, can you hear me?"

You wince and pull the phone from your ear before angling the receiver towards your mouth. "Joel?"

"Did I wake you?"

More shouting that's now sounding like the drunken sort. People laughing and swearing are walking by, you can tell because their voices decrescendo as they presumably walk down the sidewalk.

"What—are you—" You shake your head. Words are hard to formulate.

"Y'there?" Joel sounds drunk, you can hear it now. Anger begins to simmer in your veins.

"Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?" you snap.

"Huh?"

"Why are you—"

"Gimme the phone!"

"Fuck outta here—"

"Joel, I wanna—"

There's rustling then. You can hear their shoes scraping on the sidewalk and you roll your eyes as you wait. The rustling finally stops and the second male voice curses out Joel before you hear the telltale flick of a lighter and then you hear his voice again, just a little breathless now.

"Sorry 'bout that," Joel murmurs. You can hear his footsteps on the sidewalk, he must be walking away.

"What do you want, Joel?"

"Got a favor to ask," he says, "any chance you can p—" Joel hiccups and you scowl. "Sorry. Any chance y'can pick us up?"

"Why?"

"'Cause we're drunk as shit and this goddamn bouncer's got a hard on f'Tommy here and won't let 'im leave without talkin' to someone that ain't me, so we can't call a cab, 'n I ain't callin' our ma or—"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, fine!" you yell, flinging the covers off your bed. "Where are you?"

He tells you while you shove on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt.

"The hell's the matter with you two? Your brother's home for two days and you're already getting into fights?" You snatch your purse off the hook by the door and slip on some sneakers.

"No, no, didn't get into any fights," he says defensively. "Tommy just flirted with the wrong girl, is all. Perfectly—" hiccup "—harmless."

"Yeah, right," you grumble, locking the door behind you. Goosebumps erupt across your skin at the first touch of night air. "It's freezing, Joel, I can't believe you're dragging me out of bed for this bullshit."

"How's 'bout I drag you back into bed later and make it up to you?" he teases. You roll your eyes and collapse into the driver's seat of your car.

"I'm not interested in having drunk, sloppy sex with you. That's the opposite of making it up to me."

"Easy, darlin'. Save some of that sass for when y'get here. Know how much I love it."

"You're such a pain in the ass." You let the grin stretch across your face only because Joel can't see you because goddamn him, even when he interrupts your sleep, he manages to make you smile.

You hear the humor in his voice when he answers. "Yeah, you like this pain in the ass, though."

"Do not." You're still grinning as you back out of your driveway.

"Uh huh. You got a big ol' crush on me."

"Do you want me to just go back home? 'Cause I'll do it," you warn.

"Nope. No I do not," he replies. "Miss you. Wanna see you."

You flick on your turn signal. "You're drunk and horny."

"Both things can be true at the same time."

"Funny," you say dryly.

"C'mon now, you're sayin' you don't miss me? Not even a little?" he asks, attempting to sound seductive but it's coming across more like he's confused.

"We saw each other on Sunday," you remind him.

"Feels like a month ago," he grumbles.

You crack your window just a smidge to let in some fresh air while simultaneously running the heat on low.

"Who's the one with a crush now?" you say smugly into your speakerphone.

"Never denied havin' a crush on you," Joel answers, "and I still ain't."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach and you bite your lip. "You're a real sweet talker, you know that?"

"Mm. Maybe that's why we work so good. I got the sweetness and you got the spice."

"Spice?" At this point you're just keeping him on the phone so you know he and Tommy haven't wandered off somewhere, but it also serves as great entertainment as you drive the mostly deserted roads to a bar on the other side of town.

"Yeah. Spice. Like heat or pepper or somethin'."

"Sugar and pepper do not sound good together."

"Ah, don't knock it til you try it, otherwise, how're you gonna know if it's any good?"

You have to give him credit. Even though he's hammered, he still manages to not-so-subtly find ways to tell you what a great couple you'd make. It's been a fun few weeks, but you're still holding firm on keeping things casual, and Joel seems to have figured out just how far he can push you without tipping over that edge.

"Y'there?" he asks, and you nod although he can't see you.

"Yeah. Ten minutes out."

Joel sighs on the other end as the background noise starts to increase, indicating he's pacing back towards the bar.

"Got a goddamn headache. Loud as shit here." Hiccup.

"You sure it's the music and not the shots?"

"How'd you know we did shots?"

"I didn't. Crazy guess."

Joel laughs. "Wanna know somethin'?"

You smile to yourself as you roll up to a stop light. "What?"

Just then, Tommy's voice fills the speaker.

"—wasn't doin' nothin' and this motherfucker over here says—"

"Keep your goddamn voice down."

"Who's on the phone?"

"I told'ya already, we're gettin' picked up—"

"Ohhh! She's comin' to get us? Hey! Lemme talk—"

"Y'can talk to 'er when she gets here, back up!"

"Joel? I'm a block away," you say loudly into the speaker, but the brothers are too busy bickering.

"Stop bein' all weird and gimme the phone!"

"I ain't bein' weird! You're the one—"

"H-hey! Hey, sweetheart!" Tommy yells. You wince at the volume just as the lights from the bar come into view. "He's been talkin' 'bout you all night! He tell y'that? Wouldn't shut—"

Despite yourself, your heart lurches in your chest at Tommy's revelation. There's the sound of plastic clattering onto concrete and the scuffle of shoes mixed with some grunts and you pull into the parking lot.

When you park, you immediately spot them wrestling and get out of the car with your purse slung over your shoulder. As you approach, you notice the brothers attracted a few curious onlookers, but once it became clear it wasn't a real flight, they moved on. The bouncers, however, stood with their backs against the brick wall and their arms crossed over their chests, looking amused as they watched two drunk idiots try and fail to get one another in a headlock.

"Joel!" you shout, and finally they pull apart, breathless with their hair and clothes askew. You're about ten feet away but Joel, being drunk as he is, stumbles to pick up his phone and presses it to his ear.

"Y'still there?" he pants into the receiver.

"No, I'm here, dumbass," you say sharply. Joel's head snaps up at the same time as Tommy's and he gives you the dopiest grin before pocketing his phone.

"There she is," he slurs, opening his arms wide. His dark T-shirt is splotched with wet marks, probably spilled beer, and his wallet looks like it's about to fall out of his back pocket. His hair is sticking up every which way and his eyes look glassy but he still looks absolutely thrilled to see you.

"This is what you woke me up for? Some discount version of the WWE?" You reach to push his wallet deeper into his pocket and he envelopes you in a bear hug, pulling your face abruptly against his chest. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes and you cringe before pushing him away.

"You stink."

"You smell fuckin' great," he says, still smiling like a fool.

Tommy says your name in a sing-songy voice, pulling your attention to the younger brother. He looks like Joel. All dark features, eyes that sparkle and a killer smile. His hair is cut short and he's clean shaven, very military-esque, but he's just as much a mess as Joel. His open button down shirt is hanging off one shoulder, revealing a white tank top underneath. His cheeks are pink and he looks a little sweaty. He's most definitely very drunk. Still, he remembers his manners and straightens his spine before offering you his hand and name.

"Yeah, I gathered, hi," you say, shaking his hand.

"Happy I get to put a face to the name," Tommy grins, still holding onto your hand. His eyes dart between you and Joel. "She's pretty," he tells his brother, and you speak before Joel can answer.

"She says thank you." You pull your hand away and glance around the front of the bar. Country music blares from somewhere inside—a live band, you think. Cigarette smoke clings to both their clothes and hovers in the air from nearby patrons taking a break against the wall. Laughter and shouting echo just inside the open door, which is framed by the two large bouncers watching the three of you warily.

"You with them?" One of the bouncers juts his chin stiffly in Tommy and Joel's direction. You sigh and nod before stepping away from them.

"Unfortunately. What'd they do?"

"That one—" The second bouncer scowls at Tommy. "Told my girlfriend he wanted to use her g-string as floss."

"Christ," you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"It was a compliment," Tommy chimes in behind you.

"For the record, this is not a great first impression of you, Tom," you say through clenched teeth.

"Then he climbed onto the stage when the band was on break and nearly broke the strings on the guy's twelve hundred dollar Fender."

"That rendition of Highway to Hell almost cleared out the whole bar," the first bouncer says, shaking his head. "Stumbled into some tables and broke a shit-ton of glasses. Got four customers soaked in gin. He's costin' us money."

"I am so sorry," you plead, "I'll take them home right now."

"They're lucky we didn't call the cops."

"Only reason we didn't is 'cause that one said he's military."

"I know, and I'm sure once they sober up, they will be able to appreciate that act of kindness," you say, turning to watch the two brothers grow bored and start bickering once again, but now it sounds like it's over who is going to get to sit shotgun. They start swatting at each other, which inevitably evolves to pushing and yelling, as the three of you continue to watch.

"The hangover'll be punishment enough," one of the bouncers mutters. You nod in agreement before turning back to the two men.

"So why does it feel like I'm being punished when I didn't even do anything?"

They chuckle and turn to slip back inside the bar. "At least your boyfriend wasn't the one startin' trouble."

"He's not my boyfriend," you grumble to yourself before looking back at the two brothers, poised to get into yet another wrestling match. "Hey! Knock it off and follow me to the car!"

"Yes, ma'am," Joel says instantly after giving Tommy one more hard shove. He falls into step next to you and slings an arm heavily around your shoulders while Tommy lights up a cigarette a few paces behind.

"What exactly was the plan here?" you ask, digging your keys out of your purse. "Who was gonna drive? You're both shitfaced."

Joel shrugs. "Cab. But th'bouncer was bein' a dick and didn't—"

"That bouncer did you guys a favor."

"Sure as hell did 'cause now you're here," Joel smirks.

You roll your eyes with a grin and unlock your car doors. "Get in," you say, shrugging off his arm.

"Shotgun," Tommy says, flicking his cigarette onto the sidewalk.

"No fuckin' way—"

"I called it!"

"I don't give a shit!"

"You have five seconds to figure it out before I leave you both here," you warn, slipping back into the driver's seat. Joel shoves Tommy and races around the front of your car, jumping in next to you and locking the door before his brother has a chance to catch up.

"Your mother must be a saint," you tell them flatly when Tommy begrudgingly slides into the backseat.

"Our Ma woulda let us get hauled to jail just to teach us a lesson," Tommy laughs.

"And we woulda thanked her for it the next day," Joel adds, slumping into your passenger seat with a heavy sigh. You fiddle with the heat before cracking your window again, then you check your mirrors and start to back out of your spot.

"Why d'you got the heat on if the window's open?" Joel asks.

"I like the fresh air but I'm cold."

"Can we stop 'n get some food?" asks Tommy, leaning forward to stick his head between your seats.

"Fine," you mumble, squinting your eyes to see through the dark lot.

"Wings?"

"Hell yeah, wings," Joel confirms.

"Where?" you ask tiredly. Between the two of them, you think you cobble together some coherent directions and you begin your journey to your first stop.

It's blissfully quiet for the drive. Both men seem to have tired themselves out a bit and they're quietly staring out the windows. It gives you a much needed break. By the time you approach the restaurant, you're feeling alot more relaxed than an hour ago.

"I'll run in and give 'em the order to-go," Tommy says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Probably be like twenty minutes or so."

"No way you're going in there alone, drunk off your ass," you scold, turning off the car. "We're all going in. C'mon."

Joel groans in protest but unbuckles his own seatbelt and follows you both inside. You usher them forward to the empty counter and make sure they don't order the entire menu before finding a booth to sit and wait. When Joel squeezes in next to you, casually tossing his arm over the back of the booth and scooting close enough so your legs touch under the table, Tommy grins and the inevitable interrogation begins.

"So," he says slowly, gaze darting back and forth, "how long's this been goin' on?"

"Little more than a month," Joel answers right away. It gives you pause until you realize he's right—it has been. In fact, it's closer to two months now since you first slept together. When the hell did that happen?

"How'd you meet?"

"He had a job working on my next door neighbor's house," you say, planning on leaving it at just that, but of course, Joel interjects.

"Kept comin' over to complain 'bout the noise. Took me a few days to realize she was flirtin' with me."

"I was not!" You smack his thigh under the table and he laughs.

"See? She's doin' it again. Yellin's her love language."

"What the hell's a love language?" Tommy asks, nose scrunched with confusion, but you both ignore him.

"Then what is your love language?" Joel asks, turning his body to face you in the booth. His arm rests on the table and he's smiling at you like you're the only two people in the room.

"Giving or receiving?"

"Now we're talkin'," Joel laughs, "both."

Tommy shakes his head. "Hey—what are love languages?"

"Giving is acts of service, receiving is words of affirmation," you answer without hesitation. You hold his gaze with an amused expression while he works out this new bit of information.

"So you do got a crush on me," he finally teases. Across from you, Tommy watches the exchange on a tape delay.

"How did you get that out of what I just said?" you argue.

Joel shrugs like it's obvious. "You picked us up when I called you in the middle of the night, didn't you? Sounds like an act of service t'me."

You blink slowly, then scoff. "I just didn't want you to get thrown in jail or die driving home."

"Nah, you like me," Joel smirks.

"Wait, wait—" Tommy says, waving his hands in the air. You each turn to him as thinks, which takes much longer than necessary. "Ain't you... together? Like, datin'? Why'd—what're you—"

"No," you reply, cutting him off. "We're just... hanging out."

"Hangin'... out?" Tommy echos, stretching out each word slowly. You nod but Joel remains quiet next to you. Tommy scratches his head as he thinks some more and you take a deep breath, willing their food to finish cooking faster. "So you ain't his girlfriend but... y'still came to pick us up tonight?"

You roll your eyes. Jesus, they're drunk.

"Yes."

Tommy and Joel are silent except for the rhythmic, impatient tapping of Joel's fingers on top of the booth behind you. Finally, a slow smile stretches across Tommy's face as he points accusingly at you across the table.

"You like him."

"What?" you frown.

"Told you," says Joel smugly.

"You got a big ol' crush on him."

You bury your face in your hands to hide the heat that has crept up to flood your neck and cheeks. "Shut up," you groan.

"Oh, Mama's gonna love her," Tommy says to Joel. Your head snaps up, eyes wide.

"She's a spitfire," Joel replies, like you're not even there.

"Exactly why she'll love her."

Your mouth opens to protest—to say anything to stop this terrifying conversation in its tracks—but mercifully, their order number gets called and both men stand to go pick up their bags, forgetting all about your current mortification.

"Shit, this smells good," Tommy murmurs, opening his bag. Joel reaches in and steals a fry, popping one in his mouth before snatching his own food from the counter. You still don't have your bearings when he tells you they're ready to go, both of them completely absorbed with their food and oblivious to the way embarrassment is still coursing through your veins.

The drive back to Joel's house is quiet. Usually, you'd tell them not to eat in your car, especially something as messy as chicken wings, but you need the silence so you can process your own thoughts, so you let it go this time.

You've been pushing it out of your head for a while now, but it's becoming hard to ignore. They're right, obviously. You do like Joel. Problem is, you like him... a lot. And you're entirely unsure how to navigate these feelings because everything with him was so unexpected that you never allowed yourself enough time to confidently heal before falling into this... thing with him. So you've been pushing him away. Keeping him at an arms length. And Joel's been okay with it. What keeps surprising you is his persistence. Most men would jump at the chance to carry on a casual sex relationship—all the benefits and none of the baggage of a committed relationship. And yet, Joel keeps suggesting more. The question is... can you offer more?

"Right here," Joel says, pointing with a sticky finger towards a sleepy little house on the right side of a cul-de-sac.

"You ain't ever been here before?" Tommy asks.

"Uh, no," you reply as you pull into Joel's driveway and shift your car into park. "Joel usually picks me up when we have plans."

"I'm a gentleman," he tells Tommy, shooting him a look in the mirror. "Could learn a thing or two."

"Shut up," Tommy snaps, then they both collect the rest of the food and shimmy out of your car. As you follow them to the front door, you cringe to think about the smell of hot wings currently embedding itself into the fibers of your seats.

The brothers stumble into Joel's modest house, bickering about god knows what as they make their way to the kitchen, leaving you to quietly shut the front door and look around.

His home is... warm. It's well lived in and cozy, and it instantly makes you feel comfortable. Not that you weren't before, it's just... you never know what you're going to get when you walk into a bachelor's house.

There's a few steps that lead up into an already dimly lit living room. The couch is pushed up against the front wall, angled towards the television that houses countless DVDs stacked on shelves next to it. There's some rather decent wall art that impresses you, and a fake plant or two, but what really takes you by surprise is the guitar resting against the wall.

You slip your sneakers off before stepping onto the plush carpet, feet softly crossing the room and stopping right before the instrument. You drag one finger gently over the neck, then test the feel of the strings under the pad of your thumb. You try to imagine Joel playing it, maybe even singing. The thought has you smiling to yourself before eventually dropping your hand and turning back around to map the rest of the house.

Across from you is a staircase leading to a hallway—bedrooms and bathroom, you assume. Right before the stairs is the opening to the kitchen, where bright lights flood the carpeted floor and cast shadows against the wall of the brothers moving somewhere around the corner from where you stand.

It's cute. You like it. It's definitely his space. There's a certain feel to it that just reminds you of Joel. Maybe it's the smell or the leather couch or the ambient lighting that puts you at ease, the same way his voice and touch manage to do.

"Hey—"

Joel's head appears around the corner, pulling you out of your analysis with a smile.

"Sorry," you tell him, feet instantly moving to join them in the kitchen.

"Don't be," he says softly in your ear right as you walk by. His fingers brush your arm briefly, grounding you without even realizing it. "You hungry? I saved you some." Joel grabs his bag from the counter and sets it on his small kitchen table, where you're currently standing. Tommy is deeper into the kitchen, leaning against the stove, eating a wing with one hand and holding a glass bottle of beer in the other. He looks perfectly content, like he's home, and you get the feeling that maybe Joel's house acts like a second home to his family because that's just how Joel is. He's... open. Kind. Hospitable. Easy going. Sweet.

Shit.

"No, I'm okay," you say, clearing your throat. He saved you some of his food. "You eat it. I'll have heartburn for days if I eat that right now."

"I got other stuff, too," Joel says immediately while reaching for his fridge. But you quickly wave him off.

"No, really, I'm good. Just tired."

Joel opens the fridge anyway and grabs a few bottles of water. He tosses one to Tommy who narrowly manages to catch it after dropping a bone into his bag.

"Drink it," Joel says firmly, although the slight drunken wobble in his knees takes some of the edge away from his threat.

"I will."

"And don't leave the door unlocked like last night," Joel adds. He hands you a water and slips his hand over yours, leading you to the staircase. Before your foot hits the first step, you pause.

"Oh, I was..."

Joel stops and looks at you over his shoulder, patiently waiting for you to continue. He looks so endearing, all drunk and sleepy, and there's something extra appealing about watching him maneuver in his home. It's like exploring a side of him you haven't seen before. So what are you going to do? Are you really going to tell him you're going home instead of staying the night? It's so late as it is.

You think it over for about half a second.

"Nevermind," you smile, and his fingers squeeze yours before he turns to climb the stairs, leading you into his bedroom and shutting the door.

Joel drops your hand and moves into the room, flicking on the lights next to his bed and readjusting the grey sheets and comforter while you stand at the door with your water, taking everything in. This is Joel's most private space. He had no clue you'd be seeing it tonight. There's no way he could have prepared or hidden anything weird... what you're seeing is the real deal. The raw, honest version of his life. And... you like it. You like it.

His room is a bit messy, but that's fine. It's normal to have random articles of clothing draped over a hardly used treadmill in the corner. It's normal to have the top of a dresser filled with odds and ends he likely emptied from his pockets after too many long days. It's normal to have a hamper with dirty clothes hanging over the sides. There's nothing scary or strange here. There's nothing to "find".

Your gaze slowly slides over his king sized bed, where he just finished fixing the bedding. On one end table is a dead plant, an open magazine, and a television remote. The other has a coaster and his phone charger. But what really draws your eye is the artwork hung above his cherry spindle bed frame.

On the right is a vintage music festival poster for Club Deville. The center lists all of the musical acts in a warped font, the top advertises tacos and beer, and as if you couldn't already guess, Austin, TX is listed as the location on the bottom. There's an equally old looking poster for another festival on the left side of the wall, but this one has half of an acoustic guitar taking up a big chunk of the ad, along with the names of some acts you don't recognize. And right in the middle, taking up residence directly front and center, is a peaceful painting of a mountainous region with one single solitary deer in the foreground. You wonder if he chose it because something about the deer being all alone spoke to him, or if it was just a coinscidence.

"It ain't much," Joel fidgets slightly and you realize your silence may have unintentionally made him a little nervous, "but it's mine. Great neighbors, good schools, safe area." He moves to his dresser and begins rummaging for pajamas.

"I like it, too," you say softly. He pauses before twisting to look at you, but your eyes are back on the posters. "I didn't realize music was such a big interest of yours."

He follows your gaze and nods. "Yeah, I like to check out concerts when I can."

"And you play guitar?" you ask. Joel shuts a dresser drawer and tosses clean clothes onto the bed.

"Wouldn't say that. Used to, when I had more time. But now—" Joel strips his shirt over his head and you immediately lock onto his broad chest, "—I don't really practice as much. Can't seem to bring myself to get rid of the thing, though."

You feel a little hypnotized for a second as he stands there shirtless because it takes you until a fresh shirt is almost over his head when you blink and stop him.

"Wait, you've gotta shower," you say, stepping forward, "you stink like whiskey and cigarettes."

Joel frowns and lifts one arm to sniff himself. "I don't smell it."

"Of course you don't, you're nose blind to it by now. Don't put fresh clothes on—" You stop him again when he lifts his shirt to shove it over his head and he eyeballs you with a look you can read a mile away.

"You're just tryin' to get me naked."

"Oh, shut up," you say, but the smile that tugs across your face takes the bite out of your words.

Joel dramatically sighs in defeat and drops the clean shirt back on his bed. "Fine," he grumbles, undoing his belt buckle as he walks to the bathroom attached to his room, "but you're comin' with me."

"What? Why?"

"I'm drunk," he says over his shoulder. Then his jeans slide down his legs, along with his boxers, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of his bare backside. "Might fall 'n hit my head. You'll never be able to live with yourself."

You want to say something snippy in response, but you don't. Instead, you leave your water by the bed and pad across the carpet to the bathroom. This room isn't decorated that much, save for a fancy sounding soap next to his sink that you find yourself reaching for.

"Wouldn't take you for a shea butter and eucalyptus kind of guy," you say, taking a sniff. Behind you, the water is already turned on, warming up as you investigate the room further. But then Joel's hands are on your hips, lifting up your sweatshirt so his palms can glide slowly across your stomach and you pause.

"Gotta keep my hands soft f'you, don't I?" he murmurs in your ear before his teeth gently graze your lobe. Your eyelids flutter and you feel the heat already building below your neckline. Your head tips back to rest on his shoulder and his lips keep moving, grazing lightly over your throat while he pushes your sweatshirt up further.

You tilt your chin to the side so your mouth is right next to his ear. "But I like them a little rough," you whisper, then smile when you hear him groan.

"Yeah, I know you do, honey," he says gruffly against your neck. Goosebumps erupt over your skin from the scratch of his beard. His fingers splay wide across your hips and squeeze. "Goddamn, you're so pretty. Missed you so much."

"It's only been five days," you tease, squirming out of his hold. He pouts and your gaze drops to find him fully naked and half hard.

"Five very long days," he says, reaching for you again. You giggle and swat his hands away.

"Clean up first," you tell him. He rolls his head back and makes a frustrated noise before doing as he's told and turning his attention back to the shower.

"Not fair. Teasin' me like this," he says after he steps behind the glass door. You perch on the edge of his sink, swinging your legs playfully over the side as you strip your sweatshirt off. The steam from the shower and the heat of Joel's touch is too much, so you leave it in a pile with his clothes, not really caring if it smells like his night out when you pick it up tomorrow.

Of course, his gaze tracks the movement through the glass and he gives you an appreciative look when you're left in just a tight camisole and your sleep shorts.

"What'd I just say?"

You laugh. "It's hot in here!"

He rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath before reaching for his soap. You watch with your lower lip snagged between your teeth as he lathers up: white, foamy bubbles slide effortlessly down his strong arms, his broad chest, his thick cock. You swallow.

Joel glances at you every so often as you shamelessly watch those big hands glide over his dark hair, threading shampoo through the messy locks and then scrub mindlessly at his short beard. Your face must give you away, you think, because it's hard to hide the arousal building in your core the longer you stare. It's also impossible not to notice that he's now fully erect between his legs. The sight of his cock bobbing every time he turns around makes your thighs press together tightly, desperately trying to quell the ache.

Fuck it, you think, and slide off the counter.

"What're you doin'?" Joel asks when you crack open the glass door.

"Missed a spot," you say, reaching in to snag his washcloth. "Turn around."

He smirks and does as you say so you can pretend to wash a spot on his back when in reality, all you want to do is feel the heat and strength of his body under your fingertips.

"Get it?" he asks.

"Yep," you lie, and what happens next is so fast you hardly have time to register it.

Joel takes the washcloth with one hand and your wrist with the other, tugging you inside the shower and pressing you against the cool tile wall in a heartbeat. You squeal when the hot water from the shower head pelts your still very much clothed body, but Joel doesn't care. He presses his wet body against yours and kisses you so deeply that it steals your breath, and any sense that was left in your brain is gone.

Soaked clothes be damned. Your arms circle around his neck and your lips part, inviting his tongue to sweep inside your mouth, past your teeth, pulling a soft moan from your throat. Your hair sticks to your skin, along with your clothes. It's uncomfortable and messy but you don't care. You don't care. For the first time in forever, disorder doesn't bother you. The desire to live in the moment is overriding that voice in your head that is typically deafening, and it feels... exhilarating.

"Did I thank you for pickin' us up tonight?" Joel murmurs against your lips. Before you can answer, his fingers peel open your shorts and sneak past your panties. You gasp into his mouth and he smirks.

"No—no," you stammer when his finger finds your slit. He strokes you there a few times, refusing to touch your clit or press so much as a fingertip inside you.

"No?" he echos.

"Maybe. May—be you d-did..." You trail off because your muscles are going rigid with anticipation and it's pulling all your focus. "Can—can't remember."

Joel tuts under his breath. "Then lemme thank you in a way I'll know you remember."

Your head knocks back against the wall when one thick finger slips inside your pussy. The loud moan that leaves your mouth surely would have gotten Tommy's attention had Joel not muffled it with his lips. He kisses you with so much heat that your knees buckle, or maybe it's the way he crooks his finger just right inside you, it's hard to tell. Joel's free arm wraps around your waist for support when he feels you weaken, pinning you against the wall as the water falls in sheets around you both.

His name harshly rips from your throat when he adds a second finger. The stretch is sharp, your body is too tense, but it quickly melts into pleasure after a few snaps of his wrist.

"Goddamn," Joel breathes, "you're so wet for me."

You shudder when his thumb brushes a tight circle over your clit.

"It's—the water," you gasp unconvincingly.

Joel chuckles and dips his chin down to suck on your neck.

"Bullshit," he mumbles, "I saw the way you were droolin' over this cock, watchin' me. 'N if I could stand the feelin' of a wet condom, I'd be fuckin' you senseless right now."

A shiver rolls straight down your spine.

"I need these off," you pant, shifting your hips. "Take these off—please—"

The fingers inside you stall but remain right where they are while his free hand slips from your waist to tug down your sopping wet bottoms. They fall at your feet with a loud splat and you sigh with relief now that Joel has better access to your body, then he picks up right where he left off.

You whimper and squirm under his touch, body tightening around his fingers when he spreads them apart inside you, reminding you how much you can take and how easy it would be to slip his cock inside you right now.

An insane part of you, the one lost to the haze of pleasure he's currently pulling from your body, reaches down. Your fingers wrap around his cock and you almost angle it so you can sink down on it but the broken moan that falls from Joel's lips echos and skitters over the cool tile walls and stops you.

"Are—are you...?"

"More," he begs, then presses down firmly over your clit. Stars streak across your vision and you obey, sliding your fist up and down, feeling the way he twitches in your palm, reveling in the way he can't seem to remember his own name but he's still managing to fuck you deep and fast with two of his fingers.

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, "keep goin', j-just like that..."

White hot heat fills your body, spreads through your limbs and knocks the air from your lungs. His hips begin to rock steadily into your fist, chasing your touch. Your muscles pull tighter every time he presses his fingers against that devastatingly sensitive spot inside you, and it feels selfish to want more when he's making you feel so good, and yet—

"I want you to fuck me," you whine, "Joel, p-please, I wanna fee—"

His mouth sears over yours, probably shutting you up so he wouldn't be tempted to do something stupid. His tongue pushes into your mouth in rhythm with his fingers. It sets your skin on fire and makes you want to tear off your tank top so you can feel every inch of his warm, wet skin against yours.

When your thumb glides over the tip of his cock and your fist twists down with just the right amount of pressure, his palm slaps loudly against the wall next to your head and he comes, pouring his sticky release all over your fingers and groaning brokenly into your mouth.

"M'sorry," he gasps, hips still flexing, "oh, fu-uck, m'sor—"

"Don't stop," you rasp, clean hand coming up to clutch feverishly at his shoulder. His wrist snaps steadily, the heel of his hand slapping against your swollen clit, driving you higher and higher—literally. At some point you've risen to your tiptoes like your body is elevating but eventually there's no where else to go except to give in.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck when you come, body convulsing in waves as his fingers fuck you through it. Your hand is still wrapped around his cock, only loosening when your body goes limp and sags against his chest.

"Good girl," he whispers hoarsely. Your eyes flutter shut against his shoulder and you're so tired that you don't even wince when he removes his fingers, but you do crack an eye open when he raises his hand to his mouth without hesitation. You watch in a daze as he slides both fingers against his tongue, hollows his cheeks, and softly hums at the taste. Joel catches you staring and you think he's going to make some type of filthy joke, but to your surprise, his expression remains serious. He makes a show of taking his time, licking his fingers clean while you watch with your wet hair and cheek stuck to his shoulder. If it weren't for the water loudly falling around you, you're certain he would be able to hear your heart beating frantically in your chest.

"I know you don't like it," Joel begins after he slowly removes his clean fingers, "but you taste so fuckin' good, honey."

His words ricochet in your brain on a loop: you taste so fuckin' good, you taste so fuckin' good. Joel steps back and makes sure you can stand before helping clean your hand under the shower stream, then lifts the hem of your shirt over your head. It peels off like a second skin and joins the rest of your clothes in the tub. Next, he twists the shower knob to turn off the water and you watch him reach for a fresh towel. He wraps you up first, rubbing your arms to make sure you're warm, and you still haven't said a word. You taste so fuckin' good. Then he grabs one for himself and you watch dumbly as he dries his hair, then his upper body before tying the towel loosely around his waist.

You taste so fuckin' good.

"C'mon," he says softly, offering you his hand. You swallow tightly and shakily take it, allowing him to lead you out of the shower and back into his room. When the air conditioning hits your skin, you shiver, but Joel is quickly offering you a pair of his boxers and a well worn black tshirt. Your eyelids feel heavy as you watch him fall to his knees to help you step into the boxers, one leg at a time. The tips of his fingers trail lightly up the back of your leg with a look on his face like he's admiring a piece of art, then he gently removes the towel, letting it fall to the floor, leaving you topless. His eyes darken when they lock onto your breasts, your nipples hardening under his heavy gaze, but he doesn't try anything. He motions for you to lift your arms so you do, then the soft shirt that smells just like him is gliding over your skin and you swear you could fall asleep standing up, you're that comfortable. You taste so fuckin' good.

"Let's get some sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs after cupping your face and brushing his lips tenderly over your own.

It's not until the lights are off and his bare body is curved around yours that you feel brave enough to speak.

"It's not that I don't like it."

The arm that is draped over your waist stiffens slightly. It's the only indication he's heard you. You let the words settle in the air for a moment, not quite sure what to say next. Then Joel finally speaks.

"Wanna tell me 'bout it, or no?"

You swallow and stare into the darkness. Even though you couldn't see him anyway, you're glad he's behind you. It feels safer this way. Easier.

"I dated someone once," you say timidly, "who wasn't very... nice about it."

Joel stays quiet and lets you talk. He lets you say what you're comfortable saying and he doesn't push or grow impatient with how long it takes you to get the words out. His thumb just rubs soothingly over your hip, a reminder that he's listening.

"I can't... can't relax enough to really enjoy it anymore," you finally manage to admit. "I'm too in my head now. Being the only one wh—who gets anything from it... it's too much pressure or—something."

Joel's lips press against your shoulder blade but still remains silent. He can feel your muscles, every single one tense and practically trembling along the curve of his body.

"Can you please say something?" you whisper.

"If you don't want me to, I won't," he says softly, "but if you trust me enough one day to let me try, I promise you ain't gonna be the only one who enjoys it."

Your heart cartwheels in your chest. You want to believe him, but it's hard. It's so, so hard. You want to trust Joel, you really do, but you're just not ready yet. The walls you've built up took several years to build, and it's going to take some time to knock them down. But you feel a little lighter after sharing this small piece with him, so you figure that's a good sign.

"Can I ask you one thing?" Joel's voice is soft and deep against your back, and his body warming you under his covers is quickly putting you to sleep, but still you give him a sleepy mhmm.

"Where is he now?"

"Prison," you whisper before you can even consider lying. Maybe you didn't want to lie.

There's a pause, then when Joel speaks, the softness in his voice is gone.

"Did—did he... hurt you?"

You hear him, but you don't answer. You don't need to. He already knows.

***

You wake up the next morning to Joel's big hands sliding over the curves of your body, slowly, like he's trying not to wake you. And he's successful, for the most part, because you're aware of him but your head is still heavy with sleep and your muscles are so relaxed and loose in his comfortable bed, so you don't open your eyes. You let his hands wander under your—his—shirt, and bask in the warmth from the morning sun streaming through the window. Or, wait—that warmth might be coming from his body pressing firmly against your back. Either way, it's heavenly, so you let yourself drift.

"I like wakin' up with you in my bed," he mumbles before sucking on a spot behind your ear. Your skin flashes with goosebumps from the delicate graze of his beard and you smile—one thing about Joel is he will never let a vulnerable moment make you feel uncomfortable. Ending the night on a sensitive topic would normally leave anyone waking up feeling raw and exposed, but he knows well enough by now to understand you'll share more when you're ready.

"Shouldn't you be hungover?" you ask sleepily. His arms tighten around your torso.

"Nah. Got the cure right here," he says while simultaneously pushing his hips against your ass. You feel the hard outline of his cock and your pulse skips.

"Joel, your brother—"

"He can sleep through a hurricane," he says, cutting you off. Then his fingers drift up and brush gently over one of your nipples and your spine straightens. You don't fully believe him, but you're willing to test that theory because Joel is just too irresistible at the moment and hell, he's still completely naked. You feel it now when you reach back and circle your fist around his cock. A breath gets caught in your throat and his fingers gently squeeze your nipple with a grunt.

Your gaze sweeps over to the digital clock on his dresser and you convince yourself it's probably too early for Tommy to be awake yet anyway, so you release your hold on his erection and begin to push his boxers down your legs, but when you start to shimmy out of his hold to remove his shirt, he stops you.

"Leave it on," he mutters while squeezing your other breast, "I like it. Looks—looks good on you."

"Yeah?" you breathe with a smirk over your shoulder. Joel kisses you for the first time that morning with a soft mhmm, then pulls away to reach for his nightstand. Still laying on your side, you listen to the drawer open, then the telltale sound of foil crinkling before a beat of silence where you assume he's rolling on the condom. You make a move to roll over when he stops you, pressing his chest up against your back again.

"Wanna fuck you like this," he murmurs before hooking an arm under your knee and lifting it up. You gasp softly when your legs spread open so brazenly in the morning light, then shudder with anticipation because there's something you really like about being maneuvered in his bed like this, especially when you can't get a clear visual. When the tip of his cock bumps against your pussy, you nearly jump out of your skin. Luckily, Joel is still holding open your legs so he manages to keep you in position, but he still chuckles in your ear and whispers for you to stay still.

He notches at your entrance and hardly gives you a chance to breathe before pushing in. Your legs tense at the intrusion and your fingers grab at the pillow under your head for something to hold onto, but Joel's grip under your knee remains firm.

"Shit," he groans, "so fuckin' warm, Christ—"

He pushes in further, splitting you open inch by inch. One hand drops between your legs and your fingers spread around his girth so you can feel him enter you and—shit—he's so thick and it feels so good.

You whine his name through clenched teeth and squeeze your eyes shut, only remembering to exhale once his hips grow flush with your ass.

"You're so hard," you whimper. He shifts and drives himself even deeper, making your jaw drop.

"All 'cause of you, honey," he growls, teeth skimming your ear, then your throat. "Always 'cause of you. So fuckin'... soft 'n—pretty." He sounds pained behind you as he showers you with praise and you can't tell if it's because he's trying to stay quiet or if the deep rock of his hips sinking into your cunt is stealing his breath the same way it's stealing yours.

Your heavy gaze drops down between your legs, where you can just barely see him disappearing inside you over and over, but the angle is too severe to truly see it all. Instead, you have to imagine how your cunt looks stretched open on his cock, you feel how wet he is every time he withdraws his hips, you imagine how his knuckles have to be white with how hard he's gripping your knee.

"So good to me, lettin' me ha-have you like this," he pants in your ear, "what'd I do to—deserve you?"

You hum and arch your back, just a little. Just enough to allow him in deeper. Then your fingers drift up, away from where he's impaling you, and begin to draw slow circles over your neglected clit.

With a sigh, you start to roll your hips. You want to answer but you can't. Nothing comes to mind because... well. Frankly, it's still hard to comprehend he actually likes you as much as he says he does. But it's okay, because he's not really looking for you to reply. He's too fixated on the way your pussy flutters around his length and how your tits look bouncing softly inside his shirt with every deep thrust.

His trembling arm pinned under your side snakes up the front of your shirt and finds your right breast, palming and massaging it while he groans into the back of your neck. Heat burns through your limbs as you rub your clit faster, bringing yourself closer to the edge, but then Joel's hand releases your breast and drops to flick your fingers away. You almost cry out in protest but then the firm pad of his finger is there, pressing down and making you feel much better than you own hand.

"Gotta let me—take care of you sometimes," he says, "lemme give you what you need."

Your eyes roll back because Jesus Christ, easier said than fucking done. You've been taking care of yourself for so long, refusing to rely on anyone anymore after you've been burned, but here's this man—this strong, funny, sweet, sexy, man—who's begging you to let go a little and allow him to help you. And you want him to. You really want him to.

"Okay," you breathe. His hips jerk harder and he opens your hips wider.

"Good girl," he groans, and you have to turn to muffle the feral sounds that rip from your throat into your pillow. "Just wanna ta—take care of you, make you feel good."

"You do," you gasp, body jostling from the force of his thrusts. Your balance is fucked laying on your side but Joel has a good grip around you—you're not going anywhere. Your hand flies back to grab the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to your neck. His lips suction over your throat and then you turn your chin so he can kiss you, which he does. Without hesitation, his mouth seals over yours and his tongue parts your lips. Having him like this—pummeling you from behind, strong arm wrapped around your middle stroking your clit, soft lips moving perfectly against yours—it's an addicting feeling. The kiss only gets broken because the tip of his cock presses tightly against a spot that has you throwing your head back and gasping for air. Then his teeth are there, biting gently at your lower lip while hitting that same spot over and over and—

"Oh, fuck—" you moan, clawing at the back of his head while your muscles pull tight, "—fuck, Joel, I'm—"

The words get knocked out of you when he starts to fuck you faster. Hot puffs of air leave his mouth and cascade over your face and neck. He's struggling to hold on so you can come first and that just makes you even more turned on. Your cunt clenches around him in response and he gasps but doesn't stop. His fingers scrub at your clit and his hips collide roughly against your ass with so much determination that you're fairly certain if a bomb went off outside his window, he still wouldn't stop.

The heat builds bright hot in your belly and spreads to your thighs, which ache from being held open so long but you know the soreness will be worth it. In fact, you hope you are sore. You want to feel him whenever you move the rest of the day. You want to carry that secret reminder of how good he fucks you. The fantasy sends sparks behind your eyelids and you gasp his name, probably way too loudly, but you don't care anymore.

"That's it," he grunts, "let g-go, baby, c'mon. I ne—need it. Wanna wat—watch that pretty face when y-you come."

Baby. He doesn't call you that often, maybe only once or twice, but shit—hearing it today sets something off in your brain. His voice is so soft around the word, making it sound full of meaning rather than some throwaway term of endearment that gets picked in the heat of the moment.

Maybe he did that on purpose.

Maybe you really like it.

You open your mouth, ready to warn him, but your orgasm tears through you unexpectedly and instead your voice breaks over the words, splintering into the air as your vision blurs and your body gives in, jolting with pleasure in his hold.

You must have been too loud because when your senses start to return, you realize Joel's mouth is covering yours. But then a second later he's coming with a muffled groan of your name and you don't really care anymore because the hot throb of his cock between your legs is all you want to think about. At some point you pull his hand away from your clit, too overstimulated to take any more, but he's lost in his own hazy pleasure, still riding out his orgasm with weak, stunted rolls of his hips. You know it's over when a shudder rockets down his spine and his grip around your middle loosens, but you both still lay there, intertwined and breathless.

"Christ," he finally rasps, resting his sweaty forehead on your shoulder as he pants for air. You wince a bit when he drops your leg and immediately flex the joints to encourage circulation to return. Then his breath begins to level out and you feel the soft graze of his mouth over your skin before he sweeps the hair out of your eyes. "You okay, darlin'? Still with me?"

"Mhm," you reply, but your eyes are closed and your limbs are boneless, suggesting otherwise. "Think I need a nap," you mumble, then smile when you feel his fingers drift carefully over your face, like he's memorizing it. A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, you can feel it pressed against your back, jolting your body with his as he quietly laughs and kisses your cheek.

"You can stay here as long as you want," he says before shifting his hips back. His cock slips out of you and you make a soft noise but otherwise remain still. "Any time you want, for that matter."

"Asking me to move in already?" you giggle into the pillow.

"If it means I get to wake up to this every day, I'll start packin' your shit right now."

"You're crazy," you sigh before rolling onto your back. You're stiff as hell but you feel good. So, so good. Your eyes flutter open to find Joel leaning on his elbow, looking down at you with the dopey smile that shows off those goddamn dimples.

"Ain't my fault. You make me crazy."

"So it's my fault?"

"Yeah. Fuckin'—minx," he grins before cupping your cheek and kissing you so sweetly you almost forget he just fucked the life out of you like an animal. Almost.

You hum happily when he pecks a few small kisses against your lips, deciding to just let yourself enjoy the moment without worrying or overthinking or panicking or... any of the other bullshit you're prone to doing.

"I'm stealing this shirt," you whisper with your eyes closed, plucking feebly at the shirt he dressed you in the night before. His mouth twitches, you can feel the sharp bristles of his beard before he speaks.

"Anythin' you want, it's yours."

Your eyes pop open and give him a mischievous look. "Anything?"

He nods very seriously. "Anythin'."

You tap your chin for a moment before raising an eyebrow, which he returns as he waits for your request.

"How about breakfast?"

"What do you like?"

"Do you have eggs?"

"I do."

"And toast?"

"Got it."

"Extra butter?"

Joel laughs and pushes himself up. Your eyes trail over his stark naked body as he strolls casually to his bathroom.

"Comin' right up, honey."

He disappears into the room to dispose of the condom and clean himself up while you stretch out happily in his bed, like a cat in the sun. When he returns, he goes to his dresser for some clothes and you watch lazily as he gets himself ready.

"Alright, so," he says brightly, "eggs, toast with extra butter, and sausage. You stay right here—"

"I didn't say anything about sausage."

"Didn't have to. Know you already love it." Then he winks at you and you groan in disgust.

"You're gross."

"Ain't what you were sayin' twenty minutes ago."

You throw a pillow in his general direction and he ducks, missing the impact with a laugh. But when he reaches for the doorknob, you suddenly sit up in bed and clear your throat.

"Wait—"

He glances back at you and drops his arm to his side. He's still smiling and it makes you smile, too, because you put that smile on his face. You made him feel happy.

So, with only a slight tremor to your voice, you square your shoulders and swallow your nerves.

"I... have a crush on you."

His eyes slowly brighten and his smile widens. He takes a step forward, back in your direction, but then stops.

"You like me." It's not a question.

"I do."

"How much?"

Your mouth twists and you frown as if you're thinking, then hold up your thumb and forefinger, measuring about an inch of space between the two. "This much?"

"Bullshit," Joel laughs, and you can't help it. You laugh too, drop your hand in your lap, and tilt your head to the side.

"Yeah. You're right. That was bullshit."

And this time, he doesn't hold himself back. He crosses the room in three long strides and bends down, fists sinking into the mattress on either side of your hips, and he kisses you. It's firm and sweet and made all the better by your matching smiles. When he pulls away, your nose bumps gently against his when you speak.

"I like you a lot."

"I know," he whispers, taking away any chance of there being an awkward, vulnerable moment, then gives you one more quick kiss before straightening up.

"I'll be back," he tells you, turning towards the door once again. "Get some rest. I got a feelin' you'll like me even more after breakfast, you'll need your strength."

"Shut up," you giggle, falling into his sheets. The door opens then shuts and you lay there, content, surrounded by his scent and his things and his clothes. It's scary, you know that, but you can't stop yourself. It feels so good to be with him. And, hell, maybe he actually is different.

How else will you know unless you give it a try?

"Tommy! You left the goddamn door unlocked again!"

"Jesus, Joel, my fuckin' head—"

Then there's shuffling and grunting downstairs that sounds way too familiar and your eyes open to stare, unamused, at the ceiling.

Yeah, he's definitely different, alright.

***

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It had been a wonderful evening. Truly. On all accounts. One spent beneath twinkling string lights and surrounded by the little community Jackson had fostered, but it came at the worst of times—with its slow and silent crawl from the dimmest recesses of your mind. And yeah, maybe you’d left the window open a sliver, or maybe it had slipped in through the crack in the wall that you’d put off patching up. Maybe it didn’t matter who poked the slumbering beast or how the waters came to be stirred. 

The quiet voice arrives unbidden and undeterred by the love you’ve surrounded yourself with. It seeks to pick and chip away at the already fragile fissures of your confidence. It imparts unto you all the haggard things you don’t want to feel. You’ve stewed in it—in the discomfort of your own skin and the fictitious judgements. You’ve fretted over the unseen looks and imagined thoughts that you have conjured up on others' behalf.

You are unraveling. A ball of yarn unspooled and frayed at the ends, one thread drifting farther and farther from the collective whole. The mattress dips as you lower yourself onto its edge. In the quietness you can hear the gentle rush of running water. On any other day you might’ve joined Joel in the shower but you’re too far gone, too wrapped up in your doubts. Your dress bunches in your lap, your fingers clutching at the fabric as you let out a shaky exhale. 

When you lift your gaze, you’re met with your reflection across from you in the sliding mirrored closet doors, and you think that you might like to tear them from their track. It is not the image you wish to happen upon in this moment—not when your vision is so warped and perception skewed. But something urges you to stand, and your feet carry you closer. That cold and harrowing feeling washes over you, ebbing and flowing, prickling over your skin. It is the ice in your veins. It is the lump in your throat. It is the ache that wells unbearably in your chest. It is the recognition of all you try not to acknowledge. It is the realization that you must be blind otherwise everyone else is a liar. 

All of the sudden your dress is too tight. It hugs your stomach and hips awkwardly. It outlines you weirdly or maybe you were just shaped that way to begin with. The straps showcase the pudginess of your arms. You should’ve worn something with longer sleeves, something with a skirt long enough to cover your legs, something looser, something with enough flowy fabric to cover every flaw. You wonder what possessed you to choose this dress out of all the others. Did you really let others see you like this? You hardly recognize what you’re doing—dissecting, scrutinizing, taking yourself apart piece by piece. Carving and whittling away until all that was there is gone. 

The bathroom door creaks and white light spills into the bedroom, but you don’t really register it. You’re so absorbed in your thoughts and judgements that you only notice Joel's presence when the door swings shut behind him. He stands there, salt and pepper hair tousled and damp, wearing nothing but his plaid sleep pants. For some reason, seeing him makes everything you feel expand and grow tenfold. You jut your chin to the side but he’s already closing the distance, coming up behind you and winding his arms around your middle. 

Warmth pours into you as his scent envelops you—cedar, citrus, and comfort—that fresh, lovely smell of the homemade soap he uses intertwined with a scent that is so distinctly yet indescribably him. A damp strand of his hair tickles your cheek as he plants a kiss along your jaw. His hands slide lower and your breath hitches. He’s oblivious to your turmoil but your silence won’t go unnoticed for long.

“The- the door…” you start but your voice wavers and you stumble over the words. “The hinges need to be greased.” 

It’s a lame and poor excuse for conversation—a hurried, trembling remark to fill the silence and feign some sort of normalcy. You see the moment his brows knit together, and he lifts his gaze to meet yours in the reflection. A look of realization dawns on his face. Your watery eyes, trembling lip, and the critical, assessing look that you direct at yourself. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” His hold grows firmer, tugging you tighter against his body. There’s a low, quelled anger that simmers beneath his next words. “Did somebody say somethin’?”

And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? There is no rhyme or reason to this feeling you harbour. Would it be easier if there was someone to blame? Would it be easier if there was a simple and concise reasoning for the tears currently brimming your eyes? But there isn’t. There’s just you, and this habit—this line of thought so often and secretly tread that the path has become trodden and trampled, stomped down a hundred times over.

“No… no, it’s nothing,” you say weakly, reaching down to pry his hands away but they don’t budge.

“Oh, s’nothin’?” he asks. “Nothin’s why you’re standin’ in front of the mirror on the verge of tears?” 

You open your mouth to protest but nothing comes out, and then the tears are slipping down your cheeks before you can hope to stop them. You wipe them away furiously, but whatever mirage you had been trying to construct wavers and the curtains are drawn back. The truth floats between the two of you even though it remains unspoken. 

For a long moment neither of you say anything. You watch silently as he takes in your form, but his eyes hold none of the contempt that yours do—just the pure adoration that your brain tries to convince you must be a trick of the light. He knows exactly what kind of thoughts have flayed you open and torn you up inside.

“Do I not tell you how beautiful you are every day?” he questions, pressing himself closer to you. 

“Joel– that’s… not,” you huff, shaking your head. It’s not anything he’s done or hasn’t done. You don’t know how to articulate it properly. It’s you. There isn't an outside source. No, it comes from within—there is something inherently wrong within you. A deep rooted insecurity so ingrained in yourself. You’ve done your best to bury it, but it surfaces from time to time. A festering wound that refuses to heal no matter the remedy. You see the gears turning in his head, and you can already tell that Joel’s going to make it his sole purpose to be your cure and chase all those bad thoughts away.

“Does my girl not realize how obsessed I am with her?” He coos as his hands sink lower, slipping beneath your skirt and caressing your thighs. He pauses to give them a firm squeeze, finger tips dimpling the plushness there. “These thighs…”

He coasts his hands up to feel out your tummy, hiking your dress up with the movement to reveal the pretty panties you’d chosen to wear. He hums, eyeing them appreciatively as he nuzzles against your shoulder. The scruff of his beard scrapes against the supple skin there. One hand slips between your legs to cup your mound. He tucks his fingers right over your clothed slit and you jolt when taps them against your clit. “Your curves.”

A shudder courses through you, hips twitching at the contact before he raises his hands up, up, up. Your ample breasts fill his hands, fitting into the grooves of his broad palms. “These pretty tits.”

“My gorgeous, gorgeous woman…” he continues, kneading your breasts. His head nudges yours, urging you to look at your reflection. He’s scooped your tits right out of your dress, they spill into his hands in surplus. His body wraps around yours from behind, completely entangled with you. Your skirt is ruffled and disheveled, partially rucked up your thighs. A shaft of sunlight pours into the room through the gap between the curtains. The last glittering light of golden hour illuminates you, catching in your hair and along the lovely shape of you. He gazes upon your reflection with the most ravishing look. “I love every fuckin’ inch of you. Your body is a work of art, darlin’.” 

“What do I gotta do to prove it to you, hm?”

It’s a hopeless sort of feeling to hear those words pour from him, from his heart, like it’s the truth—like it’s something you’re meant to take for gospel. Yet it doesn’t quite compute in your brain. He sings a song of praise, but the words are misshapen pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit alongside the image you have of yourself. You don’t know how to admit it without breaking his heart.  

“Joel, this isn’t necessary,” you mumble as you look at your reflection. Your vision is blurring again, tears gathering anew. 

“Isn’t it?” he says as he curls his fingers into your panties and begins to lower them. “Let me love on you… ‘s what I’m here for.” 

His hands move to your waist next as he walks you backwards. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops down onto the mattress, pulling you down to straddle his thigh.

“I love this dress on you.” He tugs at the hem, lifting it up and off of you. “Couldn't keep my eyes off you all damn day, wonderin’ what I ever did to deserve a beautiful woman like you.”

You're entirely bare now, and though he's seen your body many times before, it feels different this time. As though a nerve has been scraped raw and exposed, but he handles you with the utmost care. Gentle, tender touches that seem utterly uncharacteristic of the kind of man he appears to be.

He brushes a stray hair aside and kisses your temple. His lips linger there for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut as he seems to relish in the moment. 

“It’s fine– I’m fine…” you whisper. It is second nature to deny yourself this treatment—to pave it over with fibs and false reassurances. Even if it’s something you crave. It feels a little too much, but also way too damn good. You hesitate to indulge in it like you want to, afraid that the rug might be pulled out from under you. “There’s no need for all of this.”

His eyes snap open, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “I beg to differ.” His thigh jolts beneath you and a soft sound tumbles from you. Your hips roll down against him, the fabric of his pants catching against your clit. His hands grip your waist, guiding your movements over his leg. “You look so fuckin’ sexy… my girl takin’ her pleasure from me, mhm… that’s it.” 

You’re sick of feeling this way—of constantly falling over yourself, doubling back, and thrashing against all the good, sweet words. You want to feel beautiful. You want to feel like the woman Joel describes before him. So you decide that you’ll try to wrap yourself up in his praise, and cradle your tender heart, brittle ego, and scarred eyes in whatever antidote he’s concocted for you.

His words goad you on, your head tilting back as you grind down on his thick, muscled thigh. Everything else falls away. The whirlwind storm at the forefront of your mind is temporarily subdued as you immerse yourself in sensation.

“Gonna come for me?” He husks, leaning back to take in the sight of you. “Gonna come on my leg, sweet girl? Look at that mess you’re making…”

“Nghh– Joel, hah…!” you mewl, shaking your head. It’s not quite enough. The pleasure doesn't compound upon itself. The growth is stunted and frustration wells inside you, unfurling and overshadowing satisfaction. “N-need more– please!”

Joel stills your hips and adjusts you over his lap. His face comes to rest against the crook of your neck, fitting perfectly into the curve. He shifts to trail a couple kisses along your shoulder before slanting his gaze up at the mirror. 

"Spread your legs f'me,” he murmurs and you comply, inching your legs apart. “Wider.”

You hesitate, legs trembling. He takes matters into his own hands, prying your legs open and hinging them over the tops of his knees. You gasp, clasping at the arms that move to cage you against him. One strong arm bands around your midsection, his hand splaying over your plump stomach, fingers dipping into the pillowy flesh there.

“Good girl." The praise spurs on the whirring butterflies in your tummy. Warmth creeps up your cheeks as another kind of heat sinks low. His other hand is between your legs in the next instant, fingertips grazing your clit as he brings two digits down to part your folds.

“Look at that perfect cunt,” he groans, pulling your own attention to the lewd sight in the mirror. Your entrance contracts around nothing as he pulls his fingers up to strum at your clit. “How could you ever think you’re anythin’ less than perfect?”

You moan, writhing and pressed flush to him as all his attention converges on that little bundle of nerves. “Gotta rid your head of all those nasty thoughts… make sure my pretty girl knows how beautiful she is.” 

Your eyes flit all around before landing on the inevitable again. And you think that you catch a glimpse—even if only a fraction—of what he witnesses each time he sees you. Warm sunlight bathes the room, limning your figure. It snags on every contour of you. You’re a painting depicted in gold luminescence and luscious curves. 

But mostly, it is the way he looks at you that makes you feel beautiful. The light catching the branches of golden brown radiating into the mossy green of his eyes as he holds you so tenderly in his gaze. As though the rest of the world has fragmented and disintegrated, and you’re the only thing left in existence. Or maybe he looks at you in spite of all the beauty that can be found elsewhere because you’re the only sight he finds worthwhile.

Two thick fingers follow the seam of your pussy, dipping low and sinking into the wet heat while his thumb continues to bear down on your clit. He eases them deeper then curls them, and drags them back out, intentionally passing over that sensitive spot inside you. He kisses his devotion into your skin, skimming his lips back over the slope of your shoulder to the nape of your neck, and then to the side of your face, his nose ghosting over the apple of your cheek. He holds you steady and grounded as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt.

Slowly and languidly he hales sweet sounds from your lips. He revels in the hitch of your breath, the punched out gasp, and every whiny, needy noise. He gets off on the sight of his fingers vanishing into your slick heat, and the obscene squelch of each movement—the way you’re spread open for the mirror and bared to him but also, and more importantly, bared to yourself.

The hand on your stomach rises, journeying through the valley between your breasts and stopping beneath your chin. He holds his hand still at the column of your throat, directing your gaze toward your reflection. He doesn’t say anything. He just continues to dismantle every self doubt—every ugly and terrible thought with each drag and curl of his fingers and the reverent gaze that belongs to you. Only ever you.

“A-ah! ‘M close… so close!” You drawl, feeling that meandering sensation well and roil in the pit of your stomach. He brings you closer and closer to that sweet precipice, stringing you along with firm circles rubbed over your clit. 

“Yeah? C’mon then, let go…” he murmurs and all it takes is a few more seconds, another pass of his fingers against that spongy spot within you, and another swirl of his thumb. You’re locking up, muscles drawing tense and rigid. Your hips stutter, canting up into his hand and seeking more as though he isn’t giving you it all. You cry out—a weak, snivelling sound as your walls spasm around his digits, seemingly trying to bring them deeper. “Mm, there we go… You did so good, baby girl. So good for me.”

Joel looks on in awe while you fracture atop his lap, thighs quivering as tiny earthquakes send tremors through your rattled body. He firms up his hold on your neck for a fraction of a second before sliding it back down. He withdraws his fingers from between your legs, and hauls you off of him, laying you down across the mattress.

He crawls over you, looking down at you tenderly, and using the back of his hand to caress the side of your face before bringing his glistening fingers to your mouth. You part your lips and he pushes them inside, brushing them over the flat of your tongue. You hum, tasting your own arousal on his fingers. He makes a muted noise before pulling them free.

He ducks down, nuzzling against the generous swell of your breasts. Your breath catches in your throat when you watch him turn his head. His lips feather over your dusky areola before he latches onto the stiffened nub of your nipple. You keen as he suckles it into his mouth. 

“J-Joel!” You squeak but he doesn’t let up. One hand comes up to lavish your other nipple with some attention, pinching it and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He stays there for what feels like an eternity before pulling away, and moving to take your other nipple into his mouth next.

Once he’s had his fill, he releases the bud, leaving it glistening with his saliva. He takes a minute to worship your pillowy breasts some more, fondling and massaging them. His large, work roughened hands look almost out of place against the backdrop of supple plushness. 

“I love every part of you…” he whispers, finally and reluctantly sliding his hands from your breasts and down your sides, stopping at your waist to squeeze the pudginess there. “Every. Single. Part.” Each word is punctuated by a kiss to your left side, then your right, then right below your belly button.

“Every mark,” he adds, pressing a kiss to each freckle he finds—every beauty mark, or scar, or birthmark. He plants a row over the spiderwebbed stretch marks scrawled along your tummy. “Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy as hell.”

His fingers parse over you like you’re sacred scripture, leaving no page unturned, unlearned, unmemorized. They glide up and down, feeling out every divot and fold of your body before coming to rest at your thighs. He tugs them apart and seats himself between them. His warm breath fans over your folds causing your hips to jerk in anticipation.

“Ain’t gonna be able to think about shit else ‘cept how good it feels,” he says before leaning in and running his tongue up the length of your slit. “Sweetest damn pussy…” he moans and instantly presses closer to take his first sip from you.

His tongue flicks at your clit, keeping all his attention there for a long moment, feeding off of your moans and whimpers. His arms are hooked around your thighs, and his grip tightens before pulling you closer. He groans as he dips his tongue lower, prodding against your entrance. He’s got himself smothered in your cunt, nose bumping against your clit. There is no need for oxygen. You are the only thing he needs in order to keep on living.

He eats you open and drinks you up as if he takes pleasure in it himself. And he does, doesn’t he? He’s addicted to you. He thrives on the taste of you, the feel of you, the sound of you. Every aspect of you is something that exists purely to be worshipped by him. He’d place himself upon your altar and offer himself to you. He’d devote the rest of his time on this Earth to making you feel like the Goddess you are.

You whine and wriggle, but he’s got you held still. He laves his tongue through your folds and pushes it deeper again. He’s lost in the act, humming, moaning, and rutting his hips against the mattress. He eats you out as if he’d happily drown in you—as if he’d gladly forgo his next breath if it meant another second spent pleasing you. Like it would be both a privilege and a pleasure to suffocate in you. But he finally diverts his attention back to your clit with the goal of winding you up and coaxing you to another shuddering peak.

An ever tightening coil twists and rolls in your tummy. You hang in the moment before the inevitable break, back arching and hands clutching at the sheets beneath you. And when that coil snaps, you’re left gasping out, entrance clenching helplessly around nothing and aching to be filled. He laps you up, working you through your orgasm as the waves wash over you in quiet susurration. 

Joel pulls back and stands to full height in front of you. Your eyes survey his form—the droplets of your arousal like dew in his greying beard, the thatch of curls atop his chest, down to the trail of hair that leads down beneath the waistband of his pants. You sit up and reach for them, pulling them down. His erection clearly strains against his boxers, barely containing his burgeoning arousal. You raise your hand to cup the bulge. He grunts, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand away so he can rid himself of his underwear.

He pulls them down and frees his cock. It’s thick and veined, an angry red at its drooling tip. In the next moment he’s gently pushing you back down, and caging you against the mattress again as he notches the head at your entrance.

He meets your gaze, asking silently for permission and you nod. He’s pushing in one drawn out motion, breaching your tight cunt with a bitten off groan. He retreats minimally to gather your legs, and bring them up before bending them toward your chest. You mewl, legs hooked over his shoulders as he sinks back inside you. 

He rocks into you, carving deeper with each roll of his hips. Your head tips back, eyes falling upwards to the ceiling as you keen. Your tits bounce with each thrust, and he’s momentarily mesmerized by the way your body jiggles and moves under his. Still, he’s quick to cup your cheek and tilt your gaze back to meet the intensity of his own. You are impossibly full of him—split in half on the girth you’ll never quite get used to.

“You’re exactly what I want…” he coos, thumb running under your eye, the simple touch transcribes an immeasurable amount of reverence. “As you are–you’re everythin’ I could ever ask for… nghh, and you feel so damn good.”

He continues thrusting into you, shifting your legs from his shoulders and laying his body over yours. You whimper as he drives his cock forward over and over. His breath catches in his throat, as he presses his head to your temple. You feel his breath and muttered utterances flitter over your ear. Quiet, wispy praise and strangled curses.

His cock twitches—he’s getting close. He slips one hand between your bodies and finds your clit, rubbing it in vigorous circles. He’s hellbent on bringing you over that crest again. The two of you moan in unison, and when your walls contract and pulse around his shaft, it sends him over the edge too. He stills, nestling himself inside your cunt as his cock jerks and fills you with thick, warm spurts of his cum. 

Both of you go limp in the aftermath, lost in a post orgasmic daze. Your bodies are pressed flush to one another, slick with a thin sheen of sweat that plasters the mess of his hair to his forehead. He pulls back slowly, and you reach up to hold his face and coax him back down. His lips meet yours in a slow, passionate kiss. He pours himself into you and you do the same in return, humming and arching into it as his tongue licks into your mouth. After a little while, you break off, panting and chest heaving.

Joel leaves your side for only a few minutes, but it feels a bit like forever. He returns with a damp rag in hand and helps you clean up, gingerly wiping between your legs, and lathering you with gentle affections and soft kisses. He brings you a new set of clothes, and helps you into them not because you’re incapable, but because every fibre of his being yearns to tend to your every need.

When all is said and done, he lays down on the bed beside you, his form molding and curling around yours from behind. He brushes his fingers along your face, admiring you silently and when his gaze flits up, he meets yours in the reflection of that damned closet door. You look a little misty eyed. A little disbelieving. A little bit like you’re some place else.

“Aren’t you seein’ what I’m seein’?” he questions, tilting his head as he addresses you. “The most gorgeous woman to grace this Godforsaken Earth…”

You exhale sharply, your eyes rolling upwards as you try to find the right words—ones that won’t shatter this perfect, fragile moment, but also aren’t made of half truths and deceptions.

“It’s just– it’s so hard to look past… all this.” You gesture vaguely to your body. 

“Baby, all this is a blessin’,” he says, rubbing a hand over your hip. “You oughta trust me on that.”

“I’m trying,” you manage to say weakly, your voice quivering. Because despite all the wonderful things he’s said and the blissful ways he’s laid his hands upon you, it simply won’t be something you get over in one night or two. “I really am.”

“That’s all you have to do, understand? Just gotta try everyday, little by little, to appreciate yourself,” he murmurs, giving you a reassuring squeeze as his lips graze your temple. “And if you need some remindin’ from time to time, well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You place your hand over his at your hip. You take it and turn it over, running the tips of your fingers up his wrist before pressing your palms together and entwining your fingers. “Can I schedule a reminder for tomorrow morning?”

His lips twitch into a smile.

“I think I can manage to pencil you in, pretty girl,” he murmurs, burying his face against your neck and kissing you there. “Always.”