Unrequited

You don’t answer.

“Goddamn door’s stickin’ again,” he mutters, slamming it shut behind you with a grunt once you’re in. “Gotta hit it twice now. Like I’m tryin’ to put down a damn zombie. I swear, one of these days this whole piece’a shit’s just gonna fall apart while I’m drivin’. Hood’ll fly off, wheels’ll roll in opposite directions, and I’ll just sit there like an asshole in the middle of the road.”

Joel was a man of many words. Too many, as you always liked to say. There wasn’t a sentence he didn’t lace with a curse or a complaint, but that’s just what made him Joel.

He slaps the dashboard affectionately, like it’s a stubborn old dog. “But she’s got character, y’know? Can’t just toss her out. She’s earned her miles.”

You glance at the cracked windshield, tape curling at the edges, smelling the familiar faint scent of gasoline and old leather.

He’s already shifting into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the back of your seat. The truck lurches forward with a wheeze, and Joel mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse (once again).

You weren’t sure when exactly your life veered off of course—which wrong turn, which bad decision, which moment of weakness landed you here, tangled up with this sleazy, grumbling old man who smelled like motor oil and cheap soap and somehow still managed to get under your skin in all the worst ways.

Joel wasn’t your boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even really a friend. He was just…there. A warm body, a familiar mouth, an orgasm when you need it the most.

And yet, here you were asking your fuck buddy to help you run errands, as if that was something normal.

“Tommy called this mornin’,” he starts, like he has been waiting all day to talk about it. “Said he needs help fixin’ the fence again. I told him, ‘You break it every damn week, maybe stop leanin’ ya fat ass on it.’”

He snorts, clearly pleased with himself. “Didn’t like that much. Got all huffy. Said it’s not his fault the wind knocked it down. I said, ‘Bullshit. The wind didn’t eat three burgers and leaned on that damn thing.’”

You glance at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t notice.

“Then he starts goin’ on about how I never answer my phone. I said, ‘Maybe if you stopped callin’ me every time a nail pops loose, I’d be more inclined.’ Told him I’m not his damn handyman. He said, ‘You’re not doin’ anything else.’ I said, ‘Exactly. Let me keep not doin’ it in peace.’”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Idiot’s gonna be the death of that damn fence. Or me.”

He glances at you again, expecting a smirk, a laugh, something. But you’re just staring out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest.

Joel frowns, drums his knuckles against the steering wheel, a soft, rhythmic tap that fills the quiet. His eyes flick back to the road, then to you again.

“What about you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice casual but slightly unsure. “How was your day?”

You shrug, barely. “Forgot my eggs on the pan.”

He snorts. “Shit. Bet the whole house smells like rubber now.”

You nod, still not looking at him.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “One time I damn near burned my kitchen down doin’ that. Left the stove on, went outside to yell at the neighbor’s dog—little bastard kept barking like a maniac—came back in and the whole pan was blacker than my coffee.”

You shift slightly, arms still crossed, but your mouth twitches. Just a little.

Joel catches it. Keeps going.

“Whole place smelled like shit. Like scorched tires and disgusting rubber. Took a week to air it out. Had to throw the pan out too—thing looked like it’s been through a war.”

A quiet laugh escapes as a huff, involuntary and short.

Joel glances over, smug. “There she is.” He taps the wheel again, slower this time. “You alright?”

You don’t answer. Just shift again, pressing your hand to your stomach, feeling that sharp pain tearing through your insides.

Joel notices. But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

“Where d’you want me to take you, sugar? Grocery store? Liquor store? Straight to hell?”

You mutter, “Just grocery store.”

“Good. I was runnin’ low on stuff too.” He answers, looking at you, expecting a smile—a something. But you just look out of the window.

He asks again, slower this time. “You really good?”

You nod, but it’s tight. Joel doesn’t push—not yet. Just mutters, “Alright then,” and pulls out onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on his thigh.

The ride to the store is mostly filled with Joel’s annoying voice: a steady stream of complaints about traffic, gas prices, and some guy who apparently parked too close to his truck last week. You let it just wash over you, eyes fixed on the trees and strip malls outside the window, while your stomach cramps in slow, mean pulses.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights are too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like a swarm of insects.

You move through the aisles on autopilot, grabbing the essentials: a bottle of ibuprofen, a bag of chips you probably won’t eat, a chocolate bar you definitely will. You pause at the feminine hygiene aisle, grab a box of pads and one box of tampons—just to be prepared for everything.

And Joel…well Joel, of course, is nowhere near the checkout. You find him two aisles over, standing toe tp toe with a man in a hoodie, voice raised just enough to draw attention.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s real damn fish,” Joel is saying, gesturing wildly with a can of tuna in one hand. “You think they’re just grindin’ up mystery meat and callin’ it tuna for fun?”

The other man scoffs. “I’m just sayin’, it don’t taste like fish. It’s like…fish adjacent.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You ever seen a cow in a can? No? Then shut the hell up.”

You sigh, stepping in before it escalates. “Joel.”

He barely glances at you. “Tell this guy tuna’s real damn fish.”

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the checkout. “Come on.”

He lets you pull him away but not without a parting shot. “You’re the reason the country’s goin’ to hell, y’know that? Can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”

You don’t respond. Just shove your items onto the band and pretend you don’t know him while he mutters under his breath about “fish truthers” and something about “goddamn grocery store philosophers.”

Back in the truck, you toss the bag into the backseat and climb in, settling into the passenger side with a sigh. Joel’s already midrant, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like he’s still in the store, still arguing with the guy in the hoodie.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s fish. Tuna is fish. I don’t give a shit if it’s in a can or swimmin’ in the damn ocean.”

You don’t even care anymore.

Because this is Joel—a man who’d argue with a stranger over canned tuna like it was a matter of world security. A man who was always loud, always wrong, and always ready to throw hands over the dumbest shit.

But he could fuck. God, could he fuck. And when this whole thing started, that was the only part you let yourself care about.

The rest? The attitude, the mouth, the sleaze—you told yourself you could ignore. Just noise. Just background. Even while it’s annoying.

Joel keeps going, voice low and gravelly. “I swear, people get one opinion and suddenly they’re a damn marine biologist. ‘Oh, tuna’s not real fish.’ What’s next? Chicken’s not real poultry? My dick’s not real meat?”

You snort, but don’t look at him.

Joel catches it instantly. “You agree with me now, right?” he says, smug as hell. “Knew it. Knew you were on my side.”

You shake your head, staring out the window. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I just think it’s funny you almost fought a man over a can of fish.”

He scoffs, still grumbling about the tuna guy when his voice drops into something lower, lazier—familiar. His voice softens, just a notch. “You got everything you wanted, hon?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He watches you for a second longer, then shifts his gaze back to the road. “Need to go anywhere else?”

“No, but…thank you.”

“Oh, my polite girl,” he says, grinning all cheeky. He reaches over and pinches your cheek, rough fingers warm and calloused.

You huff, batting his hand away. “Don’t.”

He chuckles, leaning back against his seat. “Got adrenaline runnin’ through my veins. You should’ve just let me fight that dude.”

You glance at him. “You still there?”

Joel scoffs. “Ain’t lettin’ myself get disrespected like that. People piss me off,” he mutters. “Whole damn store full of idiots. Got me all wound up.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “Could use a distraction. Somethin’ to take the edge off.”

You shake your head.

He smirks to himself, voice dipping into that slow, familiar drawl. “Could bury my face in somethin’ soft. Shut my mouth for a while. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even look at him. “Shut up.”

That actually makes him pause.

“Woah,” he mutters, glancing over. “Usually you like my tone.”

You don’t respond, keeping yourself from insulting him.

He watches you for a second longer, then scoffs. “What, now you wanna get on my nerves too?”

You still don’t say anything.

Joel shakes his head, muttering, “What’s the matter with you today anyway?” Then, under his breath, half a joke, half a threat: “All stuck up. Need me to fuck it outta you?”

You roll your eyes while shifting, pressing your palm tighter against your stomach, jaw clenched.

Joel watches you for a second longer, then leans back in his seat with a low exhale. “Ah,” he mutters. “So that’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “Don’t.”

He grins wider. “You on your period, sugar?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Joel.”

“What?” he says, all mock innocence. “I’m just observant. You get all quiet and mean, start holdin’ your tummy like that. I’ve seen it before.”

You mutter something under your breath and look out the window.

He leans in a little, voice dropping. “Y’know, I used to see this girl who loved gettin’ fucked on her period. Said it helped with the cramps. Said I was better than Midol.”

You groan. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m not wrong.”

A beat of silence. The truck hums beneath you, tires rolling over cracked pavement.

Then Joel shifts, glancing at you again — slower this time. “You want me to take you home?”

You shake your head. “Don’t feel like being alone.”

He nods once, like that settles it. “Alright.”

Without saying anything, he reaches over—rough palm warm through the fabric and lays his hand over your tummy. Rubs once, slow and firm, like he’s done it before.

“C’mon,” he mutters. “Let’s go back to my van.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

He shrugs, voice low. “I’ll crank the heat. You can lay down, steal my last clean shirt, bitch about my mattress. I won’t even try anything.”

You raise a brow.

He smirks. “Unless you ask real nice.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not done.

“Could even rub your tummy,” he adds, voice syrupy. “Or your thighs. Or whatever else’s achin’. I’m versatile like that.”

You snort. “You’re a menace.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, grinning. “But I’m a menace with a heated van and a soft spot for cranky girls who forget their eggs on the stove.”

You try not to smile. Fail.

He sees it. “There she is,” he says, satisfied. “Knew I’d get you.”

You sigh, long and slow. “Fine. But I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight.”

Joel taps the wheel, already pulling into a turn. “Good. I’ll keep it to a low simmer.”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop him. And he doesn’t ask again.

Joel doesn’t shut up the whole ride back.

He’s still going on about the tuna guy, about “idiots with opinions and no taste buds” and how “this country’s gone soft, that you can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”

Every few minutes, he reaches over to poke your side, just enough to make you flinch and swat at him, which only encourages him more.

You’re too tired to argue, and the cramps are starting to dig in deeper, like something inside you is twisting just to be cruel.

By the time he pulls up to the van, the sky’s gone a dull gray, the kind that makes everything look washed out and tired. The van’s parked in its usual spot—half on gravel, half on dead grass, tucked behind a sagging fence that leans like it’s given up.

There’s a busted lawn chair tipped over in the dirt, a rusted grill that hasn’t seen fire in years, and a pile of wood that might’ve once been a table.

It’s a mess. But it’s Joel’s mess. And somehow, that makes it feel…familiar. Even safe in a twisted way.

He hops out and circles around to your side, opening the door for you with a dramatic bow.

“Ma lady,” he says, voice syrupy.

Inside, the van is exactly how you remember it.

Dim, cluttered, smelling like cigarettes, old leather, and something vaguely wooden. The red curtains are drawn, casting everything in a soft, crimson gloom. Then there’s a pile of laundry in the corner, a half empty mug on the counter, and a pair of boots kicked off near the door.

The bed’s unmade—sheets rumpled, blanket half on the floor—but it’s still comfortable. You know it.

It’s the same bed where Joel first pulled you down with that crooked grin and promised to show you some “lovin’ and care,” and then fucked your brains out.

You sit down on the edge of it now, letting out a low groan as you clutch your stomach.

Joel watches you for a beat, then makes a soft, exaggerated cooing sound. “Poor baby,” he says, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. “Need some water?”

You nod, and he moves to his tiny kitche, grabbing a bottle from the mini fridge. It’s not cold, but it’s water so you take it with a quiet “thanks.”

He eyes you for a second, then gestures vaguely towards your jeans. “You need to change or somethin’? I got a shirt you can wear. Big n’soft. Smells just like me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not a selling point.”

He smirks. “Sure it is. You love how I smell.”

You don’t answer that with a response, but when he tosses the shirt your way—a faded green thing that’s probably seen more oil stains than laundry detergent—you take it anyway.

It does smell like him. Cigarettes, sweat, and something warm and earthy underneath. You change in the cramped little bathroom, peeling off your jeans with a wince and tugging the oversized shirt down over your thighs.

When you come back out, Joel’s already stripped down to his boxers, scratching at his stomach with one hand and tossing his fannel into the laundry pile with the other.

“Gotta take a shower,” he mutters. “Sweat my damn ass off today arguing with that guy.”

You don’t look at him, but you can hear the way he grunts as he moves, the way the floor creaks under his weight. He’s big—broad and solid, with a belly that presses against the counter when he leans over it, soft and round and unapologetic. He doesn’t suck it in. Doesn’t hide. Just scratches his ribs and yawns like you’re not even there.

“You stay here, yeah?” he says, nodding toward the bed. “Look—heating pad.”

He pulls it from under a pile of flannels and plugs it in, testing it with his palm before handing it over. “Old man like me needs somethin’ warm for his back, but you need it more than me right now, hon.”

You take it without a word, pressing it to your stomach as you sink back onto the bed. The warmth is immediate, soothing. You close your eyes for a second, breathing through the ache.

Joel steps closer, leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead—rough lips, scratch of stubble, the faintest scent of wood and sweat.

“Stay here, baby.”

You don’t argue, don’t roll your eyes. Just curl onto your side, the heating pad tucked against your belly, and listen to the sound of the water starting up in the tiny shower stall.

The van creaks as Joel moves, his body brushing the narrow walls, muttering something about how “these damn doors keep shrinkin’” as his stomach bumps the frame.

You don’t look, even while the door is open.

You’ve seen it before. The way he moves like he owns every inch of himself, the soft weight of him, the stretch of his skin, the way he doesn’t flinch when he catches his reflection. It’s not confidence, exactly. It’s just Joel. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

And somehow, that’s the part that makes you stay.

The water shuts off with a metallic groan, and a moment later you hear the soft thud of Joel’s feet against the floor, the creak of the bathroom door swinging open. Steam rolls out in a wave, curling into the cool air of the van.

He steps out, towel slung low around his hips, belly damp and flushed pink from the heat. His hair’s slicked back, droplets clinging to his chest hair, trailing down the curve of his stomach.

Then, his eyes land on you, curled up on the bed like a cocoon, Joel’s oversized shirt swallowing your frame. The heating pad hums faintly beneath the blanket, but your face is pinched, one hand still pressed to your stomach, the other curled into the sheets.

Joel’s expression softens. “Oh, honey girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You look like hell, don’t you?”

You don’t bother answering. You’re too tired, too sore, too wrapped in the dull throb of your own body to do anything but breathe through it.

He crouches besides the bed, towel shifting slightly on his hips, and reaches out to brush your hair back from your forehead. His fingers are warm, still damp, and surprisingly gentle.

“There she is,” he says, voice low and fond. “My little grump.”

You close your eyes, letting him touch you. comforting. Familiar. His hand moves to your head, stroking slow, then down to your shoulder, thumb tracing lazy circles into the fabric of his own shirt.

“Hurts bad?” he asks.

You nod, barely.

He sighs. “Alright. Scoot over.”

You do, and he climbs onto the bed besides you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

The towel stays on (barely) as he settles in behind you, one arm draping over your waist. His hand finds your stomach, warm and broad, and he starts to rub in slow, steady circles.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

You hum, the pressure easing something deep inside you. He keeps going, patient and quiet, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

After a while, his hand drifts lower, to your hip, then your thigh. Kneading and soothing. His touch is firm but careful, like he’s trying to press the pain out of you with his palms.

You melt into it, tension bleeding out of your muscles one knot at a time.

Joel leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Told you I’m better than Midol.”

You don’t answer, but your body does—softening under his touch, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re warmin’ up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Feelin’ better?”

You hum, eyes half-lidded. “A little.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Good. Hate seein’ you all curled up like that. Makes me wanna fix it.”

His hand drifts up, slow and warm, brushing the hem of the shirt. He pauses just beneath your ribs, thumb tracing lazy circles into your side.

“These girls also sore?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You don’t answer right away. Just let out a soft, miserable whine and nod, eyes still closed.

Joel hums, like he’s been given permission. “Yeah, figured.”

His hand slides up, careful and slow, until he’s cupping you through the fabric. No pressure, just warmth. His thumb strokes gently along the curve, feather-light.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “All swollen. Poor things.”

You let out a shaky breath, but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. So he keeps going, slow and steady, massaging with the kind of care that makes your chest ache in a different way. Something that makes you feel safe and seen.

His hand quietly drifts lower, just a little—not quite crossing any lines, but close enough that your breath catches. He notices. Of course he does.

“Y’know,” he says, tone going sly, “I wasn’t kiddin’ earlier. Had a girl once swore up and down that a good fuck was better than any painkiller.”

You groan, but it’s half-hearted. “Joel…”

He grins against your skin. “What? I’m just sayin’. Could be medicinal. Therapeutic, even. I’m a giver like that.”

His hand slides a little farther, palm warm against the top of your thigh now, thumb pressing slow, soothing circles into the muscle.

“Bet I could make you forget all about that ache,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel. “Real gentle. Real slow. Just enough to take the edge off.”

You don’t answer, but your body does. Your hips shifting slightly, breath hitching and already a small pulse inside your underwear.

Joel chuckles, low and pleased. “That’s what I thought,” he says, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Feelin’ better already.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, just quiet and then you murmur, barely above a whisper, “I’d bleed all over your sheets.”

Joel’s hand stills for a second. Then he lets out a soft snort, amused but not mocking.

“Y’think I care?” he says, voice low and rough. “Sugar, I can throw ‘em in the machine. Hell, I’ll toss ‘em out if I have to. Ain’t like they’re made of gold.”

You don’t say anything. Just stare at his sheets, jaw tight.

He leans in, brushing his nose against your temple. “Ain’t nothin’ about you that’s disgusting. You hear me?”

You shift again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with your body. “It’s not exactly…sexy.”

Joel huffs. “Who said anything about sexy? I’m talkin’ about you. Hurtin’. Needing somethin’. I don’t give a damn what time of the month it is. You think I’m scared of a little blood?”

You glance at him, uncertain. He meets your eyes, steady and sure.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, smirking. “Hell, I’ve bled more than that just tryin’ to fix the damn carburetor.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, small and shaky.

“You know i’m right” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do that’d scare me off. You wanna lay here and groan, I’ll rub your back. You wanna cry, I’ll hold you. You wanna ride me bloody, I’ll lay down a towel and thank you after.”

Your face burns. “Joel.”

He grins, unbothered. “What? I’m just sayin’. You don’t gotta be embarrassed. Not with me.”

You look at him, really look, and there’s no judgment in his eyes. Just that same crooked affection, that strange mix of sleaze and sincerity that somehow makes you feel…safe.

You exhale, long and slow, and let your head fall back against the pillow.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Joel leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead again—softer this time, lingering.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now stand up. Let me take care of you.”

Joel shifts behind you also standing up, the bed creaking under his weight as he leans over to the far end. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, the tug of a pillow being yanked free from under a pile of laundry, the click of the heating pad being unplugged and moved.

You blink up at him, glassy eyed. “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lays a pillow down near the end of the bed, smooths the heating pad over it, then tosses a towel on top.

“Gonna make you a little nest,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “Get you all warm and comfy. Then I’m gonna fuck the pain right outta you.”

You huff, but your body’s already responding—a slow, low ache curling in your belly, different from the cramps. Deeper. Thicker.

Joel pats the towel. “Lay down on your tummy, sugar. Right here. Let that heat hit you where it counts.”

You hesitate, but only for a second. Then you shift forward, letting him guide you down. The towel’s soft against your skin, the heating pad radiating warmth through the fabric, straight into your lower belly. You exhale, already feeling the relief.

Joel stands behind you, hands smoothing over your hips, adjusting you just so. “There we go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy. Just like that.”

You bury your face into the sheets, the scent of him everywhere—smoke, sweat, soap.

Then he leans down, presses a kiss on your thigh, and whispers, “Just let go, baby. I got you.”

You feel the slow, deliberate tug of your panties being eased down.

“Is it… is it dripping blood?” You tense.

Joel pauses for half a second. Then he lets out a low, appreciative sound, voice thick with that familiar drawl.

“Nah,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “It’s drippin’ heaven, baby.”

You groan, burying your face into the sheets. “You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles, unbothered. “Yeah, but you’re still lettin’ me touch you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Not when his hands are back on your hips, warm and steady, not when his voice is in your ear, all gravel and heat.

He shifts behind you, the rustle of his towel hitting the floor barely audible over the sound of your own breathing.

One hand slides down, fingers brushing between your thighs, exploring your folds. “Already wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, lower: “Need me to prep you?”

You shake your head, barely. You just needed relief.

He exhales, rough and quiet. “Alright.”

He pushes in slow, careful, just the tip and then stills, breath catching in his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough. “You’re so damn tight like this.”

You whimper, hips twitching under his hands.

He leans over you, lips brushing your hip. “But feels like heaven, baby. All warm and snug and squeezin’ me like you missed me.”

You bury your face in the pillow, flushed and aching, but you don’t pull away.

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, his breath ragged, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. You’re warm and tight around him, body pulsing with heat and ache, and he groans low in his throat.

Joel groans, rolling his hips just a little. “Could stay right here all night. Just like this. Deep and slow. Let you milk the pain outta both of us.”

You whimper, burying your face into the sheets once again, the stretch deep and aching but good. So good.

Joel stills once he’s fully seated inside you, chest heaving. Then, with a low grunt, he shifts—knees bracing on either side of your thighs, his body rising over yours.

And then he lowers himself, slow and heavy, until his belly settles against the small of your back, warm and solid.

You moan, the weight of him pressing you deeper into the heat of the pillow, the pressure on your belly somehow soothing and overwhelming all at once.

“Too much?” he murmurs, voice rough but careful.

You shake your head, breath shallow. “Just…heavy.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Yeah, I know. Big ol’ bastard, ain’t I?”

You huff a laugh, even as your lungs work a little harder under him.

Joel shifts, just enough to take some of the weight off your ribs, his forearms bracing him up. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll hold myself up. Don’t want you passin’ out on me—not unless I earned it.”

You roll your eyes, but your body relaxes under him. The weight of him is grounding, comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Like being blanketed in heat and muscle and the steady rhythm of his breath.

The bed creaks again as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that rock the whole frame. The headboard taps the wall in time, a soft, rhythmic thud that fills the space between your moans and his low, filthy praise.

“Fuckin’,” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn soft under me. Like a warm fuckin’ peach, ripe and drippin’.”

You whine, half from the ache, half from the way his words go straight to your spine.

He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s it, you just lay there, sugar. Let me do the work. Let me press all that ache outta that sweet little belly. Ain’t no Midol in the world that hits like this.”

You cry out, feeling him hit that one spot in you.

Deep, dragging thrusts that make your breath catch and your fingers curl into the sheets. Every inch of him presses into you, every roll of his hips sending a fresh wave of heat through your belly.

“Shit, girl… I’m stickin’ to you. Sweat, blood, all of it. My belly’s glued to your back like we’re welded together.” He murmurs.

You’re already so sensitive—from the cramps, from the heat, from everything he’s done to you tonight. Every stroke against your walls feels like too much and not enough all at once.

And then he shifts just right—hits that spot deep inside once again, and you gasp, a high, broken sound, and your thighs tremble.

Joel stills, just for a second. “Oh, baby,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “You gonna cum already?”

You can’t even answer. It’s already happening—your body clenching around him, breath stuttering, pleasure crashing over you like a wave you didn’t see coming.

Joel groans, low and guttural. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl. So goddamn tight, milkin’ me already.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your neck—his weight just pressing you down more.

“Didn’t even have to work for it,” he murmurs, voice all grit and honey. “Just slid in and you broke for me. That sweet little body was beggin’ for it, huh?”

You’re still trembling beneath him, body limp and flushed, breath catching in your throat as the last waves of your orgasm ripple through you. Joel stays buried deep, his weight a warm press on your back, his breath hot against your neck.

He leans in. “That helped? Made your cramps all better?”

You nod, still dazed, cheek pressed to the mattress.

He grins, slow and smug. “Told ya I’d fuck those cramps right outta that pretty little belly.”

Then he looks down again, and you feel the way his breath hitches—the way your hips twitch, the way the blood is dripping down his cock.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “All that blood and slick… drippin’ down my cock like you needed it.”

You cry out under him, body limp and flushed, when Joel grinds in again—slow, deep, relentless. The overstimulation sharp and sweet all at once.

“Sensitive?” he rasps, voice thick with heat. “Good. Daddy likes it like that.”

He shifts his knees wider, bracing himself, and then he thrusts deeper. So deep. You gasp, the pressure sharp and overwhelming, like he’s pressing into something you didn’t even know was there.

“Shit,” he groans, voice thick and ragged. “You feel that, baby? That’s me hittin’ the end of you.”

You whine out loud, hips twitching, the pillow under your belly pushing everything tighter, more intense.

Joel leans in, his belly heavy on your back. “Can feel your little womb flinchin’ around me,” he mutters, filthy and reverent all at once. “Like it’s beggin’ me to stay.”

You moan, overwhelmed, and he grinds in again—slow, relentless, like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into you.

“You’re shakin’ like a leaf, baby.” He coos. Overstimmed, overstuffed, and still takin’ it. That’s my girl. That’s what I like.”

“Joel—“ you whimper, your head already floaty.

“I know, honey.”

The bed creaks beneath you both, the heat from the pad, the weight of him, the stretch—it’s all just too much and not enough. You’re drowning in it, in him, in the way he fills every inch of you.

Joel kisses your shoulder, then growls, “You’re gonna come again, baby. I can feel it. Gonna milk me dry, ain’t you?”

And with the next thrust—deep, slow, all in—you do.

Body shaking, cunt releasing all kinds of fluids and your breath knocked away.

“Second one’s always the messiest.“ he whispers, pulling out an inch and looking at all the mess you did. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that? Sweetest little thing I ever ruined.”

You’re wrecked. Muscles slack, thighs sticky, brain fogged. And before you can calm down, he moves again. Gentle, deliberate rolls inside your cunt and your body jolts like it wasn’t expecting more.

You gasps, voice all breath and disbelief: “You’re still? Joel… I can’t take no more…”

And he just leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand now sliding up your ribs to hold you still.

“Shhh… hush now.” A low, lazy murmur. “You said that last time. And look at you—still here. Still takin’ it.”

He starts pressing in deeper, making you see stars.

“Mmm… this one’ll fix those cramps up real good. Better than any damn pill ever could.”

You try to speak, to protest, but all that comes out is a broken moan. Your legs twitch. Your breath stutters. And he feels it—the way your body starts to tighten again, even before your mind catches up.

He slows down, just enough to make you feel every inch, every drag of him inside you. His hand stays between your legs, fingers slick and steady, working your clit with maddening precision. You’re trembling, overstimulated, breath hitching with every pass of his thumb.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re sensitive.”

You whimper, hips twitching, trying to pull away—but he just follows, keeps you pinned with his weight and his mouth at your ear.

“But you’re takin’ it so good,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ good for me. Just one more. You can do that, can’t you?”

You shake your head, but it’s useless—your body’s already betraying you, clenching around him, grinding into his hand like it’s got a mind of its own.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me feel you. Let me help. Gonna fuck those cramps right outta you.”

And then he adds: “That little belly will thank me later.”

You’re too raw, too full, too far gone—and he knows it. He wants it.

“Cum for me,” he growls, thrusts deep and slow. “Give me that third one. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do—again—with a cry that’s more sound than breath, your body seizing around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your overstimmed, aching core.

Your thighs clamp under his hips, your cunt pulsing so hard it borders on pain. You sob through it, too sensitive, too full, and still he doesn’t stop, dragging it out until you’re writhing, begging, soaked and ruined.

He groans deep, guttural, and his hips stutter, grinding in deep, and staying there. His voice is a rasp: “Fuck… that’s it. That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it.”

You feel him spill inside you, hot and slow, his whole body pressed tight to yours, breath ragged against your neck. You’re shaking. Floating. Gone.

“God damn it—my fuckin’ back—” he grits out, voice cracking as he drives in deep one last time.

He groans, loud and low, like it’s being torn out of him, and you feel it—the heat, the weight, the way he spills inside you like he’s been holding it back for hours.

“Shit… that’s it… that’s it…” he mutters, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body trembling. “Gonna need a fuckin’ ice pack after this. Jesus.”

You can’t help it—you laugh between all that overstimulation, breathless and wrecked, still clenching around him.

He huffs a laugh too, catching his breath. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, woman. I just threw my back out makin’ you see stars.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, heavy and warm, muttering into your skin.

“You good, darlin’?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Still breathin’? ‘Cause I ain’t sure I am.”

You hum something soft, too gone to answer, and he chuckles—a slow, wrecked sound.

Finally, with a grunt and a muttered “Alright, here we go…”, he shifts his weight, pulls out slow, and pushes himself up. His knees pop again. His feet hit the floor of the van with a heavy thud, and you groan because you can’t feel your body.

“Sticky little thing. You know what you look like down there? Goddamn…like strawberry cream pie, baby. Red white and split open and spillin’ sweet all over me.”

You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “Ugh, Joel… you’re so disgusting.”

He just grins, slow and lazy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Yeah?” he drawls, dragging two fingers through the mess and smearing it along your thigh. “Then why you blushin’, huh?”

You try to glare at him, but your face is hot, your body still trembling, and you can’t stop the way your hips twitch when he touches you again.

“Shut up,” you mumble, voice thin and wrecked.

He grabs a towel, wets it from the bottle, then kneels between your thighs.

But before he even touches the towel to your skin, he leans in and drags his tongue through the mess he left behind. Blood, come, sweat all of it.

You gasp, hips twitching, eyes flying open.

“Joel—”

He just chuckles, low and wrecked, licking his lips like he’s savoring it.

“Tastin’ like honey,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “Sweetest thing I ever put my mouth on.”

You groan, half mortified, half melting, and he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Then he takes the towel and starts to clean you sweet and slow, gentle strokes, careful not to press too hard.

“Easy now,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you, darlin’. You earned it.”

He leans over, brushing your hair back from your face.

“Y’wanna stay like that, or y’want me to change you?”

You groan into the pillow. “Can’t move.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you up, sweetheart.”

He slides an arm under your belly, the other under your chest, and lifts you slow—careful not to jostle you too much. You wince, legs trembling as you shift upright, and then you see it.

The sheets.

Blood and come smeared across the fabric in thick, dark streaks. A mess. Your mess.

You gasp, eyes going wide. “Joel—your sheets—”

But he’s already shaking his head, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. Sheets can be washed. You? You’re what matters.”

You blink at him, still dazed, still flushed, and he smiles, soft and crooked.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up proper.”

He helps you to your feet, one hand steady at your waist, the other grabbing a clean towel. The van rocks gently as you both move, and he groans again.

“Goddamn suspension’s worse than my knees.”

You laugh, leaning into him as he guides you to the little bathroom, and he mutters something about “gonna need a chiropractor and a cigarette” under his breath.

Btw guys, i finally have an Ao3 acc. I’m trying to post all my fics also there but i can’t promise anything because i’m struggling to understand that damn website lmao😭 but if you like to check it out here is the link!

I hope yall enjoyed sleazy!joel hehe and again, happy new year everyone! I hope you all started safely and happy and i hope this year will be just a little bit better! 🫶🏻

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