#pixel joel

To the untrained eye, the Boston Quarantine Zone looked dead in the middle of the night. 

Not quiet, but dead. The kind of darkness that pressed against your eyesight, the stillness of not a soul to be seen. Up in the dark windows of the buildings, curtains were pulled shut and lamps turned low. Burn piles still steamed into the late hours, the flickering buzz of lamplight the only relief from the night. There was no chatter, no footsteps, just the hum of rotting infrastructure as the last signs of life slipped from sight.

It wasn’t really empty, of course not. FEDRA trucks groaned past every five minutes like clockwork, their engines coughing and tires crunching on debris that littered the cracked pavement. Headlights broke through the darkness and swept across the concrete walls still stained with blood and protest graffiti that the painting crew had yet to cover. Soldiers sat in their trucks with their machine guns at the ready across their laps, eyes heavy from long shifts but nonetheless always watching. 

Sometimes you wondered if they secretly hoped for someone to catch. 

Most people knew better than to be out after curfew, that’s how you stayed breathing, after all. That was how you kept what little you had—your rations, your apartment, your teeth. You didn’t wander, didn’t make noise. You didn’t exist.

But underneath it all, in a velvet-walled hotel basement on the east side of the city, was an entirely different world. One that came alive at night.

It wasn’t exactly a secret. Even off-duty soldiers were easy to spot—feet kicked up, watching girls sway under low red lights, the walls draped in black and crimson fabric. The place still smelled like mold and musk, but there was something else too. Something smokey and warm. Almost inviting.

You remember the first time you were brought down there, and how it felt like stepping into another world.

You’d noticed the girl before, usually she was casually propped against a brick wall or street lamp, soldiers flirting with her and leaning into her as she smirked up at them. She was cleaner than most, her cheeks full, a softness to her stomach that only came from regular meals and hot water. Her raven hair caught the light in a way that made it gleam indigo in the sun. But you never saw her when the sun went down.

Until tonight.

Hiding in the darkness as she headed in the same direction as you, she moved with purpose. Her gait was graceful if not a little rushed to get out of sight. So, with all the courage and desperation you could muster, you matched her pace, asking her where she was from, where she got her nice clothes. She smirked at your questions, eyes raking over you, and tipped her chin to keep up.

She told you about how you could make good income if you were willing. Ration cards by the day, sometimes pills and booze. Even new clothes, if you earned them.

And so, desperate and dizzy, minutes before curfew when your options would shrink even further, you followed her.

You hadn’t expected the noise. It had been so long since you’d heard music like this, and it blasted from rusted speakers while men laughed and yelled and clapped as girls twirled on tiny stages or dropped into their laps. You watched black market currency being exchanged, a man flaunting a rolled cigarette for a girl to take from his fingers with her mouth, a few extra ration cards pushed into a black bralette, an unmarked bottle sliding across a table to another.

“Stay here,” the raven haired girl said, holding her finger up. 

As soon as she left your side, you felt it. A presence, a pair of eyes on you.

Most of the men were too drunk or high to care, but someone was watching like a ghost in the shadows. You turned slowly, gaze scanning the dark corners of the room, but you saw nothing. Still, there was a prickle at the back of your neck that wouldn’t go away.

Then the girl returned with a man trailing behind her. Tall, lean, arms like coiled rope. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, not with that sandy blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. But there was something sour under the surface. Something that made you tense.

You knew a rat when you saw one.

“This is Gage,” she said. “Gage, this is my new friend. Cute, right?”

His eyes dragged down your body, slow and assessing.

“Very cute,” he said. “Though it’s hard to tell under all that shit on her face.”

You grimaced, knowing you must’ve looked rough. You hadn’t bathed in days because you couldn’t afford the bathhouse, not even close. You probably stank. Probably looked like hell.

“She wants to work,” the girl added, smiling at you with something sly in her eyes.

“Does she now?” Gage purred, hands on his hips. “You ever been here before, doll? Know what we do?”

You had a pretty good idea, but you still shook your head as you looked up at him.

“You got a name?” he asked, amused at your wide eyes.

You told him, and the girl giggled. The man reached out to you, and you cowered slightly, realizing now what this was, “That won’t do,” he said, twirling a piece of hair between his fingers, “But we’ll think of somethin’ for ya. Somethin’ real cute.”

He jerked his head toward a hallway lined with curtains. “Come on. Let’s talk.”

And for whatever god awful reason that probably had everything to do with the hunger twisting your guts, you followed.

By the first week in the place, you were already in debt.

A long, scalding bath, clean clothes, makeup, a bed to sleep in had all come at a cost. You hadn’t even had a warm meal yet, and already you owed.

But it was better than where you came from, and so you stayed. 

Trixie, you’d come to learn was the girl’s name, or, at least her given name, taught you the basics as she tailored you into the perfect succubus. She waxed and tweezed every inch of hair left on your body until you were raw and smooth like you hadn’t been in years. She said smooth sold better. So you let her. You let her show you how to apply eyeliner without shaking, how to paint on a smile that looked nearly real. She even shared a few bites of her lukewarm oatmeal when you were close to fainting.

Now, on your first working night, you stood in front of the chipped mirror in the communal girl’s waiting area, pink gloss shaking in your hand as you brought it to your lips. You didn’t recognize your reflection anymore, though you often tried to avoid it anyway. Everything about you had been softened, plucked, painted. Your sweatshirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a thin slip the color of wine.

Trixie appeared behind you, her fingers settling lightly on your shoulders. Her eyes met yours in the glass, dark and rimmed in smoky shadow. The corner of her lips lifted with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“You have a customer.”

Your hand froze. “Already?” You hadn’t even gone out to line up for the potential suitors. You hadn’t been seen by anyone since you arrived a few days ago.

She nodded once, then leaned in closer, like she didn’t want the other girls to hear what she was about to say.

“I need you to listen to me.” Her voice had lost its usual lilt, the teasing edge flattened out as she spoke with her lips to your ear, tucking a piece of hair behind it. “You do not fuck around with this one. Don’t play dumb, don’t try to be cute. He doesn’t like games, and he definitely doesn’t like the whole bambi thing you’re giving me right now.”

Your stomach turned as you trembled, searching her darkening eyes in the mirror. “W-what does he like?”

Her gaze never left yours, “Quiet, obedience, and no talking. Not unless he speaks first.”

You swallowed hard. “How—? It’s my first day. How did he even know I’m here?”

Trixie’s voice dropped lower. “Gage says he saw you when I brought you in. Asked when you’d be ready.”

The ghost in the shadows. The eyes you felt, but never saw.

“Kitty!”

Gage’s voice cracked through the room, sudden and booming. Everyone flinched, heads turning. His eyes were locked on you.

Right. The new name.

You stood, hands clammy as you smoothed invisible wrinkles from your dress.

Trixie reached out, her thumb swiping gently at the corner of your mouth where your gloss had smudged.

“Be a good girl,” she said, soft and sweet, like this wasn’t your initiation by fire.

The light was dim out in the hallway, humming overhead with a sickly yellow buzz. You followed the narrow corridor past drawn curtains and closed doors, the floor sticky in places, soft in others. You wished you could afford some shoes after they took your crappy canvas sneakers. Another thing to be earned. 

Your eyes stayed locked on the planes of Gage’s back as he led you further in, stopping outside a door near the end of the hall. He knocked twice, then opened it. He didn’t step inside, didn’t speak, only gave a nod for you to go in.

The air in the room was warmer than the hallway. Still and thick with a mix of smoke and something sweeter like candle wax, maybe cologne. A few small candles burned low on the tables around the couch, casting flickering yellow light across the room just enough to see. 

You stopped in the doorway, breath catching.

A man sat at the center of the room like it was built around him. Like it was waiting for him to fill it. Legs spread, boots planted wide on the rug. One arm rested along the back of the loveseat, fingers curling slightly over the worn wood, the other loose beside his thigh. He didn’t move when you entered. Didn’t shift or adjust. He took up the space without question.

His shirt was black, the fabric thinned and faded, stretched slightly over the broad cut of his chest. It hugged the curve of muscle beneath his arms, which were thick and heavy with the kind of strength that didn’t come from anything but hard manual labor. 

He was equally terrifying and beautiful all at once.

As you stepped inside, you traced him in pieces. The width of his shoulders, the slope of his neck. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. You weren’t sure why you were doing it. Maybe to delay the moment when his attention reached you. Maybe to understand the shape of something that could so easily break you in half. 

His face was hewn from earth and fire, no softness or youth left in him. Features strong and severe, cut from time and consequence. A thick beard framed his jaw, dark with streaks of gray that caught in the candlelight. And a scar, jagged across the bridge of his nose only made him more striking. The sudden thought of running the tip of your finger across it flitted in your mind. Of asking him where he got it. If the other guy got to walk away.

Quiet. Obedient. Don’t speak unless spoken to.

So you gathered the courage to look at his eyes instead.

They were already on you. You hadn’t even noticed when they landed. Deep and shadowed, colored with something in between green and gold and something even darker. They moved slowly across you. He didn’t leer or oggle. They were empty, void of emotion or feeling.

And still, he said nothing.

So you stood there. Letting him look. Letting him see.

You tried to hold his gaze while your stomach coiled tighter, while your knees threatened to buckle. You drank him in like he was the only thing left in the room. And as his eyes met yours, steady and unblinking, you got the feeling he was doing the same.

“Close the door.”

Even his voice was low and controlled, vibrating in his throat like gravel and honey. You obeyed without hesitation, grateful for the excuse to break his gaze. Turning slowly, your shaking fingers found the knob, pulling the door shut behind you with a quiet click.

When you turned back, you didn’t meet his eyes. Your hands fidgeted at the hem of your dress, nerves coiling through your stomach until you thought you might be sick.

“Sit.” 

You blinked, glancing up at him. He gave a slight tilt of his head, and only then did you notice the chair across the room—plain, wooden, placed just far enough from him to maybe let you breathe. You hadn’t noticed it before. You hadn’t seen anything but him.

Slowly, knees wobbling, you took a seat, crossing your ankles in the demure fashion Trixie taught you, fingers intertwined with each other in your lap. 

You sat like that for a while. So long, in fact, you had to uncross and recross your legs multiple times, pins and needles vibrating through your muscles each time from lack of use. He stayed in his seated position, eyes on you, arm still hooked behind the back of the loveseat, never saying another word. 

It was odd. You were warned about him, about this brutish, intimidating man, and yet… he did nothing. You knew what this job was—the physical aspects of it. And you’re certain he knew as well, since everyone seemed to know who he was, what he was capable of. 

An hour later, three short knocks rapped on the door. You had been taught different knocks meant different things, and this one, short and quick, meant you needed to wrap up, that the buyer only had a few more minutes left with their purchase.

That was the first time he moved. He leaned forward, arm sliding down to reach for his pocket, eyes finally leaving your figure. You watched him closely, barely breathing. There was a grace to it, an ease that didn’t match his size. Like a predator stretching after a long rest.

He pulled out a few ration cards, and stood. His boots crossed the floor in slow, solid steps towards you, and your back locked straight against the groaning wood of the chair. He stopped in front of you and held the cards out.

“I–” your throat cracked with lack of use, and you gently cleared it. Don’t speak unless spoken to. But he hadn’t spoken to you. 

“I’m not supposed to take p-payment.” you managed to say quietly, head ducking.

“I’d rather not give that prick anything I don’t have to.” he ground out, and you looked up at him then, at the clear disdain for the man who clothed you and put you to work, and his eyes were burning into you as he added, “Take it.” 

“I didn’t…do anything.”

He still held out his hand with the cards. 

After a beat, you gave in and reached for the cards, careful, trying not to touch him. But your fingertips just barely brushed his, and you flinched like you’d been burned.

If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he was just used to it.

You sat frozen, heart hammering, heat crawling up your neck. Your legs pressed together beneath your dress, muscles tight with something you weren’t sure how to explain. Embarrassment. Tension. Fear, probably. 

When you looked up at him again, his eyes were as unreadable as ever. 

And without another word, he walked toward the door.

But the next morning, you had your first warm meal in weeks.

The next night, Gage came for you again.

He didn’t say who was waiting. Just jerked his chin like before and started walking, expecting you to fall into step. You did.

The corridor hadn’t changed. Same buzzing yellow lights overhead, same warped floor beneath your bare feet. The walls felt closer than they had the night before. Closer, or maybe just quieter. No voices behind the curtains. No music bleeding from the lounge. Just that thick, stale air.

When you reached the door, Gage opened it and gestured you inside. He didn’t follow. And this time, he shut the door behind you.

You turned, and froze.

He was already watching from the same position on the couch. His legs were spread, the faded denim stretched along his broad lap, posture relaxed as his arms bracketed the couch behind him. His gaze was steady on yours, though just as unreadable as ever. 

“You again.” you said before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t sharp or even shy, just curious. You could almost swear there was a twitch of his lips. Nearly a smile.

You didn’t wait to be told. You crossed the room, the creak of the floorboards the only sound beneath the moth eaten rug, and sat in the wooden chair facing him. You kept your knees close together, hands folded tight in your lap.

“I was told not to speak to you,” you said, keeping your voice steady. Testing the line again, just to see if it would hold. You wondered how far you could push, how much you could get him to say. Since, after all, if this was going to be the same as last time, you’d be sitting in an hour’s worth of silence.

He didn’t look away. “That so?”

You nodded once.

His hand lifted to his face, slow and deliberate, scratching at his beard. The sound was rough, a scrape in the silence.

“Probably for the best,” he said. He was so hard to read. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or dismissal, but clearly an end to the conversation. You pressed your lips together and didn’t say anything else.

So, you sat there while he watched you. Your skin burned with the feeling of his eyes on you, though they weren’t necessarily invasive. He seemed to be taking inventory, a slow assessment of the woman in front of him. The way one might watch a trapped animal so it would stay calm instead of bolting at the first sign of movement.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the time together.

But when he got up to leave at the sound of the three knocks, he walked across the room to you once again, and offered you more ration cards.

“Get some damn shoes.” 

For the next week, he became part of your daily life.

The hazel-eyed man would come and sit with you. No touching or requests. Just silence stretched over an hour while his eyes stayed steady on you.

You learned to use the time as best you could. Some days, you let your mind drift, finding stillness in the quiet. Other times, you watched him in return—studied the slope of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the way his hand always curled slightly when it rested on his thigh. When your eyes needed a break, you counted the amount of sun baked flies in the tiny window, the uneven cracks in the wall. Anything to keep from unraveling beneath the weight of his gaze.

At the end of every visit, without fail, he would stand, walk over, and hand you a small stack of ration cards.

And you would eat.

Every day now. Real food. Enough to soften your stomach, enough to put color back in your cheeks. The blush Trixie used to paint on was barely necessary anymore. Some of that was from the food. Some of it was from something else entirely.

Sometimes you caught yourself flushing before you even entered the room.

Because somewhere along the way, you started thinking about him in the hours outside of your time together.

Not obsessively. Just… quietly. The way you might recall a scent or a line of music. A flicker. A shadow. He’d become part of the rhythm of your days, and you didn’t know what that meant. At least, not in a place like this, doing a job like yours.

But you didn’t worry about other clients anymore. Gage hadn’t sent you to anyone else. Maybe because this man paid every day, maybe because he never asked for someone else.

Still, for all the time you spent together, he hardly spoke.

You’d managed to learn that he was from Texas. That he had a brother. But that was it. Two facts about him. Not even a name, no stories he was willing to tell. Nothing you could hold onto. He was a sealed vault, and you hadn’t even touched the lock.

“I’m putting you out in the lounge tonight,” Gage said, barely glancing at you as he counted the ration cards from your last session with your new regular. You always went straight to him after, paying down your debt of the room and board, of your clothes and makeup used each night. There was always something hanging over your head.

“In… the lounge?” you echoed, eyes widening, heart sinking as you stood in his office that night. The lounge was where women danced in scantily clad lingerie, music blaring and contraband was traded. You’d seen it the first night you were here, but never ventured out on the nights since. It felt…nerve wracking. So many eyes, so many wandering hands and snake-like smiles. 

Gage gave a quick glance up, just long enough to show his annoyance before settling back into the creaking chair behind his desk.

“Yes, the lounge,” he said, bored. “You’ll need something new to wear.”

Then his eyes lifted again—this time slower, meaner. He held up the stack of ration cards between two fingers and smiled, all teeth.

“Guess that means I’ll keep these.”

He chuckled at your silence.

“Whatever tips you make tonight, those are yours. If you can manage to catch any of those creeps’ attention.”

You nodded. What else could you do?

He waved you off like a nuisance, and you left, swallowing against the lump in your throat, blinking hard to keep the tears from coming. That money had been your first real hope of paying anything down. Now it was gone.

More currency lost. Which meant the longer you had to stay here.

This place was a pit you were never crawling out of. But it was still a bed. Still a place to bathe. Now that you were eating regularly thanks to Hazel Eyes, it didn’t always feel so bad. Especially since you hadn’t needed to use what god gave you to make the money. 

That night, Trixie came to your room with a bundle of black fabric draped over her arm.

“Suit up,” she said, tossing it to you.

You unfolded it, blinking. Your fingers ran over lace, sheer flowery mesh, and thin straps that tangled like spiderwebs.

“I-I’m supposed to wear this?” you stammered.

“It’s lingerie,” Trixie said with a sigh, already annoyed. “You’ve seen the other girls. Don’t shoot the messenger. Gage said you’re in the lounge tonight, so I brought you something to wear.”

Your skin prickled at the thought of putting it on. Of walking out there with nothing to hide behind. Dancing in the least amount of fabric you’d ever seen. Being seen.

Trixie rolled her eyes, grabbed you by the shoulders, and turned you toward the folding divider in the corner of your room. “Change. Now. We still have to fix your face.”

You ducked behind the divider, fumbling with the fabric, trying to figure out where each strap belonged and how to stretch it over your skin. Your hands shook as you hooked it around your waist, tugged it high over your hips. It barely covered anything, every inch of you feeling exposed.

“What’s wrong with my face?” you called out, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.

“Nothing,” Trixie snapped. “But hurry the fuck up. Since when did you get an attitude?”

“Since when are you so stressed?” you muttered more to yourself.

When you finally stepped out, she let out a low whistle.

“Oh hell yes.” she said with a smile.

You tried to return it, but it was more of a grimace. Your stomach twisted as her gaze swept over you, and instinctively your arms came up to cover yourself. She pulled you in front of the large cracked and dusty mirror, smiling over your shoulder as you looked at the reflection. 

You were downright sinful.

The black bodysuit clung to you like it had been sewn in place. Lace traced every inch of the bodice, delicate patterns sweeping across your ribs and dipping down the center of your chest. It tapered high at the hips, the fabric thinning until it disappeared between your legs. Thin straps hugged your waist, another set wrapping around your hips like they were the only things keeping the sheer fabric attached to your skin. (inspo)

But Trixie’s smile faltered. Her brows pinched.

“What?” you asked quickly, covering your chest with both hands. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands dropped to her hips as she studied you.

“Haven’t you had the same customer these past few days? The one I warned you about?”

You nodded, turning around. “Y-yes.”

“It’s just…” She tilted her head, lips pursing.

Your heart thudded. Had you done something wrong? Was there a mark on your skin? Something that gave you away?

She shook her head. “Let me just say—every other girl I’ve seen come out of a room with him? They never walk out without bruises.”

Your eyes flicked down your own body. No black and blue hues, no soreness. Nothing but nervous sweat and hollow hunger.

“Bruises?” you asked.

Trixie raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “On their hips, their waists. Their legs and arms. I’m sure in more in places that I don’t want to see.”

Your stomach turned.

She leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “You know. From him.”

But you didn’t. Your face must’ve said as much.

“He’s not exactly gentle,” she added, blunt now. “Well… at least not with the others.”

You didn’t know how to respond.

Because you hadn’t told a soul. Not a single person in this place knew that he’d never laid a hand on you. That he barely spoke. That every time you stepped into that room, he looked at you for a while… and then handed you cards when it was time to leave.

You didn’t understand it. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Because it’s not like it was a bad deal. You didn’t have to trade your dignity for the payment, and he wasn’t terrible company, although he was mostly silent. But still, there was something in the back of your mind that wriggled, that taunted you, that begged the question. 

Why hadn’t he wanted you like he wanted them?

Trixie squinted, like she was trying to figure something out. Like she was running a tally in her head you couldn’t see.

But you just stood there in your little black nothing, skin flushed, heart pounding.

“Oh,” you finally said, voice quiet.

That was all there was to say.

You’d forgotten how loud the music was in the lounge. It throbbed through the floor and up your legs, filling your chest and head with a hazy, heavy rhythm. Red light drenched everything—the stage, the couches, your own skin. It pooled in corners and spilled across the leather, catching in the smoke that hung like a veil over the room. Everything smelled like sweat and perfume, sticky-sweet and cloying, with something sharper underneath.

You were pulled onto one of the smaller stages by a girl whose name you couldn’t remember. Some kind of gem. Ruby? Diamond? Probably Ruby. She always wore that firetruck red lipstick that smelled like cherry wax.

She pressed against you, laughing into your ear, her hips rolling as she ground herself into your lap. You held onto the cold metal pole behind you, using it more for balance than performance. The heat of her body against yours, the rhythm of the music, the way your knees brushed together, all blurred together in the dim light.

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to enjoy it or just make it look like you did. She was so good at pretending, her smile never slipped, and her eyes glinted in the dim lighting with a look that said you were doing fine. You weren’t, but she let you have it, and you appreciated the lie.

Ruby flipped her hair over one shoulder, hands skimming your waist. But then her attention snagged on something behind you. Her eyes lit up, lips parting in a sly grin.

You followed her gaze just in time to see a man leaning against one of the couches, waving a hand in the air, fingers pinched with a freshly rolled cigarette, mouth grinning like he already knew she’d come.

“Kitty,” she purred, breath brushing your cheek. “I’ll be right back. Keep dancing.”

She didn’t wait for your answer. She slipped off the stage, hips swaying as she sauntered over to him, arms already lifting to drape around his neck as she threw her leg over his lap. He welcomed her with a hand at her waist and a toothy grin.

And just like that, you were alone.

The red spotlight shifted slightly, catching on your skin, suddenly feeling like a heat lamp above you, all exposed and alone. You adjusted your grip on the pole and swallowed thickly. You didn’t know where to look. The stage felt too high. The eyes in the crowd felt too sharp.

You started to slide toward the edge, ready to duck off the platform and disappear into the hallway. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe you could vanish before someone else pulled you back up.

But then you saw him.

He was a shape at first—broad, still, shadowed. But then your eyes adjusted, and the shape became a man. Him. Sitting low in one of the booths, half-lit by the glow from the bar, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. Watching.

He wasn’t relaxed. Not like he was behind closed doors with you, in that worn-out loveseat that creaked under his weight. No. He looked different here. Bigger, hardened, his mouth in a flat line and his jaw was tight.

And he did not look pleased.

Heat crawled up your throat, settling in your cheeks as you began to cross the room, hips dipping gently with each step. Your new shoes caught the light overhead, glittering with every movement. The lounge pulsed around you, smoke in the air, bass in your chest, but your focus tunneled on him, on the weight of his gaze and the line of his mouth.

Every step felt so loud. So heavy. You didn’t know what this was, what you were walking into, but at least he was familiar, and right now, that felt like enough.

When you finally stopped in front of him, his gaze never left you, and you said, voice shy and quiet, “Hi.”

He leaned back, slow and steady, pressing his hands into the velvet cushion on either side of him. His knees spread slightly, posture settling into something wider. Bigger. And still, he said nothing.

Maybe this was a mistake. 

You cleared your throat, fingers fidgeting with the dainty lace edge at your hips. His gaze flicked away for just a moment—scanning the room, taking in the space around him like he was cataloguing exits. Then his eyes came back to you, sharper than anything before.

“Sit.”

You hesitated. Because, truthfully, there were two ways you could go about this. Since there was no familiar wooden chair for you to place yourself, to cross your legs and wait for your timer to go off. No, you had the couch beside him…or his lap. 

The smoke in the air curled in your lungs, the lights felt too warm, and a strange heat swam just under your skin. You weren’t sure if it was courage or just a lack of sense.

You knew him. Well enough. And it was time to push boundaries and see if it got you killed.

So, you climbed on top of him. Your legs bracketed his denim clad thighs, just hovering, poised just above his lap, waiting for a reaction.

But one never came. If anything, you saw the muscle of his jaw tick, but other than that, he stayed locked on you, not giving anything away. So you hovered there for a moment, uncertain. 

You wanted something. So you let your hands slide up his shoulders, fingertips brushing the coarse fabric of his shirt. He was so warm, so broad and strong, and your fingers felt so dainty against the black of his shirt. You started to move, slowly rolling your hips in a soft rhythm against his lap. Testing the waters. Testing him.

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes stayed on yours, sharp and heavy, drinking in every breath you took.

"You’re mad at me." you stated, though you meant it more as a question, a tether. Your voice was barely audible above the music and you leaned in a little closer, pretending not to notice the way your heart kicked in your chest.

Still, no answer. Just that stare.

You swallowed and let your hands trail down his arms, forcing your voice to stay light even as your mouth went dry, continuing to dance on him.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

A lie. 

And you both knew it.

Slowly, his wide, warm hands found your hips.

The contact was light at first, barely there. But the moment he touched you, your breath hitched.

It was like every nerve in your body lit up at once.

Broad fingertips pressed into the bare skin of your hips, rough and warm and impossibly steady. It wasn’t a grab or anything forced like a warning. It was a claim. Quiet, controlled, and unmistakable.

You felt the heat of it crawl up your spine.

And your body—stupid, traitorous thing—moved into it. You shifted closer, just a fraction, your thighs tightening where they straddled him. Your hands slid onto his chest without thinking, palms flat, searching for something to hold onto.

Every other girl that comes out of that room never walks out without bruises.

And suddenly, the green eyed monster that lived dormant in your body roared to life.

You wanted them. You wanted to feel what it was like to have his fingers digging into your flesh, taking you, making it clear who you’d been with, keeping you there for hours instead of just staring and never saying anything.

You felt his thumb brush against the skin of your exposed ribs, thick and calloused, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. 

He leaned up a little, lips at the shell of your ear, making your skin prickle like it had been licked by flame. You didn’t dare move. 

“Seventeen.” 

His voice was low, nearly drowned out by the bass, but the words sliced clean through the noise. You froze.

He didn’t shift or raise his voice, just spoke like he was telling you about the weather, like the number didn’t matter. But his hand flexed once on your hip tighter.

“I counted seventeen men who looked at you like they’d already paid for a turn.”

He paused, letting it sink in, making all the blood in your body roar in your ears.

“I’ve been sittin’ here,” he went on, his mouth near your ear, so close the heat of it crawled down your neck, “wonderin’ how many of ‘em I could blind with my bare hands before anyone got the nerve to stop me.”

His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm against your skin, sinking into your hair, trailing down the curve of your throat.

“Would you be scared then, darlin’?”

Your throat went dry, your tongue sitting heavy behind your teeth as something kicked heavy in your chest, close to panic but you kept still above him. 

Your mind felt like it was pulled by the jaws of two creatures. One was the lamb– the instinctual, fearful part of you that whispered to run, to scramble off of him and race back to your room, bolting the door locked and staying there, never to see or speak to him again. The lamb that cowered like a scared little cat. Like a Kitty.

But then, there was the panther. The thing with yellow eyes and gleaming teeth, the darkness you’d never quite understood but always felt. The one who curled its tail around your desire and need. The one who dreamed of him, hands between her legs, waking slick and aching in the dark.

You felt his hands move on you then, not restraining or trapping, but actually loosening. Like he was offering you a window out, letting that stray cat out who cowered and ran out into the street where she belonged. You could’ve moved, could’ve bolted like your instinct told you to. 

But you didn’t. Maybe you should’ve.

Instead, you leaned forward an inch, your breath caught between your ribs as your heart constricted on itself. Every part of you was too warm, too aware of how close he was. He felt larger than life beneath you, your thighs aching with tension, a thrum in your legs that had turned molten. 

You rocked your hips against him. This time, slower, firmer. No longer that teasing hover from before.

Your voice was a thread when it came. “No.”

Maybe a lie, maybe a partial truth. You knew, for a fact, as if it was clear all along, that he’d never hurt you. No matter how many girls he’d bruised or bent in half, you were different. He coveted you, protected you, watched you.

He didn’t break the silence again for a while, and so you moved again, letting your hips sway over him, lowering into his lap further and further until you could feel him beneath you, hot solid and growing. Something you’d imagined so many nights, chasing the ghost of it with your own fingers. And now, it was real. Now, your skin was burning, your breath turning shallow. That pulse between your legs grew meaner with every second of silence, every beat of his eyes locked on you, every time your body tried to interpret the weight of his attention.

When you finally dared to glance up again, his eyes were already on you. Nearly blown black with his widening pupils, drinking you in. And there was something else. Something that crinkled at the corners of his eyes, that glinted in the light. 

A smile.

Crooked and proud, he grinned up at you and his fingers suddenly tightened where they laid against your hot skin, so broad and warm and rough to the touch. His half lidded eyes were sparkling with something like pride. Like satisfaction. Or maybe it was just the pleasure of watching you shivering above him.

His touch stayed steady on you, though it didn’t guide or move you. Just held you there while you moved on your own, swaying in his lap, brushing soft lace against rough cotton. Your nipples stiffened from the friction, every pass of fabric sending heat crawling across your chest.

“Go on then, pretty girl.” he murmured, “Show me you ain’t scared.”

You’d been thinking about him all day.

The weight of his hands on your hips. The quiet threat in his voice. The way his mouth had tugged into that barely-there smile, like he was just starting to enjoy watching you come undone.

It had been days since you’d seen him, but your body still remembered the heat of his touch. The pressure, and every inch of skin still hummed with the ghost of him. You’d been dreaming of him just last night; waking up with your thighs pressed together, breath shallow, shame curling low in your stomach. Not because of what you’d done, but because of what you wanted next.

You hadn’t seen him since. He’d tipped you enough to cover your room for days without working. That should’ve been a gift.

But instead, you missed him.

And tonight, you had a feeling. A curl of something low in your stomach told you it would be him again. That maybe this time, he’d say more. Maybe he’d touch you again. Maybe he’d let you touch him back. Maybe—stupidly, hopelessly—you’d learn his name.

You pictured the way it would happen.

He’d already be there when you walked in, sitting back in that same seat, legs spread, arms loose, watching you like he always did: like no one else in the world existed. You’d climb into his lap again, more confident this time, ready to feel him shift beneath you, ready to let things go just a little further. His hands would find you without hesitation. Maybe he’d speak to you, really speak to you. Let you hear more than one line at a time. Let you know something real.

And if he smiled again, that crooked one he had shown you in the lounge, you were pretty sure you’d come apart without him even having to try.

So when Gage leaned through the door to the girl’s communal area and called your name, voice sharp and flat, your pulse kicked up. 

“Kitty, let's go.”

You stood too quickly and smoothed your hands over your maroon slip dress. You didn’t even try to hide the way your breath came in short gasps, already walking toward the hallway, already picturing him on the other side of that door.

You opened it with your heart halfway in your throat.

But it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Hazel Eyes.

It was a stranger.

Thin, wiry, and twitchy-looking, like he couldn’t sit still for long. His shirt clung to him from sweat, not size, and his fingers rubbed obsessively over his thighs like he was trying to wear holes into them. He grinned when he saw you—a crooked, eager smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

He sat in the same place he always had, lounging back like he thought the pose gave him power. But there was nothing intimidating or steady about him, nothing nearly as controlled. His eyes darted all over you as you stood in the doorway, to your neck, your chest, your bare legs. His pupils widened as they moved quickly over you, so eager that you felt stripped bare before you’d even taken a step. He wasn’t much older than you, but he still was like a nasty stray dog with a piece of juicy steak held in front of his nose.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the velvet couch. His voice had that high, weaselly edge, “Come sit.”

You blinked, frozen. Your hand was still on the doorknob, and for a second, the thought of shutting it again flashed through your mind.

But instead, you stepped inside.

You walked like you were sinking through water, slow and stiff, every step a betrayal of what you'd hoped for. Gage hadn’t said who was waiting, but you hadn’t needed him to. You’d assumed. You’d hoped.

How stupid.

How foolish of you to think this job would ever be anything but what it was. You weren’t special. You weren’t different.

What were you expecting? That the man with hazel eyes would be waiting for you every night like it meant something? That your bravery and the slow, desperate grinding had gotten to him somehow? That behind those sharp eyes was a heart that cared?

He had a life outside of this place, unlike you.

You sat on the far edge of the couch, keeping a careful space between you. Hands folded, spine stiff, your eyes stayed  on the curtain pooling in the corner of the room.

The man’s gaze didn’t leave you.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said, his grin tightening. “Promise I’ll be real nice.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept your eyes fixed on the corner of the room, on the red velvet curtain pooling on the floor.

He laughed, a jittery sound. “Shy one, huh? That’s alright. I like shy.”

His hand moved before you saw it coming, just a light touch on your arm, but enough to send a bolt of discomfort straight through you. His fingers were cold, too light, too lingering. You tensed, but didn’t pull away.

This was the job. You reminded yourself again. Over and over.

You stayed still. Because that’s what you were supposed to do.

He must’ve taken it as permission.

His hand drifted higher, fingers brushing your shoulder, fumbling awkwardly against your collarbone. Then, with one finger, he hooked the strap of your slip and pulled it down, slow and teasing, letting it slide along your skin until it fell limp against your upper arm. Not enough to show anything, but easy enough to pull down if he wanted to.

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing, the sound loud in the tight silence. Your skin crawled.

“MILLER!”

The shout cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

You jumped so hard you nearly knocked the man’s hand away from your chest, your whole body stiffening as the hair stood up on the back of your neck.

The man jolted too. “What the fuck?”

The voice echoed again, louder, angrier.

“She’s with a customer, jackass! BACK OFF!”

It was Gage’s voice, pissed and scrambling. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. Suddenly, the door burst open so hard it bounced off the wall with a groan of the hinges.

It was him.

Hazel Eyes was in the doorway. Big and broad and absolutely fuming. He looked like he was burning from the inside out. His chest heaved beneath his flannel, shoulders rising and falling like he was holding something back with every ounce of strength he had. His eyes landed on the hand that was hovering just over your arm, fingers touching where the strap had been pulled down.

He didn’t speak, he barely even paused. But instead, he moved. Crossing the room in three long strides, he grabbed the man’s collar with a brutal grip, yanking him up off the couch like he weighed nothing.

The man barely got a yelp out before he was slammed into the wall hard. The plaster cracked on impact, the entire room shaking. Candles toppled from the tables, wax spilling across the floor as a side table crashed and splintered.

You barely could move, hands gripping the edge of the sofa seat as your heart flew to your throat. 

The man stammered, trying to raise his hands. “Hey! What the–what the fuck, man?!”

But then Hazel Eyes grabbed the man’s wrist, fingers wrapping around his hand. The one that had touched your skin.

And without a word, without a warning, he snapped it.

The sound was sickening. Bone against bone, cartilage tearing, sharp, wet and strong.

The man screamed a high, pathetic sound as he crumpled at his feet, clutching his wrist with the other hand, body folding inward like he might disappear from the pain.

Hazel Eyes didn’t even blink.

“Jesus!” Gage gasped from the doorway, and your eyes darted between them, panic and something else spiraling through you—terror and relief tangled too tightly to separate.

He stood over him, chest heaving, jaw locked, face dark with fury that wasn’t theatrical, it was real. It was ancient and seething.

In the doorway, Gage still stood frozen, his eyes wide and mouth half-open like he was considering stepping in, but wasn’t nearly stupid enough to try.

“Next time you touch her,” he spat, “I’ll crush the whole fuckin’ arm. Now get the hell out.”

The man scrambled. Clutching his ruined wrist, he stumbled through the doorway, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to escape. Gage chased after him, still muttering something useless like an apology.

Then, Hazel Eyes turned to you.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

His eyes were still burning, his chest still rising and falling. He crossed the room again, slower this time, not saying a word. You stared up at him, your heart trapped in your throat.

His fingers, those same ones that had just broken a man’s hand, reached out. And gently, almost reverently, he lifted your strap. He pulled it back into place on your shoulder, and instead of pulling away, his fingers brushed over your cheekbone with the barest graze.

And despite it all, you leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. His hands were warm and rough. Capable of so much violence, and yet touched you with gentleness.

His eyes moved over your face, taking in every part of you, but giving nothing away. He looked unreadable, steady as ever. As if he was unmoved by what had just happened.

Then his voice came, low and even.

“You’re done here.”

You stared up at him. The words didn’t make sense at first. Your brain caught on them like fabric on a nail.

“What?”

His jaw twitched, but his gaze didn’t shift, “I’m takin’ you out of here.”

You blinked, the words hitting harder the second time, but they still didn’t land right. You shook your head once, slowly, not understanding.

“You can’t. That’s not—”

“I can,” he said, cutting through your protest with the same cold certainty that had shattered a man’s hand only minutes before. “I did.”

He stepped back just enough to reach into his back pocket. The motion was calm, deliberate. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, yellowed at the edges, and dropped it beside you on the couch. You stared at it without moving.

“Debt’s paid,” he said. “Room, contract, clothing and late fees. All of it.”

You didn’t touch the paper. Your chest rose and fell, shallow and fast.

“They’ll come after me,” you said, hating how small your voice sounded. “You don’t get to just walk out of a place like this.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

Your stomach twisted. You couldn’t look away from him. His presence filled the entire room. The walls felt smaller with him standing there, blocking the door, shoulders squared like he’d made peace with violence a long time ago.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you do that?”

He looked at you for a long moment. You could see it behind his eyes, the thoughts moving like slow machinery, everything measured, deliberate, exact.

Finally, he spoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

“W-where…where am I supposed to go?”

His eyes softened a bit. You were slowly realizing this was the most he’d ever spoken to you before. 

He turned toward the door, glancing into the hallway. It was quiet now. The chaos from earlier had died down. Gage was probably still occupied with damage control, or maybe trying to figure out if anyone would report what happened. Hazel Eye’s hand hovered just above your shoulder, not touching, but close enough to guide.

“Come on,” he said.

And so, you followed him. 

The city air was cold and wet outside, heavy with the stink of rain and smoke. You walked close to him as he led you through the side streets, cutting between buildings and sticking to alleys, always with one eye on the shadows. He knew the back alleys, knew how to hide from the FEDRA trucks that grumbled by in the dead of the night. It was so dead, like the city was holding its breath right along with you.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a building that looked abandoned from the outside. The windows were dark, one of them cracked. The metal door was rusted at the hinges. He pushed it open with the weight of his shoulder, held it for you without speaking and led you up the stairs.

You made your way down the dark hall and he opened the door to an apartment. It was clean but bare. The furniture was minimal, just a couch, coffee table and a small radio in the corner. The kitchen was small but organized. There were bottles of booze littered around and bags of contraband. But it was still homely, with boots by the door and a jacket hanging to dry from the rain.

He locked the door behind you, then turned the bolt. You stood in the center of the room, your body suddenly aware of how thin your dress was, how quiet the space had become.

“You’re safe here,” he said, “You can…stay as long as you want.”

You nodded numbly, arms crossing over your chest and rubbing your bare arms.

Seeing you shiver made him move toward the closet at the far wall and pulled the door open. You could hear the scrape of hangers, the rustle of fabric.  He offered you a plain black t-shirt. Faded and worn, it looked enormous in his hands. He crossed the room and handed it to you, then turned to rummage in a drawer. When he came back, he was holding a pair of loose cotton boxers, the waistband stretched from wear.

“They’ll do for tonight,” he said. “I’ll get you somethin’ better tomorrow.”

He turned his back without asking, giving you a quiet moment to change. You slipped the dress off slowly, your body still running hot and cold, nerves frayed and pulsing. You pulled his shirt over your head, fabric falling to your mid-thigh. It swallowed your frame completely, the sleeves hanging low on your arms. The boxers were baggy and soft at your hips, barely visible under the cotton shirt. You smelled like him now. Like woodsmoke and earthy musk, it was intoxicating against your skin.

When you turned around, he was waiting for you to move, his back to you. But as he turned, his eyes were a different shade of darkness.

His jaw was tight. His mouth didn’t move, but his stare dragged over every inch of you like a hand. He didn’t speak or compliment. He just looked. Like he had no language for what he was seeing, like it made something burn in his chest he didn’t know how to smother.

You felt your cheeks go hot.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said finally, voice low and strained as he turned away to walk to the sofa in the middle of the room.

You shook your head, reaching out for his wrist, “No, please.”

He looked down at where your fingers wrapped around his skin, then back up at you.

“Please,” you said again, quieter this time after releasing his wrist. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Maybe that was what finally broke something in him. You couldn’t tell for sure. His expression didn’t change in any obvious way, but his shoulders dropped slightly, his posture shifting as if he had let go of something he’d been holding in too long. He didn’t answer you aloud, just turned and led you through the doorway to the right. The bedroom was simple, almost austere. A mattress sat on a metal frame just high enough to keep it off the floor, with a small table at the side and a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. It didn’t feel like a space made for comfort, but it was clean, private, and quiet.

You climbed in first, sliding under the blanket and pulling it up over your legs. The sheets were cold at first, but soft from repeated washing. You lay on your side, leaving space beside you, waiting without looking to see if he would follow. He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, watching you. Then he sat down slowly, lowering himself onto the mattress with a weight that made it shift beneath you. He didn’t press against you right away. He lay still, close but not touching, his back against the pillows. But the silence stretched too long, and the ache in your chest pushed you to move first. You shifted closer to him, slowly, inch by inch, until you could curl into the crook of his shoulder and let your head rest against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Surprisingly, his arm came around you with ease. There was no urgency in the way he held you, no claim, no demand. Just heat and pressure and stillness. His hand settled low on your stomach, warm and broad, his palm covering the soft cotton of his shirt stretched over your skin. You didn’t tense. Your muscles, for the first time in days, started to release. Your breathing began to steady. You felt the weight of your bones return to your body in a way that told you you’d been floating for too long without realizing it. The room was quiet except for your joined breathing, the low hum of something electric behind the walls, and the rustle of fabric where your legs shifted to tangle lightly with his.

After a long stretch of silence, your voice came barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”

Because how long had it been since you met him? And you had no idea who he really was, not beyond the heat of his stare or the weight of his hands or the way he watched you. You wondered briefly if he even knew your name, or if it was just Kitty to him, like everyone else.

“Joel,” he said finally, his voice quiet, rough at the edges.

“Joel.” you repeated, testing it on your tongue. His fingers moved lazily against your side, tracing light strokes through the thin cotton of your borrowed shirt, and you looked up at him with a small, tired smile.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you said, and then offered your own name. Your real one. The one almost no one used anymore.

He didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, his fingers shifted to your chin, rough fingertips catching gently beneath it, angling your face back toward his. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a moment longer, heavy with something you didn’t quite have a name for yet. Then, slowly, with no rush at all, he leaned down.

His lips brushed yours, warm and soft despite the roughness of everything else about him. You felt the scratch of his beard, the tension in his jaw, the restraint in his body as he held himself still. You kissed him back, just as softly at first, your hand lifting to find his face, your palm resting against the edge of his cheek where his beard was sharpest. The moment stretched, quiet and close and steady. Not desperate or greedy. Just two people locked in something real for the first time, with no one watching and no price on your time.

And when you pulled away, breath catching in your throat, your lungs were already straining like they couldn’t get enough air.

But then, his mouth followed yours again, like he couldn’t get enough, catching your next inhale with another kiss. This was more urgent, deeper and needier. His hand lifted, cupping the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair. The pressure was firm was still so careful, thumb brushing the curve of your skull and angling you just the way he wanted. He kissed you like he needed you, like he’d been starving for it.

Your lips parted beneath his and he groaned, low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your ribs. The weight of him shifted, one hand bracing beside your head, the mattress dipping under him as he climbed over you. His body covered yours, solid and warm, blocking out the cold air and the rest of the world all at once.

You reached for him without thinking, both hands on his back, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Your legs shifted beneath the blanket, one thigh slipping up along his side until it hooked over his waist, drawing him in closer. Your bodies aligned easily, like you’d done this before, like you were made to fall into each other this way.

The kiss deepened again. His hand moved from your hair to your jaw, holding your face steady as his tongue slid against yours, slow and hot. He tasted like whiskey and mint, like the only thing you ever wanted to taste for the rest of your life. You were arching up into him, chasing his tongue for more, desperate for him.

The blanket slipped down your hips. His weight settled over you more fully, and everything inside you went tight and hungry at once. You could feel him now, aligned with you, settling between your legs but kept apart by fabric. Your hips rocked up into him, letting yourself glide over the heavy outline of his cock. Something inside you shivered at the sheer thickness of it.

There was no hesitation anymore. Not from him, and certainly not from you. The air between your bodies had turned thick with it, every part of you alight with need.

Your fingers slid beneath his shirt and he grunted softly against your mouth, then broke the kiss only long enough to strip it off over his head. His chest was solid and scarred, his skin hot to the touch, and as he leaned back over you, he pulled the hem of his t-shirt—the one you were wearing now—up over your hips. His hands were large, his touch rough but reverent as he peeled the cotton away from your skin.

He sat back for a breath, eyes dragging over your body with a weight that made you feel flayed open, every inch of you exposed under his gaze. But he didn’t just look. He took it in, like he’d been waiting for this, memorizing you piece by piece. His jaw was clenched tight, his nostrils flared, his breathing heavy. The muscles in his arms twitched like he was holding back something animal.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the first time I saw you, baby,” he muttered, voice low and nearly wrecked. His hands slid up your bare thighs, spreading them apart with slow pressure.

His fingers trailed higher, brushing over the thin waistband of his boxers on your hips. He hooked a hand into the fabric and dragged them down your legs, letting them fall to the floor.

"Thought about it every time I sat with you," he said under his breath, "Every. Time."

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. You couldn’t believe how talkative he was suddenly. You didn’t know how to respond as your breath caught in your throat as he moved between your legs, lowering himself until he was staring up at you from the center of the bed, shoulders broad and looming. His hands slid up your thighs again, thumbs parting you gently, reverently.

“Wanted to kill Gage for puttin’ you in that frilly little outfit on stage,” he said, quiet, almost absent, like it wasn’t a confession but just a fact. “Still might, for lettin’ that fucker touch you tonight.”

His hands guided your trembling legs over his shoulders as your back arched against his touch. You were already panting, your hands fisting in the sheets, your body betraying how desperately you wanted this, how long you’d been aching for it.

He gently worked the pads of his fingers over your center, trailing over the lips of your cunt, studying you, reverent in his worship of your most sensitive parts. His thumb rubbed brushed over your clit before running tight circles over it. And then, thicker than anything you’d felt before, his fingers stretched you open, slick sounds of your arousal filling the air along with your soft, needy gasps.

“Look at you,” he murmured, admiration deep in his voice, "So goddamn pretty,"

You reached for him blindly, one hand on his forearm, the other finding the dark hair at the top of his head. He kissed your pussy gently, a groan escaping him at the taste, his tongue working around your clit as your hips rocked against his fingers.

Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching around his wrist, and your voice broke open on a gasp. “Joel–oh my–”

He groaned into your slick center, the sound low and thick like gravel, like it pained him to know how much he loved his name on your lips. His fingers curled inside you, dragging slow and deep, curling just right against your velvet walls. 

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice muffled against you. “Gotta open ‘er up for me a bit. Don’t wanna hurt ya.”

You whimpered, legs falling open wider. “I can take it,” you breathed, barely able to think around it. “I can take all of you—please, I need—”

You couldn’t stop the tightening in your spine, the way your thighs began to tremble, muscles tensing as the heat surged higher and higher. Joel groaned against you, tongue flattening as he worked your clit faster, more focused now, unrelenting. His free hand slid up your body, warm and rough, until it cupped your breast, fingers spreading wide to hold you there.

But just as you were about to snap, about to feel those stars sparkling behind your eyes in white hot euphoria, he stopped. He didn’t pull away fast, just kissed your clit once, soft and slow, almost reverent. Then he slipped his fingers from you with care, even as your body cried out for more, your whine sharp in the silence he left behind.

Your body twitched in protest, hips still rolling gently like you could summon the friction back with enough desperation. Your breath came in quick, uneven pulls as your chest rose and fell, your fingers curling into his shoulders like maybe you could hold him there, force him not to stop.

He moved over you with predatory grace, his body eclipsing yours as he braced his arms on either side of your head. His eyes swept your face, studying the wreckage–flushed skin, parted lips, pieces of your hair sticking to your face with sweat.

He tilted his head slightly, and there was something in his expression that looked almost concerned, but there was a twinkle to his eyes as he cooed again, “I know, I know,” he cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in, lips brushing yours as he said, “But I need to feel it. Wanna feel you come around my cock, baby girl. Been damn near dreamin’ of it for too long.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his upper arms as Joel sat back on his knees, his hands moving to the backs of your thighs, guiding your knees higher, folding them gently against your chest. His eyes dropped between your legs, and his jaw flexed hard. You could see the way his breath hitched when he took you in, saw the slickness coating your thighs, how it glistened where your folds opened and dripped on the dark fabric beneath you. He ran one hand from the inside of your knee down to your thigh, slow and warm, grounding you.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Look at this fuckin’ mess.”

He took himself in hand and stroked slowly once, then again, watching you the whole time as he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, rubbing it through the wetness before pushing just the tip inside. You gasped, the stretch already enough to make your eyes roll slightly. His hands moved to your legs again, steadying you.

It was slow. Achingly slow. Not because he was teasing but because he was savoring it, watching every inch disappear into you, watching the way your mouth opened, your body pulled him in, your fingers curled into his arms again and clung there. Your thighs shook in his hands, breath hitching on every inch. He stretched you, nearly feeling like his cock split you in half over him.

“Sweetest pussy I've ever had, feels like a goddamn vice around me, darlin',” he whispered, voice cracking a bit. His eyes watched himself disappear inside of you, and not until he was fully sheathed, his coarse dark hair tickling your mound, did he look up in your eyes, hand moving to tuck a piece of hair out of your face, “Talk to me, how’s that feel, hm?”

“S-so-ooh– feels so big,” you barely manage to get out between heaving breaths. 

“I got you” he said, soft now, low and steady. “Gonna take real good care of you, sweet girl.”

He started to move slowly, hips rocking into yours with deep, steady thrusts, each one sinking further, stretching you wider, the warmth of him sinking deep in your belly with every push. His body was all heat and weight, his breathing loud in the room, his scent clinging to your skin. His hands never stopped moving—one dragging down the length of your thigh, the other brushing damp hair back from your forehead, his thumb stroking just beneath your lower lip as he stared down at you.

“You’re takin’ me so good,” he murmured, voice soft but ragged. “Like you were made for it. For me.”

You mewled beneath him, overwhelmed by the fullness, the rhythm, the steady pressure that refused to let up. He let your thighs fall open wide, folding you beneath him with ease, his body dropping down to press chest to chest. The coarse hair on his skin rasped against your nipples, the friction stoking another wave of heat between your legs, and you gasped as he moved deeper still.

“All mine,” he whispered, breath hot against your throat, his mouth trailing to nip at your jaw.

“Yours,” you breathed back, barely able to speak. It wasn’t just a word. It was a truth, dragging itself out of you like a prayer. You’d been his since that first night.

You moaned into his mouth when he kissed you again, your hands moving to his back, clawing at his skin as he fucked you slow, deep, steady. It was overwhelming in a different way—intimate, almost unbearable in how much he felt like he was giving you, how much of him you were taking in. It was too much and not enough all at once, every thrust dragging out a little more desperation.

The pressure was already building again, slow and thick between your legs. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, burying your face against his neck, thinking about what you heard. What you knew he was capable of. Wanting to see more, to feel more. That green eyed monster in your chest still growled, teeth bared, wanting to know. Because you wondered if he was hiding it for your sake, so you wouldn’t turn tail and run.

“I want more,” you whispered, breathless against his skin. “I want more, Joel. Please.”

He groaned at that, his hips faltering for just a second, and then he was pulling back, just far enough to look down at you again.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but dangerous. He kissed your chin, then the tip of your nose, and finally your lips. “What do you want, pretty girl? You gotta tell me.”

Your lip trembled, part nerves, part anticipation. “I want to know what it felt like.”

You reached up, hands cupping the back of his neck, and pulled him close again, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want you to show me what it felt like when you wanted to blind every man in that room. When they looked at me and you were just sitting there… watching. When you thought about me in our room. In your head. Show me how it made you feel, Joel.”

His entire body went still.

When he pulled back, it was slow and measured. His eyes found yours and they were no longer soft. His pupils had gone so wide that the golden hues were barely visible, just the thinnest ring around a black center. His expression had darkened, jaw tight, mouth a flat, unreadable line.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby” he said, voice low, quiet enough to be a whisper, but with none of the tenderness from before. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You stared up at him, breathing hard, trembling slightly beneath his weight.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I do. I want it, Joel. Please,”

His hands tightened where they held you. One slid up to your wrist, pressing it gently, then pinning it against the bed above your head. The other gripped your thigh, rougher now, fingers digging into soft skin as he pushed your leg higher, spreading you wider beneath him.

The next thrust was suddenly brutal—deeper, faster, his hips slamming into yours with bruising force, his control unraveling in an instant. You screamed in bliss, head rolling back into the pillow, pleasure laced with shock at the sudden shift.

“You wanna see what it felt like?” he growled, voice gravel-dark as he fucked into you again, harder this time, his body moving with full weight of his fury now. “That rage you pulled outta me? That’s what it was. Every second I sat there, watchin’ you parade around for them, knowing you belonged to me.”

Your mouth fell open in a moan, your free hand clawing at his back, and he caught it too—both wrists pinned now, his body caging you in, his mouth just above yours.

“I watched them eye you like you were for sale. Like they could afford you. And all I wanted was to rip their eyes out and break their jaws for it.”

He leaned in, teeth scraping your jaw.

“I thought about this,” he said, biting your skin just hard enough to make you whimper. “About gettin’ you open and writhing under me. About markin’ you, makin’ sure they knew who you belonged to.”

You cried out as he drove into you again, deeper than before, pain and pleasure spiking hard through your core.

“You like that, baby?” he growled. “You like knowin’ what you do to me?”

You weren’t sure you could form a coherent sentence let alone a thought, so all you could do was chant yes, yes, yes, your voice high and wrecked, your body trembling beneath him, skin trembling where you stayed pinned open under his hands.

Joel shifted his grip, so he could hold both wrists in one broad hand above your head and against the pillows, the other moved to your face, cupping your jaw until he lightly wrapped it around your throat. He barely added any pressure, but the feeling of his rough fingertips around your neck made your eyes roll.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath scalding against your skin, “If you hadn’t been in that room tonight,” he said, voice flat and deadly, “after I saw his hands on you—I would’ve killed him.”

Your breath caught, your body arching toward his. You didn’t even realize how much you wanted to hear it until the words landed.

“Would’ve snapped his neck. Maybe I should’ve.”

He kissed just beneath your ear, and his fingers flexed slightly around your throat.

“You get that? There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you. No one I wouldn’t put in the ground. I would do anything.”

The monster in your chest stretched its claws. It purred at the sound of the quiet fury in his voice, at the fire lit behind his eyes. It licked at your wounds, lighting a fire in your bloodstream. Your blood roared with it, and your body surged up into his.

You cried out his name, back bowing as heat crashed over you. White-hot stars burst behind your eyes as your orgasm took hold, walls fluttering and gripping him tight, pulsing around the thick stretch of him inside you.

Joel let out a sound that was barely human—a ragged, guttural snarl as his hips snapped forward once, twice, then buried deep. His cock twitched inside you, his grip tightening around your wrists as he came with a low, broken groan, his mouth catching yours in a rough, gasping kiss.

You could feel the heat of him, the long ropes of his release spilling into you, the weight of him collapsing on you as he trembled, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours.

His grip on your wrists loosened, hands sliding free, only to curl around your waist, holding you close as he pressed his lips against yours, this time with gentleness.

Eventually, after the both of you caught your breath, he rolled off you slowly, your hips twitching as he pulled himself out of you. The bed dipped and creaked beneath his weight, but he didn’t move away. His arms found you again, broad, and thick, and pulled you with him, tucking you into the space over his chest with ease.

You let yourself be pulled into him, boneless and raw, your cheek pressed against his skin, still slick with sweat, the steady beat of his heart echoing beneath your ear.

Outside, the city moved on. Somewhere in the distance, a truck rumbled past, making its rounds through the dead of night. But the room around you stayed dark, quiet and warm.

After a long stretch of silence, you looked up at him. The question had been sitting in your chest for weeks, “Why didn’t you ever talk to me?”

His eyes, now hazel and soft in the low light, found yours. He didn’t answer right away.

“When you’d come see me…” your voice trailed. “You never said anything.”

He watched you for a second longer, then exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet, like the words tasted off on his tongue.

“Didn’t want to scare you.”

You didn’t say anything, just let him keep going.

“I didn’t know I had it in me, not like that. Not ‘til I saw you.” His hand moved absently, tracing your side. “There’s a part of me that ain’t ever really stopped wanting to burn the whole fuckin’ place down.”

Another beat of silence passed between you.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he said. “Didn’t want you to know what I’d do.”

He didn’t say for you. He didn’t have to.

You already knew.

And when you closed your eyes and drifted off to sleep, you didn’t need to dream of him. He was already there.

How he’d tilt his head when Tommy said something, the rough scrape of his palm across his jaw as he wiped at the sweat there. Little things. Ordinary things. But to you, they landed sharp and heavy, gathering in your stomach like storm clouds.

It wasn’t new. You’d been dating Joel for months, falling into something you both refused to name. Boyfriend felt too simple, too sweet. What you had with Joel wasn’t delicate. It was quiet, careful, and lately, it was growing teeth.

You’d started noticing how often he stood just a little too close. His fingers would brush the line of your jaw when you kissed him quickly and breathlessly before pulling away, and his gaze would linger as you walked off.

It built in small moments, like the weight of a hand resting just above your knee or the rough timbre of his voice dropping when no one else was around. You hadn’t slept with him yet. Not because you didn’t want to. Hell, you thought about it more than you cared to admit, but because nervousness was curling inside you. Shy wasn’t quite the right word either. It was more… the sharp ache of wanting something you weren’t sure you deserved.

And now, watching him, his back muscles flexing beneath that worn shirt, the heat of the afternoon clinging to his skin, it was getting harder to push it aside. The ache settled low like an insistent pull. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, as if it might hold something back.

Joel turned then, catching your gaze across the yard. His brow quirked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he could feel how you were looking at him. Like he’d known for days.

Heat bloomed beneath your skin, crawling up your neck as you tore your gaze away, fixing your eyes on Nathan, though his words barely registered. Something about fence repairs, or the weather turning — you couldn’t hold onto it.

Still, your eyes betrayed you, flickering back toward him before you could stop yourself. He was bent to his work again, hauling another bale onto his shoulder. It shouldn’t have felt like a punch to the ribs, but it did.

You swallowed hard, your pulse tapping insistently against the hollow of your throat. The world's edges seemed to dull, the chatter of the others, the scrape of boots against dirt. All of it fading beneath the weight of your restless thoughts.

Was this what he wanted?

For you to unravel like this, so wound up with want that it pressed heavily between your legs, that you could barely think straight when he was near? Or was he oblivious to what he was doing to you and how every careless brush of his hand and lingering glance set something alight under your skin?

It gnawed at you, the not-knowing. 

And yet, the truth you didn’t want to name was this — he wasn’t going to make the move. Not unless you did. Joel was a man of long silences, sidelong glances, and letting things come when they came. He wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask.

Which meant it had to be you.

You’d have to find the nerve to tell him what you wanted. To ask for what kept your body restless in the dark, your fingers brushing over your skin, and pretending they were his.

“Hey. You alright, darlin’?”

Joel’s voice startled you, and you jumped like he’d caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to. Your gaze snapped up, and he stood closer than you’d realized, brow knit, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his temple.

Your throat worked around a swallow, words catching somewhere between your chest and your tongue. He watched you, eyes narrowing just a little, like he could see straight through whatever half-assed answer you might give.

“I—” you started, but then he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up to wipe the sweat from his temple.

And you looked. God help you, you looked.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, catching on the flash of tanned skin, the curve of his stomach, and the faint trail of dark hair beneath his waistband. It was a brief, careless motion on his part, but it landed like a spark in a dry field.

Heat flooded your face so fast that it made you dizzy. You could feel your pulse thudding hard behind your ears, your skin prickling beneath his shadow.

You shouldn’t be staring, but your eyes clung to the sight a second too long, hunger stirring low and sharp in your belly before you wrenched your gaze away, pretending to focus on the ground, the fence, anything else.

Joel’s voice came again, softer this time, a little amused. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, a weak, mortified thing, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Mhm. Fine,” you mumbled, though your voice sounded thin and unconvincing even to your ears.

Joel let out a quiet hum, the corner of his mouth ticking up in the faintest ghost of a smirk. He didn’t call you on it. Didn’t tease. Just stood there a beat longer than necessary, letting the moment's weight hang between you.

“Was gonna head to the mess hall,” Joel said, his voice a low rumble as he looked down at you. “You hungry?”

You almost choked on the answer you wanted to give — yeah, hungry for you — but managed to bite it back at the last possible second. A wild, half-panicked thought crossed your mind: Jesus, did I say that out loud?

Your stomach twisted, your face heating under the weight of his gaze. God, you probably looked like a wide-eyed, needy, half-feral stray cat someone left out in the rain.

“Sure,” you murmured, the word barely scraping past your throat.

You turned quickly, eager to put a little space between you and your humiliating thoughts, when his hand caught your wrist. 

“Hold on a second,” Joel said.

You swallowed hard, your eyes darting up to his, searching for a hint of his thoughts. The sun caught in the flecks of green in his irises, and something about how he looked at you made your knees go loose.

His hand slid from your wrist, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear. It was a simple thing. Innocent, probably. But it made your heart race. Your skin flushed hot, a shiver chasing down your spine. Every inch of you prickled, hypersensitive to the warmth of his fingertips and the low hum of his nearness.

“Joel?” you managed, breath catching with confusion.

He smiled, small and easy, like none of this meant anything to him. Like he didn’t know what it was doing to you.

“Had a ladybug in your hair,” he murmured, holding his palm to show you.

A tiny red dot crawled along the callused skin of his hand. He glanced at it, then back at you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You let out a breathless laugh, though it came a little shaky, your heart still hammering in your chest. “Oh,” you said weakly, cursing yourself for sounding like you’d forgotten how to speak.

Then, as casually as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a touch, he flicked the ladybug off his hand and nodded toward the mess hall. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

You followed, your skin still tingling, the ache between your legs a quiet, insistent thing you pretended wasn’t there.

The mess hall was half-full when you and Joel walked in, the scent of something savory and sweet hanging in the air. Conversation buzzed low around you, the scrape of utensils against plates, the distant clatter of a pan in the kitchen. You trailed behind him, still feeling the ghost of his touch at your wrist, the warmth of his hand brushing your hair, as if your skin hadn’t quite recovered.

Joel snagged a tray for you both, and you followed him down the line, not trusting your voice enough to speak. He didn’t say much either, just handed you a cup, grabbed two bowls of stew, and steered you both toward an empty table near the window.

He slid into the bench seat, and you sat across from him, putting what you thought was a safe amount of space between you. But the benches were narrow, the table not much broader, and you felt a jolt of awareness at how close his knee was to yours beneath the wood.

You kept your gaze fixed on your bowl, shoving a spoonful of broth into your mouth without tasting it.

The conversation started easily. Something about the weather turning colder, and a fence that needed fixing on the east side: his voice was low and easy, and you found yourself relaxing in it, sinking into the warmth of his presence like slipping into a hot bath.

And then it happened.

A brush. The softest, accidental sweep of his leg against yours under the table. A spark of contact. Barely there, but enough.

Your breath stuttered. You glanced up sharply, but Joel was looking down at his stew, like nothing had happened. No flicker of acknowledgment on his face.

So maybe it really was nothing. Except it happened again—a shift in his seat, the press of his knee to yours, lingering this time.

You swallowed hard, your pulse skipping. Your hand tightened around the spoon, and you hated how flustered you felt over a small, easily brushed off touch.

Joel’s gaze finally lifted to yours, and the corners of his mouth tugged up, just enough to make your stomach swoop.

“You sure you’re alright, darlin’?” he asked softly, voice dipping below the steady hum of the room.

“I’m fine,” you managed, though the words scraped out a little rough, your throat drier than it had any right to be. “Just hot today. Stew isn’t helping.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your tray as you said it, gaze flickering anywhere but his face: the window, the bowl, the half-empty room. But you could still feel the heat of his knee against yours.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice low, a little rough. “Hot as hell today.”.

Your pulse kicked up, a flush creeping higher along your neck, prickling at the back of your scalp. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to pull it together, to stop reading into every damn thing he said, every glance, every touch.

But then his boot nudged against yours.

You glanced up, and there it was — that look. The one that made your stomach dip, like stepping off a ledge. His eyes were steady on yours, his mouth soft at the edges, like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything but wasn’t about to stop, either.

Your breath caught, words dying on your tongue.

Joel’s gaze lingered another beat before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and went back to his stew like nothing had happened.

Leaving you burning alive in a room full of people, your skin too tight, the air too thick, and the taste of something dangerous hanging heavy on your tongue.

By the time you both stepped out of the mess hall, the sun had slipped low, painting the sky in streaks of pink and amber. The air had cooled, but your skin still felt too hot, prickling beneath your shirt like it hadn’t quite forgotten the way Joel’s knee had pressed against yours.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, trying not to fidget as you fell into step beside him.

Joel didn’t say much, and you weren’t surprised. He never did during these walks. Just let the quiet stretch long and easy between you, the steady crunch of boots on gravel the only sound for a while.

The streets of Jackson were mainly empty now, with folks settling in for the night. Porch lights glowed warm in the dusk, and the faint hum of voices and the distant bark of a dog carried on the cool evening air.

Your heart tripped a little when Joel’s hand brushed against yours.

It was light, barely a touch, just the back of his knuckles grazing yours as he shifted something in his pocket. You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move closer either. Just let your hand linger where it was, close enough for that accidental contact to happen again. And it did. Once, twice, each time a little longer, like the space between you had started to shrink on its own.

Your pulse tapped steadily at your throat, words thick behind your teeth. You wanted to say something about the stars coming out, the stupid ladybug earlier, and how you weren’t just hot from the weather.

“Y’been quiet,” he said, his voice soft. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

You swallowed hard, your gaze flicking to him in the dim light. How he looked at you — steady, unhurried, like he had all the time to wait for you to speak — made your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” you lied, a half-smile tugging at your lips, though your voice felt thin.

He didn’t push; he just let his hand brush yours again, slower this time, his fingers grazing along the side of your pinky before drifting away.

When you reached your front porch, the ache between your ribs felt sharp enough to cut.

“Thanks for walkin’ me home,” you managed, turning toward him, fingers itching at your side to reach for him, to hold him there a little longer.

Joel gave a small nod. “Always, sweetheart.”

He lingered a beat, like he might say something else. Might lean in. Might close that inch between you, but then he tipped his head, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, and turned away, heading back down the path.

You gasped, the sound catching sharp in your throat as Joel turned away, his broad shoulders fading into the dark. He always kissed you goodnight. A soft, lingering thing that left your stomach flipping and your skin buzzing for hours after. But not tonight.

He was leaving you like this — strung out, aching, every nerve stretched thin.

A flicker of heat shot through your chest, chased by something sharp and restless. This had all been some way to rile you up. Hadn’t it? The way his hand brushed yours, the weight of his knee against yours, those long, quiet looks that said everything without saying a damn word.

Your head spun, heart racing so hard you could hear it pounding in your ears.

Before your mind could catch up to your body, your feet were already moving, gravel crunching under your boots as you crossed the space between you in a few quick steps. Your hand shot out, fingers curling around the firm line of his bicep.

“Don’t you dare,” you blurted breathlessly, voice rougher than you meant it to be.

Joel froze. He turned slowly, his brow ticking up, and the look on his face made your stomach dip, like maybe this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“Don’t I dare what?” His voice was soft with a gravelly edge. Your fingers tightened on his arm, and your skin buzzed against his warm skin.

“Leave me like that,” you blurted, your voice sharp, a rough edge of breathlessness clinging to the words. “You did all this on purpose because you’re too scared to ask for more.”

It came out in a rush, heat flushing your skin, your chest rising and falling like you’d just sprinted a mile. You scoffed, glaring up at him, though your hand still hadn’t let go of his arm.

Joel’s face changed. The steady calm he wore like armor cracked, his brow furrowing, mouth parting like he was searching for something to say.

“No,” he said, voice low and uneven. “It—it ain’t like that.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs, throat tight. “Then what’s it like, huh?” you fired back, your words tumbling over each other. “You flexing those stupid muscles in the sun, pulling that thing with the ladybug, then the—the knee thing—”

Your voice faltered, heat creeping higher up your neck.

And then you saw it.

The way Joel’s expression shifted — not guilt, not smugness, but realization. His eyes widened, something dawning behind them that made your stomach drop. The kind of look that made you realize he hadn’t been playing a game at all.

At least, not on purpose.

His hand came up, rough fingers scratching at the back of his neck, eyes dropping for a beat before finding yours again.

“I thought…” he started, voice soft now, a little raw around the edges. “I thought you were bein’ quiet ‘cause you didn’t want more. I figured… maybe you weren’t ready. Or maybe you didn’t see me that way. Hell, I’ve been holdin’ back, darlin’. Tryin’ not to scare you off.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, looking down, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Turns out you scare me more by not doing anything.”

Joel let out a breath, his hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face up so you’d look at him. “Didn’t mean to leave you hangin’,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Was just waitin’ on you.”

You exhaled, chest tight, your eyes searching Joel’s face like you might find courage there. The night pressed in around you, thick and heavy, and your throat felt too tight to swallow.

“Go on,” Joel coaxed, his voice low with the faintest rasp. “Tell me what you want.”

The words made your stomach clench, your pulse skipping. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out immediately—just a stammer, a shaky breath that made your cheeks flush hot.

“I— I want…” you stumbled, the words catching like burrs in your throat. It felt impossible to say it out loud, though every inch of you screamed for it.

Joel’s thumb brushed along your cheekbone again, his touch making your skin prickle. His hand tilted your face, his eyes steady, soft but dark around the edges.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t no need to get shy on me now, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flickering to his mouth for half a second before dropping back to his eyes, heart hammering so hard you swore he could hear it.

“I want you,” you whispered, trembling but sure. Your hand found the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in your fingers. “All of you, Joel.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and he nodded, leaning down to press his lips to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

“Atta girl,” he said, and the sound of it, low and thick, made your stomach swoop. “We can do that soon. I promise.” When he started to pull back, you shook your head, catching his shirt tighter in your grip.

“No—no, Joel,” you breathed, the words slipping out without permission, a boldness breaking loose from the tight coil in your chest. “I don’t wanna wait. I want you now.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, all raw want and aching honesty.

Joel stilled, his thumb retracing your cheek, his other hand resting against your waist. The air between you felt electric, every inch of space charged with what you’d both been too careful to say.

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable for a long, heavy second. Then he clicked his tongue softly, head tilting just a little.

“You sure about this?”

You nodded, probably too fast, heat blooming under your skin. Your hand slid down from his bicep, lingering over the steady rise and fall of his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the worn fabric.

“I’m sure, Joel,” you said, softer this time, but with a steadiness that surprised even you.

His jaw flexed, something unreadable passing over his face, and you took the chance to grab his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones as you tugged him toward your house.

The walk felt unreal, like the air had thickened, every step a little heavier. Time stretched and slowed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. When you reached your front door, your stomach was full of nerves and anticipation, your skin tingling.

Inside, the house felt too quiet. You took your boots off without looking at him, suddenly hyperaware of every movement. The air between you crackled with so much unspoken want that it made your hands shake.

Joel stood just inside the doorway, his fingers grazing the back of his neck as he glanced around, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“We… uh… we should get comfortable,” he said, voice low and rough.

You laughed, breathy and nervous, the sound spilling out before you could stop. “Like… on the bed?”

It wasn’t that you hadn’t done this before. You had, but never with him; somehow, it felt different. 

Joel’s gaze flicked back to you, and that tiny, crooked grin you’d grown addicted to tugged at his mouth. “Yeah,” he replied, like he knew exactly what you felt. “Like on the bed.”

Your stomach swooped, heat curling low in your belly as your fingers found his hand again, threading through the rough warmth of his calloused palm. You tugged him gently down the hall, your pulse thudding hard in your throat.

You half-expected Joel to stop you, to push you against the wall, to kiss you stupid before you even made it to your room, but he didn’t. He followed, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against the back of your hand.

No rushed kisses. No frantic tugging of clothes. Just the sound of your breath, shallow and quick, and his heavy footsteps at your back.

The air felt thick inside your room, and the only light came from the lamp on your nightstand. You turned, half breathless, your heart pounding so hard it made your fingertips tremble.

And still, Joel didn’t make a move.

“Uh… Joel?” you asked, voice soft, your brows pinching together. “Do… you not want me?”

His face changed instantly. Whatever restraint he’d been holding flickered into something raw and painfully tender. He stepped closer, his hands cradling your face like you were something breakable, his thumbs brushing beneath your cheekbones.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Of course, I want you. Been wantin’ you for a while now.”

“I just… I can tell you’re nervous,” he went on, one thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “And I don’t ever wanna do somethin’ you ain’t ready for. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

A rush of warmth spread through your chest, relief crashing into something hotter beneath your skin. “Oh,” you whispered, a little breathless now, your voice unsteady for a different reason entirely.

Joel’s gaze searched yours, and then, finally, his mouth brushed yours—a slow, careful kiss.

You sighed into it, your fingers sliding up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, the heat of his body seeping into yours. His lips moved against yours, coaxing, unhurried, and you melted into the steadiness of him.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his smile grazing your skin.

“Let’s get comfortable,” he murmured, voice warm.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and after awkward shuffling and nervous laughter, you both stripped down to your underwear. Joel’s broad, tanned chest made your stomach flip — the thick lines of muscle, the smattering of hair, the faint scar along his stomach you hadn’t seen before.

You bit your lip, your eyes tracing over him as you memorized every inch.

Joel sat back against the headboard, reaching a hand out toward you. “C’mere.”

And without thinking, you settled in his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips. The feel of his hands on your thighs, his thumbs stroking along your skin, made your breath hitch.

You just sat there, hearts pounding, eyes searching as your hands explored tentative, lingering touches like it was the first time you’d ever been allowed to want someone like this.

Joel’s gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as his fingers traced a deliberate path up your sides, the rough drag of his calloused thumbs brushing the soft swell of your ribs. His touch made your skin prickle, a hot shiver rolling down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered. 

You leaned in, catching his mouth with yours in newfound hunger. The kiss was deeper, your tongue slipping against his, tasting him, pulling a deep, guttural groan from his chest. It vibrated against you, making your thighs clench.

His hands tightened at your waist, and when you shifted — chasing the ache building between your legs — the heat of your clothed pussy dragging against the firm muscle of his thigh made you gasp. Your hips stuttered, a soft, needy whimper spilling into his mouth.

Joel pulled back just enough to watch you, a brow arching, his lips slick and parted, his expression downright sinful.

“Hm?” he rumbled, one corner of his mouth curling. “You like that?”

You bit your lip, your face hot but too far gone to pretend otherwise. Another tiny roll of your hips, and your breath hitched again, the friction sending sparks through you.

Joel let out a low, rough chuckle. “Go on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice molten in the dark. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as he positioned you just right over one of his thick thighs. “Take what you need.”

You braced your hands against his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle flex beneath your palms as you rocked your hips, the pressure sharp and perfect. The soft fabric of his boxers against your soaked underwear made you gasp, your head tipping back.

“Good girl,” Joel murmured, a dark edge curling around the words as his hands guided your hips. “Look how fuckin’ pretty you look, all needy for me.”

The rough praise hit you low in your belly, a sharp jolt of heat rushing through your veins. You pressed down harder against his thigh, chasing that friction, your hips finding a desperate rhythm as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Joel,” you whined, the sound slipping out raw and breathless.

“Atta girl,” he rumbled, his hands tightening at your waist before one slid up, fingers teasing over your breast through the thin fabric of your bra. The contact made your breath hitch, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. “Just like that,” he coaxed, his thumb brushing over your nipple, making it pebble beneath the lace.

Then his hand cupped you fully, kneading, squeezing, and his mouth brushed your ear, the scrape of his stubble making you shiver.

“I wanna see you,” he murmured, voice filthy sweet. “Can I, darlin’?”

You nodded frantically, your eyes flickering open to meet his. The hunger in his gaze made your pulse stutter.

“Yeah,” you breathed, already arching into his touch.

Joel wasted no time, his fingers working the clasp at your back with practiced ease. The straps slid down your arms, and then your bra was gone, leaving you bare before him.

For a split second, your hands twitched, like instinct wanted to cover yourself — nerves mingling with the ache inside you. But Joel caught your wrists and shook his head, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he rasped, his thumbs brushing slowly over your skin. “Let me see you.” How he said it with want, like you were the only thing he’d ever cared to look at, made your heart flutter. 

You let your arms fall to your sides, your pulse thundering, and Joel let out a low, appreciative groan, his gaze dragging down to your bare chest.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he whispered, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

A broken moan tore from your throat as your hips rocked harder against his thigh, the steady pressure sending sharp, electric heat through your core. Every nerve in your body felt stretched thin, your skin flushed and tight, slick with sweat. The rough drag of your soaked panties against the thick muscle of his leg had you trembling, chasing the edge without shame now.

“Oh—Joel…” you gasped, your voice cracking as you buried your face against his neck, breath hot against his skin. “I’m so close. Didn’t—didn’t think I could… come like this.”

Your words sounded wrecked, desperate, and it only made Joel groan, his thigh flexing beneath you, giving you something firmer to grind down on.

“You can, darlin’,” he rasped against your ear. “You will. Look at you—makin’ a mess on me, fuckin’ beautiful.”

His hands were everywhere, broad palms skating up your back, cradling the nape of your neck, guiding the roll of your hips, holding you together even as you started to come apart.

You felt it crest fast and hot, a sharp, aching coil deep in your belly snapping loose as a strangled, broken whimper slipped from your lips. Your entire body went tight, thighs quivering as you pressed down hard against his thigh, riding the wave as it crashed through you.

Your orgasm hit in pulses, slick soaking through your underwear and onto the soft fabric of his boxers, and you clung to him, gasping his name like a prayer.

Joel’s mouth was at your ear, murmuring through it, his voice low and steady as your body trembled. “That’s it, sweetheart… atta girl…perfect.”

When you finally sagged against him, breath ragged, your face buried against his shoulder, Joel’s hand stroked soothingly up and down your back, one arm tight around your waist.

“Damn,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Been wantin’ to see you like that for so long.”

You exhaled, a breathless, dizzy smile pulling at your lips as you looked at him. Your cheeks were flushed, skin still buzzing. “Never done something like that before,” you admitted, your voice shy, words soft around the edges.

Joel’s hand cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing tenderly along your jaw. “Me either,” he whispered.

Your gaze dropped, and there it was — the thick, straining outline of his cock pressing hard against his boxers. Your pulse skipped, heat flooding low in your belly as your hand instinctively reached down, fingertips brushing over the bulge, eager to touch him.

But Joel caught your wrist, his grip firm but gentle.

“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes dark, pupils blown. “I know you can take it, but I wanna make sure you’re good and ready for me first.”

You blinked up at him, your breath hitching, and your body was already throbbing and aching to be filled. Confusion flickered across your face, but before you could speak, Joel moved, guiding you off his lap with a firm hand at your waist.

You barely had time to process before he was behind you, broad chest against your back, his legs bracketing yours on either side. 

Joel’s mouth brushed the shell of your ear, his voice a dark, sin-soaked murmur. “I want you to touch yourself for me.”

Your stomach flipped, breath catching sharply in your throat. “W-what?” you gasped, turning your head to glance at him over your shoulder.

He smirked, his eyes gleaming in the low light, and leaned in to graze his stubble along your jaw. “Like you do when you’re alone,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Wanna watch you fall apart for me, sweetheart.”

“But, Joel—”

“Be a good girl,” he murmured, one hand slipping down to rest between your thighs, cupping the heat of you through the soaked fabric of your underwear. “Show me.”

Your protest died on your tongue, replaced by a soft, broken moan as your hips rolled into his palm.

Your hands moved on instinct, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, tugging the drenched fabric down your trembling thighs. Joel helped, his hands spreading your legs open over his, leaving you bare and exposed against him.

“Goddamn,” he growled, his lips trailing down your neck as he dragged one hand up to knead your breast, the other stroking slow, possessive lines along your thigh. “Go on, pretty girl… show me how you touch that sweet little pussy.”

The room felt too hot, the air thick with the scent of sweat and skin. Your hand dipped between your legs, and Joel’s voice was right there, rough and ragged in your ear.

“That’s it, good girl. Just like that.”

When your fingers brushed your slick folds, a soft, wrecked whimper tumbled from your lips, your body already so strung tight that the edges of your vision went hazy. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, the ache sharp and insistent.

“Joel… please,” you gasped, your fingers circling your clit in tight, desperate little motions. “Want your fingers, need you—”

“Not yet,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear, the words sinking into your skin like warm honey.

A needy, broken sound escaped you as your hips rolled into your touch, your body arching against the hard line of his chest. Your eyes squeezed shut, your thighs starting to press together, chasing friction.

“Uh-uh,” Joel’s voice came rough, command thick in his tone. “Keep ‘em open for me, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down, thumbs skimming up the sensitive, trembling skin of your inner thighs, coaxing them apart. The cool air against your soaked skin made you shudder.

“Let me see how fuckin’ wet you are for me,” he whispered, and the sound of it, low and filthy, made your pulse stutter.

Your fingers worked faster, slick sounds filling the space between your ragged breaths, your head falling back against Joel’s shoulder.

His hand reached down, closing around your wrist. You whimpered at the loss of contact, your body protesting the sudden emptiness. Before you could beg again, Joel brought your fingers to his mouth, those dark eyes holding yours. His lips closed around them, tongue curling, sucking your slick-coated fingers into his mouth with a groan.

“Christ,” he rasped, releasing them with a soft, wet pop. “Taste so goddamn sweet.”

The heat between your legs pulsed harder, your thighs trembling.

“Can I have you now?” you whispered, voice trembling with need, your whole body aching for him.

Joel’s teeth grazed your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Yeah,” he growled. “You’ve been such a good girl for me, darlin’.”

Joel’s hand released your wrist, his fingers trailing down your thigh in a possessive glide that left a shiver in their wake. Your skin prickled, heat rolling through you in waves as his touch dipped lower, teasing over the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh.

Then, finally, one thick finger slid between your slick folds, gathering your wetness in a lazy, unhurried stroke. The contact was almost too much, your hips jerking against his hand, a soft gasp slipping from your lips.

“Fuck…” Joel groaned, his voice a dark, reverent thing against your neck. His lips pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, stubble scraping deliciously over your flushed skin. “You’re drippin’ for me. Look at this,” he rasped, his finger teasing at your entrance, circling but not pressing in.

Your whole body arched, chasing him without thinking, a whimper clawing up from your chest.

“Please,” you breathed, your head lolling back against his shoulder, legs falling open wider.

Joel chuckled softly, his free hand tightening around your thigh to keep you spread for him.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, his finger finally slipping inside you, the thick stretch making you moan. “Knew you’d feel this perfect.”

Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and desperate, and he groaned again, his teeth grazing the curve of your jaw.

“You’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch of me. But not yet,” he warned, teasing you with the slow thrust of his finger. 

“Oh, please, Joel,” you moaned, the words breaking apart on a gasp, your hips rolling down into his hand, greedy for more.

“You sound so pretty like this,” he rasped, his voice thick with hunger. 

His single finger pumped into you, the slick slide of it making your skin burn, every drag against your walls sending sparks through your core. The way he worked, you open with patience like he was savoring every twitch and whimper, made you dizzy.

Your hands clutched at his thighs, your head tipping back against his shoulder, a broken whine slipping from you as the ache inside sharpened.

“More,” you breathed.

He groaned and, without pulling back, slid a second thick finger inside you. The stretch made your breath catch, your thighs trembling as your walls fluttered around him.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” Joel growled against your throat, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Squeezin’ my fingers like that.”

His fingers moved in a steady rhythm, scissoring slightly, working you open, coaxing moans from your lips. Your hips couldn’t stay still, grinding down against his hand, chasing every stroke, every curl of his fingers as your body tightened around him.

“You feel that?” he said, his voice a slow, dangerous drawl against your ear. “How good you’re takin’ my fingers?”

You whimpered, your body so close to unraveling, you could barely form words.

“Joel… I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he coaxed, his other hand cupping your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple. “Gonna fall apart on my hand first… then I’ll fill you up like you fuckin’ need.”

Your hips moved of their own accord now, grinding down against Joel’s hand, every thrust of his fingers making you moan, your whole body drawn tight like a bowstring. The heat building low in your belly threatened to snap, sharp, hot, and overwhelming.

Joel’s mouth stayed at your ear, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “That’s it, darlin’… just like that,” he murmured, his fingers curling deep, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out. “I can feel you clenchin’ around me. You’re close, ain’t you?”

A broken, breathless whimper was all you could manage, your head tipping back against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as the tension in your body coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel’s free hand gripped your thigh, keeping you spread wide for him as his fingers worked you open, the wet sounds of his hand moving between your thighs mingling with your ragged breathing.

“Gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasped, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my fingers. C’mon, sweetheart, be good and give it to me.”

Your body shuddered around him, a sharp, blinding pleasure tearing through you as your orgasm crashed down. A cry ripped from your throat, your hips bucking helplessly against his hand. The wave of it pulsed through you in hard, aching bursts, wetness spilling over his fingers as you came, trembling and wrecked in his arms.

Joel groaned against your skin, his hand slowing just enough to drag it out, milking every last shudder from your overstimulated body.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growled, kissing the curve of your neck, savoring the way you fell limp against him, breathless and shaking.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your head lolled to the side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.

Joel’s hand left you, and you whimpered at the loss, already missing how his fingers filled you. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a soft, satisfied groan. “Sweetest goddamn thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. 

You exhaled a shaky breath, your body still humming with aftershocks. Your eyes fluttered shut as you pressed a weak, lingering kiss to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing over the rough stubble and salt-slick skin.

Joel sighed softly and leaned down to kiss your temple. “Need a minute, darlin’?” he murmured against your skin.

You gave a slight nod, the last of your strength pooling in the simple motion. Your body felt boneless, and your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths.

Joel shifted behind you, pulling you close until you were tucked against him, your back to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you there.

“S’okay,” he murmured, his hand tracing lazy, soothing patterns along the bare skin of your back. “You did so good.”

The praise made your heart flutter, emotion catching you off guard in the quiet. You turned your head slightly, your cheek resting against his bicep.

“But… what about—” you started, voice small, the words snagging as guilt and tenderness tangled in your chest.

Joel’s fingers stroked through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Nah,” he rumbled, brushing another kiss to your hairline. “Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. Tonight was all about you.”

And it wasn’t just the words, but how he said them, like nothing mattered more than seeing you like this, wrecked, held, and cared for.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, your hand finding his and lacing your fingers over your stomach. “I like it when you take care of me,” you admitted quietly, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

Joel’s chest rumbled behind you, a low, rough sound somewhere between a chuckle and a pleased groan. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

“Yeah?” he murmured, the warmth in his voice like a slow drag of heat along your skin. “Well… why don’t we get cleaned up—”

“No,” you blurted, cutting him off so quickly it made him pause. “Joel, I want you.”

His breath caught, the shift in your voice — the ache there — pulling his gaze down to you.

“I meant it,” you whispered, your fingers tightening around his, a boldness rising beneath your skin, fueled by how he touched you. “And besides… you didn’t even get off.”

Joel let out a rough sigh, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. “Told you, baby… tonight was about you.”

You pulled away just enough to turn toward him, your thigh sliding over his. The air seemed to thicken around you again, the ache sparking right back to life beneath your skin.

“Joel,” you said, firmer this time, your hand finding the back of his neck, your fingers threading through the damp hair. You met his gaze, heart pounding, a raw, desperate honesty in your voice. “Please. I need you. Need to feel you.”

He cursed under his breath, his jaw flexing tight, the last of his restraint hanging by a thread. His hand was already sliding down your side, his fingers rough and warm against your overheated skin.

“You sure about this?” Joel rasped, though his voice was low, strained, like he already knew your answer. “Ain’t lookin’ to overdo it. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You brushed your lips against the sharp line of his jaw, your breath hot against his stubble, and how his chest rumbled beneath you made your stomach clench.

“I need you,” you whispered, soft but sure, the ache in your voice pulling a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat.

Joel surged forward, catching your mouth in a rough, hungry kiss that left no room for hesitation. His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers finding your slick heat, teasing the sensitive, swollen flesh there. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand, the heat between you reigniting like a match to dry kindling.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours as his fingers circled your clit, his voice frayed and thick. 

Your breathing stuttered as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing along his beard-rough cheek.

“How do you want me?” he rasped, voice rough against your lips, the question loaded and reverent all at once.

You bit your bottom lip, a breathless grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Wanna ride you,” you panted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Don’t want your back hurting you.”

Joel huffed a soft, wrecked chuckle, its fondness unmistakable even through the thick heat of the moment. “Look at you,” he murmured, leaning back against the headboard. “Always thinkin’ about me.”

You smirked, sliding down his body, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. His cock strained against the fabric, thick and flushed, and your pulse skipped at the sight of him.

“Been wanting this all night,” you admitted, your voice rough with want.

Joel’s gaze stayed fixed on your face, like he didn’t wanna miss a second of how you looked touching him for the first time. You pushed his boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against his stomach.

You took him in your hand, relishing the heat, the weight of him. Joel hissed a sharp breath through his teeth, his hips lifting slightly into your touch.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his hand tangling in your hair. “Look so good with your hand on me.”

Your thumb dragged over the bead of precum at his tip, and his jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there as he fought to stay still.

“You keep doing that,” he warned, voice a wrecked rasp, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

A wave of heady confidence surged through you, the kind that came from how Joel looked at you. Without overthinking it, you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands immediately settled on your waist, squeezing, his thumbs stroking over your skin. 

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock. Joel groaned, his head tipping back against the headboard as you guided his tip to your entrance, teasing yourself with the slick, aching slide of him against your folds.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You bit your lip, shivering at the feel of his blunt head nudging against your clit, dragging slick over your pussy.

“Been thinkin’ about this all night,” you whispered, watching his face as you shifted your hips, letting just the tip slip inside. The stretch made your breath hitch, your body clenching down instinctively.

Joel’s hands shot up to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs teasing your nipples as a guttural groan broke from his chest. “Fuck—look at you,” he murmured. “So goddamn perfect.”

You whimpered his name, a shaky, desperate sound, and slowly started to sink, inch by inch, the thick stretch of him making your thighs tremble. Every time you took a little more, Joel’s hands gripped tighter — one sliding down to your hip, the other still toying with your breast, his thumb circling your nipple as he cursed under his breath.

“Good girl… that’s it,” he praised. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

Your head tipped back, a moan spilling from your lips as you finally bottomed out, the fullness of him stealing your breath.

“God, Joel,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath your palms. “So big—feels so good.”

He groaned, his mouth catching yours in a messy, desperate kiss, teeth scraping your bottom lip as he held you there, his hips giving the slightest, needy thrust up into you.

“Move for me, baby,” he rasped against your lips. “Show me how you ride me.”

You nodded, lips parted, a breathless moan slipping free as you started to move — slow at first, lifting your hips and then sinking back down, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls. Every thick vein, every stretch of him filling you so deep it made your vision blur.

It was better than you’d imagined in those restless nights, than the fevered dreams that left you aching. Nothing compared to the heat of him inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Oh, Joel,” you panted, your fingernails digging into the hard line of his shoulders as you rode him, your pace quickening with every wet, desperate slap of skin against skin.

A ragged groan tore from his chest, his head dropping back against the headboard as his eyes squeezed shut.

“I ain’t gonna last,” Joel growled, his voice frayed, the muscles in his arms flexing as he fought to keep his hands steady on you, to let you have this.

“Me either,” you gasped, your head tipping back, hair sticking to your damp skin, every roll of your hips sending sharp, perfect sparks of pleasure through you.

Joel’s hand slipped up your back, threading into your hair, tugging gently to pull your mouth back to his. His kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and greedy, swallowing your cries as your pace stuttered, chasing that edge neither of you could hold off much longer.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he groaned against your lips, his hips starting to thrust up into you, matching your rhythm, rough and deep. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

You were so close, teetering on the edge, every nerve in your body strung tight and ready to snap.

“Joel, I—”

“Yeah, I got you,” he said, his voice breaking as his control unraveled with you.

Your body tightened, a sharp, desperate clench around Joel’s cock that made your entire frame tremble. The pleasure hit suddenly and blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in hard, pulsing waves. A broken, wrecked whimper slipped from your lips as you buried your face against his neck, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, clinging to him.

Joel groaned, deep and raw, his grip on your hips tightening as your body spasmed around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Such a good girl. Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

His control slipped as you came, his hips thrusting up into you as he chased the tight, wet grip of you clenching around him. The slick sound of it, the heat of your release coating him, only made his breathing rougher, his jaw clenched tight.

You felt him tense beneath you, his body shuddering, and then he was pulling out, a ragged groan tearing from his chest.

“Fuck, darlin’,” Joel panted, one hand wrapping tight around his cock, the other steadying you against his chest.

You slid off his lap, legs weak and trembling, sinking beside him on the bed. Your eyes locked on the sight of him, fist working over his thick, slick length, his stomach tight, sweat-slick skin flushed. The way he looked at you—wrecked, desperate, the last of his restraint burning away—made heat pool low in your belly all over again.

“Wanna see you,” you whispered, your voice rough and needy, watching how his hand moved over his cock.

Joel’s eyes darkened, a low curse falling from his lips as he stroked faster. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’,” he growled, his voice breaking, “and I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

With a deep, guttural moan, his hips jerked, thick ropes of heat spilling into his hand, across his stomach. His head fell back, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths as he worked himself through it.

You watched every second of it, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips as you reached out, your fingers brushing his thigh.

“Give me a second,” Joel muttered, his voice rough and wrecked, a breathless, half-laugh slipping out as he glanced at you. “I’ll get you cleaned up in a minute,” he added, dragging a hand down his face, his lips quirking in a crooked, spent grin.

You smiled, your pulse still unsteady, and scooted closer, closing the last bit of space between you. Without a word, you curled into his side, your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand splayed over his chest's steady rise and fall. His skin was still hot, his heartbeat thudding under your palm.

Joel let out a low, contented sound and slipped his arm around you, pulling you in tighter. His hand rubbed slow, absent circles along your bare back.

You smiled against his chest, pressing a small, lingering kiss to his skin before your fingers brushed along the line of a faint scar on his stomach, tracing it without thinking.

Joel’s hand stilled briefly, then resumed its gentle path along your back. He tilted his head, kissing the top of your hair.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, a grin in his voice now. “But I like it.”

A quiet laugh slipped from you as you snuggled closer, your limbs heavy, the ache between your legs a pleasant, distant throb.

Eventually, Joel kissed your temple again, his voice a soft promise against your hair. “Still gonna clean you up… just need a minute, sweetheart. Might not ever wanna let you go.”

You smiled because right then, neither did you.

he gently wipes your tears when you cry, bringing you into his chest as his hand runs down your back, soothing you with his soft voice and warm touch.

he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your body when he notices you’re shivering in the middle of winter.

he calls out of patrol and stays home by your side during your time of the month, knowing you need some extra love and support despite telling him you can take care of yourself.

he gazes at you and listens attentively as you let out all of your problems and worries, his presence providing you comfort when you can't seem to get out of your own head.

he holds you in his big arms until you fall asleep, lightly grazing your soft skin with his fingers. he kisses your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo. upon deafened ears, his voice vulnerable and tender, he musters up the courage to murmur those three little words.

and says nothing.

just stands there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to remember why he was mad in the first place.

you take a step closer to him. your chest brushes lightly against his crossed arms, warm skin against fabric.

“still don’t care?” you ask, soft and dangerous, cause you know he’s seconds away from folding.

joel exhales through his nose. “you think this is cute?”

you nod, eyes wide, pretending innocence. “a little.”

“you think you can flash your way outta consequences?”

“it’s worked before.”

he shakes his head, eyes drifting, just for a second, down your bare skin, then snapping right back up like it didn’t happen. but it did. you saw it. and he knows you saw it.

you lean up on your toes, lips almost at his ear. “you’re staring.”

“no, i’m not,” he mutters.

“yes, you are.”

joel’s hands itches at his sides, he wanted to touch you, but he didn't. “put your shirt back on.”

you hum, dragging your fingers slowly down his forearm. “make me.”

his jaw tightens again. “you’re not gonna win this time.”

“mm,” you breathe, lips brushing his neck now, barely there. “we’ll see.”

he closes his eyes. just for a second. like he’s praying. or surrendering. or both.

“fine,” you say suddenly, stepping back from him, your tone sweet but defeated. “if it bothers you that much, i’ll do the damn dishes.”

joel blinks, caught off guard by your sudden shift. you grab the dish towel off the counter and head toward the sink like it’s no big deal, like you’re being the mature one now.

he watches. arms still crossed. lips pressing.

but you’re no stupid. you know exactly what you’re doing. you rinse a plate under the warm water, then slowly start scrubbing. your hips shift a little more than necessary, the curve of your back dipping just right.

joel’s still staring. of course he is.

you reach for the tall glass from earlier, the one you used to make that chocolate milkshake just a few hours ago, and when you tilt it, a thick streak of leftover chocolate dribbles out, straight to the top of your breast, slow and sticky, drpping over the nipple.

“shit,” you murmur, looking down at it like it’s some kind of surprise. but it’s not. you know exactly what you did.

you glance over your shoulder, just to find him staring, eyes fixed on your breast.

“you just gonna stare, or you gonna help me clean up?”

his jaw moves, but no words come out. he’s losing. badly.

and you know it.

“you know what you’re doing,” he says finally.

you smile without turning around. “i’m doing the dishes. just like you wanted.”

he lets out a heavy breath. “you’re dangerous.”

you hum, reaching up to grab another glass, letting your back arch just enough. “no, i’m helpful.”

“you’re playin’ with fire,” he mutters.

and that’s when you do it. you turn around slowly, hips leaning into the counter, hands still wet and dripping slightly. chocolate still sticky on your breasts.

joel doesn’t hesitate this time.

he’s on you in seconds, his hands gripping your waist, your back pressing into the counter. his mouth just barely brushes the corner of your lips before he pulls back. still trying to convince himself he's not gonna bent, but the self-control he thinks he has, it's gone.

“last chance to walk away,” he says, voice thick, eyes locked on your mouth.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

and neither is he.

he doesn't move slowly this time. there's no warning, no hesitation—just the rough sound of his breath as he closes the distance and kisses you hard.

it’s not sweet. it’s not gentle.

his hands slide up your sides, fingertips touching your breasts, skin getting stick by the chocolate.

“goddamn it,” he mutters, like he’s mad at himself, like kissing you is some kind of sin he’s giving into. “you drive me insane.”

you smiled. “then stop fighting me.”

he lifts you without warning, placing you on the counter, stepping between your legs like he belongs there—he does. you felt the tiles too cold against your skin, but him... he was all heat, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth against yours.

“you think everything is a game,” he says against your neck, kissing along your collarbone.

“maybe,” you whisper, fingers curling in his hair. “maybe i just like watching you lose.”

“i’m not losin’,” he growls, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i’m givin’ in.”

and it feels like falling. like this was where you were always heading, since the first dish left in the sink.

he went down to your breasts, meanwhile his hands already worked unbuttoning your shorts.

his lips found the tip of your breast. he lost himself in it, he sucked, licked the chocolate. you were holding him close to your breast... you love when he plays with them, you love the feeling of his tongue sucking from your nipple as if he's trying to get something. you bite your lip and lean your head back, moaning softly.

joel's lips move to your other breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth again. you can see how swollen and drooled your breast is... but most importantly, it's clean from chocolate.

"i love the way you taste," he murmurs between kisses, looking up to you.

you chuckle when you spot a stain of chocolate on his jaw. "i can tell,"

his hands slide down to your thighs, squeezing and caressing them as he continues to pleasure you with his mouth. he sucks hard, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive flesh as he teases you with his mouth. he nibbled your nipple, hard enough to make you whine. hearing you was a reward for him.

“that’s for not doing the dishes,” he growled.

“oh, i can do it.” you said playfully, trying to hop off the counter.

he dragged your shorts off. “the hell you’re not. you’re not going anywhere.”

joel grabs your hips again, holding you in place on the counter as he moves between your legs, his body pressed against yours. he leans in, nibbling on your earlobe as he speaks.

"and right now, i want you to be a good girl and stay still for me."

joel reaches down, grabbing his cock and stroking it a few times before pressing it against your entrance.

"you're such a brat," he mutters, his voice filled with both irritation and desire. "never do any chores."

he pushes forward, slowly entering you, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

"you never let me,"

he thrusts into you hard. he wasn't being soft or slow. he was setting a rentless pace.

joel continues to thrust into you, his pace growing faster and more intense with each movement. he moves his mouth to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there as he drives into you over and over again.

"you're damn tight," he groans. "and so damn stubborn."

he lifts one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist, giving him even more access to you. his hips snaps against yours.

"gentle," you say softly between breathy moans.

"you don't like it gentle."

he lifts your other leg, pinning them both against the counter, seizing the moment to pound into you. you twirl your fingers on his hair, tugging just enough, whimpering and repeating his name, over and over, asking for more.

"see? you're a damn brat,"

"no more doing the dishes?" you pouted, faking innocence.

"i'll do them,"

and just like that, you won. again.

For a moment, Joel thinks about retreating into his bunk and winding down for the night, but his eyes dart back to the diner. The welcoming light that pours from the large windows, and the flickering neon open sign. Goddamn does a warm cup of coffee, and the opportunity to stretch his legs after a long drive sound good right about now.

His eyes dart back to the beat up blue hatchback parked around the side. He recognizes it, or rather, he recognizes who it belongs to. He feels like a teenager—you make him feel entirely out of his depth, and he’s not sure why. There’s nothing between you.

You’ve never been anything but friendly and accommodating toward him. You know exactly how he likes his coffee and make for good conversation. The problem lies in what you don’t know—in the moments between a sip of coffee in the diner, and before he passes out in his bunk. The secret between his fist and his cock when all he can think about is you—you in that fucking dress, you with that gorgeous smile, you who treats him with genuine interest. He’s pathetic. As mindless as a moth to a flame. As dumb as a fool to his execution.

When he finally finishes stewing in his guilt, staring blankly at the blinking amber lights of his dashboard, he musters up the courage to leave the comfort of the cab of his truck. He makes the walk across the parking lot a quick one—beneath the light drizzle of rain drops prickling his skin. He forgot his jacket in his truck, but he knows if he returns to his rig now he won’t be able to convince himself to venture back out.

Joel shoulders open the door with a huff as cool air rushes inside with him. The door falls shut and warmth envelops him in its place. He dares a glimpse at his reflection in the smudged glass and cards a hand through his unkempt hair. Turning, he surveys his surroundings for the first time, tamping his boots on the door mat. 

Booths are nestled along one wall, their red pleather upholstery spiderwebbed with fissures that reveal the foam cushioning beneath. Chips and scratches litter the table tops, the varnish worn around the edges where elbows have often come to rest. The checkerboard floor is weathered all the way down the aisle, certain tiles marking the well trodden path. The walls are covered in all sorts of dusty relics; old license plates from various states, road maps, and flags. Posters peel away from the wall at their corners and photographs have yellowed with the years.

He’s certain that this place hasn’t been renovated since its opening. It’s dingy, and unremarkable, and most things here have been wasting away for decades. The diner itself isn’t why he keeps coming back, though. He could just as well head over to the convenience store next door for a quick meal and a drink.

His eyes land on you. You’re standing behind the counter that runs the length of the room, chrome stools with red tops line the other side. You wipe down the surface with a damp rag. The radio crackles, crooning some tune that you’re too busy humming to notice his entrance.

It’s late and the place is empty—as desolated and deserted as the parking lot outside—a far cry from the bustling morning rush on those days when he’s barely able to get a word in while you rush around, topping up coffees or balancing trays of food. But now, you’re lost in your own world, and Joel finds himself hanging onto every second that you’re unaware of his presence because the view is a bit like art; a painting that he wouldn’t mind having hung in his home, or permanently etched into his mind’s eye.

You’re entirely unlike everything else in this tacky, run down diner. You are bright. You radiate warmth. You are something to be admired, cherished, and held dearly, or placed upon some pedestal. And he thinks that he might’ve spent an eternity memorizing every facet of you—every line that makes up your face, every contour that shapes your body—if you didn’t look up just then.

The smile that lights up your face is nothing short of a privilege to witness. He has half a mind to throw a glance behind him because it certainly can’t be for him—he can’t be the reason for something so beautiful. He doesn’t warrant that kind of look, but he’s the only one here and he doesn’t want to make himself look stupid, so he gives a curt nod.

Clearing his throat, he takes a stilted step towards one of the tables before settling into the booth. He watches as you disappear into the kitchen, and return with a coffee pot and mug in your hands. Dutifully, you set the mug in front of him and pour him a cup. The steam curls up into the air and one of his hands wraps around the ceramic mug, feeling its warmth. He glances back at you. You’re still standing there and you look a little antsy. He gets the feeling that he might be your only customer for the night.

“Workin’ the graveyard shift, huh?” He asks, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. He pulls a bit of a face and sets it back down. The coffee is just okay, always has been, but the coffee isn’t why he keeps coming back. Again, his eyes flit to you.

“Yeah, I needed the extra shift,” you say as you set the coffee pot onto the table before sitting down across from him. He feels your knee brush his beneath the table and his jaw clenches. “And you? Heading home or heading out?”

You lean forward, bracing your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands, as if preparing yourself to cling to each word he has to say. The angle provides him the perfect vantage point. His eyes naturally snag on the pillowy tops of your breasts and the hidden valley between them. His fist knocks the table as he leans back against the seat, shifting uncomfortably. They look about ready to spill out of that dress with the first two buttons undone. Fuck, had it been unbuttoned when he’d first walked in? Surely.

“Home. Gotta week ‘fore I’m on the road again,” he grumbles, lifting his gaze away from where they definitely shouldn’t be. It means a week before he has a chance at seeing you again. For some reason that thought stirs an ugly feeling within him, twisting and unfolding in the pit of his stomach. The silence stretches between you, and neither of you reach to fill the void. He notices your nails are painted a baby blue to match your dress. Cute. 

The quiet becomes too much and he decides to put an end to it. “What’s the pie of the day this time?” It’s a question that he’s made the habit of asking, but he’s never made the habit of ordering a slice. A little routine between the two of you, and one that instantly has a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You hum as you think it over, making an effort to recall it, and the moment you do, your eyes light up. “It’s banana cream pie.” “Ah? S’it any good?”

“Oh, um, I’ve never tried it before,” you say and your leg jolts against his, your bare skin grazing the denim of his jeans. “Does my opinion matter? Unless you’re actually planning on ordering it this time?”

There’s something about you then—that glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smile, the teasing lilt of your voice. You’re adorable. He wants you all to himself. But he can’t have what’s out of reach. He’s struggling to keep up this act around you. The facade that he’s normal about you because he’s anything but normal about you. There’s nothing normal about his feelings for you at all. He is a beast that wants to swallow you whole and you are too naive to see it. Right? He blinks, eyes catching on the low dip of your top again, and then he feels your leg rub up against his once more. The touch feels almost purposeful, but he tries to convince himself otherwise. His imagination, his desire must be conjuring things—gleaning want where there is none. His throat goes dry and he swallows hard. 

“Nah,” his eyes lower to his coffee, still full, but he stands anyway, and you’re standing up with him, looking confused. “I should get goin’, it’s been a long day.”

“Really? Stay and finish your coffee at least, Joel,” you say, stepping closer. He locks up, muscles going rigid. It’s both a curse and a blessing to have shared his name with you last time. The way it floats from your lips, something wispy and reluctant, and in that dulcet tone. It’s euphonic. It does things to him—terrible, awful, thrilling things. 

He swivels around and you’re mere inches from him, peering up at him all doe eyed. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with this right now, but you look up at him like that—like a lost puppy trailing after him, and he knows deep down that he never really stood a chance. Not when it comes to you. It’s just been a matter of time—of how long he can manage to convince himself of his own lies and turn the other cheek.

”Did… Did I do something that bothered you?” Your voice wavers. It makes him feel like an ass for ever making you question yourself because there’s not a single thing you’ve done to upset him. The only upsetting thing is the way he feels about you, the way want and desire roil in his gut the moment he so much as sees you, or remembers the fact that you exist. It’s purely impulsive and frustrating, and the most blissful feeling. He never wants to feel this way again and he never wants to stop feeling it simultaneously. Two opposing outlooks at an impasse within him.

“No- No ‘course not,” he says, waving his hand dismissively but you still look so unsure, and his hand lands on your shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. His thumb rubs a gentle circle there because he can’t stop himself. “Like I told you, just been a long day.”

You blink, your lip wobbling as you search for your next words. “Oh… it’s just that I was really enjoying your company.”

The last thread of his restraint pulls taut, the flame of tension between you whittling it away, and singeing one tiny, miniscule fibre at a time. You look upon him like he’s something worth a dime—someone of value who merits praise and admiration, but he isn’t. He’s sure that he isn’t anything more than a dumb, pathetic bastard too far ahead of himself to turn back now.

He knows that he’d be a fool to mistake your kindness for interest but, hell, if the way you bat your lashes at him, and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, and sway your hips with every approach isn’t interest, he’s not too sure what is. 

So the thread snaps, giving way to that searing fire and he surges forward, all but stumbling into you. His lips are on yours, clashing with yours—hot and heavy as he licks into your mouth. His breath is hot and laboured, fanning over your face.

You shake in his hold, your hands hovering and unsure of what to do. He pulls away and takes in the sight of you. Flushed and warm with those glossy, wide eyes staring at him in surprise. But you shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen this coming, haven’t you?

“You’re just a little fuckin’ tease, ain’t you?” He asks, and you have the audacity to look bewildered, lips parted in a soft exhale. You are good at this innocent act, he’ll give you that. “Knew what you were doin’ the whole damn time, I bet.”

“Yeah, bet you like havin’ that kinda control over a man like me, huh?” He questions, taking a step forward and into you, crowding you against the table. You’re stunned and locked into place, hands falling to grasp the lip of the table. You make no move to push him away. And that’s the confirmation he needs. He’s right. He knows he’s right and it only emboldens him. “Well, are you gonna say somethin’ or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He’s sapped the air right out of your lungs.

“Bullshit, you’ve had me dreamin’ ‘bout this cunt for weeks now,” he scoffs, spinning you around and pressing a hand firm to your back, bending you over the table's edge. He’s got you pinned there.

“Joel…!” You squeak, gasping out.

“Fuck… been achin’ to taste it,” he says as he sinks to his knees behind you, and flips the back of your skirt up. His hands skim up your legs, lingering on the plush of your thighs in gentle up and down motions before grabbing a hold of them and prying them apart. His fingers graze your cotton panties—they’re that same baby blue, he notes. He clicks his tongue when his fingers come away damp. “Yeah, you’ve been drippin’ since I walked through that damn door, haven’t you?”

Your reply comes out as a weak, wavering sound—somewhere between a whimper and a mewl. Not very talkative, huh? There’s none of that denial anymore. No, he’s worked you into submission in a few measly seconds. But this is what you’d wanted. It’s what you’ve been getting at—been wanting some grizzled, old man like him to fuck you until there isn’t a single thought left floating around in that pretty little head of yours. Blissful oblivion.

“You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you, sweet girl?” He asks, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and dragging the flimsy fabric down your legs. He smacks the side of your thigh when you don’t reply.

“Mhm!” You hum, not so subtly pushing your hips back toward him. Eager little thing. But he’s not one to make things quick. He won’t give you what you want just ‘cause. He’ll relish in it—in the things he can do to you not only with his touch, but the things he can do to you with the absence of it.

“Gotta use your words f’me…” he coos, his thumb pressing into the tender skin where your thigh meets your most intimate place, parting your lips gently. He exhales sharply at the sight—pink and glistening just for him. Precious. “C’mon, be a good girl.”

“Please-! I need you,”  you keen above him, and he can hear the unadulterated desperation dripping from your words. It feeds into him and into his ego—into the beast you’ve created of him.

“Need what? Oughta be specific. ‘M no mind reader,” he murmurs, moving his hand to slide two fingers along your slit as he asks his next question. “D’you need my fingers?”

“My mouth?” Next, Joel leans in close to press a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of your pulsing heat. He feels your legs quiver at the daring proximity—so achingly close to where you need him and, yet somehow, incredibly far. “Or does this greedy cunt need somethin’ more…?”

He is rock hard in his jeans, uncomfortably so. His erection pushes against his zipper but he ignores it, keeping his sole focus on you—the object of his desire, already weak and warbling from a few infinitesimal touches.

“Uh huh- please, anything…!” You beg so pretty, and how can he deny that? He has you in the palm of his hand, your muddled mind incapable of making a simple decision. You’ve relinquished control and deferred all choice to him. He relishes in it and he takes the responsibility in stride. 

“Poor thing can’t even make a decision for herself,” he says as he draws nearer to lay a kiss over your dripping folds. He flicks his tongue out and his thumbs part you at your seam. You squirm and a moan falls from you. He can’t see your face right now, but Christ, does he wish he could. He’ll just have to settle for his imagination which is something he’s not entirely unfamiliar with.

“That’s okay. You don’t gotta think too hard when I’m here, just have to sit there and take what I give you, right?” He pulls back to whisper, the bridge of his nose ghosting over the sensitive skin. “Just gotta stand there bein’ good and dumb for me…”

Joel doesn’t bother waiting for a response before returning his mouth between your legs. He marks a trail of kisses all the way back to your cunt. And when he tastes you again, he lets out a languid groan, tongue flattening over your clit. He laps and suckles at it, siphoning shuddering moans from your lips. Your hips jolt and he moves higher, prodding at your entrance, flicking his tongue there.

He doesn’t belong here. Nothing he’s ever done renders him deserving of this blessing, but he’ll earn it. You whimper above him—tiny, bitten-off whines tumbling from you over and over as he licks into you, laving over your clit again and again. The sounds are downright obscene, filling the empty room as he feasts on you like it’s his final meal and he’s to die tonight—his last will and testament. His fingers dimple the flesh of your thighs, wrenching you open wider and nudging your entrance again.

You’re close. He can tell in the way your legs begin to tremble and your knees threaten to buckle. His hands lower to brace you, a silent gesture, as if to say ‘I’ve got you.’ And he does. He’s not letting you go until you’ve reached that peak and then some. He returns all his attention to your clit, swirling his tongue and suckling—working you up, up, up and coaxing you over that crest.

“Oh…! Nghh, Joel-!” You wail. Your orgasm is a wavering, jittering thing. He can feel your muscles convulsing against his tongue. He grunts and works you through it, drinking up every last drop. 

It’s too easy to push you down and wind you up. Your body is pliant, willing, and accepting of everything he gives you. Even as it spasms and jerks, a weak sound of protest falling from your lips as he refuses to let up.

This moment, right here in this empty diner, is limbo—a space between two destinations in which time ceases to exist. He can’t get enough of you. He never will. He’s addicted, so he continues to take and take from you. The pleasure he imparts unto you is his own, his cock twitching in his pants.

Joel mouths at your pussy. He does not stop to breathe. He smothers himself in your wet, messy folds, teasing and licking—pushing and pulling. Raising you up and bringing you back down each time he diverts his attention to another sensitive place.

You are a mess. A heap of shaking limbs, sinful sounds, and babbled words—garbled and disjointed pleas. He doesn’t think you realize your own contradictions. A quiet ‘I can’t-’, a stuttered ‘no more’, followed by a ‘please don’t stop!’

He won’t. He will not stop until he’s torn another orgasm from you. He knows that you’re capable—you’ll give him what he wants and comply with his whims because you’re his good girl. You will give him another whether or not it’s dredged from you weeping and tremoring.

And you do. Your body coils like a spring, his hands move to your hips, tugging you closer against his face. One more pass of his tongue and your body unravels, unwinding and releasing all that tension.

“Oh God! Ah- Joel… fuck!” you cry out. When he pulls away, his face is slick with your arousal, droplets clinging to the scruff of his beard. He stands up behind you, his hands coasting up your sides as he does. You’ve gone limp, still folded over the table.

Shucking off his belt, Joel pushes his pants down alongside his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock. It’s flushed and leaking, aching to be inside you already. He shuffles behind you, guiding his cock between your legs and dragging it over your seam, and slipping it between your pussy lips.

“You let any man have his way with you?” he questions, tapping the bulbous tip against your clit before sliding it back and notching it against your entrance. “D’you spend weeks practically beggin’ for it? Temptin’ any bastard that happens to pass through?”

“No! No, just you, only you.” you say, breath hitching and eyes watering.

“No? Just me? That’s damn right.” He grins and begins to sink inside, drawing a ragged moan from the both of you. Your pussy hugs his cock as it cleaves you open. “This cunt belongs to me.”

He starts off slow, bringing his hands to rest on your waist as he eases in and out of you, feeling your warm, tight walls clutch and flutter around his shaft, seeming to cling and suck him back in each time he pulls out.

“Fuck yes, baby…” he croons, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to set a faster pace. The mug and coffee pot rattle with each thrust that jolts your body against the table. The mug inches closer and closer to the edge. His hips meet your ass, bottoming out with each drive forward. Opening his eyes, his gaze lands on the window in front of you. The two of you look out onto the empty parking lot.

“Would you look at that, darlin’…” he remarks, giving your hip a squeeze to grab your attention and direct it forward. “Anyone could walk on past and see you gettin’ railed… you like that don’t you, though?”

There’s truth to his words. The looming threat doesn’t take away from it. No, your cunt contracts around his shaft, dragging him deeper at the acknowledgement of such an indecent thing. You enjoy the risk—you both delight in it.

To be caught now would be so easy. You’ve been put on display, vulnerable and exposed, beneath the glaring lights reflecting off the glass. Rivulets of rain water slip down the wide, open pane. All it would take is one lone traveler pulling into the parking lot, or the convenience store cashiers switching shifts, and a singular glance in the diner’s direction. 

Just like that, and they would know that you’ve let this man defile you at your place of work. They’d know what a dirty girl you are. But it’s not off-putting in that way that it should be. It’s exhilarating.

“Mhm, you get off on it, filthy girl,” he teases, rolling his hips into you. You’re a wordless, mindless jumble of nothingness beneath him. Completely and utterly drunk on his cock, and unable to string together a single thought, let alone form a coherent sentence. You speak only in helpless mewls and keening moans. His focus is trained on your dazed, dumb expression in the reflection. You look fucking divine.

“Well, go on, look.” He reaches for your hair, tugging it and forcing you to face your mirror image. “Watch me fuck you.”

Joel knows he shouldn’t be so rough with you. You’re fragile and teetering, but he wants you to witness the sight—to face the image of what you’ve been taunting him with for weeks. You’re a work of art. He wants you to know that and remember the reflection in the glass in case this is the last time he bears the privilege of having you in such a manner. 

“Joel, please!” you whine over the wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts, your hands grappling with the flat table top. He’s not sure what you’re pleading for and he thinks that you might not even know yourself.

He hums, rubbing his hand up along your spine and then back down to the knot of your apron. He tugs it loose, and pulls you upright and against him, tossing the apron aside. Sliding his hands around you he undoes the rest of the buttons of your dress in quick succession until your breasts spill out. 

“My beautiful, fuckin’ perfect girl,” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of your neck and then another one as his hands cup your tits, kneading them and feeling the way you shudder against him. 

Joel tips your head back, running his fingers along your jaw in a tender caress. They curl there as he thumbs your bottom lip, prodding and encouraging you to open up before tucking two thick digits inside. Obediently, your mouth closes around them as though it’s a habitual act. He smooths them over your tongue, unable to stifle the strained noise that escapes him.

The silky heat engulfs them and you practically purr, dissolving further into his arms. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a schlick. His hand then slithers down your body and slips between your legs.

He feels the way you’re stretched wide around his girth, wedged open in a way he’s certain you haven’t been before. He continues to rock up into you as he seeks out your swollen clit, fingertips circling the bud in small, vigorous circles. His head drops to your shoulder, feeling that tight, delicious clamp of your pussy. Quiet utterances and muttered curses stashed under his breath flitter over your ear.

“So good… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby…” He drawls, fighting to keep his eyes from clenching shut because he wants to savour this moment and you. Blissed out and empty-headed, taking each inch of him. He adores you—everything about you. Every curve, and dip, and extra bit of plushness.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he moans, his thrusts turning sloppy. If he had the time to dedicate to worshiping every aspect of you he would. He’d spend hours working you through orgasm after orgasm, but you haven’t got the time, and he can feel himself inching closer and closer to his own.

“Shit, I’m close-!” he mumbles, folding you over the table again and following suit. His chest is pressed to your back, and his cock sinks deeper somehow, hips bumping yours against the lip of the table. You slap a hand over your mouth in an effort to suppress your moans.

His arm winds around you, curling beneath your stomach. His hand, large and roughened, fans over the plumpness there—so often hidden by the flared skirt of your dress. He squeezes gently. Groaning, he saws his cock in and out, feeling the unhurried, slick glide as the crown passes over that delicate and sensitive spot inside you. He feels you tense beneath him, another one of your sweet sounds is muffled against your knuckles. His free hand grabs yours and shoves it flat to the table.

“None’a that, darlin’. Lemme hear every damn sound,” he grunts, pressing his palm firmer against your stomach. “Ya feel that? Feel me right fuckin’ here?”

“Yes! Yes, feel you so deep, mmph…!”

“Where do you want it?” he asks, feeling that pressure brim and ache. “Tell me or are you too dumb and drunk on my cock to make up your mind?”

You babble beneath him—a jumbled mess of pleas and yesses, but no definitive answer to the question he has posed. He’s right. You’ve been reduced to a brainless, insatiable, needy thing. Hopelessly keening for more and more even when your body can’t take it.

“It’s alright, baby… I’ll just have to give you a taste of that cream pie you said you’d never tried,” he murmurs, continuing the staggering rhythm of his thrusts.

“Inside’s where ya need it, filling up this greedy cunt, hm?” His voice is hushed, dropping low and husky. The words are like a secret for your ears only. He feels you tense beneath him, a strangled cry is pulled from the depths of you as your walls convulse around his cock. He moans at that sensation. It’s addictive. It’s incredible. You’re writhing and unfurling for him—fracturing into pieces atop quaking legs. “Uh huh, can feel her sucking me in. She’s begging for it, ain’t she?”

“Please, give it to me…” And that’s all the permission he ever needs—that breathless, resigned request.

It’s uncontrollable. The pressure erupts as he bottoms out one last time, nestling deep. His cock swells and twitches, balls drawing tight as relief finally sweeps over him. His hips involuntarily jerk as the first jet spurts inside of you. He sucks in air through his teeth, suddenly feeling deprived of oxygen as his head spins and his mind goes blank. His pelvis spasms, grinding into you. His eyes fall shut and a groan tumbles past his lips. He stays there, shooting warm rope after rope, until he has nothing left to give and then a few moments longer.

When Joel peels himself from you, he slides himself free. Instantly, his eyes catch on your cunt and the way your entrance contracts around nothing. His spend oozes out in what can only be described as an obscene display. 

You lay there panting until you find the will power to stand up and face him. Your legs wobble and you lurch, but he’s there to catch you, propping you up against him. “Easy now,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to brush back a stray hair. 

“Right, sorry,” you say with a giggle, hands braced on his shoulders as you look up at him. You’re damn near delirious. He’s the one who’s brought you to such a state. His stomach churns. His eyes dart between yours and your lips then out the window to his rig in the parking lot. It doesn’t feel right to up and leave, so he makes the decision that he won’t. Not yet.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he murmurs, cupping your face and tilting your chin. You smile up at him. It’s set in stone. He’s set in stone. There’s no pulling him from this moment anytime soon.

INDEX (might be subject to change as the story progresses.)

part i -> EVENT HORIZON

part ii -> MICROFRACTURE

part iii -> FALSE EQUILIBRIUM

part iv -> MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE

part v -> RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM

part vi -> LIMIT APPROACHES GRACE

part vii -> FREEFALL FUNCTION

part viii -> SOFT INFINITY

part ix -> STITCH THEORY

interlude

part x -> DECOHERENCE

part xi -> ZERO CROSSING

part xii -> THEOREM OF BECOMING

part xiii -> HEURISTIC BLOOM

part xiv -> THE FINAL INTEGRATION

epilogue

acknowledgements

FALLING MOODBOARD (a huge bear hug, thank you and shoutout to the incredible @jolapeno !!)

FALLING MOODBOARD (2) (so many kisses and so much love to the talented, sweet @mrsmando !!)

CHARACTER STUDY A deep dive into Joel, Maya, and Leela, answering an ask from one of my sweetheart friends @jodiswiftle who followed along!

JOEL AND LEELA FANART (all my love to the talented, amazing artist @milo-2013-blog )

AUTHOR'S NOTE Have loads of fun with this masterlist! took me a while to think up a different way to potray these chapters, I'm so glad it came through so great!

TAGS your (ultimate) fix-it fic, The Dad™️ Joel, softest Joel you've ever seen, he is also an old yearner cuntstruck hardass, Joel being down bad for a teeny baby girl, OFC is arabic, OFC being an academic nerd and STEM girlie, the cutest baby (Maya) ever, baby is an actual character, Miller family dynamics, Tommy-Joel-Ellie hooliganisms, life in Jackson town, Ellie being the generally awesome older sister, neighbours-to-lovers trope, found family, slowburn, a lot of math references, lotsa door metaphors, epistolary interlude.