#ppcu fic

'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.

You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.

Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.

You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.

Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.

By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.

You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.

For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.

It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.

Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.

He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.

After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.

The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.

You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.

You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.

You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.

"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.

"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.

"Who did this to you?"

"Joel, it's—"

"Who?"

You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.

"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."

"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"

"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."

Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.

Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"

"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."

For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.

"Let's get you home and cleaned up."

Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.

"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."

You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.

"Joel, what—"

"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.

Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.

Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.

Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.

Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.

The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.

You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.

Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.

"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."

You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.

"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."

He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.

The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.

Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.

"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."

"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.

"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."

You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.

"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.

Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."

"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."

"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."

She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.

"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."

The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.

The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.

You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.

"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.

"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.

Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.

"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."

"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."

Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."

The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.

"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."

Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.

"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."

You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.

"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.

"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"

"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."

You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.

"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."

You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.

"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."

"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"

"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."

The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.

"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"

Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.

"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."

"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."

"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"

Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.

"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.

"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."

It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.

You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.

You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.

"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."

You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.

It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.

In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.

Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.

"Who are you?" You ask.

"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.

"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.

The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"

"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."

"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.

"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.

"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"

"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."

"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.

"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."

You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.

Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.

"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."

You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."

"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"

"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."

"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."

"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.

"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."

Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."

Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.

"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.

"James."

"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.

"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."

"Hypothetically."

"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."

"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"

"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."

They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.

You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.

The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.

You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.

When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.

For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.

You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.

James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.

"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."

The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.

"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."

The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"

"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."

"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"

"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"

"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."

You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.

You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."

James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."

"Why are you so far away from home?"

He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."

"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."

"Your community. Where is it?"

"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."

You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.

"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."

The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.

And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.

He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.

Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.

“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”

This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.

At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.

“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”

Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.

“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”

Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”

You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.

“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”

“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”

“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”

“Yeah, that’ll end well.”

“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”

You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.

“Funny,” you managed.

You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short. 

You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.

You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.

“Thank you,” he said.

You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.

“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“It’s brewing. And the banana?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

He always said no, but today he hesitated.

“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.

What?

“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”

Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?

He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.

Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?

You tucked your pen behind your ear.

“I should go get your coffee.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”

“Thank me? You said that already.”

The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.

But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.

“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”

“You what?”

“I take it back. No thank you for you.”

You failed to hold back a surprised grin.

“Ungrateful bastard.”

Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”

Was he… flirting with you?

You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.

Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.

It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.

So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.

“Coffee will be right out,” you said.

Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.

“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” you said.

You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.

You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.

A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.

You untied your apron.

“I’m going to take my fifteen.”

Casey’s brow furrowed.

“Really? We just started.”

“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.

As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.

You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.

Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.

The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.

Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.

Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?

Clint: 10:00? For two hours?

You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.

Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.

Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.

Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.

It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.

Clint took a moment to respond.

You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.

You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.

Your phone buzzed again.

Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”

Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.

Clint: Did you get it?

Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.

Clint: I get it.

Clint: Is the tip good?

Angel: You’re good. Thank you.

Clint: You said that already.

Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.

Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.

Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.

Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.

Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.

You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.

It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.

When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.

You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.

It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.

When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.

You reached for the rose shampoo.

It was empty. Damn it.

You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.

You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.

It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.

Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.

Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.

Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.

10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.

You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.

Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.

You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.

In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.

Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?

You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.

God, this had been a long day.

You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.

It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.

Handsome stood on the other side.

What?

What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?

Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.

Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.

He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?

Were you the something?

Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.

“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”

That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?

“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”

Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.

The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.

“You didn’t know?”

Handsome gave you an incredulous look.

“Does it seem like I knew?”

It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”

Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.

You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?

It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.

“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”

Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.

“You know what time I come in?”

“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”

You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.

At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.

“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”

“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” you said.

Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.

But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.

They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.

No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”

“You are?”

“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”

Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.

A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.

Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.

Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.

“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.

It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.

“Okay,” he said again.

He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.

“Want to come inside?”

You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?

He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.

If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.

These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.

The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.

“Let me take your coat.”

You handed it over numbly.

There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.

Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?

You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.

There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.

You rose to your feet.

“Here? Or the bedroom?”

“Not the bedroom.”

“Okay, then.”

You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.

He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.

“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”

He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.

“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”

You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.

“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”

Clint’s attention snapped to you.

“Cheating?”

You gestured to his hand.

“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”

“Oh,” was all Clint said.

He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.

“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”

Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.

“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”

Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.

You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?

You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.

But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.

“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”

Clint gave you a strange look.

“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”

“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”

Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”

“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”

“I know,” Clint said.

You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.

“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”

You turned to sit facing him on the couch.

“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”

“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.

“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”

A suspicion formed inside your mind.

“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”

“Yeah.”

Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?

“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”

“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.

Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why. 

“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”

Clint nodded at his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”

He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.

You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason.  You stayed where you were.

“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.

He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.

“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”

Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Sure, he didn’t.

“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”

Fuck.

“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”

“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”

You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.

“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”

You shook your head.

“You just told me you don’t like lying!”

A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.

“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”

He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”

“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”

“You thought I made it up?”

“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”

“You’re lying about Titan.”

“I really wish I was.”

Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”

“I don’t want good form,” he said.

“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”

He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”

Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.

“Um. Probably a blowjob?”

Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”

Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.

“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”

Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”

You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”

“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”

“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”

“I will.”

You walked over to his end of the couch.

Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.

You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.

“Can you make some space?” you asked.

Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.

He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.

Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.

“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?

But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.

Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.

Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.

A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.

You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.

“Should I stop?”

Clint hesitated, then shook his head.

You didn’t move.

“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”

Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.

“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”

You brought your hand to his erection.

Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.

You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.

You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. 

He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.

“Clint – ”

He pushed your hand away.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”

He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.

Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.

His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.

You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.

Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You forced your voice to stay level.

“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.

“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”

“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”

His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”

“That isn’t true,” you said.

An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”

You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.

“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”

He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.

“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”

So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.

And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.

“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.

Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.

“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”

Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.

But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.

You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.

“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.

Clint sighed.

“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”

This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.

“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.”

He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”

You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.

And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.

“Take a seat,” Clint said.

You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”

“I noticed. I like it up here.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”

You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.

“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”

“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”

Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.

“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”

“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”

Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”

Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“Um. Either is good.”

He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.

While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.

“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”

“Really?” you asked.

Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.

“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”

“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.

You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.

The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.

Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.

“Clint,” you said.

He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.

“Is that any good?” you asked.

“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”

“Bluey.”

Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”

It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.

“It feels good,” you said.

Clint smiled softly. “Good.”

He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.

You nodded to it.

“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”

Clint grinned.

“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”

“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”

“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”

“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”

“Um. For transportation.”

“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”

“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”

You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.

“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”

He shook his head. “Not right now.”

He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.

“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”

You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.

“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”

Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.

You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.

“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”

You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.

“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”

Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”

His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”

“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.

He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.

Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.

“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.

Clint shrugged.

“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”

“Does she say anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”

He’d thought about you two together?

“What kind of opinions?”

Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”

“She wants you to go away?”

“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”

Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.

For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.

“Where’s your daughter tonight?”

He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”

“Do I spoil your kid?”

“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”

You shook your head no.

“Do you think you will?”

The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?

“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”

“For kids?” Clint asked.

“For each other.”

Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“What?” you asked.

“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”

“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”

Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”

“I will.”

“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”

You nodded. “We were really young.”

“And…uh…”

“What happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”

You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clint said quietly.

You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.

You busied yourself finishing your drink.

“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.

“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”

He’d noticed you doing homework?

“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”

It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.

Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”

“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”

He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.

“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”

Your face burned.

“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”

You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”

Clint fell quiet for a moment.

“I get it,” he finally said

He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.

Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.

Clint caught you watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.

“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”

“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”

He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”

“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”

“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”

A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.

“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.

“Twice. A long time ago.”

He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?

“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”

You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.

“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”

Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.

“That’s what you want to know?”

You shrugged.

“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”

“Do I now?”

Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.

“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”

“Where are they?”

“The usual places,” he said.

“Like..?”

Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.

He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.

It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.

“Interesting,” you managed to say.

“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.

“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”

Clint swallowed.

“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”

You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.

Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.

He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.

And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.

He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.

“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”

Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.

You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”

The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.

Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”

“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”

Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.

Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”

“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.

Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”

“Hot?”

How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”

You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”

“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.

Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.

By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.

“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.

You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.

“Could you…?” he asked quietly.

He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.

A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”

Your pussy throbbed with heat.

Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.

The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.  

“Clint,” you said.

He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.

“Do you want to take a break from your break?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”

Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.  

“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.

“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”

“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”

“Yeah?” you breathed.

Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.

“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”

Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.

Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.

“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”

You managed to nod.

“We can do that.”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.

“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.

Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.

With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.  

It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.  

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.

You felt a needy flicker in your core.

Clint nodded to your garter belt.

“Take that off.”

You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.

“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.

Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.

“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”

You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?

You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.

Clint took in a heavy breath.

You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”

He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.

A whimper drifted from your mouth.

Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.

“You like him, huh?”   

“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”

“Go on.”

“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.

“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”

Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.

“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”

“Please?”

“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”

“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”

A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.

Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?

You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.

Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.

The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.

Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.

Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.

“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”

Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”

Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.

“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.

Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”

You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.

Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”

As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”

You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.

You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“Do you want me to take these off?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”

He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.

Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.

You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.

“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”

You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.

Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.

“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”

He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.

It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.

Clint grew very still.

And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”

He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.

A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.

You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.

You whined, and Clint met your eyes.

“Was that okay, gorgeous?”

You nodded. “Until you stopped.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah?”

“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”

Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”

“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.

“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”

You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.

Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.

“You wanna meet him?” he asked.

“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”

Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.

He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”

Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?

Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You obeyed at once.

He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.

Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.

He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”

He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.

You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.

Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.

“This okay?” Clint asked.

You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.

Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.

You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”

You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.

“Spit on him, baby.”

You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.

Clint inhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”

He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.

“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”  

Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.

You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.

“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”

He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.

His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.

“I want you to spread her open.”

You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.

It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.

“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”

You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.

“Oh yeah, she wants him.  That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”

“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”

“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”

With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.

“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”

Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”

Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.

“Tell me what you want,” you said.

He answered at once.

“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”

“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”

Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.

His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.

You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.

Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.

You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.

Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.

A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.

Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.

“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”

Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”

“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.

“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”

Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.

You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”

You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.

“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”

Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Yeah?”

Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”

“Tell me.”

“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.

Holy fuck. Oh, God.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”

Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.

“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”

He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.

Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.

He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.

Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.

“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”

Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”

He cut himself off.

“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”

He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”

Clint stilled. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”

“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”

You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”

Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.

He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.

“Goddamn is she pretty.”

The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.

Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.

“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”

He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.

Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.

“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”

Oh, fuck. Did he mean –

“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”

White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.

“Please.”

Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.

“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”

He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.

Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.

Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.

Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”

The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.

You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.

Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.

The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.

He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.

He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.

“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”

“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”

“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”

Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.

“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.

Clint grinned. “Hated it.”

You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.

Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?

You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.

“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.

“A little. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”

You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”

“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”

Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.

You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.

“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”

You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.

“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”

You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”

You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.

A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?

The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.

You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.

“My phone,” you said.

“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”

He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.

You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”

Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.

“Everything good?” Clint asked.

You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”

Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.

“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”

“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”

“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”

You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.

But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.

Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.

He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.

You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.

You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.

A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.

You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.

The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.

You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.

This would pass. Your body was just confused.

You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.

Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.

When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.

A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.

What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.

You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.

His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.

Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.

He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.

Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.

“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”

It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.

“Then why did you give me this?”

“12.5%,” Clint said.  “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”

“I took pictures,” Clint said.

“I begged you to take them.”

“I came all over you.”

“I begged for that, too.”

“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”

You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.

“I’m not charging you,” you said.

“Then call it a tip.”

“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”

He paused, and his eyes found yours.  

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I.”

Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”

“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”

“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”

“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”

“Right,” Clint said.

He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.

He’d lost his wife only a year ago.

You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.

“I’m going to leave,” you said.

Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.

His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

Your throat felt tight.

“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”

Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”

You squeezed his hand.

“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”

“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”

You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?

Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.

You swallowed a heavy feeling.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”

Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.

“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”

“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”

Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.

The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.

He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.

You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.

Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.

A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.

Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.

Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.

And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.

But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.

You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.

This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.

Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.

“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”

You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”

Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”

“Shut up,” you muttered.

Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”

You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.

The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.

By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.

You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.

2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.

At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.

You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.

“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.

You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.

It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.

You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.

You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.

“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”

You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.

He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.

You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.

This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.

“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.

“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”

“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”

“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”

“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”

“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”

His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.

“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”

As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.

“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”

She blinked sleepily. “Da.”

“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”

“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”

Clint grinned. “Exactly.”

He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.

You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.

“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”

“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”

“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”

There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”

Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.

“Those tables aren’t in your section.”

“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”

“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”

He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.

“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”

A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”

If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖

end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.

taglist: @burningnerdchild @okiegal68 @shadowqueen2024 @milla-frenchy @the-sophverse @cozymochaa @pleurspetal @bratty-spicee @pedrit0-pascalit0 @ptolemaea444 @perpetualharpyresonance @littlepedrito @whimsywhisper0899 @copperhalfcent @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @daniel-bruhhl @mcthsman

roman vocab (oh, dr c if you could see me now) domine: lord, master, a title meant for respect nuntia: messenger, female mea cara: my beloved Kalends of Iunius: first of June filia mercurii: daughter of mercury Augusti: plurual of Augustus, which was the title of emporers fututores: fuckers vir meus: my husband

It is far too hot to be traveling.

Although it is nearly evening, sweat runs down the bare column of your neck, stinging where the sun pressed for hours against your topmost vertebrae before falling down the length of your spine.

It does not matter. You know this plainly. It does not matter if the tender flesh between your toes rubs raw against dry leather, nor if your shoulders burn beneath Sol’s temper on this early spring day, his bright chariot riding closer than it should as it dragged the sun too near to the earth. Perhaps the God has taken offense to the season prior—winter was harsh, spring slow yet eager to bloom, fields finally thin with green, but mostly thick and swampy with mud and muck. Perhaps it is punishment for some forgotten slight. The gods have long memories, after all.

It makes little difference. As Sol shows no mercy to the road, the Augusti show none to the general who must ride it.

At last you see it in the distance.

At last.

You take in cream colored linen tents, risen from earth like ant hills, dirtied with mud and blood from many months of rain and storms and fighting. They stand raised by wooden poles as their horses graze nearby in half made paddocks where the grass has already been turned to mud by hooves and soldiers’ boots.

It takes some time to find him.

He is not seated within some grand pavilion at the heart of the encampment. There are no guards planted stiffly at any of the entrances, no noise of revelry spilling out into the early evening air. No drunken laughter rolling between the tents, no clatter of cups or men grown loud and foolish on too much wine.

Instead there is the quieter life about the camp.

You hear the light clatter of dishes somewhere within the rows of tents as soldiers settle down for evening rations. There is a slow rasp of iron on stone as one draws their blade along a whetstone. You see a few with wrapped linen and gauze around wounds. Some around an arm or a leg, one covering a bloodied eye. Here and there small cookfires burn low, men crouched beside them writing letters in the fading light of day, heads bent over wax tablets or scraps of parchment that you will carry back across the empire.

You draw your tote closer to your side as you pass and a few of them look up.

Curiosity follows you down the narrow lane between the tents. It is not often someone like you walks through a legionary camp. And the of a woman besides. You know it is more skin than most of them have seen in months, perhaps longer. You halfheartedly assess your own clothing, obscenely aware of how short your tunic is, how much skin you are showing, originally only to keep yourself cool but now seems egregiously unsafe. Your shoulders and arms, supple but reddened by the road, catch their eyes as you move. You quicken your pace.

A soldier’s encampment is not known for gentleness, nor patience, and certainly not for manners.

The tent you seek blends in with the others, set just behind the line of command tents where the officers take their counsel. Larger than the rest, though not ostentatious, its linen walls are marked with the same dust and weather as every other shelter in the camp. A vexillum has been driven into the earth beside it, a square Roman battle flag bearing the general’s insignia that stirs lazily in the warm breeze.

You step inside with little ceremony to see three men standing around a wooden table, the dim interior lit by oil lamps that flicker at your intrusion.

To his left—a soldier, hardened, wearing a cuirass across his chest and a hand resting near his hilt of his gladius. Habit, surely, would not allow it far from reach.

To his right, a young officer or clerk, ink-stained fingers clutching a wax tablet, a stylus poised in the air where he had been taking down orders.

And in the middle, the man you seek. Taller and broader than either of those beside him, dark curls fallen loose across a battle-worn brow. He fills the space entirely as your eyes find him before you can force them elsewhere.

All three of them look up the moment you enter.

“Domine,” you greet, bowing your head. “I bring word.”

The general, immense in his stillness, studies you in silence. You can't see it, but you can feel the slow weight of his gaze travel from your swollen feet to your sunburnt cheekbones and the frazzled crown of braids atop your head.

“Leave us,” he commands.

The men do not question him. They wouldn't dare. The faint stir of air from their passing brushes your skin as they slip past you and out of the tent into the evening.

You keep your head bent out of respect, avoiding his eye, and your hand is clenching the leather strap of your bag hard as you wait for his next command.

"The city sends nuntia into war now? In the state we are in?" he asks, though you're not entirely sure if you're meant to answer.

He exhales through his nose and drops the small stone marker he had been holding between his fingers. Several more lie scattered across the campaign map spread over the table, marking roads, river crossings, and the positions of men.

"Come." he commands, and you dare not disobey.

You move around the table and stop before him. Slowly you lift your chin, first to his chest, then to his face. You take in the unshaven line of his strong jaw, the aquiline nose carved hard against the last of the sunlight bathing the tent, oil lamps already lit around you. There are cuts on his face, and you count them while you wait for his next order. Some of them are earned over the long, grinding months of war, others fresh enough that the skin around them is angry red.

But you do not look in his eyes.

You see the movement before you feel him— a shift of his shoulder as you keep your gaze averted, and a quiet breath leaves him as he steps closer. Then the rough pads of his fingers find your face. He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifts, carefully forcing your gaze up to meet his.

The moment your eyes find his, you feel a thick lump rise in your throat. They are dark as honey left too long in the sun, warm and brown and far gentler than a man like him ought to possess as they look down upon you.

"You should not be here," he whispers.

Your shoulders fall, a deep lungful leaving your chest that you didn't realize you'd been holding. "Domine—"

“You should not be here,” he says again, firmer now, the voice of a formidable general growling out his demands, even when the words are meant only for you. His brows draw together as he looks down at you, the line of his jaw tightening. “We stand on the brink of another attack and I cannot—”

He stops himself, shaking his head once as if the rest of the thought is not meant to be spoken, and drops his hand from your face. Your skin still burns where his fingers had rested, the ghost of his touch seared there even as it disappears.

“I bring word, Domine,” you tell him again, steady despite the painful tightness gathering in your throat. “That is all.”

"That is all." he echoes in disbelief, a scoff forced from his lips. “If that is all, why not wait until I return to Roman soil? Why come here, where I am commanded to bring war to people who do not deserve it? Why must you come here, where I am unable to keep you safe?”

"It cannot wait, Domine—"

“Please,” he says, cutting you off. His voice softens, though the frustration still sits in it. “Do not call me that, mea cara.”

Your lips press tightly together, the muscles of your face drawing taut, and he turns away from you then, dragging a rough hand across his own face, thick fingers scarred and hardened from long years spent beside Mars himself.

You hesitate.

But at last you reach into your leather satchel, and even you cannot ignore how badly your hand trembles as you retrieve the scroll sealed shut with violent red wax.

“This order comes from the twin Augusti,” you say at last, though it is more of a croak, and you hold it out to him behind his back.

The general turns only slightly, glancing toward you over the breadth of his shoulder, and it is only then you realize he is still wearing portions of his armor. The plates gleam faintly in the dimming room, light warming the already golden cast of his skin.

"Read it to me."

You lick your dried lips. You're not sure you have such courage.

But in the end, you obey, and break the seal.

The wax cracks beneath your thumb, loud in the quiet of the tent, and you unroll the parchment with careful hands, forcing your voice steady as you begin to read.

“By command of the divine Augusti, guardians of Rome and fathers of the empire,” you begin, the formal language already turning bitter on your tongue, “let it be known that Marcus Acacius, General of Rome, who has long served the will of the empire with sword and discipline, is hereby ordered to secure the continuance of his bloodline for the strength and stability of the state.”

The words feel heavier the further you go.

“The Senate and the Augusti alike have deemed it necessary that the house of Acacius not fall barren. Therefore the general is commanded to take lawful wife before the Kalends of Iunius, and to produce an heir worthy of Rome.”

You swallow.

“The names of suitable brides of noble Roman houses have been prepared and await the general’s choosing upon his return to the capital.”

Your finger grow weak, your voice even weaker, shaky now, as the parchment shakes in your hands, and you barely can make out the last words.

“This decree is issued in the interest of Rome, whose strength rests not only upon conquest, but upon the endurance of those who carry her name forward.”

His head hangs heavy as he stares down at the campaign table before him. He has turned, and both of his hands come to rest upon it as though he must brace himself there, his gaze fixed upon the map spread beneath his palms, the small stones marking the positions of his men staring back at him with indifference.

“They send me across the empire to spill blood for them,” he mutters finally, the bitterness in his voice low and restrained. “And now they would have me breed for them as well.”

He lifts one of the stones between his fingers, turning it slowly before letting it fall back onto the board with a dull clatter.

“And they sent you to carry this message to me.”

“I was ordered to.”

“Yes,” he replies quietly, his eyes still fixed upon the map. “You always are.”

You shift your weight as you set down the letter on his table. The leather of your sandals creaks softly against the packed earth as you gather the last of your courage.

"One of the women picked for you is the daughter of Senator Gracchus and she…" you clear your throat, "I hear she is blessed by Venus in her looks. She would make a good wife."

Somewhere during your speaking he has crossed the space between you.

He stands before you now like a shadow fallen over the room, his broad shoulders and unruly hair cutting the light from the oil lamps until you feel swallowed by his presence.

His hands find your hips as if it had not been weeks since your last meeting, but as easily as though they had never forgotten the place they belong. And though there is a faint, infuriating grin upon his mouth, his touch is warm and welcome through the thin fabric of your tunic, resting against the leather cord at your waist as he draws you nearer by a fraction.

You were used to this: the rough country of his hands, wide and cracked and certain upon your waist. This, you see, was commonplace for the two of you. You would come to deliver his letters to his expansive villa—usually orders of the next country to march upon or plans for a day of leave—and he would shoo away his servants so he could take you into his hands and bend you over the nearest lectus to fuck you utterly spent. He would feed you Rome's best wine and cheese, take you a time or two more, and send you back on your way with his reply.

But this was nothing like those times. The memories only burn as you think of them now.

“Gracchus,” he repeats, the faintest curl of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “That miserable old slug.”

Your hands come up at once against his chest, pushing lightly at the hard plates of armor.

“Domine, don't—”

“And this daughter of his,” he continues, paying no mind to your protest as his thumbs press idly against your hip bones, “she is very beautiful, you say?"

“Yes,” you answer stiffly, still trying to push him away. “That is what I hear.”

He studies you with dark eyes moving slowly over your face as though the answer to his riddle rests somewhere upon it.

“I see,” he murmurs, leaning down into you.

Your palms press harder against his armor.

“Stop this jest,” you insist, your voice tightening despite your effort to remain composed. “You must treat the matter with the gravity it demands. They require an answer.”

His smile widens enough to show his teeth.

“Why…” he asks quietly, his lips moving though his words are scarcely above a whisper, “should I trouble myself with the spoiled daughter of a Senator…”

His fingers tighten in your tunic, drawing you even nearer still until there is scarcely any space left between you. His hips press flush against yours, his warmth insistent through the fabric and plated steel keeping you apart.

“…when I already have the most beautiful woman standing in my tent?”

"Enough of this, do not be so insolent." you finally shove him away, and he lets you go. His hands fall, but his gaze does not.

"I have no need for one of their hand picked maidens, cara, for you are the only woman I desire." His voice is low again, "So take my hand, my name, take everything I am and be my wife."

Your hand flies up to strike him before you have time to think of his proposition. The smack of your palm meeting his face cracks in the stillness of the quiet.

And yet, he is unmoved by this.

His eyes do not widen, his body does not flinch. But you see the infinitesimal clench of his jaw, the line of his brow deepening like a crack in the earth as his smile vanishes.

You move to strike again, but he catches you, his large, meaty palm wrapping around your wrist. He has the grip of a man who has spent half his life with a sword in it, which now swallows the delicate bones of your joint instead of the metal of a handle.

You fight in his grip, but he does not let go. It flits across your mind that he could easily break your bones, if he wished. He would have the right to it, for the way you struck him.

"Unhand me, Domine—" you seethe.

"Say my name."

You wrench again at his grasp, but his hand holds fast, immovable as iron. The thick knot in your throat burns hotter with every passing second, swelling until it chokes the words before they can leave you.

"Say my name, cara—"

"Unhand me!" You hiss. "I cannot marry you and you know it well!"

Your resistance only brings you closer, his hand dragging you forward as if inviting you into some sort of silly dance, your breasts now pressed hard against the armor that is gilded across his torso. The metal is warm from the heat of his body beneath it, and he leans down over you then, baring his teeth slightly with each syllable he forces out.

"Cant or won't?"

There is an aching, seething silence that stretches. Your ire burns as hot as coals behind your eyes as they narrow up at him. You hate him, you must. You must tell yourself this again and again, because the truth would be unbearable when the day comes that he is to wed to another.

“Have you lost your damned mind, Domine?” you snap, anger flashing hotter than the tears threatening behind your eyes. “You dishonor yourself speaking such madness—raging like a rabid hound.”

His other hand slides to wrap around your waist and down onto your lower back, pressing gently into your tail bone so your hips flush against his, and you can only just feel his growing member beneath the thick cotton tunic he wears.

“Madness?” he repeats, his voice low and dangerous now.

When you refuse to answer, he simply looks at you as though you are the one who has lost sense.

"I am to take a wife of my choosing," he says, each word slow and carefully chosen, "to lay my seed so our Divine Emperors may sleep easily knowing my blood will carry on their vanities—"

His jaw shifts, and he drops your hand to pull a piece of your hair that has fallen from the braid, curling it around his thick finger, “—and yet when I offer my hand to the one woman who knows me better than my own soldiers, the one who has shared my bed and my counsels…she strikes me."

Your face, you realize suddenly, is damp. And he sees it at once.

Something in him softens then, and the look he gives you holds both tenderness and hunger, the two mingling together like honey stirred into warm tea.

He leans closer, brushing his lips once against the corner of your eye where the tear has gathered.

“Why do you weep, mea cara?” he murmurs, the words warm against your skin before his mouth touches your temple, then the edge of your cheek. “Why do you fight me so?”

“I—”

Your breath shudders as you try to gather the words that refuse to come.

“Marcus,” you sigh at last, the name slipping from you despite yourself as you close your eyes. “I am no one.”

His mouth stills against your cheek.

“You are everything," he answers quietly, and you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear.

You shake your head at once, desperate, your hands pressing against his chest again though the strength has gone from them.

“No,” you insist, the word breaking. “You are a general of Rome. Marrying me would gain you nothing. It would not strengthen your house, it would not please the Senate, it would not satisfy the Augusti—”

“I do not care for any of that.”

“But you must,” you whisper, the tears coming faster now despite your effort to stop them. “I will not allow you to throw away your destiny for the sake of someone like me.”

He draws back just enough to look at you, his brow knitting as though the thought itself offends him.

"Someone like you," he repeats softly, licking the pearl of a tear from the top of his lip.

Your voice shakes so badly you hardly believe he can understand you, "I carry orders for Rome, I am nothing but a messenger of the Gods will, they speak through The Twins and so you must take it seriously—"

"My patience is at an end with them."

“You must not speak so,” you whisper sharply, your glossy eyes darting toward the walls of the tent.

The general takes both of your hands in his then, lifting them beneath his chin like something precious, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I know who you are, my love,” he murmurs. “You are blessed with Mercury’s favor. For years you have come to me with the will of Gods and Emperors alike. You bring me their messages… and you bring me yourself.”

His thumbs move slowly across the backs of your hands.

“And I would have that forever. I would have you forever, mea cara.”

“But Rome—your armies—you could never—”

“Then we shall leave it behind,” he says quietly. "I will gladly send my men back to their families where they belong, rather than ripping apart the ones we conquer."

You stare at him.

“You wish to leave?”

“Yes, mea cara,” he answers, his voice low but steady now, the idea clearly not new to him. “Let Rome keep her wars and their decrees. Let the Senate drown in its own blood. We will go where the hand of the Augusti does not reach.”

Your heart stutters painfully.

“Marcus…”

“There are lands yet untouched by them,” he continues, his gaze never leaving yours. “We could live quietly. A farm, perhaps. A stretch of earth and sky that belongs to no emperor.”

You shake your head even as the image threatens to take root inside you.

“You cannot mean that.”

“It is the only thing I have meant in years.”

“Marcus, if anyone heard you speak so—”

“Let them hear. I tire of the will of those fututores, swaddled in their perfume and silk—”

“Marcus!” you hiss, clapping both hands over his mouth before the words can grow more dangerous.

He only smiles against your palms, the warmth of it startling you, and presses a soft kiss to the heart of your palm, the wiry hair of his mustache tickling you.

“Is that a yes, my love?” he says, muffled.

“You truly have gone mad.” you whisper, leaning your forehead against the back of your hand where it still rests on his mouth.

And when he it away, you straighten, allowing him to guide both of your hands to his own will, placing them at the back of his neck while his fall once more to your hips, adjusting you until you are perfectly flush against him again, where you belong.

“An answer is all I desire, filia Mercurii.”

Your breath falters.

“Yes, Marcus.”

And suddenly he is kissing you, and it is as if heat sparks across your lips, Jupiter's lightning striking through you and pulling a gasp from your throat in his hold. He tastes of salt and musk and wine. Groaning deeply, the sound rough with want, his hands slide lower to the lush weight of your bum as he draws you closer still. Your back bends against the heavy press of him as he pushes into you, the strength of his body undeniable. There is no question of how fiercely this man wants you, how deeply he needs you, how long he has yearned for you. You can hear it in his moans, can feel it in the weight of his grasp.

He is turning the two of you quickly, the meat of his hands gripping you hard enough that you hope to find the crescent marks of his fingers there later. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting at your mouth, licking behind your teeth before drawing your top lip between his in a slow, hungry pull. You think, for a moment, that you taste something else there beneath the heat of it— a loneliness that has left a hollow ache settled into him during these long months away from home. And you kiss him back with equal hunger, your tongue pressing into his mouth like a salve, as though you might soothe that wound with it.

But then, outside the tent you hear the roar of men laughing, voices carrying easily through the warm evening air, and suddenly you remember you are not alone in his villa this time.

“Oh, Marcus, not here, please, not—”

“I don’t give a damn,” he growls. “I will take you how I want, where I want, for the rest of my life.”

Something in the tone of his voice sends heat racing through your body, a flush blooming low in your belly that makes your breath catch. Your knees buckle at the ferocity of his need, wetness pooling between them for it.

He lifts you onto the table with startling ease, spreading your legs so he can step between them. Leaning over you, he sweeps the table clear in a single impatient motion, scattering the carved stone markers of battle across the tent floor as they clatter and slide into the shadows. He lays you back against the wood, grinning at the sight of you as his hand fists the tunic covering your body.

He pushes it roughly upward, baring you to himself, the fabric bunching under your neck haphazardly.

“There is nothing like this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now. “Nothing like seeing you as the Gods made you.”

His eyes move slowly over your figure, drinking you in.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“You speak such foolishness, Marcus,” you swoon, stretching your arms above your head as you watch him unburden the armor from his chest and let it clatter to the floor before folding himself over you.

“I would sooner have my tongue cut than ever speak a lie of you,” he says softly before his mouth closes over your breast, taking the nipple between his lips as a low groan escapes him at the heat of your skin.

"You are so warm, so soft—" he says between your gasps of pleasure—" I have not felt such things in so long, it is like a dream."

You take him in as his long, thick lashes flutter shut. Your hands thread delicately through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He whimpers at your touch, mouth unlatching from one breast only to nuzzle the other, kissing and licking at your supple skin.

He is the fierce, violent commander of Rome’s legions—but that is only sometimes. For most of the moments you have spent with him, in his villa in the city, he is this: gentle, kind, passionate, and utterly confident in his want. As though this is the truest version of himself, the man beneath the armor, without the smoke and mirror of war that paints him as a brutal leader.

His tongue laves at your pert nipple, now pebbled and tender from his attention. His hands, thick and wide, span the narrowest part of your waist, his thumbs nearly touching over your navel he is so much larger than you. He draws you closer, shifting you to the edge of the table so his eager cock slots between the lips of your core.

You let out a soft whine at the barrier of his tunic between you.

“Patience,” he breathes, though it is not without the roughness of restraint. The heat of his mouth ghosts over your skin as he kisses your clavicle, then slowly up the column of your throat and along the line of your jaw. “Let me enjoy this. It has been too long.”

“And what if I say take me now and enjoy the smaller pleasures later?” you murmur, your fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. “I wish to feel you inside me.”

A low sound escapes him at that, half laugh and half groan.

“My needy woman,” he says against your skin. “It is like music to my ears. But if I were to give you everything you wished the moment you asked for it, you would be as spoiled as those who grow pale behind palace walls.”

Your brow lifts faintly at that.

“Marcus Acacius,” you whisper, breath brushing his ear, “you speak as though you are not the one who has ruined me.”

A rough sound escapes him at that.

“That is because it is you who has ruined me, cara,” he groans, his teeth catching lightly at the line of your jaw before he presses a hard thrust of his hips against your swollen center, drawing an involuntary arch from your back. “If I were to take you as I wish, this would not last nearly as long as I would like.”

"Don't care," you murmured, your hands fisting into his hair harder now, making him wince and groan at once. His eyes flicker up to yours at that, dark and bright with something dangerously pleased.

"Promise me you'll stay the night, then? Let me eat your sweet cunt for dinner, and again for breakfast and midday."

You smile widely at that, "And you say it is me who is spoiled,"

"Promise it."

"I swear, Marcus." you say, planting a chaste kiss to his lips. "I will stay as long as you wish. Now please, for the love of Jupiter and all the gods—fuck me."

He leans back, and you are forced to drop your hands from his hair as he straightens, though you drag them slowly down his chest, your fingertips brushing the linen of his tunic. The fabric clings where your arousal has stained it, darkened over the tenting of his throbbing cock beneath. He lifts the hem and tucks it beneath his chin, and finally you see him fully—scars crossing the broad plane of his chest, the softness of his belly, the dark trail of hair that gathers beneath his navel and travels downward to frame his bobbing member, flushed deep red with want.

For a moment he simply looks, breathing deeply. He seems distracted by the sight of you, the way you glisten beneath the lanterlight of the tent. A heat of humilation blooms across your cheeks as his gaze lingers on the slick folds of you spread before him.

And then he is bending suddenly, forgetting himself and diving for you.

His mouth opens, greedy and unrestrained, as he kisses you there. His lips part wide against you, wet and hungry as he eats at you. You hear a rough groan spill from his throat as his hands close around the meat of your thighs, gripping hard to still the undulating roll of your hips.

It is obscene to watch.

Your wet cunt sliding against his wet tongue, the sounds he makes as he tastes you. Your soft sighs and breathless little cries only seem to make him more ravenous, his tongue cupping your sex as though it were a basin meant to hold the nectar gathering there. Up and down, then down and up again, he works at you with relentless hunger before his nose presses against your clit and the slick muscle of his tongue pushes inside you.

And then your back is bending, nearly lifting you from the table as he fucks you with his tongue. The pressure builds too quickly to bear, your body tightening before it breaks, and you gush over his face with a cry, trembling beneath his mouth as he purrs with pleasure.

When the tension finally leaves your limbs and your body goes soft and boneless, he is already moving you again. He handles you easily, turning and shifting you where he wants you, those big hands working with a single vision in mind.

"You will ride me." he demands.

You know that tone of voice. The sweet, sensual man who kissed you moments ago has stepped aside, and something harder has taken his place. The beast of him. The commander who draws blood from his enemies, who takes what he wants without hesitation, who fucks with the certainty of a man used to victory.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you from the table, one thick arm wrapping around your torso while the other hooks your thigh high around his hip. Your body drags against him as he moves, and you feel the heavy bob of his cock between your soaked folds. The sensation pulls a needy sound from your throat and you grind down instinctively, searching for more of him, pressing harder and harder. You feel his mouth on your neck just as his teeth close on your artery, biting you into submission. You cry out for him, but you only feel his cock twitching in response.

By the time he drops into the lounging chaise behind him, he is guiding you down with him, forcing your hips to widen to settle around the breadth of his lap.

“I want to watch you,” he says, voice thick, his eyes gone black with hunger. “Get this off.” His hands make quick work of your tunic, finally pulling it the rest of the way from your body.

The moment your arms come down again you are reaching for him in return, tugging impatiently at the linen still clinging to his shoulders. You push the fabric from him, eager to feel the heat of his skin beneath your palms. He groans when you lean forward, your arms slipping around his neck as your mouth finds his again. You taste yourself on his tongue, musk of sweat and sweet honey of arousal, and your hips move without thought. They slide against the thick length of him, wetting the shaft of his cock as you grind your clit against him. The heavy weight of his sac tightens in anticipation, brushing against your cunt as roll against him again and again. Your tongue slips deeper into his mouth as you pull at his with greedy little sucks.

He has quite enough of your teasing as his hand catches your face, pushing you upright with a deep growl of impatience. The other guides himself between your legs, angling his cock until the blunt head presses firmly at your entrance.

You both gasp at the first push—the stretch always too much at first. Always intoxicating. Like Cupid himself has driven some poisoned arrow through your heart, turning your thoughts to useless haze as your body opens for him.

“There she is,” Marcus breathes, his lips parted around a rough gasp. “What a good girl you are. That’s it… slow, cara. Nice and slow.”

You slide down onto him inch by inch, your eyes rolling back as a long, helpless moan spills from your throat. His hand comes quickly over your mouth—you know you are being far too loud—but how can you help it? He is thick and perfect inside you, your velvet walls drawing him in greedily until you are seated fully atop him, your wet cunt sealed around his cock, slicking the dark thicket of hair at his base.

"Oh—Domine—" you sigh, muffled behind his hand.

“Marcus,” he corrects softly, breath shuddering through him. “My love. Only Marcus to you.”

“But you are my everything,” you gasp, nimble fingers coming up to circle his wrist. His hand is so big it spreads over the entirety of the lower half of your face. “My lord, my master, my—my husband—”

“Yes,” he groans, his eyes burning into you. “Say it again.”

“Domin—”

“No.” His voice drops to a growl. The hand that covers your mouth slides down to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he jostles you slightly.

“H-husband?”

He thrusts his hips upward sharply, the movement stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Say it again.”

“Vir meus,” you moan.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groans, his head falling back against the chaise, mouth agape and his breath short. “That’s it, girl. Ride my cock. Tell me you are mine.”

Your head falls back as he thrusts higher into you, the motion forcing a broken cry from your throat as you chant it over and over. Vir meus, vir meus, vir meus. You can no longer hold yourself upright as his hand falls, and you brace yourself over him, planting your knees on either side of his hips as you begin to lift and drop over him, suddenly drunk on the poison of Cupid and your own rising pleasure. He does not seem to care about your volume anymore. The sounds leave you unbottled and wild, helpless. Like some creature in heat. His hands grip the flesh of your hips harder once again, guiding the rhythm, forcing your body to ride and fall at his pace.

“Shall I give the Augusti what they want?” he pants against your ear, licking the shell of it. “Breed my sweet little wife and fill her with my seed?”

The thought had never crossed your mind before. The two of you had always been careful in your previous meetings, always finishing elsewhere—your mouth, your breasts—but…now…

"Promise we will never go back to Rome again," you beg against his throat between moans, rocking your hips slower now. "Promise me we will have a home by the ocean, where we will watch the sun rise and set with no cares of the twins, only us—only our family—and I will bear your children, as many as you wish."

“I promise, mea cara,” he groans, his hands tightening on you. “Oh—fuck—to see you round with my child, I’m—I’m going to—”

“Give me your seed,” you breathe. “Vir meus.”

You feel his body seize beneath you, struck through with the crash of pleasure. His mouth falls open on a broken breath as you tighten around him, both of you gasping against one another while your body clenches down, drawing him deeper still. The feeling of his spend filling you in thick warmth pulls a cry from your throat, the sensation cresting through you like a breaking wave until you are both trembling breathlessly together.

You sag over him, sweaty chest against sweaty chest, and hands stay on you, but they change, sliding from the rough hold of your hips to settle at the small of your back, keeping you against him as the two of you come down slowly from the height of your orgasms. You feel his chest lift hard beneath yours as he drags in deep lungfuls, your breath matching in tandem, hearts beating together until they settle.

You and Marcus leave that night.

He gives his orders quietly to the only two men he trusts to carry them. The legion will return home. No more men will die at his command. Word will travel back to Rome, where senators continue their shouting and scheming without the spilling the blood of any more soldiers.

But by the time those messages arrive, you are already gone.

Harry Castillo is a man of power. He works for the private equity business that his mother started up when she was younger, and he owns the most businesses out of anyone there. Besides his mother of course. 

The Castillos have never been afraid of money. Hell, they bathe in it every night. Because of this, Harry isn’t afraid to spend a pretty penny on a woman. Except he hasn’t found someone that actually deserved it.

Sure, he’s had his fair share of women — none that he’s ever been photographed with. A list extending from women he’s worked with to sex workers. But no one has interested him long enough for him to think about any type of future with them. He’s not necessarily proud of his ways, but it’s a big stress relief for him.

Control is a necessity in all parts of Harry’s life — including in the bedroom. These women willingly submit themselves to please him in whatever way he desires. Of course, Harry still respects them and makes sure they’re properly taken care of. After all, he’s not a dick. He just thinks with his. 

Harry is currently on a phone call in his office. Something about a leak that was reported in a recent building he bought. To be honest, he tunes out the man on the other end about halfway into the conversation.

“Yeah, I’ll look into it,” he says, exasperated as he waits to end the phone call sooner rather than later.

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Castillo. Have a good—“

The man’s voice dies out as Harry puts down the phone, effectively ending the conversation before the man could finish his thought. He slumps back in his chair, running a hand down his face. 

Crown Castillo has been the busiest and biggest it’s ever been. The annual New Years gala is in a few weeks, and his mother wants him to have a date for it. Harry could get any woman he wants for it, really. But he has been getting tired of that life. He is well into his fifties and coming to terms with the fact that he might end up alone.

Just then, his assistant, Rick, knocks on his door. “Come in,” Harry calls out, sitting up straight in his chair.

The door slowly opens before Rick steps in, “Mr. Castillo, there’s a woman here to see you. Something about the photography at the gala.”

Confusion stretches across Harry’s face before he tells Rick to let her in. He wasn’t aware of any meetings with a photographer, but he’d see what they needed.

What Harry doesn’t expect is for you to walk in: younger, long hair that went down past your shoulders, soft skin, black blazer, black skirt that stopped at your mid thighs, and the expanse of your legs being covered by sheer stockings. 

Fuck, you’re a sight.

Standing up, Harry buttons the middle of his suit jacket. “How can I help you, ma’am?” he asks with a small nod.

You wait for his assistant to close the door before you walk up to Harry’s desk. Extending out your hand, you introduce yourself. Your hand is practically swimming in his as he gives you a firm handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says before gesturing for you to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk.

“My business was called about taking pictures for your upcoming New Years gala. They sent me out to confirm with you. Make sure everything is exactly the way you want; the pictures you want taken of the venue, the people – the food even.”

Harry watches your lips move as you talk, subconsciously licking his own while he takes in your words. He hadn’t been aware that there would even be photographers at the gala this year, so this must’ve been his mother’s doing.

He clears his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I was made aware about any of this. You might’ve been looking for my parents, not me.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Your parents?”

“It’s a family business,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. As if Crown Castillo isn’t the wealthiest private equity firm in the U.S.

“Ah, I see,” you nod slowly, “So who do I speak to then?”

“Well,” he rounds his desk, moving to stand in front of you, “if you were looking for a ‘Mr. Castillo’, that would be my father: Emiliano.”

You nod once, taking in the information and correcting the form you brought in. As you build up the courage to ask, you place the end of your pen between your lips, drawing Harry’s gaze towards them once more.

His gaze darkens, hands tightening on the edge of his desk until his knuckles are nearly white.

“Do you mind showing me where your father’s office is then?” you finally ask, putting down your pen and meeting his eyes.

Harry would normally tell someone who asked for directions to ask his assistant, but something about you draws him towards you. His body craves a little more time with you, even if it’s just for five more minutes.

“Sure. This place is easy to get lost in,” he huffs out something close to a laugh.

He gestures for you to walk in front of him, getting a small whiff of your perfume. It’s something subtle, sexy and sophisticated, causing his slacks to feel a little tighter and uncomfortable. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so easily affected by a woman, let alone one he just met.

As he holds the door open for you, he allows his eyes to travel down the back of your body, getting a good view of your ass before he walks in front of you.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease him lightly as the two of you walk in unison.

Harry feels heat creep up his neck, wondering if you felt his heavy gaze on you or if you’re referring to his manners. “Yeah,” he says gruffly before he clears his throat, “I’m not as big of an asshole as they say I am in the press.”

Your brows knit in confusion at that, “The press?”

He freezes in his tracks, making you stop as well. The stare he’s giving you is almost like he’s trying to figure you out. His eyes are narrowed, mouth slightly agape as he reads you.

Your pulse picks up under his intense stare. Chest rising and falling a bit faster before he speaks. “You don’t… know who my family is?” he asks in disbelief.

“Am I supposed to?”

“I… guess not,” he says quietly, brushing it off before he continues walking.

You stand there, trying to process what just happened before you trail behind him. 

“Sorry if I offended you, Mr. Castillo, but I’m not really into the whole… business world of things. I’m sure you and your family have plenty of fame. I just don’t know anything about it.”

Immediately you realize how much you’re rambling when Harry doesn’t even bat another eye at you. His expression is stoic as he walks, keeping his eyes trained forward. You got a sense that you would ruin this deal if you kept talking, so you stayed quiet for the rest of the walk.

After another minute of walking past the most expensive and busiest people you’ve ever seen, the two of you stop in front of an office door that reads: Emiliano Castillo.

“Thanks for walking me here,” you murmur once he turns towards you.

There’s the faintest hint of a fire burning behind Harry’s eyes. So faint that you aren’t even sure if you’re really seeing it.

“Guess I’ll see you soon,” he states, his voice a little rougher than it was before. 

You’re not too sure why, but your skin prickles at his tone. Goosebumps spread across your arms as you look up at him.

“See you soon, Mr. Castillo.”

With that, he walks away, leaving you alone to talk to his father.

Harry Castillo was a man of power, and he was slowly losing it with you. After leaving you, he makes his way to the men’s restroom, locking the door behind himself before he steps into a stall. The heavy ache between his thighs becomes too much, and his erection is noticeable. He needs to do something about it quickly.

The second the sound of him unbuckling his belt echoes within the four walls of the restroom, he knows he is going to regret this. He pulls out his throbbing cock with a small hiss before spitting on his hand and fisting himself.

He works his wrist at a steady pace, tipping his head back in ecstasy as his thoughts drift to you. He imagines hiking up your short skirt and bending you over his desk, or fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows in his office.

God, he just knows you’d make the prettiest noises as he fucked you into oblivion. He’d make sure to drag his cock within the deepest depths of you, making you and your pussy sing. 

Just the mere thought of it has him thrusting into his hand faster, fucking his fist until he creams all over it. He shudders through his orgasm, vision going a little blurry around the edges, causing him to place a hand on the stall door to keep his balance. 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever cum like that just from the thought of someone he barely had five minutes of interaction with. No, this is something entirely different, and he isn’t completely sure about what it was exactly. 

After all of that, there’s one thing Harry knows for sure: You’re his, whether you know it or not.

Setting up the gala with the coordinator has been… eventful. You’re not even completely sure if he was actually listening to your advice or if he was just staring at your tits. Perhaps the dip of your dress was a little too far down your cleavage, but it isn’t your fault that men act like pigs around you.

The venue is beautifully decorated and you’re sure you are going to get some gorgeous shots. Diamonds dangle from the ceiling in forms of chandeliers, reflecting off of the tall walls covered in expensive art. You had an inkling that the Castillos were rich, you just didn’t know how rich.

Right at 7PM, guests start to pile in. Women wearing diamonds and gold around their necks, wrists, and fingers. You’re guaranteed that if you sold this building and the people in it alone, you’d make a lot of money. But you aren’t here to think hypothetically, you’re here to do your job, and you’re going to make sure the photographs are up to both your boss’ and Emiliano’s standards.

Guests mingle, drinking punch, eating the appetizers that were set out, some checking out the art, but the Castillos are still nowhere to be found. It’s nearing 8:30 and Gavin — another photographer — is starting to get antsy. 

“We’re supposed to get a shot of them coming in,” Gavin says through his teeth, letting out an exasperated breath.

“They’ll be here,” you murmur, your eyes focused within the camera lens.

You’re watching the guests through your camera, always ready for the perfect shots. A happy couple smiling, the camera flashes. Guests looking up at the art, another flash. 

When one head snaps towards the door, so does your camera, and you don’t hesitate to take the shot of the family walking in. The lens whirs as you zoom in on the parents alone, and then the brothers.

It’s almost automatic when Harry feels a camera on him. His gaze finds you in the crowd after the picture is taken, and you lower the camera just slightly to catch his eyes. His eyes travel down your body before he tips his head slightly towards you. Immediately, you feel your skin heat up.

He is clad in a tailored black suit, broad shoulders stretching out his suit jacket so much that you could hear the fabric begging for mercy from where you stand. A white handkerchief folded neatly in the pocket of his suit jacket, black slacks down his legs. 

You could already tell he was a big and broad man. Probably manhandling every woman he’s ever been with. 

“Did you get the shot?” Gavin asks, pulling your attention away from the man across the room.

“I got it,” you nod slowly, taking a few more just for good measure.

Harry’s gaze still hasn’t moved from you, and for a brief moment, you wonder if this is how mice feel underneath a microscope. Their little bodies squirming as they’re being examined and experimented on against their will.

“You better fucking have,” Gavin states before he walks away from you.

Ignoring his comment, you take more pictures of Anastasia and Emiliano walking up to the small makeshift stage by the speakers. A microphone stand sits idly on it, waiting to be used for announcements. 

You may not be looking at Harry, but you can still feel his gaze on you. Briefly, you wonder what he’s thinking about, but then his father starts speaking.

“May I have your attention ladies and gentlemen. It is with great honor that I thank each and every one of you in this room tonight. My wife’s business would not be as successful as it is without the help of you all. We are extremely grateful for your commitment and dedication to the place we call home: Crown Castillo.

Friends, family, employees – all of you are important and valuable. All of our hands keep this place up and running, and that is what a found family is. I hope we all continue to have each other’s backs during the years to come. And please… enjoy yourselves tonight, and don’t forget that all the funds collected tonight are going towards charity.”

Emiliano and Anastasia raise their glasses of champagne before Ana continues, “To the Crown Castillo family.”

Everyone raises their glasses, repeating her words and going back to mingling. A handful of cameras flash, you and your coworkers getting hundreds of shots for the family and company. The more lively the photo, the better. You’ve learned over the years that these kinds of people appreciate the ‘vibe’ of the pictures more. If they look united, they’ll love the photos. 

You lower your camera, checking all of the photos you’ve gotten so far before a man walks up to you. “Excuse me,” he says, placing a hand on your bicep to get your attention. 

You look at his hand before you look up at him, “Can I help you, sir?”

He extends his hand out, introducing himself, “Lucas Taylor, Taylored Photography.”

Extending your hand out, you stare at him. He’s a recruiter, no doubt. With a company name that doesn’t even sound familiar to you, and you know all of the photography companies in New York. Emiliano didn’t tell you about another photographer being here, so you’re a little confused.

“I must say,” he puts his hands in his pockets, straightening his posture, “the photos you’ve taken thus far are beautiful.”

“How would you know?” you query, “You haven’t seen them… Lucas.”

He chuckles softly at your retort, nodding, “You’re right.” The heated look he’s giving you isn’t very subtle, and it makes you a bit uncomfortable. “I just wanted to tell you how breathtaking you look in that dress, miss…” Lucas trails off, trying to get you to tell him your name.

You press your lips into a fine line, getting ready to open your mouth, but Harry steps in next to you, placing a hand on your lower back. “You’re a little close, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I,” Lucas stammers, chuckling sheepishly, “I was just complimenting her on her-”

“I’d advise you to leave,” Harry states, his voice cold and calculated as he stares Lucas down.

Harry has a good few inches on Lucas, so he shrinks into his skin, murmuring something under his breath as he walks away. Immediately, you step away from Harry, the warmth of his hand leaving your back and sending a cold shiver up your spine.

“I didn’t need saving.”

“Really?” he draws out with a raised eyebrow, putting his hands in his pockets, “‘Cause it seemed like you were dying to be saved.”

His tease makes you narrow your eyes slightly, “I appreciate the act, but I can handle myself, Mr. Castillo—”

“Harry,” he corrects you, “I think we’re well past the formalities now, don’t you think?”

“What, because you ‘saved’ me?” you retort.

“That’s exactly why,” the corner of his lips tug up into a small smirk, making you roll your eyes.

“Look, I’m trying to do my job for your father. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it now.”

Harry chuckles fondly, watching you raise your camera back up to your eyes. You have a good work ethic, which he admires. But he also wonders if you ever took a break and truly winded down. There’s a huge chance that you don’t do anything remotely close to what he does to wind down, but he feels the need to push your boundaries.

Throughout the night, his gaze keeps landing on you. Watching you mingle with guests, take pictures, talk to his parents, and sip your own glass of champagne. There’s just something so intriguing about you and how you carry yourself. It’s not surprising that he’s thinking with his dick first, but he feels some sort of pull towards you. Like something within the both of you is calling out to each other.

It’s been weeks. 

Harry hasn’t been able to get you off his mind. He doesn’t think he’s ever fucked his fist as often as he has lately. He’s done it at least four times today, and he’s painfully hard again, but he can’t wrap his hand around his cock without hissing. 

You’re taking over his mind, and you haven’t even really done anything. 

He’s looked up the photography company you work for to see if your number is anywhere on it, but the website only has the owner’s information on it. 

Asking his parents would be the easy thing to do, but he doesn’t want to raise their suspicions. They already hassle him enough about finding someone to marry, and he doesn’t need more of it.

As if the Gods were blessing him, he looks up from his desktop just in time to see you walking by. A black portfolio folder is in your arms as you walk swiftly towards his father’s office. You’re probably here to drop off the pictures, but Harry knows that his parents are out on a lunch date.

Without really thinking it through, he leaves his office, walking past the many cubicles while keeping his eyes trained on you. You’re on the opposite side and have yet to notice him, but he catches up to you just before you make it to his father’s office door. 

Just as you’re about to knock, Harry slides right in front of you, blocking the door with his broad frame. Your palm meets his chest instead of the door, causing warmth to bloom throughout his entire body.

“Hey you,” Harry says, putting his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t entirely in your way.

“Hi,” you reply tentatively, dropping your hand down to your side. “Is your dad here?”

“No, he’s out on lunch,” he averts your gaze for a moment, making eye contact with his assistant before he looks back down at you.

“Oh, I was told to drop off the pictures here,” you murmur, tucking your hair behind your ear as you take a step back. “I’ll just come back later—”

“I can look at them,” Harry says a little too quickly, clearing his throat and backing off the door, “I mean, this is my firm just as much as it is my parents’. Let me look at them.”

“Okay,” you draw out, handing him the portfolio, “Your dad can email me if you guys aren’t happy with the photos.”

“I’m sure we will be,” Harry states matter-of-factly, giving you a charming smile as he takes the folder from you. He holds it like it’s something sacred, “We can get this done now, if you want. Why waste more time on this?”

You ponder his request, biting the inside of your cheek. The instructions your boss gave you were to drop the photos off, get all information if changes needed to be made, get lunch, and come back to edit photos for another company. But with Emiliano gone, Harry is your best option right now.

Reluctantly, you agree, following him to his office. The look he and his assistant share isn’t lost on you as he closes the door, drawing the blinds as well, plunging the room in partial darkness as the sun spills in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The cool leather quietly squeaks as you sit down across from his desk, watching him sit in his own chair and open the folder. He carefully studies each photo, not saying anything yet, but his dark eyes meet yours every now and then over the photographs. 

You shift under his heated gaze, crossing your leg over the other and sitting up straighter. 

Harry smirks faintly at your reaction, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you. “These look amazing,” he compliments, putting down the photographs to make eye contact with you.

You murmur a small thank you, intertwining your hands in your lap. “I’ll send them over to your father this afternoon so you guys can… do whatever you please with them.”

“And then we’re done?” he asks.

“And then we’re done,” you confirm, slowly nodding.

“So,” Harry starts, standing up to round his desk, “you won’t be working for my company anymore, right?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his desk – directly in front of you.

You can hear the frantic pulse of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Though, you keep it strictly professional.

Harry’s eyes follow your movements as you stand, pressing his palms into his desk and looking at you with his big brown eyes. 

“That’s correct,” you confirm, straightening your posture and adjusting your suit jacket. “We won’t ever have to see each other again, Mr. Castillo.”

“Harry,” he corrects you again, “And who said anything about not seeing each other anymore?”

“I did.”

Harry huffs, shaking his head slowly, “You can be very disobedient. Someone outta teach you a lesson.”

Your eyes narrow by a fraction, taken aback by the sudden statement that came tumbling out of his mouth. “Is that what you tell all the women you sleep with?”

“I—”

“Women aren’t on this earth for men’s pleasure. We are people, and we have feelings,” you scoff.

Suddenly he stands, towering over you with his broad frame. But you don’t back down, standing your ground and looking up at him with a defiant look.

“I never told you anything about my sex life,” he states, his voice low.

“Aw, did I hit a nerve?” you pout, “I know you didn’t. I like to know the people that I work for, and it wasn’t that hard to find out about your… extracurricular activities, Mr. Castillo. Maybe you should make sure the women that you fuck are more tightlipped than they let on—”

Harry’s hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against the warmth of his body. You can feel his breath fanning over your face, his lips slightly agape as he stares down at you.

“Say one more thing,” he warns, eyes flicking to your lips momentarily. “I’m used to getting what I want, when I want it.”

“That must get very boring,” you tease with a tilt of your head. “You want me? Then earn it,” that’s all you leave it at before you step back from him, heading towards his office door. “Tell your father I said thank you for the opportunity,” a small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, and then you’re gone.

Harry exhales harshly through his nose, running a hand through his curls as he’s left there: wanting you.

You gave him a challenge and he sure as hell isn’t going to back down.

Steam from your coffee mug curls around your laptop in lazy tendrils, patrons of the coffee shop chattering amongst themselves. The raised ceilings give the place a more open feel, the hissing of the espresso machines echoing throughout the building. 

Your friend, Samantha, sits across from you, telling you about her latest hookup. It’s some guy she met at a party a few months ago. They’ve been talking back and forth for a while and only recently decided to just bite the bullet and fuck.

She waves her hands around as she speaks, telling you in grave detail about the fun night she had.

“I think I blacked out at some point,” she mentions, prompting you to raise your brows in surprise.

“Jesus, Sammy,” you breathe out, astonished by the statement.

As the conversation goes on, she tries to press you into telling her about the last person you worked for.

“Have you heard from Harry?” she casually asks, earning narrowed eyes from you.

“Why would I have heard from him?”

“Because,” she draws out, lifting her coffee mug to her lips, “he definitely wanted to fuck you and you totally shot him down!”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “He’s just like every other rich asshole, Sam. He thinks he can walk all over people and expect them to polish his Italian shoes with their tongues. I don’t need anything like that.”

“So?” she shrugs, placing her elbows on the wooden table, “I bet he fucks like an animal.”

“Samantha,” you deadpan.

“What?” she feigns innocence, “He is a man that screams dominance in the bedroom. If you won’t get under him, I will.”

Against your will, a fire of possessiveness begins to burn in your gut, prompting you to narrow your eyes at your friend. She continues to talk, oblivious to the uneasiness you’re beginning to feel.

“It’s a crazy feeling being with someone that dominant and kinky,” she pauses, thinking. “Oo, maybe he has a sex dungeon—”

“Sam,” you shake your head once, “Enough.”

“I’m just saying,” her tone switches to something lighter, “maybe you’re missing out on what’s right in front of you.”

“Or maybe I dodged a bullet,” you tilt your head to the side slightly. “He’s like… in his 50s, Sam. You do know that, right?”

She shrugs, “Just because the wrapper is wrinkled, doesn’t mean the candy isn’t sweet.”

You raise your brows, amusement spreading across your face as you let out an incredulous chuckle. “You did not just say that. Do I need to take your phone away from you?”

“Probably,” she grimaces, “But seriously, he wants you. I don’t think you should let that go to waste.”

You press your lips into a fine line, hearing the murmurs of the cafe die down. Everyone’s gazes collectively fall to a single person who walks in, reeking of luxury and money. Like a moth to a flame, Samantha’s eyes lift as well.

You bite into your toast, the crunch a lot more audible than it should be in a busy cafe in New York. 

“Oh my God,” your friend murmurs, causing you to look up at her.

“What?” you ask, putting your hand over your mouth as you chew.

“Expensive looking hottie alert,” she states, nearly making you choke on your food.

You wipe the corner of your mouth, turning to look over your shoulder at who’s caught everyone’s attention. The world slows around you, Harry’s dark eyes locking onto yours as his signature smirk pulls at his lips.

“Wait, isn’t that—”

“Yes, it is,” you cut Sammy off, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as Harry begins to stalk towards you.

“Ladies,” Harry greets, nodding once towards your friend before his gaze locks onto yours. He crouches down to your level, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. “Hi,” he murmurs to you, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“Hi,” you repeat his words, narrowing your eyes at him. “How the hell did you find me?”

Harry nods towards Samantha again, “Your friend posts a lot on social media.”

Of course.

“Look—“

“I just wanted to personally invite you to the Crown Castillo Black & White Gala,” he speaks lowly for your ears only. “But…” he trails off, reaching for a manilla envelope from the inside of his suit jacket, “I’d like you to look over something for me.”

“Is it regarding the photos I took?” you ask steadily, not looking away from his deep espresso eyes. 

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, drawing your eyes towards it. “Not necessarily, but it is business.”

You tilt your head to the side, “What—”

“Just think about it and have an answer by the night of the gala.” He hands you the envelope, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

The second you get to your apartment, the sound of the envelope ripping fills the empty space. You pull out a thick packet of white paper. The title page reads: “THE COMMENCEMENT DATE BETWEEN THE DOMINANT AND THE SUBMISSIVE”

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you blurt out immediately.

Your thoughts start to swarm as you glance through the pages, words like sex toys, gags, and whipping sticking out to you.

He wants you to be his sex slave?

Did he listen to a single word you told him in his office?

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out without thinking. A new email pops up on your lock screen, Harry Castillo being the obvious name as the sender.

The packet hits your kitchen counter with a sharp thud as you unlock your phone, quickly opening the email he sent.

“Good afternoon, I hope this email finds you well.”

You narrow your eyes at the first line before you continue reading.

“I hope you consider reading over the packet I left with you. Whatever you aren’t willing to do, I will accept immediately and set up a meeting to change them. Please read over everything. All I need is your written consent.”

You scoff, placing your phone face down on the counter, hands gripping the edge of it until your knuckles are white. Darkness envelops you when you close your eyes, your breathing picking up as you attempt (and fail) to process whatever the fuck you just read.

There’s no way this is real life, right? People don’t actually do this outside of movies.

Right?

The thick packet taunts you when you open your eyes, sticking out like a sore thumb in your peripheral vision. 

As the weeks go by, the contract sits untouched in your nightstand drawer. Harry emails you, but most of the time you don’t respond, earning desperate messages from him late at night. 

You don’t know what to think about the situation. Honestly, you thought everything you found out about him were all lies, but this seems pretty fucking real to you.

The night before the gala, you build up the courage to show up at his office. You briskly walk past the security, the packet held tightly against your chest as you reach for the elevator, repeatedly pressing the button for his floor until the doors close.

You exhale in relief once the security guards faces are no longer in view, leaning back against the back wall. Briefly, you look down at the contract again, the word submissive staring back at you.

That isn’t who you are. Isn’t who you were going to be.

You refused to bend yourself to a man’s will just to please him. It goes against everything you stand for.

The elevator dinging pulls you out of your thoughts, the doors sliding open to reveal his floor. It’s dark and quiet, nothing like the other times you’ve been here. Your heels echo in the space as you step out. 

Too loud. 

Too final.

You turn back around to leave but the doors close too quickly, sealing your decision.

A familiar voice calls out your name, you looking over your shoulder to see Harry’s assistant, Rick, walking towards you.

“Sorry,” you call for the elevator again before turning around to face him, “I shouldn’t have come here. I was just leaving—”

“Mr. Castillo will see you now.”

That catches your attention, the doors sliding open behind you and revealing the two security guards. Rick holds up his hand, signaling them away. “We’re fine here. She has an appointment.”

The men share a look, deciding it’s best not to say anything.

“Please, right this way, miss,” Rick beckons you to follow him.

You glance back at the two brawly men, figuring that it’s best not to get in the elevator with them since you technically just snuck into the building. Against your better judgement and your body screaming at you not to, you follow Rick to Harry’s office.

There’s nobody on the floor. Not even a single janitor in sight. It’s like a ghost town, or one of those horror movies that start off with a vulnerable woman left alone in an office building. Nine times out of ten, she ends up dead in her car.

Rick knocks on Harry’s closed office door twice before opening it. “Have fun.”

“Wait, you aren’t staying?” you ask quietly, watching him shake his head.

“I don’t work overtime.” With that, he gathers his things and heads back towards the elevator, leaving you alone with a stranger that asked you to be his submissive through a packet of paper.

You walk in slowly, noting that his eyes immediately dart down to your bare legs as he stands. He says your name, nodding in greeting. “I’ve been expecting you. Please, shut the door.”

Hesitantly, you close the door behind yourself, feeling like you’re sealing a deal without signing your signature.

“Why were you expecting me?” you ask, walking deeper into his office. The skyline of New York City gleams behind him, like diamonds against a dark sky.

He shrugs faintly, placing his hands in his pockets. “Women usually come around to these sorts of things.”

The statement nearly gives you whiplash, your fingers tightening around the contract before you toss it onto his desk with a sharp thwack.

“Is that what you think? That women want to be your little plaything?”

“It’s not about that,” Harry claims, rounding his desk to stand in front of you. “It’s more about… testing your limits. Seeing how far you’ll go, learning what pleases you—”

You hold out your hand, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Harry goes quiet, allowing you the space to speak freely, “You tell me one thing, but the contract says another.”

“So you read it?” he asks.

“No, I only read the title page,” you explain. “Sex shouldn’t be a business deal. A relationship shouldn’t be a business deal.”

Harry weighs your words, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “I prefer the term fucking.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He chuckles faintly, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting on the edge of his desk. “If you want to change things in the contract—”

“No, you don’t get it,” you cut him off again, stepping closer, “I didn’t want it in the first place. Did our conversation in this very office just fly over your head?”

“No, it didn’t,” he claims, shaking his head slowly, “but I can tell that you want more from me.”

Harry stands slowly, closing the last bit of space between the two of you until you have to tilt your chin up to look at him directly. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, “What is it that you want? Money? Jewelry—”

“You can’t buy me, Harry,” you interrupt him. “I won’t sign your sex contract and I don’t want to see your face again.”

He nods once, “You came to my office at 9PM just to tell me that? Something you could’ve emailed me or told me over the phone.”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, it’s a little much, don’t you think?” he asks.

“No, you’re right,” you take a slow step back, “Goodbye, Mr. Castillo.”

You turn around, exhaling through your nose as you begin to head for his office door. Before you can get too far, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, spinning you around until you’re flush against his chest. The collision steals all the air from your lungs, hands instinctively coming up to steady yourself on his biceps. 

Harry’s breath mingles with yours, one of his hands coming up to cup the nape of your neck before he crashes his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

A sound of surprise leaves you, and without thinking, you push at him just enough to jostle him before your hand flies across his face. Your hand stings from the force of it, causing you to shake off the pain. Harry keeps his head turned to the side for a moment, his gaze dark when he looks back at you.

What you don’t expect is for him to spin the both of you around, sending everything on his desk flying before he bends you over it.

“Is this what you wanted, princess?” he rasps, breath hot against your ear as he hikes up your skirt.

“Harry—” a low moan cuts you off when he sucks at your pulse point, the rapid flutter of your heartbeat quivering in between his teeth.

He slips his foot between your legs, kicking them apart before he delivers a harsh smack to your ass. You jolt forward upon impact, a sharp gasp leaving your lips. He soothes the plush skin, rubbing his hand along the red spot that’s started to bloom from the force of his palm.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs in your ear, the metallic rattle of his belt unbuckling filling the office. 

“This is a bad idea,” you weakly protest. Though, you make absolutely no effort to move.

“Really?” he taunts, dropping his slacks and boxers in one go. “You’re saying one thing… but your body is saying another,” he repeats what you said in his own twisted way, peeling your lacy panties to the side.

The cool air hits your slick heat, sending a shiver throughout your body. You know this shouldn’t happen. Fuck, you shouldn’t have even shown up here tonight. But then he swipes the tip of his cock through your folds, parting them, smearing your slick as well as his precum. 

His hand is steady on your hip, the other gripping the base of himself as he repeatedly stimulates your clit with his swollen tip until your knees nearly buckle. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re so pretty.”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” you quip.

Harry chuckles darkly, shoving himself in, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs as you both moan in unison. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to his girth before he’s fucking you raw. The obscene slap of wet skin against each other fills the space of the office, his breathy grunts behind you stirring you on.

Push him back, you repeat in your head over and over again. It feels so right, like the Earth’s axis has finally shifted into place as your slick velvet walls greedily suck him in deeper. But you know this shouldn’t be happening – you worked for his family, he left a fucking sex contract with you, and he’s the most cocky son of a bitch you’ve ever met.

Not to mention, absolutely infuriating.

But he feels too good, angling his hips to reach parts of you that have never been touched before. You’ll get your fill just this once, you tell yourself, succumbing to the feeling of him splitting you open.

“Look at you,” he purrs, “taking my cock so well, baby.” Another gasp comes tumbling from your lips when he smacks the supple skin of your ass, watching it ripple with every deep thrust.

The ruthless pace has you mewling, arching your back until your arms are straight forward across the surface of his desk. Harry wraps your hair around his hand, using it to pull your head back and fuck you harder.

“Yesyesyes,” you chant, your jaw going slack, the sting of your hair being pulled, an odd but welcome sensation.

Harry’s other hand slides up to your waist, indenting his fingertips into your skin. “Is this how you like it?” he punctuates between thrusts, “I knew you’d be fucking perfect.”

For now, you ignore the comment, too focused on your pending orgasm and the roaring of your blood rushing in your ears. “Ohh, fuck,” you slur, feeling every ridge of his cock stimulate your sensitive spots perfectly – like it was made to ruin you specifically.

He groans, gritting his teeth as your walls squeeze his shaft. Without much warning, he hooks his forearm under you, lifting your upper body towards his. His hot breath fans over your ear, deep grunts telling you he’s just as affected as you are.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, tugging at your blouse until your tits spill free. Roughly, he takes one in his warm palm, massaging the soft skin and rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

You lean your head back on his shoulder, closing your eyes and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth when his hand leaves your waist to wrap around your throat. He squeezes gently, feeling the frantic pulse of your heartbeat under the pads of his fingers.

“Harry,” you whimper, heat pooling low in your abdomen as you near your peak.

“Shit,” he hisses, your walls pulsing and squeezing him just right. “You gonna come for me?” he rasps, slipping his hand between your legs to circle your swollen clit. 

Your vision goes blurry around the edges, incoherent moans toppling out of your lips as shockwaves spark through your body in fast-rising surges. Blood roars in your ears, your body threatening to double over, but Harry holds you tightly to his heaving chest.

He lets out a ragged groan, bending you back over the desk and pulling out just in time to release his thick, hot, white spurts of cum. He shudders through his orgasm, fucking his fist until he has nothing left to give.

The room stills, both of you breathing heavily from your equally intense climaxes. Your heart pounds in your ears, mind a little hazy and not fully coherent as you lift yourself up, palms pressing into the desk.

Harry pulls up his boxers and slacks, grabbing the box of tissues on his desk to clean up the mess he made.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly when you don’t speak, watching you adjust your clothes and hair back into place.

“No,” you shake your head, turning around to face him, “it was good.”

He hums in acknowledgement, “So will I see you tomorrow night?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out just yet. Honestly, you hadn’t thought about whether or not you would go to the gala. What would you even do there besides accompany him and fulfill his… needs?

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Harry steps closer, closing the distance between the two of you and placing his hands on the desk behind you. This way, you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

“You should go,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his plush lips to yours, giving you a tender kiss that you didn’t think he was capable of. 

Despite yourself, warmth blooms in your chest, leaving you wanting more. 

Everything feels wrong: your heels are too uncomfortable, dress too tight – too long, jewelry too heavy.

You felt completely out of place. This isn’t your crowd. You’re always the one in the back, a professional black dress and pumps on your body, camera in hand while you blend in with the wall. 

You’ve never been in the sea of people you take pictures of.

The building is 24 stories, drowning in exquisite taste and class – something you definitely missed the lesson on in school. Chandeliers scream money, reflecting off the lights and the diamonds dangling from women's necks. 

Soft jazz music fills the lobby, creating an alluring atmosphere that eases your nerves for the moment. 

A worker offers to take your coat, hanging it up with the rest when you give it to him. You feel exposed, anxiety rising once more now that your dress is revealed. It was a black off-the-shoulder dress, the back of it stopping in the middle of your back. 

Goosebumps sprinkle across your skin, shrinking you into your own warmth as you take cautious steps towards the grand double doors. Your heels clack on the marble floors, echoing in your ears.

Inside, classical music drifts through the air, strangers chatting too loudly and overlapping one another. 

What the fuck were you doing here?

This isn’t your scene and you’re already going against your morals – stepping out of your comfort zone because a man asked you to.

On instinct, you stick close to the back wall, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, but also not wanting to intrude. 

Neither Harry or his family are anywhere to be seen, tempting you to leave before you’re noticed by anyone.

Servers pass by, not giving you a second glance as you practically hug the wall. One walks by holding glasses of champagne and you don’t hesitate to grab one, hoping the fizzy beverage will ease your racing heart.

It’s just a party, you tell yourself. Hell, not even a party, this could pass as someone’s fucking wedding reception.

Just before you burrow deeper into your inner turmoil, everyone goes silent – even the music. Someone on a microphone somewhere introduces the Castillo family and everyone claps. You look around for a moment, lost, before you tuck your clutch under your arm and clap along with them; careful of your glass of champagne.

“Happy birthday, Mrs. Castillo!”

“Happy birthday, Ana!”

People begin shouting out, the older woman laughing and wrapping an arm around her husband.

Harry invited you to his mother’s birthday party and acted like it was just another annual gala.

Jesus Christ.

After a while, you manage to make your way to the bar, successfully ignoring Harry to the best of your abilities. You don’t move from your spot until he disappears into the crowd and you’re 100% sure he can’t see you.

You order a vodka martini, downing it pretty quickly before you pop the olive in your mouth. The sting tingles your throat, causing you to clear it into your hand, ordering another one.

“There you are,” a familiar voice says behind you, placing his forearms on the counter. “You’re avoiding me.”

You stand up straighter, rolling a toothpick in between your fingers. “Am I?” you query, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t even know how long I’ve–”

“I noticed you the second I walked in,” Harry cuts you off, rendering you speechless for a second.

He chuckles when you don’t respond, another glass being replaced with your empty one. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“A little, yeah,” you murmur, nodding before you sip on your drink.

Harry watches your throat work when you swallow, his mind going to more impure places. “You wanna get out of here?”

You raise your brows, “Isn’t this your mom’s party?” you pause, leaning in and lowering your voice. “Y’know, I don’t appreciate how you blindsided me with that, by the way. I would’ve brought a present.”

He chuckles, straightening up and looking down at you. “Now where would the fun be in that?” he asks, pausing before adding, “Plus, you didn’t need to. My mom already adores you.”

Surprise flashes across your face before you remember that you worked with her and her husband – not just Harry. “Well, she was lovely to work for,” you murmur.

“So what do you say?” he asks, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

Your skin tingles, not only from his tone of voice, but also from his proximity. In order to keep your sanity, you press your palm against his chest, pushing him just a bit. “Just because we had sex doesn’t mean that we’re together now.”

“Really?” he draws out, straightening up and placing his hands in his pockets. “So you’re not gonna go home with me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The city of New York twinkles below, reflecting in your irises. There hasn’t been a time where you’ve seen the city like this: so high up and a lot clearer. 

“You can see most of the city from here,” you murmur to Harry once he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and turning you around.

“Wouldn’t you rather look at me?” he teases, earning an eye roll from you.

“You do that a lot,” he points out.

“Do what?”

“Roll your eyes at me.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips, “And you’ve deserved it every single time.”

Harry’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his body. “Have you thought about the contract anymore?”

Your expression falters, opening your mouth but nothing comes out. In your hasty escape from his office last night, you completely forgot about the contract. “No, because I don’t have it anymore. Plus, I already told you my answer.”

His eyes narrow by a fraction before he pulls you by your wrist, leading you up the stairs in his penthouse. 

“Harry,” you try to get him to stop, but he tightens his grip on your wrist.

“I just need you to see,” he states, stopping in front of a locked door and fishing the key out of his pocket.

The lock clicks, your heart races, practically in your throat as he opens the door. Lights slowly turn on, reflecting off of the deep red of the walls. Harry gestures for you to go first, and your breath catches in your throat when you step inside. 

“Oh, my God,” you whisper, your body going rigid, the shock evident on your face. 

A king-size bed sits in the middle of the room, gold hoops attached to the four bedposts. The walls look like a horrific murder scene, a wine red making everything seem more intense and unnerving.

“This is my playroom,” Harry announces.

Your eyes are wide, lips agape as you assess the sight in front of you. “Yeah, I can see that,” you breathe, “Jesus Christ, Harry–”

“Before you start,” he cuts you off, “just look around. Nothing in here can harm you, I promise.”

You glance at him sideways before he stands off to the side, giving you free reign to look around. Your eyes dart around the room, trying to figure out what you’re looking at. Hesitantly, you put one foot in front of the other, heels clacking against the hardwood floor.

The wall on your right is lined with various paddles and sensory toys. A rack of items you’ve never seen before sits in front of the bed, and without really thinking, you run your fingers through the rough material.

“That’s called a flogger,” Harry informs you, moving to hover beside you.

You snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, suddenly remembering his reputation and the other women he’s most likely used this stuff on. Crossing your arms over your chest, you move on, examining the various cuffs and gag toys he has.

“Say something,” he murmurs, “Please.”

You take a deep breath, tilting your head back to look at the ceiling as you muster up the courage to even open your mouth again. Only, you realize that the expanse of the ceiling is covered in a metal grid system. Bondage is the first thing you think of.

You knew he was kinky, you just didn’t know how kinky… Until now, that is.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

This has never been something you’ve been remotely interested in, and now it is right in your face. 

Finally, you look back at Harry. “You do this stuff to women?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” he confirms, “but everyone walks away happy.”

“H-How?” you stammer, some of your willpower returning to your body. “You’re a sadist.”

“Dominant,” Harry corrects you, earning an eye roll from you. “That right there,” he points at you, “If you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.”

“Excuse me?” you chuckle breathlessly, crossing your arms tighter across your chest. “By definition, you are a sadist. You get off on people’s pain.”

“It’s not that,” he states, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I told you: it’s all about testing limits.”

“Why?” you shrug, “Why would you want to…” you gesture towards the dangling whips on the opposite wall, “use these kinds of things on people?”

“For pleasure,” he answers like it’s completely obvious.

You shake your head slowly, “You can’t just enjoy regular sex like everyone else?”

When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I sure as hell know that this isn’t a relationship.”

“I never said anything about a relationship.”

That’s what gets you. Your brows knit, an unfamiliar ache settling in your heart. “Then what the fuck are you doing with me?”

Instead of answering, he grabs a silk ribbon from a drawer, walking back over to you. “Hold out your wrists,” he instructs.

You glare up at him, and he senses your defiance. “I’m not gonna use them to force you into anything, I promise.”

To make sure he knows you don’t want to do this, you continue glaring at him as you slowly hold out both wrists. His signature smirk pulls at his lips, his hands deftly tying the red silk around you. Once tied, he tugs harshly, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”

“All the fear is in your head,” he voices firmly, letting the silk slip from your wrists.

A thought pops into your mind as you drop your hands to your sides. “If you want to… continue having sex with me, then why can’t we be together?”

“This is the only kind of relationship I associate myself with.”

Confusion stretches across your face, your brows furrowing as you try to see through his facade. He’s telling you one thing, but the way he’s acting is the complete opposite. He almost seems… obsessed with you; he hasn’t left you alone for months, he tracked you down via Samantha’s Instagram stories, and now he is trying to force a contract on you to keep you.

To you, it seems like he enjoys the thrill of the chase rather than anything else.

“How many women have you done this with?”

All you know is what you and your friend could find on the internet, and honestly, it wasn’t much. News outlets are very vague when it comes to Harry Castillo’s personal relationships, and it makes you curious.

He tosses the ribbon onto the bed, placing his hands in his pockets. “Let’s not go there right now.”

“Why not?” you push gently, closing the distance between the two of you, only for him to suddenly take a step back.

Oh, is all you can think as you stare up at him, trying to read between the lines of what he’s not telling you.

“How many?” you repeat your question earnestly, keeping your place.

Harry rolls his tongue over his teeth, “Twenty.”

“Twenty?” you breathe, all of the air leaving your lungs at once. “Christ, Fabio,” you joke, deflecting the situation.

Your mind swims within multiple questions.

Who’s to say that there won’t be twenty more after you?

How has his dick not fallen off?

Do you need to get tested?

The two of you fucked raw on his desk. You should definitely get tested.

Harry doesn’t laugh at your joke, his face remains serious. “It’s the way I am.”

“Why?” you ask quietly, almost scared of the answer.

His lips press into a fine line, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Abruptly, he grabs you by your upper arm, leading you out of the room and locking up behind the two of you. 

In the hallway, you can think clearly, not intimidated by the actual sex dungeon you were just in. You swallow thickly when he turns to face you, he seems steady but his eyes tell you otherwise. There’s the smallest hint of vulnerability in them, and it’s gone the moment you notice it.

“Be honest with me,” Harry says, “what are you thinking?”

You exhale sharply. What are you supposed to think after being shown that? It is the exact opposite of what you firmly stand on, but he seems set in his own ways.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, heading for the stairs. “That’s… a lot to take in,” you look over your shoulder, seeing that he’s following a few steps behind you.

“If you don’t want anything to do with me anymore,” he stops at the end of the hallway, looking down at you, “that’s completely fine.”

You know he’s not fine with it, but you appreciate the statement more than you’d ever let on. “I just,” you start, trying to find the right words as you process what he showed you, “I don’t think I can do that: bend to the will of someone else. That’s not me.”

He nods slowly, his eyes mimicking a puppy. It’s almost enough to make you change your mind.

Almost.

“I can’t be one of your girls – I won’t.”

part 2

a/n: i couldn't find anything like this so i wrote it myself 🌝 ive genuinely only been thinking about fifty shades since i watched it in december and Harry was the perfect character to write something related to those movies on. this isn't like anything else ive written so im stepping out of my comfort zone a bit here 😅 but i hope you enjoyed reading it. feedback is much appreciated! (part 2 soon i hope lmao)

᯽ tags: @missladym1981 , @kirsteng42 , @mcthsman , @petalsinblood , @rosharanfiction , @cherrycokeispunk , @cuteanimalmama , @harriedandharassed , @madpanda75 , @shadowqueen2024 , @picketniffler , @kokoluwie , @reedispunk , @umadirectioner , @katyispunk , @missadangel , @time-for-my-weekly-spanking , @missadangel , @stylesispunk , @milla-frenchy , @gothcsz , @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 , @sunshineflowersandkisses

dividers by @/angeliicide

A/N: This is from @tateypots' PPCU Naughty or Nice Writing Challenge! I had Clint Flood (Naughty) & Enemies to Lovers trope. Thank you so much for hosting this challenge for us. This was out of my comfort zone, as I've only written for Joel Miller before, but I really enjoyed this! I'm looking forward to reading what others have written as well. 🫶🏻

Divider: @/saradika-graphics

AO3 | masterlist

April 21st - 9:45 P.M. [The Hidden Pokergame]

You were working the first time you met Clint. Standing in the corner of a dimly lit room, holding an empty tray down by your side, you passively watched the poker game occurring in the center of the drab space. 

The men chattered, making crude jokes or thinly veiled insults at each other, sipping their assorted alcoholic beverages. You waited for them to finish so that you could collect their glasses and refill their drinks. 

When Clint walked in, it was quiet. He slipped in as if he’d been there all along. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat, nearing the table, that the men looked up and their chatter slowly died. His focus was on one of the men on the far end of the table, Jerry, you thought his name was. Clint hadn’t so much as glanced at you when he entered. 

You could tell by his clothes and how he carried himself that he thought he was hot shit. Every man sitting around that table did, but Clint, in particular, looked pompous. He wore a weathered leather jacket, zipped three-quarters of the way. His brown curls were slicked back, and he had a prominent mustache with a patchy beard, as well as a scar that ran across his right cheek. He reeked of cigarettes as he strolled past you. The smell didn’t particularly bother you, though, after being around it so often.

“Jerry,” Clint spoke as he stood at the opposite end of the table. His voice was monotone and nonchalant, disguising his intentions. It sounded like a normal greeting, but you knew that it was anything but. 

“Mr. Flood, I-I,” the man stammered. He pushed his chair back, putting his hands in front of his chest, palms facing Clint. “I’ll have the money by next week. Promise. There was a snag and-” He was cut off by the approaching of Clint. 

“You know next week is no good, Jerry. Grace period is up.” Clint was now standing about two feet from where Jerry sat. “C’mere,” he motioned with his two fingers. 

Jerry stood up with a shuddered breath and feebly walked over to him, mere inches now separating the men. 

“Which hand?” Clint may as well have been asking what the weather was like with how casually he spoke. 

“Listen, man…I can-” He was once more interrupted by Clint. 

“You want to cry in front of your friends here, Jerry?” Clint motioned to the table of weary-eyed men. Jerry shook his head and muttered a simple, “No,” before raising his left hand to Clint. 

There was still a splint on his ring finger and you rolled your eyes in disbelief that he was stupid enough to get himself in the same predicament twice. Clint couldn’t hide his smirk as he reflected on the man’s idiocy. 

The man didn’t even have time to wince before Clint snapped his finger backwards, the crack echoing through the room followed by a yelp and groans. Clint clapped him on the back as he was doubled over, grabbing his hand. 

Clint strolled back to the table, picking up one of the whiskey glasses and downing it in one gulp then plopping the glass back down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Have a good night, fellas,” he said, readjusting the sleeves of his jacket and turning to leave the room. 

His arrogant attitude was grating and as he walked by, you couldn’t help but scoff. The sound caught his attention and he turned to look at you. 

“Something wrong, miss?” You hadn’t felt intimidated before, but having his firm voice directed at you was enough for your stomach to knot, just a little. 

You wanted to knock him down a peg. “No, it’s just that you seem to pride yourself on how you command a room, but you didn’t even notice me when you came in. Can’t be very observant then.”

“What makes you think I didn’t notice you?” His eyes bore into yours and you held eye contact, unwavering. 

“Well, you didn’t even look at me,” you stated simply.

“Maybe I didn’t think there was much to look at.” His words were a punch to your gut as he slowly turned and walked out of the room, letting the door thud behind him.

You stood, speechless. The other men at the table were wise enough to not make a comment, ducking their heads when you looked over and returning to their game.

April 29th - 10:05 A.M. [The Diner]

The second time you saw Clint, he’d actually spotted you first. You and your friend, Gabby, walked into the diner closest to your home. You were vaguely hungover and in dire need of some coffee and pancakes.

You were mid-conversation as the two of you navigated your way to a booth, and it wasn’t until you went to take a seat that you glanced up and happened to spot Clint eating at a table diagonally from where you were about to sit.

He was watching you, this time without his leather jacket and instead dressed in a button-up flannel. When you took a seat, the back of the booth shielded you from him and your shoulders relaxed, turning your attention back to your friend.

Gabby was in the midst of a messy break-up (hence the hangover), so the breakfast was spent listening to her and offering support. The pancakes hit the spot and you’d already sucked down two cups of coffee.

You didn’t see Clint walk by until two twenty dollar bills landed with a heavy hand on the table. By the time you’d registered what he’d done, he was already at the door.

“Who’s that?” Gabby asked, just as shocked as you.

“No one,” you muttered, shuffling out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

When you exited the diner, Clint was just unlocking his car, a cigarette already hanging out of his mouth.

“Hey!” you called, irritation laced within your voice.

Clint looked up, peering at you over his car before he looked back down and pulled the door open.

You jogged over to him, “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“Okay.” He paused with his car door open, looking at you with a blank expression.

“Why did you put that money on the table?” Your tone was accusatory, and you crossed your arms, trying every which way to show him that he didn’t intimidate you.

He shrugged and replied, “Figured you needed it. No one in their right mind would willingly serve those idiots.” He was referring to one of your many side hustles, and it aggravated you that he felt he had the right to comment on anything you did.

“Well, for the record, I don’t need it. So you can keep your dirty money and shitty opinions to yourself.” You nearly spat the words, your chest huffing out, feeling proud of yourself.

The corner of Clint’s mouth pulled up ever so slightly as he replied, “Doesn’t seem you’re too eager to return that money you don’t need, considerin’ you didn’t bring it out with you.”

You deflated, realizing that in your haste to confront him, you’d forgotten to grab the money.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, turning on your heel and hurrying back into the diner.

Gabby spotted you as you came in, confusion on her face and in her tone as she asked, “What’s going on?”

You didn’t have time to respond, just snatched the money and rushed back outside just in time to see Clint’s blue Monte Carlo zip out of the parking lot and cruise down the street.

“Motherfucker,” you whispered harshly to yourself, over-enunciating in your anger. If you never saw him again, it would be too soon.

May 2nd - 7:27 P.M. [The Casino]

It was only a few days later that you had the displeasure of seeing Clint for a third time. You were working at your dad’s casino, swinging your hips side-to-side as you passed poker and black jack tables, looking to see if anyone needed a drink.

You always dressed up when you worked the casino, this time wearing a gold-sequined form-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. You had on tall, glittered heels that you’d already received a couple compliments on. Dressing up brought you good tips, and you were never one to shy away from extra money (unless it came from Clint, apparently).

“Sweetheart,” your father’s voice called to you from behind.

You pivoted with a smile, “Hi daddy,” you said with a twinkle in your eye.

Your dad always made sure to take good care of you. You never went without, but you also enjoyed making your own money, not just using daddy’s credit card.

His smile widened as you turned to face him, you’d always be his baby girl. “Hi honey,” he said, standing beside you then pointing to the desk for the hotel check-in, “Do you see that man over there?”

You followed his line of vision and had to suppress a groan when you saw none other than Clint standing with his usual broad stance at the front desk. He wore his signature jacket and slicked-back hair, hands shoved into his pockets as it looked like he was in a tense conversation with the girl working the desk.

“Yes,” you tried to say nonchalantly.

“Well, sweetie, he’s a friend of mine…and he needs to be escorted to a room upstairs. Could you be so kind as to take him? Room 219.” He patted you on the back lightly then gave your shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you.” He kissed the top of your head then left, slipping back into the shadows of the casino.

Your dad never talked about his actual business. The casino was a front, for the most part. His real money came from his underground businesses that he didn’t want you to worry about. Aside from serving drinks at the occasional high-end poker game, you typically had no idea what your dad was up to. It had been this way your whole life, so you didn’t think much of it anymore.

Raising you as a single father, you’d been accustomed to late nights when he was “out working” and you had to warm up a frozen meal for yourself, or find your own way home from school. But your dad made sure that every minute he was home with you, he made the most of it. You had fond memories of movie nights with all the snacks you could imagine, or luxury shopping sprees where you could buy anything you even looked at.

You always felt protected, safe, cared for, even when you’d hardly see him for days at a time. So, even though it wasn’t a conventional way of growing up, you didn’t mind. 

Clint’s voice grated against your ears as you approached the desk. “I told you, I need to check on my friend, but I don’t remember their room number.” 

“I hear you, sir, but unfortunately we cannot share any information related to our guests. It’s strictly confidential,” the woman said in her most-polite voice.

“Hi,” you looked down at her nametag, “Elizabeth. I can help this gentleman. Thank you,” you said with a smile.

Elizabeth nodded quickly. While you weren’t familiar with everyone who worked at the casino, they were all certainly familiar with you. Your dad made sure that everyone treated you with the same respect he demanded for himself.

When Clint turned to look at you, you caught his expression shift, the frustration that had been etched into his features transformed into subtle amusement at the sight of you. “Hi,” was all he said in his quiet, gravely voice.

“Follow me,” you commanded coldly, turning and walking away without so much as a look back to see if he was following you. Still, you continued to sway your hips, ass pushed out, sure that he was watching you.

The idea of teasing him was alluring to you, as you wanted to create as much discomfort for him as possible. And, while you tried not to pay much attention to it, it aroused you as well.

You led him to the elevator, stepping to the side and pressing a button as he stepped onto it. He stood on the opposite end, creating as much space between the two of you as possible.

“Workin’ the casino too, huh?” He spoke to you while looking straight ahead.

“Yep. Family business,” you replied coolly.

Clint turned to look at you. “Family?”

“My dad owns the casino.” You had to fight your smile, sure that Clint was shitting himself with your reveal.

“Your dad is Hugo?” He didn’t sound concerned, but curiosity certainly coated his voice.

You gave a “mhhm” and stepped out of the elevator when the doors opened. The hallways were quiet as Clint followed close behind you. You didn’t know what business he had in room 219, and you had little interest in finding out.

Clint stalked behind you silently, but his sheer presence was palpable. He just had that way about him.

“Here we are,” you said as you pulled out your keycard and tapped it against the lock. The door clicked and you pulled on the door handle, just barely opening it so that Clint could enter.

“Thank you,” he said with a wink, stepping forward as you stepped to the side.

You hated the pull you felt between your thighs and sauntered down the hallway quickly, hoping that Clint hadn’t had a chance to see your reaction to his wink.

When you reached the end of the hallway, turning to go down the next corridor, you glanced back to where you had left Clint.

He was watching you, and upon you looking back at him, gave another wink along with a smug smile as he pushed open the door and walked inside.

“Motherfucker,” you whispered to yourself yet again.

May 24th - 10:50 P.M. [The Hidden Pokergame]

“C’mon sweetheart, just give us a little show. I won’t tell no one,” he drunkenly slurred, the words barely leaving his tongue as he swayed in his chair.

“Tony, you’re gonna get us all in trouble ‘f ya keep this up…she’s Hugo’s daughter, man,” another man tried in desperation to put an end to the situation.

You’d become skilled at ignoring drunken men, it was necessary in your line of work, and you’d realized over time that ignoring them was much more effective than arguing with them. So, you stood in the corner, tray gripped in front of you, and your eyes passively watching the table.

But then he stood up, stumbling slightly forward as he moved toward you. None of the other men stood. They didn’t care about your wellbeing, only concerned about the wrath of your father that they might end up experiencing if they bore witness to any mistreatment of you.

Tony stood in front of you, trying to stay steady but awkwardly shuffling so that he didn’t fall. His eyes roamed up and down your body and you gulped, trying to maintain a calm appearance. “You should take a seat,” you said softly but assertively.

“Y’wanna help me with that darlin’?” He said, more clearly than you thought he was capable of.

“Hey guys,” the other man spoke, “Waddya say we end the game f’the night?”

He was met with nods from the other men as they cleared their tokens and emptied their drinks. No one had dared to even look at you as they filed out of the room. The last man cowardly said right at the exit, “Come on Tony, time to go home,” but didn’t even wait for a response before he left.

You drew in a shaky breath, preparing to confront the drunk asshole. He set his hand on your waist and you slapped it away, taking a step back and scolding him, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Oh baby,” he drunkenly cooed. “I know you’re gonna taste so sweet though.” He leaned forward, his chapped lips trying to come in contact with yours.

“Get away from me!” you shouted. Your heart was pounding and fear had its ugly talons wrapped around you. “Fuck off!”

He didn’t say anything more, just frowned and shoved you back against the wall. His hand came between your thighs, pressing against your mound through your panties. You attempted to close your legs but he pushed his leg between yours, forcing you to spread for him.

A tear escaped your eye and only added to your anger, not wanting to show him an ounce of vulnerability. His fingers pinched at your pussy painfully and you had no option but to resort to begging. Your hands desperately pushed at his shoulders as you pleaded, “Please, please, stop. I’m begging you. Please!!”

Your cry was interrupted by the door flying open and banging loudly against the wall. A broad frame blocked the doorway and you couldn’t tell who it was initially, just relieved to have another person in the room with you.

The figure shot across the room, ripping Tony off of you and sending him crashing into the poker table. His back hit the wood, splintering it as he crashed to the ground. The other man’s back was now to you, but you would have recognized the leather jacket from anywhere.

“The fuck is your problem?!,” Clint spat at the man, bending down and lifting him up by fisting his shirt.

Tony held on to Clint’s forearm as he was lifted into the air, feet dangling and panic in his eyes. “Clint! Hey-Hey man…I was just fuckin’ around. I-I promise…I wasn’t gonna hurt her or nothin’...”

“Yeah?” Clint swung his arm to the side, releasing the man into the wall where he slammed and then slid to the ground.

“Ah, fuck!” Tony yelped, throwing his head back and attempting to take a breath. It was clear that his back was injured.

“How ‘bout I just fuck around then?” Clint stalked toward him. “Promise I won’t hurt you or nothin’...”

Tony’s eyes widened even more than before. He shoved his hands in front of them, shaking and pleading. “Please, man…I-I’ll leave…I’ll never come back.” His voice was quivering and tears came to his eyes.

“How ‘bout I help with that?” Clint grabbed the man by the back of the neck, pulling him up to his feet but moving with him before Tony could get his footing, causing him to stumble toward the open door.

Clint dragged him outside and around the corner, out of your view. You were still trying to compose yourself. Your dress was smoothed down now but the tears had started flowing, so you swiped underneath your eyes, trying to clear the mascara mess.

You had your hand pressed to your chest, trying to guide your breathing, when Clint came back into the room. He entered slower this time, taking just a couple steps into the doorway before pausing and looking at you.

You glanced at him before looking back down at the floor in front of you, still taking in deep breaths. “I’m fine,” you asserted.

There was a pause. He didn’t move or say anything, just stood there like a solid presence, unwavering in its solidity. You could smell cigarettes off him, but also a heavier, almost sweet scent. Cinnamon, maybe, you wondered.

You looked at him through your periphery and said, “You can leave now.”

A moment passed, and then he moved toward you, causing you to look up at him. His eyes were soft, and they conveyed compassion despite his mouth being in a straight line. He stopped when he was just a foot away from you.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was like sifted gravel, the harsh edges removed until it was dissolved to fine sand.

You took a breath and shook your head, “I don’t think so.” You didn’t notice the bruise on your upper arm until Clint’s knuckles ran over it softly.

“He do that?” he asked through gritted teeth, clearly trying to quiet the storm in his voice.

You looked down to see Clint’s hand pull away, revealing a blue mark on your arm. “He must have,” you muttered. “My dad’s gonna fuckin’ kill him if he finds out…” You covered your face with your hands, shame and forebodement taking over.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Clint corrected, and it was unclear whether he meant of is own volition, or of your father’s command.

You lowered your hands from your face and looked around. “I have to clean this place up then get home.” You walked around Clint and began to pick up the glasses that had fallen to the floor after the brawl.

“Don’t worry about that,” Clint said, stopping you with a hand on your shoulder. “You just get home. I’ll take care of this. Are you good to drive?”

You swallowed down the tears threatening to spill. As much as you wanted to argue, you knew that you really did just need to be home. So, with a quiet nod you moved toward the door. You didn’t notice Clint following you until you entered the alleyway and glanced behind to see that he was standing in the doorway.

You walked down to your car parked on the side of the road. It was sprinkling out and you were thankful, feeling like it was cleaning you of what you just experienced.

When you unlocked your car and got inside, you looked back toward the alley to see Clint still watching you. Rain fell onto his jacket as his hands were shoved into his front pockets. For once, you were thankful for his presence. For once, you could walk away from him without calling him a motherfucker.

June 6th - 7:02 A.M. [The Coffeeshop]

You were in line, yawning, with bags under your eyes. Sleep had been evading you since the night of the poker game. Every time you closed your eyes, you pictured Tony’s face hovering over yours, his stale breath and painful hands eclipsing you.

Tears of fear and frustration stained your pillowcase as you tossed and turned. Nothing seemed to shut the thoughts off and you yearned for a night when this didn’t feel so encompassing. 

So, it had become common for you to make early morning coffee runs. You’d been avoiding Gabby, lying to her about needing to work more to help your dad out. And you’d been lying to your dad, saying that Gabby was having a rough time post break-up and needed extra support. 

You still worked at the casino here and there, but had completely avoided working poker games, even though you were sure Tony didn’t dare enter that room ever again.

“Ma’am?” The barista was looking at you concerned and you realized that they’d been trying to get your attention. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you mumbled the apology and stepped closer to the counter. “Large Americano with an extra shot, please. And a splash of almond milk.”

You paid and then stepped to the side, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while you waited. Your head felt heavy, as though you could pass out at any moment. It was a cruel joke, because you knew that as soon as you laid your head down, your eyes would shoot open with a burst of adrenaline that would wake you up again.

You hadn’t noticed that you were swaying in place until your shoulder bumped against someone standing next to you. “Shoot, I’m sorry,” you said as you took a step back, looking around for a table to sit at. You didn’t look up at the individual, instead keeping your head down and moving to the side.

You heard someone clearing their throat right next to your table. When you lifted your head from your phone, you were met with a broad chest wearing a checkered button-up. The smell alerted you that it was him before you even looked up at his face. Something about the cinnamon and cigarettes warmed your chest, letting your shoulders drop slightly.

“Mornin’,” Clint said, nodding toward the chair opposite you. “May I?”

You didn’t say anything, but motioned with your hand to the chair. Clint slowly lowered himself, eyes on you. “You look like shit.”

You scoffed, “Thanks.”

He exhaled and shook his head, “I don’t mean like that…Are you sleeping?”

“What do you care?,” you shot at him, realizing that it was probably unfair to direct your venom toward him.

He opened his mouth but was interrupted by the barista who called your name. He instead waited patiently for you to retrieve your drink and come back to the table. You’d ordered your coffee to-go, but it was clear that Clint expected you to stay.

Taking the lid off to let the drink cool, you leaned back in the wooden chair and looked out the window. Your whole body was tense, like a coil about ready to snap.

“So…” was all he said, awaiting your answer to his previous question.

“No, okay? I’m not. I…” you huffed out a breath, sitting up straighter in your chair and looking down into your cup of coffee. When you went to speak again, your voice caught and you had to stop yourself so that you wouldn’t cry.

Clint stiffened in his chair. His body went rigid as his jaw tensed. The barista called his name but he didn’t move.

You’d successfully repressed your tears, so you looked up at him. “Your coffee,” you said softly but still guarded.

He didn’t even look at the counter, just kept his eyes on you. You shrank under his gaze, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

You jolted in your seat when he pushed his chair back, standing up. His body loomed over you, but not in a threatening way. 

“Here,” he said, tossing a card onto the center of the table, “if you need anything.” He walked over to the counter, retrieving his small to-go cup that looked ridiculous in his large hand and then exited the coffee shop without looking back at you.

You picked up the card, the only thing written on it was his name followed by a phone number. It was the most nondescript business card you’d ever seen. Still, you pocketed it and took your first sip of your bitter coffee.

Leaving the coffee shop, drink in hand and card in your pocket, you felt a small sense of peace for the first time in weeks. “Motherfucker,” you whispered to yourself with a smile.

June 7th - 8:35 P.M. [Your Apartment]

You were three glasses of wine deep, a random rom-com on the TV, when your phone rang. “Hello?” you answered, trying your best to not sound intoxicated. Before you heard the voice, you realized that you hadn’t even glanced at the caller I.D.

“Hey sweetheart.” Your dad. “I know you’ve been busy with Gabby, but I was hoping you could help me out with something. You have a moment?” 

You sat up on the couch, “Hey dad. Yeah. What’s up?”

“You been drinking, darling?” He didn’t sound critical, just concerned. 

“Just some wine. What do you need, dad?” You attempted to redirect the conversation, which apparently worked. 

“Well, one of the guys, one of my main customers actually, ran into some trouble. You may have seen him at some of the poker games…Tony?” Your stomach dropped and you gripped the phone harder in your hand. 

“Um, yeah, I think so. What happened?” you worked to even your voice. 

“That’s the thing,” he replied, “I’m not quite sure. He, uh, was supposed to come to the game last night, but apparently hasn’t shown up to the last couple. None of the other guys seem to know anything. Did you see him the last time you worked?” 

“Um, yeah,” you answered. 

“He do or say anything odd?” Your dad was speaking casually, as though he didn’t expect you to have any information for him, so you gave him just that. 

“No, not really.” You were picking at your cuticles as you spoke. 

Your dad sighed then said, “Damn it. Okay. I’ll have to let his wife know I don’t have anything for her. Poor woman’s losing her damn mind.” 

Your stomach twisted. “He has a wife?”

“Yeah, poor fucker’s gotta wife and two kids. I hope he didn’t run into any trouble. Ya never know with these assholes,” he muttered. “Anyway, kiddo. I’ll let you get back to your evening. Goodnight, honey.” 

You said goodnight through a strained voice, rushing to the bathroom and dropping to your knees as soon as the phone clicked off. 

After finishing your business, you washed your hands and brushed your teeth. The reality of the situation seemed to come crashing down again and you had to brace yourself on the bathroom counter as the dizziness worked through your body. 

“Fuck,” you mumbled to yourself as you walked back to the couch to retrieve your phone, picking up the card that you’d left on the table. 

The phone only rang twice before he answered. “Hello?” the deep voice vibrated through the phone. 

“Hi,” you took a breath, “It’s-”

“I know who it is,” he said with a degree of arrogance that made you want to end the call then and there. “What do you need? Everything okay?”

You scoffed, “No, everything isn’t okay. I…I know what you did, Clint.”

There was a beat, and then he spoke quieter, “Let’s talk about this in person.”

You gave a real laugh this time. “No, absolutely not. Do you think I’m stupid? You’re a fuckin’ murderer, and I’m just going to meet you in some dark, creepy spot so you can-”

“Stop,” his voice stayed quiet but the severity of it shocked you. “I’m not discussin’ this over the damn phone. If you want answers, you meet me.”

“Fine,” you huffed out. “But you’ll have to come here. I’m not going to anywhere you tell me.”

“That works,” he answered coolly. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait- I have to give you my address. I’m at-” You were interrupted once again. 

“I know where you live.” Click. 

It was the stuff from nightmares, horror movies, so why had you just agreed to let this maniac of a man into your home? 

Your brain started replaying events, trying to figure out what you could piece together on your own. The first thing you realized was that you’d played a part in Clint’s whole plan…When he asked you to go home and that he’d clean everything up after the fight with Tony, that was so that he could go after Tony. He didn’t want to leave you a witness to what he was going to do, so instead he ushered you out and watched you get in your car and drive away. 

You also realized, sickeningly, that he must have been at that poker game just for you. You knew the men at that game, and while some of them were assholes (clearly), they were all in good standing with your dad. None of them would have owed any money. There was no reason for Clint to be there. 

Your brain was rattling. Had he been waiting for you in that alleyway all along, and then approached when he saw all the other men left? Another wave of nausea hit you as you realized that you truly didn’t know this man or his intentions. 

The events from the coffee shop replayed as well, did he follow you there, too? What were the odds that he had shown up at the same time as you did? You took a sip of water in an effort to not vomit again.

You even questioned Clint’s motives for killing Tony. Had he done that for you or did he have his own vendetta against the guy, and you just gave him a good opportunity? 

Your heart started pounding and you looked over at your front door to see that you’d left it unlocked. You hurried across the room in a panic, realizing that you’d made a grave mistake by inviting him to your home.

Just as your hand reached for the lock, the doorknob turned and Clint appeared in front of you - large and looming, his broad shoulders pulling his jacket taught as he looked down at you. You couldn’t see his face because of the light shining behind him and the dimness of your apartment. 

Stumbling backwards, you placed your hands in front of you, much like Tony had done just days prior. “I-I think you should go…” you managed to stammer. 

Clint shut the door behind him and began stepping toward you. You could make out his features now, and he was smirking. “But I just got here,” he said with a subtle grin and low voice.

Your blood ran cold as you continued backing up, looking around your apartment for anything to protect yourself with. 

“I knew it was only a matter of time…” Clint spoke firmly. “You were bound to invite me over at one point or another…” He was standing in front of you now, your back pressed against the far wall of your apartment. “Just didn’t know it’d be this soon.”

You kept your hands held in front of you. “Don’t-don’t come any closer, please…don’t hurt me…” You knew how pathetic you sounded, but you hoped that he might take some pity on your begging. You just needed to get over to your phone, call your dad.

“Hurt you?” Clint cocked his head slightly. “It’s not pain I wanna inflict on you, baby…”

Your breathing was so shallow and rapid that you were starting to feel faint. You brought one of your hands to your chest to try and calm yourself. 

Clint stopped. “Look at me,” he commanded. 

You looked up, trying to keep your tears at bay. 

“I need you to know you’re safe. Say it.” 

“Wh-what?” your voice shook. 

“You’re safe. I’m not gonna hurt you. Say it.” His tone was sharper this time, less patient.

“I-I’m safe…you’re not going to hurt me.” You swallowed after you spoke. 

Clint nodded, taking another step to close the gap and brushing his calloused thumb against your cheekbone. “Can I kiss you?”

You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Your survival instincts were kicking in and you felt like pacifying him was the safest thing you could do, but why did this feel like more than just pacifying him? You shifted, and that’s when you felt the unmistakable wetness between your thighs.

You nodded your head slowly at him and he leaned down, pushing his lips against your own. You were taken aback at how soft they were, at how gentle the kiss was. 

His hands stayed put, one of them still in his front pocket as the other was cradling your face. He continued kissing you, breathing you in and exhaling himself into your mouth. He tasted like cinnamon gum. A warmth started to spread in your chest and he deepened the kiss, licking slowly into your mouth until your tongue met his. 

When he pulled back, you instinctively leaned forward, causing the corner of his mouth to lift. “Gonna make ya see stars, angel,” he said as he reached forward and picked you up, hoisting you off the ground easily and pressing his lips against you once more.

He carried you to the bedroom with your legs wrapped around his. You could feel the firmness of his cock through his jeans and without thinking, started to grind yourself against the bulge. It felt so good. Your brain was already starting to shut off just by feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and his thick heat where you needed him most.

He laid you on the bed, reaching forward and wrapping his thick fingers around the band of your sleep shorts. He paused, watching for your reaction. 

You arched your back with a small whimper, and it was all he needed to continue. He yanked them down your legs, letting them drop to the floor behind him. You hadn’t been wearing underwear and you saw his throat bob at the realization. “Sit up,” he commanded in a soft voice. 

You did as he said, and he pulled your shirt upwards, letting the soft material leave your skin to fall onto the floor. He stood there for a moment, just looking down and observing your naked body. 

Your eyes moved to his bulge and you could see his cock throb, even through the thick denim. You scooted to the end of the bed, reaching forward and placing your fingers on his belt buckle. Looking up at him, you waited for his command. 

He didn’t need to work hard to get you under his spell. One kiss had been all that it took. And he was mighty proud of himself for that. He’d anticipated that he’d need to work much harder. 

He reached down to pick up one of your hands that was on his belt. Bringing your hand to his lips, he planted a soft kiss on the very top, giving you a smile and lowering your hand back to his belt buckle. 

You were practically salivating as you pulled on the buckle, then watched him thread it through his jeans and drop it. He put his hands back at his sides and let you unbutton then unzip his dark jeans. 

He helped you by pushing down the denim and fabric of his briefs, standing back up so you were eye level with his dripping cock. His eyes stayed on you as he shucked off his leather jacket then unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it into the ground. 

Leaning forward, you kissed the tip of his cock then opened your mouth, sucking the head onto your tongue. He exhaled deeply, moving his hands to your head and gently brushing the hair away from your face, looking down and watching as you began to take more of him into your mouth. 

The silence between the two of you made the sounds of your sucking even louder. You hollowed your cheeks to suck harder, moving forward so that your nose was brushing his dark curls. He shuddered and you felt his cock throb in your mouth. 

“Relax.” His voice caught you by surprise and your eyes shot up to look at him. He gave a single nod and you worked to relax your jaw. 

He began moving in and out of your mouth in a sawing motion, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled in pleasure. He gripped your head just a little tighter as he began to use your mouth. You could feel every vein of his cock as he slid against your tongue. The tip of him nudged at the back of your throat, but he was being careful to not gag you. You were surprised by his level of self-control. 

He withdrew slowly, tapping your thigh and motioning with his hand for you to stand. There was something about his silence that was even more arousing and you could feel your slick running down your inner thighs. You stood, clenching your legs together and feeling goosebumps rise on your skin. 

Clint sat on the bed, legs spread slightly, his cock jutting out. “C’mere, sweetheart.” And this time it felt more like a request than a demand, one that you wanted so desperately to give into.

You straddled him, your knees pressed against the mattress on either side of his hips and your glistening pussy hovering right above his meaty cock. His hands came to your waist and bowed his head forward to kiss your breasts. His tongue swirled around one of your nipples and he groaned against the soft skin just to move his mouth to your other breast and give it the same treatment. 

“Please,” you whimpered. You couldn’t take anymore of the teasing. You’d never felt so empty before, so untouched with someone still touching you.

He didn’t say anything, just pulled his mouth away from your chest, and looked into your eyes as he started to pull you down onto his cock. His grip on your sides was light, and he let you do most of the moving, looking down to watch his cock slowly disappear into your sinking cunt.

When he was fully inside you, your head fell against his shoulder. “Oh my god, Clint…” you gasped, staying still as your body acclimated to the intrusion. He began to rub circles onto your skin with his thumbs, letting you take the time you needed and soothing you through it. 

You took a deep breath, then started to slowly rock your hips back and forth. Your clit brushed against his coarse hair with every grind and you threw your head back, enjoying the sensations that began to flow through you. 

Clint hummed, just watching you take what you need. He felt you dripping down his cock, your arousal flowing to his balls. His eyes moved up and down, watching your pussy needily grind against him and also looking up to see your scrunched face and slack jaw as your coil started to tighten.

As the sensations continued building, you squeezed his shoulders and started to bounce up and down. Clint groaned as you picked up speed, your pussy sliding up and down his hard shaft. You lifted off of him halfway before dropping down again, creating wet slapping sounds in the dark room. 

Clint’s hands came to your nipples, squeezing and gently twisting. The feelings quickly became overwhelming as you were nearing your peak. “Clint!” you called out, bouncing on him faster and faster. “I’m gonna-”

“You got it, you can do it, baby…come on, come for me, come on this cock.” His words of encouragement were all you needed to tip over the edge. 

You slammed down onto him as you came, gripping his shoulders, head tossed back as you moaned and whimpered through the waves of pleasure. When your body began shaking, he brought you closer to him so your chests were pressed to each other. One arm wrapped around your waist while the other hand stroked soothing lines up and down your spine.

He stayed completely still as you came down from your high, letting you recuperate and steady your breathing. 

He was still solid inside of you, filling you completely. You pulled back so you could see his face. He swallowed and took in a deep breath. You saw his jaw clench and knew that he was still holding back. Any of the fear you felt for him earlier seemed to dissipate as you looked him in the eyes and said, “Do what you need, Clint…Do whatever you need.”

You yelped as he flipped your bodies around, slamming you against the mattress and then bracing himself above you, panting like some sort of animal. His face was still stoic, mouth in a straight line as his eyes bore into yours. The scar on his cheek was accentuated by how the moonlight was streaming in through the window. 

“Gimme a word,” he said. 

You felt lightheaded and couldn’t make sense of what he was asking you. The room felt hot and cold at the same time, and all you knew was that you needed to feel him again, that the absence alone was overwhelming. 

“What?” you replied breathily. 

“I need a word,” he murmured, leaning down and nipping at your ear before pulling back again. “Y’know baby, a safe word.”

“I-I don’t…” You tried to think, but nothing was coming to you. No one had ever asked for a safeword before, but you’d also never had sex like this before. 

“How ‘bout VHS?” he asked, leaning forward again to suck on your earlobe. It sent prickles throughout your body and you moaned, arching your back. “Need ya to answer me…”

“Yeah, yeah…” you trailed off, your head fuzzy. 

He gave a soft chuckle and replied, “Can you say it for me, baby?” 

You nodded while whispering, “VHS.”

As soon as the last syllable left your mouth, Clint was pressing his lips to yours and reaching down to line himself up with your neglected pussy. You could feel yourself fluttering before he even pushed all the way in. 

He continued kissing you as he snaked himself inside you, inch by inch. You gasped as he pushed in all the way, followed by a groan of his own. He licked from your collarbone up your neck to your jaw, where he sucked a mark as he found his rhythm inside you.

It started steady, a rocking that moved you back and forth against the sheet underneath you. You wrapped your legs around his hips, your hands clasped around his neck as he made the occasional grunt, working within you. 

The conservative pace increased to firmer thrusts and his hips snapping against the backs of your thighs. He was pushing your body into the mattress, deeper and deeper as the thrusts became more of a pounding, his pelvis seeking you over and over, chasing your wet warmth.

“Can’t get over how you feel.” He moved his lips to the shell of your ear, whispering lowly. “You feel so good around me, hugging me so tight, baby.”

Your hands were slipping around his neck, both of you too sweaty to get a proper grip. You reached instead up to his hair, feeling the sheen from his hair gel and the beads of sweat leaving his scalp. You tugged and he groaned deeper, slamming against you. 

“Do that again,” he muttered with his lips against your cheek. 

You tugged harder this time, and then he began railing into you impossibly fast. You screamed out as he shoved in fully, just to pull out and slam in again as deep as he could. Continuing to pull on his hair as he fucked into you, you both were moaning messes, utterly wrecked for the other. 

“Where?” he panted, his rhythm now completely erratic as he neared his release. 

“Inside me, please. I need it, Clint. Ohhhh,” you moaned louder as his thumb began swirling around your clit. “Please! Please!!”

“Gonna fill you, baby….” he groaned, lowering his head and pounding into you, his thumb still rubbing desperately on your bundle of nerves. 

Your nails dug into his back as your orgasm built and then shattered over you. You became a quivering mess underneath him and then he stilled, shooting his load against your velvety walls. His groan was so deep and loud that you swore you felt it inside your body.

He landed another soft kiss on your lips before pulling out and rolling onto his back. Your mind started traveling back to an hour ago, before Clint arrived and you were piecing together the danger you were in. 

You rolled onto your side, laying your head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around you and brought you in tight. He was warm, and surprisingly soft, his tenderness like a much-needed hug. And you decided that maybe some questions were better left unanswered.

Your hips roll in sensual circles, chasing the thick drag of him even as your fingers twist viciously into the damp sheets.

The cotton is already ruined—crumpled and streaked with the evidence of how many times he’s already made you come undone.

When he’s been gone too long for work, it’s always the same: he comes back to you hollowed out by the hunger that trembles violently beneath his skin.

He becomes a starved man, not just for rest, but for you.

The moment he crosses the threshold with a fresh split on his lip and a purple bloom spreading under his left eye—you know exactly what’s to come.

You didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time. 

Just the feeling of his mouth crashing onto yours, tasting faintly of shitty cigarettes, and his callused palms shoving your tank-top up and your shorts down in one impatient yank. 

The living room floor still bears the faint imprint of your knees and the smear of your arousal where he bent you over the coffee table and fucked you fast and brutal until you were sobbing his name onto the wooden surface.

Now you’re in bed—finally—and he’s taking his time wrecking you properly.

Face down, ass up, thighs trembling from the strain of holding the position he loves best. Your cheek is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, drool darkening the fabric in a wet oval beneath your lips. 

Clint’s big hands are locked around the soft, generous flesh where your hips curve, fingers digging in hard.

He uses that hold to yank you back onto his thick cock with every punishing thrust, forcing you to take him to the root until the blunt head kisses your cervix and your whole body jolts.

“Fuck—there she is,” he growls low, voice shredded from exertion.

Your cunt is swollen, hypersensitive, dripping so much that every time he pulls out the cool air hits your soaked folds and makes you tighten involuntarily.

His balls are heavy as they smack against your clit with each deep plunge, slick with your release from… three? Maybe four orgasms ago.

You’ve lost count.

The insides of your thighs are glossy, strings of arousal webbing between your skin and his every time he withdraws.

Sweat runs in rivulets down the hard planes of his chest, catching in the dark hair that trails from his navel to his cock.

The muscles in his forearms cord and bulge as he manhandles you exactly how he wants you, and you really wouldn’t have it another other way.

You try to lift your head, to look back at him, but he presses a wide palm between your shoulder blades and forces your chest back down, cheek mashed harder into the pillow. 

The new angle has him grinding against that swollen, spongy spot inside you on every stroke. Electricity races up your spine; your toes curl so hard they cramp.

“Clint—oh god—too deep—” The words come out slurred and downright pathetic.

“Too deep?” His laugh is dark, breathless. “You’re still squeezin’ me like you don’t want me anywhere else, sweetheart.”

He punctuates the taunt with a slow, intentful roll of his hips, stirring his cock inside you until you’re whimpering and shaking violently.

Then he pulls almost all the way out—only the fat, flushed head still stretching your entrance—before slamming back in so hard the headboard cracks against the wall.

Your cry is broken. The pillow muffles most of it, but not the wet gush that follows, another flood of slick coating his shaft and dripping down onto the sheets.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he groans. “That’s my good girl—so fuckin’ wet for me.”

One hand leaves your hip to slide up the sweat-slick arch of your spine, fingers threading into your hair. 

He twists, yanking your head back just enough that your neck bows and your mouth falls open on a choked sob.

“Look at me,” he rasps against your ear.

You try. Vision blurry with tears and pleasure, you catch a glimpse of him—eyes black with hunger, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his upper lip.

Beautiful. Dangerous. Yours.

His broad chest presses to your back, heat radiating off him like a furnace. His mouth finds the side of your throat, teeth scraping over the racing pulse there.

“Gonna fill you up again,” he murmurs against your skin. “Gonna keep fuckin’ you till all you know is this cock and my name.”

Your core squeezes hard around him at the words, body already climbing toward another shattering peak.

He feels it and growls against your neck. “That’s it. Come on my cock one more time, baby. Let me feel you.”

His hand snakes beneath you, rough fingertips finding your slippery clit. He doesn’t tease, just rubs fast and merciless circles that match the punishing snap of his hips.

The world whites out after that.

Your orgasm hits like a freight train—back bowing, thighs locking, a broken scream tearing from your throat while your pussy spasms wildly around him.

More juices gush out, coating his cock, his balls, the sheets beneath you both.

Despite feeling like you’ve died in the best way possible, your body is screaming that it’s reached its limit. Every nerve ending feels overstimulated, and gloriously ruined.

But Clint… Clint is still hard as steel, hips barely restrained, breath sawing in and out like he’s fighting not to chase his own release again just from the way your walls keep pulsing around him.

You can’t take any more inside you. Not right now.

“C…Clint…” His name comes out thick, drowsy, almost drunken. Your arm feels impossibly heavy as you reach back, fingertips sliding over his sweaty skin, tracing the rigid line of his forearm before you tap three deliberate times, your signal for when things get to be too much.

He slows his thrusts immediately.

The grip he had on your hair loosens at once, fingers uncurling gently until they’re just cradling the back of your skull instead of yanking. His voice drops to something softer, edged with concern.

“What’s wrong, baby? You okay?”

You manage a tiny, shaky nod, too spent to form full sentences. Your whole body goes limp, trusting him to catch you as he eases you both down onto your sides.

He doesn’t pull out, yet it doesn’t feel invasive. The fullness of him inside you is almost comforting as he lets your overworked pussy adjust to the stillness.

He curls around your back, chest pressed hot to your spine, one thick arm banded across your waist to keep you close.

His lips find the damp curve of your neck, then your shoulder in slow, open-mouthed kisses, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin.

His free hand roams with tenderness: wide palm gliding over the soft swell of your hip, tracing the dip of your waist, cupping the heavy underside of your breast without squeezing, just holding.

You turn your head just enough to catch his profile—strong jaw clenched, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust.

He’s devastatingly handsome like this: post sex glow, dark facial hair rasping against your shoulder every time he kisses you, that jagged scar along his cheek and nose glistening in the low lamplight.

And god help you, even with your pussy throbbing and begging for mercy, the sight and scent and weight of him keep desire burning hot in your body.

You can’t help it. He fucks you too good.

“Baby,” you whisper, lips swollen and tingling. Your eyes are glassy, wet with tears of pleasure and exhaustion. “My mouth… I want you to use it.” Your lower lip trembles into a needy little pout, enticing him. 

His brows knit together for a second as he searches your face. Then that slow lick of his own lips followed by a wicked smirk.

“Is that right?”

His palm slides up, finally closing around one heavy breast, thumb brushing over the tender, abused nipple before he squeezes possessively, just enough to pull a soft whimper from you.

“Mmm.” The sound vibrates against your neck as he leans in and claims your mouth in a deep kiss; tongue stroking yours, tasting the salt of your tears and the lingering sweetness of your earlier cries.

He slips out of you carefully, both of you groaning at the wet drag of it.

A thick trickle of cum immediately follows, sliding warm down the inside of your thigh.

You shiver at the sudden emptiness, but he’s already moving, shifting up the bed so his hips are level with your face, body angled on his side so you don’t have to strain yourself.

His cock hangs heavy between you—thick and flushed, wet with a creamy sheen of both your multiple releases.

The coarse dark hair at the base is matted, slicked down, and the musky, primal scent of sex hits you like a drug: salt, sweat, him, you, all mingled together.

Your mouth floods with saliva; your head spins. You need it so bad.

He wraps one big hand around the base, gives himself a few pumps—smearing the mess up and down his shaft. 

A low, guttural Fuuuck drags out of his throat as his hips jerk forward into his own fist.

“Come on, sweetheart, open that pretty mouth for me.”

You obey without hesitation.

Lips part on a soft sigh. Tongue slides out, flat and eager, trembling just slightly from exhaustion and anticipation.

He guides himself forward, slowly and controlled, letting the fat, leaking head nudge against your tongue first.

You taste salt and bitterness and the faint sweetness of your pussy. Then he pushes in deeper, inch by thick inch, stretching your lips wide around him until the head bumps the soft barrier of your throat.

Your throat flutters when you swallow around the intrusion. A broken moan vibrates around his length and your eyes water instantly, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks.

Clint’s hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing away the tears even as his hips give the smallest testing rock forward.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that, baby. Let me fuck that sweet throat.”

He doesn’t go too deep just yet. Only shallow, lazy thrusts that let you adjust and breathe around him while your tongue swirls messily along the underside, tracing every vein, savoring the way he throbs against your palate.

“Look at me.”

You do—eyes glassy, mascara smudged, lips stretched obscenely around him.

The sight seems to snap something in him.

His next thrust goes deeper. Your throat opens on reflex; he slides past the resistance with a slow, deliberate glide until your nose brushes the damp hair at his base.

You gag softly, tears streaming freely now but you stay still, relaxing into it, letting him use you exactly the way you wanted him to.

“Fuck—good girl,” he groans, hips rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

After a few more shallow thrusts, he pulls himself from your lips with a slow, wet pop. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper softly, tongue chasing the taste of him that lingers on your lips.

He doesn’t give you long to miss it.

His hand wraps around the thick base again, heavy cock bobbing in front of your face, giving it one lazy stroke, then angling it to tap the swollen head against your cheek. 

You flinch slightly at the feeling. It makes your cunt clench around nothing.

He studies your reaction for a beat, as if he’s memorizing the way you look right now… hungry for him how he is for you.

Then he does it again—harder this time. The fat head smacks your cheek, leaving a faint, warm smear of precum and saliva across your skin.

Your breath hitches and a soft, broken moan slips out before you can stop it. Not that you want to, anyways.

He guides himself back between your lips thereafter, more eager this time, and your throat immediately opens for him like how he’s trained you.

He groans low in his chest when your nose presses into the coarse, damp hair at his base again, the musky scent of him flooding your senses.

Clint fucks your throat harsher this time, his hands coming up to cup your bouncing breasts.

He squeezes each roughly—thumbs sweeping over your nipples, still tender and peaked from earlier. He pinches, rolls, tugs just hard enough to make your back arch off the mattress. The sharp pleasure-pain shoots straight to your clit, even though he’s nowhere near it.

“Jesus—fuck—” His rhythm falters for a second, hips stuttering forward when you moan around his cock. “You’re gonna make me come just from that sound, sweetheart.”

He keeps one hand kneading your breast, the other sliding up to cradle your neck, feeling the way the skin bumps with each drag of his cock. 

Your hands caress your own inner thighs, uncaring of the oversensitivity at your pussy as you slowly move your fingers down to spread your sticky lips open, putting pressure on your erect clit.

Spit drips from the corners of your mouth and runs down either side of your jaw. Every time he bottoms out, your throat quivers and he swears under his breath.

“Gonna fill that pretty mouth, baby. Give you every fuckin’ drop.”

He’s close—you can feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue and how filthy his dirty talk gets, his breathing turning even more ragged and uneven.

Clint swears viciously, pace stuttering. “Fuck—fuck—gonna—shit—” One last hard thrust—deep enough that your eyes water fresh—and he holds himself there, buried to the root.

His hand tightens in your hair, the other still squeezing your chest.

You taste the first hot, thick pulse of his release, then another, and another, flooding your mouth until it’s too much and it leaks out and around his cock in creamy rivulets.

His hips jerk as he rides it out, milking every last shudder from his body.

You suckle on his softening cock, coming down from your own unexpected orgasm, drinking down as much of his release as you can, savoring it, getting drunk off it.

He pulls out, a thin string of cum and spit connects the head to your swollen lips and your tongue darts out immediately, sweeping seductively along the corner of your mouth, catching the creamy spill that had escaped.

You lick your bottom lip clean, then the top, enjoying the sticky residue, the way it clings to the inside of your cheeks.

A soft, contented hum vibrates in your throat as you swallow one last time, eyes fluttering half-closed.

Clint watches the whole thing, chestnut brown eyes dark and glinting with admiration. 

His thumb traces the mess on your chin now—smearing it gently across your lower lip before pushing it back into your mouth.

You close around the digit without hesitation, sucking it clean just like you did his cock.

“Jesus, baby. You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

He shifts to replace his thumb with his mouth, kissing you passionately, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning softly into it like he’s already half-hard again just from the flavor of you both together.

When he finally pulls back, he murmurs against your lips:

“Don’t move.”

Then he’s readjusting your body on the bed, sliding down while his mouth trails wet open kisses over your sternum, your pillowy stomach, the sensitive dip of your hip.

He settles between your thighs like he belongs there, big hands spreading you greedily.

Because even though you’re both spent and every inch of you is tender and aching—he’s not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

Joel falters slightly, his rhythm off a bit as he's taken by surprise by your husband's coming home early.

"Don't stop!" You squeeze your nails into Joel's thigh. He looks at your husband with an icy stare and gathers your hair in one hand to give it a little tug.

"I won't stop, darlin'.. he can watch me fuck ya." And you squeal as he snaps his hips against you, this time with a fury.

Your husband steps further into the room, his blood boiling as he yells at Joel with a voice that sounds like venom. "I SWEAR TO GOD, MILLER, GET OFF MY DAMN WIFE OR I'LL BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT!"

You groan in frustration. "Honey, get out!!"

Your husband is shocked to hear you yell at him like this, especially in the situation you're in.

"GET OFF MY WIFE RIGHT GOD DAMN NOW OR I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"You're a bit too late for that," Joel says, his voice surprisingly even, before he starts to move in you again. His voice is like silk when he speaks next. "Darlin' did you want me to stop?"

"Please don't stop," you whine, pushing your hips back against his to keep him moving. Your actions and the pleading in your voice make him moan softly and his body reacts on its own. He looks back at your husband, making direct eye contact with him as he starts to move again.

"You hear that? She doesn't want me to stop."

You whimper as he moves again. The squishy sounds you make fill the room along with your sighs.

"YOU'RE A SICK SON OF A-" your husband yells, stepping forward as if to put a stop to it, but Joel gives him a warning glare.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he growls. "You come one step closer and you're gonna find out just how sick I can be."

His words make your stomach flutter. "Joel.. he's not gonna do anything."

But Joel doesn't take his eyes off the man as you speak, and he pulls your hair tighter. "You don't know what he wants to do.. he wants to kill me for what I'm doing with you right now."

"He won't kill you," you gasp at his hair pulling. "He won't kill you. He's in shock."

Your husband can't believe what he's hearing coming from you. He's shocked and angry. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" he yells suddenly, but Joel doesn't like that at all, and he snaps his head back at your husband. "Don't talk to her like that," he says firmly.

"Joel," you whine again. "Just ignore him. I need you.."

Joel looks at you again, seeing how frustrated and annoyed you are, and he can't ignore you. Especially when you say you need him. He looks at your husband again, his grip on your hair loosening. "She said she needs me," he says, almost challengingly.

With a huff you get up, straddling Joel. "So rude to keep me waiting," you murmur, riding him.

He looks up at you, his hands coming to automatically rest on your hips before he looks over at your husband, his eyes still carrying that possessive look. "You heard her," he says without taking his eyes off your husband, "You interrupted us."

"Get out!" you say, frustrated.

Your husband's veins almost pop out of his skin from how angry he is, but he doesn't leave, only looking between the two of you. "You two are SICK," he says in a disgusted tone.

"You're sick for staying and watching," you pant, leaning down to kiss Joel.

Your husband looks like he's about to explode, but then you lean down to kiss Joel and his eyes darken at the sight.

You swear you've never heard a deeper tone than when Joel growls, "Get out" in a firm and menacing voice. "Your wife and I are gonna finish what we started."

"Listen, honey," you try to reason as you slow down, grinding on Joel. "Joel's under our roof -- oh god! -- and while he's under our roof he's our guest -- ooh! right there -- and while he's our guest this is gonna happen."

Your husband looks absolutely bewildered by your reasoning, his face almost turning purple with restrained rage. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" he yells at you, but Joel has heard enough. "Keep your voice down. You're interrupting," he says firmly, gripping your hips a bit tighter, trying to get you to keep going.

You focus back on Joel, riding him the way he likes. "You feel so damn good.."

He groans softly and looks at you, his hands gripping your hips tighter, trying to get you to keep the pace on him a bit faster. Your husband is sitll in the room but Joel almost forgets about him when you ride him like that. "God, baby, you feel so goddamn good," he says, breathless. "You like ridin' me like this?"

"Yes! Oh you're so deep!" You ride him faster.

The way you ride him is almost maddening, and Joel can't do anything but let you take control of him. He groans and grunts lowly, the feeling of you on him making him almost lose his mind., He looks up at you like he owns you but then he suddenly realizes that your husband is still in the room watching, He looks over at him again, his eyes dark and possessive. "She likes ridin' me, don't she?"

Your husband's face is even redder now and looks like he's about to scream at you, but Joel interrupts him before he gets a chance to open his mouth.

"Keep your mouth shut," he says, his voice firm and low. "I'm still not done with her."

Your cries grow louder. You scream his name until you come.

"Goddamn baby, you are so perfect," he pants, his hands digging into your hips a bit harder, as if he's holding onto you for dear life. Your husband looks beyond horrified, like he can't process what he's seeing and can barely keep it together when Joel looks over at him again. "Her man doesn't like it when I make her moan like that," he says with a smirk.

You're still squeezing him with your aftershocks, whimpering and sweating. Joel is so close behind you, almost completely lost in you and how you look and sound on top of him, trying to keep yourself up. He squeezes your hips as you ride out your aftershocks and he groans lowly as he feels you still squeezing around him. His eyes meet yours and he give you a possessive look, the need to claim you written all over his face.

He looks over at your husband, who's still watching you from the corner of the room, and speaks in a low, huskier tone. "You see her? I bet you've never seen her come like that. Have you ever even made her come?"

Your husband is speechless, looking like he wants to yell at the both of you, but he can't talk. Joel sees the look on his face and he smirks before looking back at you again. He suddenly grabs your hair as he thrusts up into you and makes you look at him, his voice low and deep, a challenge in his tone.

"Who do you belong to, baby?"

"You, Joel." you whimper. "I belong to you."

He growls lowly at your reply, the possessive need in him taking over him completely. He knows your husband is still watching but he doesn't care. He wants you to say those words, he wants you to look at him and tell him you're his.

He pulls your hair a bit harder and puts his other hand on your hip, pulling you down on him again. "That's right, baby, you're mine," he says in a low growl.

Another orgasm crashes through you as you're stuffed full of him. You coming again, squeezing him so perfectly, is almost enough to make him explode right then and there. He groans lowly again, his voice like gravel as he feels you squeezing down on him. He leans his head back, almost like he's fighting the orgasm, trying to prolong the moment and make it last.

"Fuck, baby, you're going to make me come," he groans and then looks at your husband, taunting him.

"Want you to come, Joel. Want you to fill my pussy," you whine.

Your words and how they come out in a needy, impatient whimper are like music to his ears. His head is clouded by the need to claim you and make you his. He looks at you again, his eyes almost feral, then he looks at your husband once more. "You hear that?" he says huskily. "She wants me to fill her up."

Your husband looks like he's about to combust, his veins visible in his neck from how angry he is. Joel just looks at him, his eyes dark and a smirk on his face, his breathing still heavy and his voice huskier than usual. "Does that make you upset?" he asks, his tone mocking.

Your husband is in shock and struggling to find words. but before he can speak Joel suddenly looks back at you, his eyes darkened even more. "You want me to fill you up, baby?" his hands digging harder into your hip. "You want me to come inside you?"

"Fill me up," you beg. "Put a baby in me," you say, knowing it can't happen anyway but you have to shock your husband.

The idea of knocking you up makes everything in Joel feel primal. He looks at you, his eyes almost feral, possessiveness radiating from him. "You want me to breed you, baby? You want me to fill you up and give you a baby?"

"Yes," you moan. "Want you to fill me full.. let my husband watch you get me pregnant."

When Joel glances at your husband he's almost surprised to find him with his cock out, pumping it, spitting on it to make it glide.

"Yeah, fuck your fist. That's all you're gonna get while I'm here," Joel grunts to your husband. Then he flips you over, his hips housed between your thighs as he slams into you, relishing the loud cries coming from your mouth.

"Ain't gonna fill ya until you come for me, baby," he says, nearly gasping for air. "Gotta earn my cum, baby. Gotta earn it so I can put a little Joel in your belly."

His thumb circles your clit, moving clockwise then counter-clockwise, gentle and insistent unlike the way he's moving inside you, hips pistoning as he works you into another frenzied orgasm, wrenching one from you as easily as he always has.

Tightening and pulsating, lightning runs through your veins as you let go with a loud curse, body arching up, taking in every blessed inch of him. "Good girl," Joel coos, slamming into you until he's at the edge, and then he turns to see your husband, still crying and pumping his useless cock with his fist. With a snarl, Joel maintains eye contact as he pumps you full of his cum, fucking you until the last drop is deposited deep inside you, and when he finally pulls out he uses his tip to softly push it back in when it starts to dribble.

"There, baby, so glad I finally got to cum inside you.." he places a kiss on the corner of your mouth, smiling as he sees your blissed-out expression. As an afterthought he glances at your husband, his fist full of come that spilled over as he watched you two.

"Not that I don't love usin' that pretty little mouth to swallow up all I've got," Joel adds fuel to the fire. "Or that tight little ass. I love fillin' up that tight lil' hole.."

With a smirk he rolls off you, gently caressing your belly, imagining it swollen, jiggling with baby kicks and your tits getting big with milk. "From now on I'm the only one who gets to come inside you, darlin'. Gotta make sure it sticks."

tagging those interested from the head canon: @itwasntimethatdidit40 @milla-frenchy @everybodylovedcontractors @probablyreadinsmut

@tateypots @eviispunk @thedilfdiaries @lanielooo21 @sunnytuliptime

@cxrsed-angel @joelalorian @myownwholewildworld @lilac-boo

@sawymredfox @aurorawritestoescape @604to647

@chewingbunny @sighofthetimez @coolranchdavidian

@tammythr @notgoingtomalta @amyispxnk @lokischocolatefountain

@megangovier @almostempty @tuquoquebrute @jinxispunk

@hotgirlbedtimescenarios @frannyzooey @la-vie-est-une-fleur29

@rabreu1414 @inept-the-magnificent @letsgobarbs @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu

All are sitting, moderately relaxed, but your back is pinned against the door. Arms crossed and on edge. Last to arrive, everyone turns to glance at you except Joel who is fixed forward with tense shoulders and a stiff back. Of course, you haven’t seen him since Friday outside of the Tipsy Bison, and the four days since have passed with a crawling pace. 

“Y’wanna sit?” Tommy motions towards the empty chair between Joel and Ellie. You shake your head, forcing your lips into a tight line that somewhat resembles a smile. Tommy nods, putting his hands on his hips, and begins, “Alright, well, I’m sending five of you out to do some recon out near Hebgen Lake.”

“That’s pretty far out there,” Jesse says warily. “You hear something on the radio?” 

“Couple’a survivors out that way at the”—Tommy studies a piece of paper on the desk—“Earthquake Lake Visitor Center. I figured we could help ‘em out. Check for supplies.”

Joel shifts in his seat and you finally get a peek at his face. It’s the scowl you knew so well in the QZ. The untrained eye would think it’s just Joel being annoyed and that’s not entirely wrong, but what it truly is? A mask. Joel is concerned and if Joel is concerned, you should be, too, but you don’t show it. You maintain your posture and your straight face despite no one being able to see you. 

“How far is it?” Ellie asks. 

“About three hours by car,” Tommy replies. 

As he scoffs, Joel stands up and puts his hands on his hips. “So, a few days by horseback for the possibility of getting some supplies?” Tommy tries to respond, but Joel interrupts him. “A damn waste of time.” 

Tommy gives his big brother a surprisingly patient look, and you wonder what their fights were like as teenagers. You bet Tommy was a troublemaker. There’s a glint of mischievousness in his eyes at times, whereas Joel is stern most of the time. Imagining Joel as the serious older brother that tries to keep Tommy out of detention nearly brings a smile to your face, but it’s quickly squashed as Joel’s eyes flicker over to yours, catching you staring at him. Averting your gaze, you focus on Tommy again. 

“You’ll be takin’ the truck that Walker’s fixed up,” Tommy explains. 

“That’s even dumber. What if somethin’ happens to one of our only vehicles?” 

Finally, Tommy sounds irritated. “Joel, what else is the car for if not for this? We’re runnin’ low on medicine. It’s worth the trip.” Joel seems to consider this, staring down at his feet. When he stays silent, Tommy continues. “Figured it’d be a good learning moment for Ellie.”

The teenager perks up, sitting up straighter in her chair, and for the first time since meeting her, she stares at Joel with a sense of hope. Jesse, however, clearly doesn’t share that sentiment. 

“So, why are we bringing the B-Team?” Jesse motions towards you and Adam. 

“The B-Team, really?” you ask incredulously. 

“I’m just saying, you guys just got here.” 

“That’s why I want them to go. They’ve been on the outside for a while,” Tommy explains, then he smiles at Joel. “Still sharp unlike some of you bastards.” 

No one says anything for a minute, all of you silently contemplating the offer. Ellie breaks the silence and throws her hands up before letting them fall to her lap. “I’m fucking in,” she says, barely concealing her excitement. 

One by one, everyone nods and then, they look at you expectantly. Did you really want to be stuck in a car with Joel, Jesse, Ellie, and Adam? Absolutely not, but what’s a few hours? A restlessness has settled within you over the last few months as your nervous system struggles to adjust to a more civilian, mundane life. The most alive you’ve felt, aside from when Joel had his hands on you, was your patrol shift. There weren’t many infected to take out, but letting the animal side of your brain function in all its primal glory was a nice change of pace. It’s like you were acting out your purpose: surviving by any means necessary. 

“Sure,” you say. 

“I can’t believe he called us the B-Team. The fucking B-Team,” Adam mumbles as he leans against the white Bronco. Adam made some joke about OJ Simpson to you when it came into view, but it went over your head. With his arms crossed and a pout on his face, he’s like a grumpy teen. “Who does he think he is? Jackson’s golden boy?”

It takes everything in you not to laugh at the bitterness, almost teetering into jealousy, in his voice. Yeah, you were annoyed at Jesse’s comment, but Adam seems uncharacteristically pissed off. 

“Adam, are you actually mad?” 

“Yeah,” he huffs, “where does he get off on saying that?”

“Dude, he’s like…twenty-four, so he might as well be twelve.” This doesn’t seem to calm him down. “He grew up in a place like this. He doesn’t know shit. You could kill him with your bare hands. Don’t sweat it.”

“Are you okay?” Adam lifts a brow in your direction.

There’s that guilt again. Shrugging, you say, “I’m trying to make you feel better.”

Adam studies your face before pushing himself off the side of the SUV. Joel and Jesse, with Ellie trailing behind, approach carrying emergency supplies. You know, just in case something goes wrong. Though you know it’s a possibility, you don’t have a bad feeling about the mission. If anything, you’re excited, but you conceal it as you wordlessly alleviate them of some of the items, helping to load the vehicle. 

“Where are the keys?” you ask Jesse. 

“Fuck no,” Adam interjects. “You are not driving.”

“Why not?” 

“You act like you’re a Formula 1 driver, and you’re reckless,” he lectures with that stupid crooked smile. “Remember when you almost killed me and Tess outside of Pittsburgh because you were driving with your knee so you could light your cigarette?” 

“Oh, fuck off—”

“‘M drivin’,” Joel cuts you off, rounding the front of the vehicle. Of course he is. “Take shotgun. I know you get carsick.” 

The only time you were ever in the backseat on a drive with Joel, you had to stick your head out of the window to puke. It was the first time you worked alone with Tess and Joel. In your mid-twenties and still new to smuggling, they only agreed to take you because Adam couldn’t go. So when you vomited on the job? Yeah, you were embarrassed to say the least. Joel scoffed, but Tess graciously swapped places with you, the front seat giving your churning stomach sweet solace. 

Though you’re endeared that he has offered you the front seat, you don’t thank him when you hop into the Bronco. The velour seats are in much nicer condition than you’d expect and there isn't a speck of dust on the dashboard. It’s like you’ve stepped back in time. With everyone in, Joel starts the engine and shoots Ellie a look through the rearview mirror.

“Seatbelt,” he commands, using that parental voice you find akin to cute. Ellie makes no moves to obey as she stares defiantly at the comic in her lap. The one you found on patrol. “Ellie, I’m not movin’ this car until you—”

“Jesus Christ, fine,” she gives in, buckling her seatbelt with the drama that only a teenager can muster. “Happy?”

Joel ignores her and you stifle a smile, covering your mouth with your hand. There’s a part of you that’s relieved that someone’s been giving Joel shit while you’ve been apart. As the drive begins, the men are going over the route and Ellie’s reading, but you’re elsewhere. Staring out the window, your mind wanders and you imagine a much younger Joel driving a little girl to school. Maybe Sarah’s teasing him about his taste in music or how he’s consistently five minutes late to her soccer games. Then, you think of Ellie and Joel on the road like this, bickering about directions in between rapid fire questions about the world before it ended. 

The conversation around you dies down yet you remain in this illusory space where Joel gets to be a dad again. It’s only when you see him shift in the periphery that you snap out of it. He’s reaching into the pocket of his jeans, his driving never wavering (yours definitely would have) as he fishes something out of the denim. It lands with a soft clack on the center console and your gaze darts between Joel and the object.

Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash on cassette.

It’s impossible to contain your smile—genuine, wide, and truly hitting your eyes. Joel catches this as he gives you a sideways glance. You think his lip twitches and you know it’s the closest you’ll get to a smile out of him, and that’s enough for you. Popping it into the tape deck, you pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. As “Rock Island Line” begins to play, you peer over at Joel and it’s like you’re in Lake George again, focusing on staying on the road as his hands are all over you. 

“You’re starin’,” Joel mumbles, just loud enough so only you can hear.

“And you’re a thief, cowboy.” 

This time, he actually smiles. It’s not a grin by any means, but it’s there for a moment, accentuating his crows feet. Joel shakes his head, wiping the smile off of his face like an Etch A Sketch. You turn your attention back to the road in front of you and try to quell the fluttering in your stomach. Try to extinguish the fire in your chest that creeps up your neck until your face feels blazing hot. It’s too much, all this feeling, so you turn up the music to drown it out. From the backseat, Ellie groans.

“This again?” Ellie complains. “You’ve listened to this like a million fucking times.” 

Joel turns up the music and keeps driving.

Though you're but a few miles out from your destination, you can’t  help yourself. Maybe the car ride is making you antsy or maybe you’re tired of hearing Adam explain Grand Theft Auto to Jesse and Ellie, but you need a cigarette. 

“Headshots from a car window are a lot easier in a game, though,” he says from the backseat, overly pleased with himself for taking out a Clicker from the back window. 

It’s easy to forget that the world stopped when Adam was a teenage boy until he starts talking about video games, music, or movies. Usually, you find it amusing, even sweet sometimes, but a switch flipped inside of you half an hour ago. Knowing that you soon might be in a life-or-death scenario, your brain began to prepare for survival mode. Digging in your pack, you take out a cigarette and light the end with a match. Hopefully, it’ll take the edge off.

“Do you mind?” Joel asks, taking his eyes off the road to glare at you. 

You exhale a cloud of smoke out of the window, and extend your hand out to Joel, the cigarette pinched between your index finger and your thumb. “Shit, how rude of me. You want a hit?”

Plucking your cigarette from your fingers, he tosses it out the window.

“Joel,” you all but whine. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

He grunts in response and pulls the car off to the side of the road, driving into an opening in the woods. The five of you grab your gear and walk towards the visitor center as quietly as possible. As you approach, unease lodges in your throat, but you don’t say anything. However, when you and Adam make eye contact, you know he’s feeling the same. The visitor center is much smaller than you expected and very, very close to the road. To be blunt: it’s a shit place to hide out. 

You all stop in your tracks. Jesse says what everyone is thinking. “Seriously?”

“If there’s anyone here, they’re dead or dumb,” you mumble. Ellie adds, “Or both.”

“Let’s just scope it out,” Joel says. “We stick together. No one goes off on their own.”

You furrow your brows and shake your head. “We’ll cover more ground if we break off.”

“How much ground is there to cover? This place is fucking tiny,” Ellie scoffs. 

“Exactly. We can be in and out.” 

“No. We’re not splittin’ up,” Joel reasserts. And that’s that.

Adam picks the lock with ease, only furthering your point that these “survivors” are morons, and you all enter cautiously with your weapons drawn. The reception center is a large, open area with glass windows taking up most of the wallspace. Surprisingly, only a few are smashed in, but they’ve been boarded up well. Behind the front desk, you spot three bedrolls, plates, and open boxes of ammo. At least Tommy was right about someone being here. Now, whether they’re going to be of any use to you? That’s still unknown. 

Ellie begins searching the drawers and cabinets quite thoroughly; Joel must’ve taught her well. The rest of you open closets and scan the bathrooms. Nothing. All clear. What’s left is a narrow hallway that you and Adam don’t hesitate to venture to on your own. Joel yells your name in a quiet whisper, but you carry on, beyond focused on what’s in front of you. As you approach a door at the end of the hallway, you notice trails of dark crimson on the floor. Blood that hasn’t fully dried yet. 

Glancing behind you, Adam mouths, I got you. Jesse, Ellie, and a grumpy Joel appear behind him. With a flat hand, you push the door open. There’s some resistance and a dull screech tells you that you’re moving something light across the floor. A chair, most likely. The door doesn’t budge all all the way, so you drop your pack to the ground, still hanging onto your 9mm, to shimmy through the crack. Once you’re in, you nearly slip on the puddle of blood that’s pooled around a limp body. A quick survey of the room tells you that you’re alone, although there’s a padlocked door across from you. You slide the chair over and swing the door open.

“Clear,” you say. With your foot, you motion to the slumped over corpse. “Except for that guy. I’m guessing that’s one of our survivors.”

Joel sighs, bending down to flip the body over, and when its—her—face is revealed, you think you’re going to puke. A woman, likely in her mid-fifties, with a bandana tied in her hair and a gnarly gash in her neck. Blink over and over again, you see Tess each time. It’s like a camera shutter that shows you the nightmare that you dread every time you fall asleep. Joel must be seeing the same thing because he holds his breath. The only thing that snaps the two of you out of it is a skittering in the vent. 

Rats, you repeat to yourself internally. Just rats.

“Okay, so where’s the thing that killed her?” Jesse asks. “Obviously she barricaded herself in here, but the outside was sealed.”

Adam cocks his head towards you as he hands your pack back. “You think it’s—”

“Probably not,” you dismiss him. Reaching down, you search her pockets until you find what you hope is the key to the padlock. “We haven’t seen one this far out.”

“What’re you talking about?” Jesse asks.

“They’re called Stalkers,” Adam explains. “Infected that are strategic. Smart. We ran into them in Pittsburgh, but haven’t seen any this far West.”

“Smart?” 

“Yeah, they hide and take cover. Wait for a good opportunity to flank you, usually.” 

“Joel, why haven’t we run into them?” Ellie asks.

Groaning as he stands, Joel straightens his back. “Heard rumors, but haven’t seen ‘em before.” 

“Wonderful,” Jesse deadpans. “Let’s just do our due diligence and get out of here.”

You nod in agreement and undo the padlock. Adam grabs the handle, nodding at you as he counts to three. When he opens the door, your pistol is face to face with a small hunting knife, shaking in the hands of a boy that’s not much younger than Ellie. He steps back, terror painted on his face, as he stares at the five of you. The boy is in rough shape, covered in grime and smeared blood, so everyone, except you, deems him a non-threat and they lower their weapons. You, however, hold your grip on your gun and take a step towards him. It’s only when Adam puts a forceful hand on your forearm that you drop it to your side. 

“You alone?” Adam asks, voice heavy with concern and sympathy. The boy nods slowly. “It’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you.” He looks at you. “Right?”

You sigh. “Right.”

The boy is still trembling while he puts the knife in the sheath attached to his belt. His bottom lip quivers when he speaks. “Just me now.”

Jesse and Adam take turns asking the boy—who introduces himself as Peter—questions while you, Joel, and Ellie snoop around. The office is empty, you find nothing in the drawers or cabinets, but Ellie does. Motioning you over, you give her a hand, helping her slide a desk out from the wall. The faded linoleum is lifting near the molding. She’s got a good eye. Joel has trained her well.

Ellie steps towards it and as she does, the floor gives out under her. It happens so fast that you don’t have time to think. Before you know it, you’re throwing yourself into the hole in the ground, landing with a hard thud. The drywall creates a cloud of dust around you, making you cough and shut your eyes. 

“Ellie!” Joel calls out from above. “Y’alright?” 

“Yup. Fucking peachy.”

Both you and Ellie pull yourselves up and brush debris from your jeans. The drop is at least twelve feet. Thirty-five isn’t old by any means, but in the apocalypse, as you continuously push your body to the extreme, you might as well be seventy-five. Your knees ache from the impact and your palms are scraped from attempting to catch yourself. Blood slowly gathers at the torn skin. 

“I’m fine,” you say with disdain. “Thanks for asking, Joel.”

Ignoring you, he asks, “You see a way back up?” 

“There’s no way back up. It only leads to the outside,” Peter cuts in. He’s on his knees, peering down at you. “It’s a maze, b-but I can get you out.”

Before anyone can object, Peter jumps down, landing clumsily on his ass. You close your eyes and let out a sharp exhale. The last thing you want is to be responsible for the lives of two teens while you’re stuck in some dark bunker. It’d be preferable to be alone, truly. Joel must be on the same page as you because he mumbles Jesus Christ before tossing you the shotgun that’s slung over his shoulder. Peter tells them to meet you all on the North side of the building. There are cellar doors that you’ll emerge from. Apparently.

“Hey,” Joel barks at you, “you better—”

“I know,” you reply. “Go.”

The three of them disappear and you click on the flashlight that’s secured to your pack, taking in the room. It’s just a cellar, nothing spectacular, but there are three doors next to each other. All in a row. It makes you uneasy. It reminds you of a game show. One of the doors will have a prize, living, and the other two? Well, the other two mean you’ve lost. Here’s to hoping that Peter picks the right door. 

“Left,” he says with confidence. Peter tries to stride ahead of you, but you catch him with an arm to the chest. “What?”

“I’m taking the lead. Ellie will cover the back,” you instruct, giving him the best strict look you can summon. It’s like you’re doing an impression of Joel. “You stay in the middle.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I got a feeling that you’re not very comfortable with that knife, and you’re our ticket out of here.” 

The boy turns his head to his feet and sandwiches himself between you and Ellie. From behind, Ellie whispers, “Sorry about her. She can be a bitch, but she’ll keep you safe.” 

Normally, this would piss you off and you’d find some snarky thing to say back, but hearing that Ellie’s confident in you strokes your ego. Even if the compliment is preceded by an insult. The truth is, though, you aren’t used to protecting others. When you were making your way across the country with Tess and Adam, you knew they could handle themselves. Sure, you looked out for each other, but there was an understanding that you’d be fine. 

Until one of you wasn’t. 

You can’t think about that right now, you tell yourself, because you have to move. There’s no point in being down here any longer than you need to be. Without needing instructions from you, Ellie opens the door on the left, allowing you to go in with your gun raised. She shuts the door behind you. Upon entering what looks like a kitchen, you don’t see any movement or hear any screeching. The relief you feel is fleeting, though, because you hear scurrying in the far left corner of the room. Of course it’s right by the only door. 

“Peter,” you say quietly, “what kind of infected were you hiding from?”

“Um, they were f-fast and hid from us, but they were upstairs. It should be empty down here.”

It’s not empty. Every hair on the back of your neck stands up. You know you’re being watched. The question is by how many? While you’d rather not find out, you know that isn’t an option. If the only way out is through, then you’ll have to figure it out. You can figure it out. 

“Okay, both of you get your backs against this wall,” you whisper, stepping to the side to press yourself against the cold concrete. “Listen to me, they’re going to try to get behind us, so we can’t let them. Ellie, you cover my back. I’ll cover yours.” 

Ellie nods. “Can they see and hear?”

“Yes,” you confirm, “so we’re going to want to move fast but aggressively.” 

“Got it.” 

As if to reiterate your point, a raspy croak echoes from the vent to your right. The fucking vents. A humanlike moan responds to the croak from across the room. There’s at least two of them, and two of you. Well, three, but two of you that you know are capable of wielding a weapon. Ellie has fire in her eyes and a steel grip on her pistol. Some of that must have always been there, but some of it is Joel. You’re sure of it.

“I’m going to draw them out.” You gingerly lift a bottle that’s sitting on the counter. “Get ready to shoot.” 

You toss the bottle into the middle of the room and it lands with a loud crack. The two Stalkers emerge on all fours, flashing their fungal crowns and snarling teeth. You take out the one closest to you with a shot to the chest. Ellie hits the other once in the neck and then again in the head. Falling to the ground, laying among the amber glass, they gurgle and twitch before going still. You put up a hand, signaling to Peter and Ellie to wait. When you’re met with only silence, you lower your weapon.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Ellie whispers. 

“Don’t speak too soon,” you warn with a sigh. “They travel in groups. Peter, how many more rooms until we’re outta here?”

“Uh,” he stutters, “I think three more.”

“You think?” Ellie glares at him. 

“I-I don’t know exactly, but not more than four.” 

Swearing under your breath, you nod and walk quietly, but hastily, forward, careful not to step on any glass. Ellie walks with her back to you, watching from behind like you told her to. Honestly, you’re shocked that she’s this cooperative. You figured she would be more rebellious. Maybe she trusts you because Joel does. Does Joel trust you? It doesn’t matter. Hopefully he will after you get Ellie out of this labyrinth alive. 

Pausing to stare at the mangled bodies, you can hear Ellie wince when she speaks. “Nasty looking fucker.”

“Aw, c’mon,” you lilt, “don’t say that about yourself.”

“Ha-ha, so funny,” she deadpans. 

Just like before, Ellie opens the door for you, but this time you’re not met with another room. Instead, you enter a long, twisty hallway. Every few feet, there’s a door and each looks identical. You’re about to ask which one when the door behind you slams shut. Much to your chagrin, you jump and hope Ellie doesn’t notice. Once again, you don’t get the chance to speak because you’re distracted by clattering in the vents. 

“Which—”

“Circular knob on the left,” Peter cuts you off. “No lock.”

“Okay.” You take a deep breath. “When I count to three, we run. I don’t want to try to fight any of them in a hallway this narrow. Ellie—”

“Watch the back. I know.”

If you could risk letting your diligence slip, you would’ve shot her a dirty look. Sometimes, when she gets snarky with you, you feel like you’re looking in a mirror. A cracked or distorted mirror, sure, but a mirror nonetheless. Moving with surprising synchronicity, you feel it now more than ever. 

Fingers up, you start counting. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

The clunky gear on your back swishes and sways much louder than expected. That, combined with heavy boots, draws a Stalker out of its hiding spot in the vent. You don’t notice it until Ellie is lodging her knife into its throat with a practiced ease. Luckily, others don’t emerge and you’re able to slip into the next room safely. Catching your breath, you look Peter and Ellie up and down. Ellie, wiping the blood onto her jeans, just gives you a nod which you return. 

This room has no vents, no furniture, nothing. Just blank walls and one blood-stained door, held shut by a long board and a chain that binds the handles together. To put it simply, it looks like something out of a horror movie. It might as well have DO NOT ENTER written on it. At least you have a second to pause, breathe, and collect yourself. 

“Two more rooms after this, then we’ll get to the stairs out.” Peter’s brows pull together, concern so prominent that they nearly touch. “But that room—”

“Is going to be a shit show?” Ellie scoffs. “Yeah, kinda figured by the boards and chains on the door.”

Dropping to one knee, you retrieve the bolt cutters from your pack and strip the door of its confinements. Ready to get it over with, you rip the door open. Much to your dismay, you were right. A horror movie. It’s not possible to count all of them, not with how fast they’re moving, but there are at least six Stalkers. And, by the rustling in the vents, a few more circling above. You had a healthy amount of nerves going into this situation, but now? Truthfully, you’re panicking, though it doesn’t show on your face. Putting your back to the wall, Ellie and Peter follow suit. 

“Ellie, I’m going to have you go first,” you whisper, “and Peter, stay in the middle. I’ll cover you guys.” 

“I’m just booking it?” Ellie, for the first time, looks at you with doubt. “That’s your plan?” 

“I don’t have a fucking plan,” you snap. “There are too many of them.”

Without thinking about you, you had turned your entire body towards Ellie while speaking. Back exposed, you’re now the perfect target. Dropping from the ceiling onto all fours, a Stalker runs at you, but its snarling is its downfall. You have enough time after hearing it to swivel around and place a bullet between its bloodshot eyes. After that, the floodgates open. Like a firing squad, you and Ellie take out seven Stalkers while Peter stands behind you, wide eyed and, frankly, useless. 

When a few of the Stalkers retreat to the vents, you give Ellie a single look and she’s running ahead to the fork in the room. Peter directs her to the right and she flies through the door. You’re almost there, pushing Peter by the back to keep going, when one of them tears the sleeve of your shirt clean off. It pins you against the wall and you hold it back with your forearm against its chest, bits of fungus crumbling from your touch. 

If you let go, you know it’ll rip your throat out, so you try wedge your leg between you and the Stalker. It’s proving to be more difficult than expected, and your foot slips. Slamming your head against the wall when it snaps at your neck, you think this is it. This is how you go out. One fucking infected will be your demise, after everything you’ve been through. That’s fine, you suppose. Closing your eyes, you’re ready to accept your fate when a screech and the cold of blood covers your arm, pulling you out of it. Peter, looking shellshocked, removes his knife from the neck of the Stalker. Before you think to thank him, or even register that he saved your life, more infected come barreling towards you. 

Before you can be captured again, you and Peter make it into the next room to find Ellie crouched behind a table that’s fallen over. She raises a finger to her lips and points across the room. Right near the door, there are two Clickers, feeding on some animal that’s unrecognizable. They must have been too busy with their meal to hear the door slam. Bending down next to her, you raise an eyebrow. The two of you could probably sneak around the Clickers and take them out. That is until you hear two Stalkers whimpering and whining from above. To add fuel to the fire, the infected you left in the last room are now banging on the door, the weak barrier between you and them. 

Peter, like the child he is, begins to tremble even more than he was. This time, though, it’s a danger. His knife slips from his hand and it’s the floor. You instinctively reach for Ellie, dragging her up as you sprint in the opposite direction as the Clickers who are now coming at you like angry bulls. You get one in the head with your shotgun while Ellie aims for the other, only hitting its arm. Peter, now well behind you, scrambles to get off the ground, only drawing more attention to himself. Whipping your head around, you see his frail body caught between the concrete floor and a Stalker. You raise your gun, hoping you can make a clear shot with all of the movement, when the door behind Peter gives in. Two Clickers, three Stalkers, and everything else that’s in the room with you? Not great odds at all. Then, you hear the rumbling. You’d rather not stick around to confirm whether or not it’s what you think it is. 

Eyes darting between Peter and Ellie, you grip her wrist to drag her forward towards the door, but she fights you on it. Peter begins to scream—wail—and you tune it out. It’s easy, as much as you hate to admit it, to ignore his pleas.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ellie sprays you with spit as she yells in your face. “We can’t leave him!”

“We gotta go!”

Aiming over Ellie’s shoulder, you take out a Stalker that dropped from one of the vents. She continues to fight you while you shove her towards the door, but you successfully get her through the threshold, pushing her hard enough that she stumbles back on her feet. You slam the door shut and push a desk in front of it. Scanning the room, you only find broken furniture and, thankfully, no fucking vents. 

“What is fucking wrong with you? We-we could’ve saved him!” 

“Maybe,” you say between pants, back against the wall with your hands on your knees, “or you would’ve gotten bit, then I’d have to answer to Joel and I’d rather not.” 

“Oh, right,” Ellie lets out a dry laugh and takes a step forward. She cocks her head and stares at you. It sends a chill down your spine, that look in her eyes, but you remain composed. “You seem to really give a shit about what Joel thinks about you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“That’s why you’re here, right? You came to find Joel? He must have really meant a lot to you for you to go across the country looking for him.” 

“I’m going to give you one chance to stop talking—”

“Or what?” Ellie, now inches from your face, lowers her voice. “Are you gonna leave me down here to die, too?”

“Maybe I should,” you say, parroting her tone back to her. Your anger tries to dampen your embarrassment, but to no avail. It has been that obvious, hasn’t it? Everyone knows, you think. They can tell just by looking at you. “I don’t even know why I jumped down—”

The infected must have finished with Peter because the door pulses with pounding and snarling. Frantically, since you somehow managed to forget the situation you’re in, you search for an exit. There are three doors to choose from and you’re acutely aware that opening the wrong one might seal your fate, but there isn’t any other way to know. You’ve just got to pick one and hope for the best.

Ellie is a step ahead of you and is already prying at the doors with little caution. After fiddling with the handle, she finds a concrete wall. She moves onto the next, and you sprint to the other. Pistol in hand, you part the door slowly and, thankfully, it gives you enough time to register the three Clickers that stir at the sound. You’re shutting it as Ellie calls you over to the other door. Just in time, too, because the desk is futile in holding back the infected who are falling over each other to get to you. Pushing Ellie through the open door, you narrowly avoid a bite from a Clicker, just enduring a scratch that burns enough to know that it broke skin. You slam it shut, and start to sprint up the stairs to the basement hatch that you were promised. 

When you’re a few steps from the top, Jesse rips the cellar doors open. The daylight is harsh yet welcoming and your lungs are grateful for the break from the stale, wet air that suffocated you underground. Ellie breaks the threshold and Joel grabs her by the shoulders, asking if she’s okay while inspecting her for any injuries. Not a scratch on her. You’re welcome, you think. Adam does the same to you, pawing at the gash on your arm, and his face floods with relief when he realizes it’s not a bite.

“Stalkers,” you answer Adam’s unspoken question between pants. “And Clickers. Maybe a Bloater, too. Couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to find out.”

“And the kid?” Adam sounds stupidly hopeful. You shake your head, maintaining a straight, blank face. “Okay,” he sighs, “we should get back to the car.” 

“Agreed,” Jesse chimes in. 

As you’re turning the corner towards the direction of the car, the door to the basement splits and God only knows how many infected begin trailing you. Running now, you’re cut off from Jesse, Ellie, and Adam, a Stalker breaking through the glass of the building. You stop hard, Joel running into the back of you, and Adam spins on his heels, decapitating the infected with a machete. 

“Now you’re just showing off,” you tease, continuing ahead. “Where did you even find that?”

“Found it by—” 

Jesse cuts him off, yelling, “Turn around!”

In front of you, multiple Clickers screech and behind you is just the same. Completely surrounded. The five of you hit the infected closest to you, but you’re massively outnumbered. There is not a chance of shooting your way out of here, so you decide to book it, whistling at Adam to follow you. The others must have caught on because they follow you into the treeline. Maybe you can lose them in the forest. 

Joel, the slowest of the bunch in his old age, is practically jogging backwards and taking out infected as you go. All of you make a few shots here and there, but you continue on. In the rush, it all blends together. The trees become one blurry mass until they part and you’re met with sparkling blue. Earthquake Lake looks like a safe haven right now, especially with a boat waiting for you at the dock.

Infected don’t take swimming lessons, you hear your father say. Get on that boat.

No one questions you when you sprint onto the dock or jump into the boat. Even if they did, you wouldn’t have heard them. You’re entirely tuned in to your instincts or, rather, the sound of your father’s voice in your head. Completing each step of preparing to start the boat with ease, there’s a sense of certainty that hits you like a tidal wave that you haven’t felt in ages. 

Ellie, who is a little less skilled than the others with a gun, becomes your right hand. She undoes the rope when you ask, flips the battery switch, and turns the key after you prep the motor. Despite the choice words exchanged earlier, you do work pretty well together. Finally, you start to move.

“Hey,” Joel calls to you, “can you hurry it up? Runnin’ low on ammo here.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?” Jesse asks through grit teeth, still shooting as the infected grab at the side of the boat.

“Bow rise, fuel consumption, stalling the engine—”

“Alright, alright,” he says, “I get it.”

Eventually, you’re out of the woods—literarlly—and the infected get smaller and smaller as you go South. Once you’re far enough away, you shut off the boat. The current and wind should push you in the right direction, and you didn’t properly check how much fuel the boat has. It’s what Dad would do, you repeat to yourself, hoping that at some point you’ll magically feel more confident in your decisions. 

As the engine settles, everyone seems to be able to take a deep breath and silence engulfs the five of you. Though you appear inscrutable, inside you’re buzzing with adrenaline. Joel, on the other hand, seems exhausted as he sits down across from the captain’s chair that you’re standing in front of. It’s still enough that you can hear the crack of his knees and a groan that he softly exhales. He’s never looked older, you think. You would ask if he’s doing runs or patrols like this often, if he’s doing okay, but you know it’ll come off as condescending despite your intentions. 

Instead, you say, “We’ll let the current take us a little farther South and hopefully there’s somewhere we can dock.”

“And if there’s not a dock?” Jesse asks. 

“I’ll look for a landing, then. I’m not really worried about damaging this piece of shit.”

And what a total piece of shit it is. Now that you’re able to get a better look at it, you’re surprised it even turned on. If you had to guess, it hasn’t been taken out in a while. There are cobwebs on the dash, the seats have been worn by exposure, and the stench of mildew is overpowering. A heaviness is draped along your shoulders as you take it in. There was a time that it wasn’t always like this. A pair of water skis is stored off to the side. You can picture them in Christmas wrapping paper, excited hands tearing it apart. Maybe the new owners waited and waited, counting down the days until the boat was back in the water. At some point, this was probably someone’s prized possession. 

Now, it’s just the piece of shit that saved your life.  

Jesse points at the map, leaning over the seat so you can see. “Looks like there’s a dam not too far down.”

“Okay,” you sigh, “Adam, can you keep an eye out on the shoreline for anywhere we can beach this?” 

Adam, your first mate, takes position with a rusty pair of binoculars. “Aye, aye, captain.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say with a short, dry laugh. 

“I don’t even know how you can laugh right now,” Ellie scoffs. “You left someone to die and you’re laughing.”

Before you can control it, you roll your eyes and lean against the dashboard. “Didn’t we already go over this? It was us or him.”

“You didn’t think twice, didn’t hesitate to leave him.” 

“Hesitation gets you killed,” you reply flatly.

“Hey, I think we’re all a little on edge,” Jesse cuts in, attempting to be the peacemaker. “Maybe we can all talk about this once we’re home.”

“Agreed,” Joel grumbles. “Best if we—”

Ellie continues, as if Joel and Jesse aren’t there at all, and snaps, “We could’ve tried to save him.”

“A…friend of ours used to say, ‘You save who you can save.’ Right, Joel?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

Joel shifts his jaw and nods. “That’s right.”

Pushing off the dashboard with your palms, you take a step forward towards her. “And I chose to save you, so maybe you should be thanking me.”

“Yeah, right. Like you actually give a shit about me—”

“Enough!” Joel snaps. “Quit it. Both of you.”

Face burning hot, you nod and stab the inside of your cheek with your tongue. You have to admit, she’s right. There wasn’t a moment of deliberation or consideration; you just acted. Would you always have made that choice? Maybe, but maybe not. Five years ago, it certainly would’ve been harder to decide. It’s a different story now. Not a single part of you regrets choosing Ellie’s life, or yours, over a stranger’s.

The stares on you are heavy and, right now, it feels intolerable to have critical eyes on you, so you look for a distraction. Taking into consideration that gas breaks down over time, it’s probably best to search the boat for extra fuel. Footsteps, Joel’s by the sound of it, follow you as you walk down the two steps to the cabin. The doors don’t budge when you push on them lightly. Someone must have either blocked the entrance from the inside or tried to tie them together. Using your shoulder, you slam them open.

The stench burns your nostrils and you stifle a cough with your forearm, undoubtedly smearing some of your own blood on your face. When your eyes adjust to the dark of the cabin, your vision blurs and the familiar ringing accosts your ears. Surely, you’re not seeing what you think you are. The edge of your father’s jaw has been blown to pieces. There’s a bit hanging on, like a door coming off its hinges. The arm that isn’t loosely draped over a tarnished Smith and Wesson is draped around you. On your shirt, the one with scattered stars that Susan found in an old townhouse, has been dyed with burgundy blotches that resemble holes. 

It’s not him and it’s not you, but might as well be. Maybe this is how it should have ended. 

The sight, the smell—it becomes unbearable. You spin around on your heels, shoving past Joel like someone’s on your tail, and throw yourself over the side of the boat. There’s not much in your stomach, so it doesn’t take long to gag your way to emptiness. Trying to catch your breath, you heave with such force that the water gets closer and then farther away. Closer and farther, closer and farther. It would be so easy to fall forward and let the water swallow you. You could float gently to the bottom like your father, held by the bottom of a river. Different rivers, but it’s all the same when you’re dead. 

Draped over the boat, your body crumples until a pair of arms yank you back. Clawing at Adam and thrashing like you’re a trapped animal, your hyperventilating only gets worse. Each inhale doesn’t reach far enough into your lungs to crush your panic. The restraint that you know is meant to be comforting is suffocating like you’re in a machine press, moments away from the pressure turning you into dust. 

“Hey, hey.” It’s muffled—the voice—so maybe you are underwater after all. Then, low and clear, he says, “S’okay, baby. You’re okay. ‘M here.” With his chin resting on your shoulder, Joel shushes you and holds you even tighter. “Jus’ breathe. Breathe for me.” 

Closing your eyes to block out the world around you, you focus on Joel’s breathing and do your best to match it. Eventually, cradled in his arms, your chest rises and falls evenly. 

Shuddering, you whisper, “It’s just…they were—”

“I know.”

That’s all he needed to say to confirm it: Joel saw himself and he saw Sarah. The twin wounds that mar your hearts fuse you together. Joel’s hand eclipses yours, giving it a squeeze, and you’re about to let yourself melt further into his touch when you remember you’re not alone on the boat. Wiggling in his grip, he lets you go and you turn to face him. 

Behind Joel, Adam and Jesse have redirected their attention elsewhere as if to give you a moment of privacy. Ellie, however, stares directly at the two of you, her expression entirely unreadable. Something catches her eye, though. Ellie looks beyond you and points. 

There it is. Somewhere to land.

The failed mission took more out of you than you expected. Your time in Jackson has changed you. Being a survivor is ingrained in you now, but the time off from being barraged by adrenaline, when you thought you’d always be in fight or flight mode, has tempered you. Getting through the day feels like a chore, like you’re trudging through each hour. Time is thick like molasses. You spend more time trying to pull your feet out of it more than anything, and you find yourself fatigued by the time you come home. 

Yet each night, sleep slips through your fingers most nights even though Adam is there. Adam who you suspect has been avoiding you. Keeping himself busy with extra patrol shifts or horseback riding lessons with Walker, you don’t see him most days. He slips into bed late at night, much too late for it to be considered appropriate to confront him, and, if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t want to. Most nights, you find yourself pretending to be asleep by the time he comes in. It’s easier to be in the dark, to remain skeptical, to give yourself reasonable doubt. If he confirms your fears, you have to face him. 

You can barely face yourself lately.

Adam’s been avoiding you, you’re avoiding you, and you’re avoiding everyone else. It’s been two weeks or so and you can’t bring yourself to look at Joel or Jesse, but especially not Ellie. You’ve figured out their routines for the most part, so you make sure you’re not in the dining hall at the wrong time and you keep your head down on the streets. It’s been easier than you initially thought. Maybe they’re avoiding you, too.

Tonight is like most nights except you know Adam won’t be coming home. Earlier in the week, Adam told you in passing that he and Walker would be going on an overnight patrol. While a feeling of dread struck you like lightning, you maintained a cool composure. You were worried for his safety, of course, but you were also worried about spending the night alone for the first time in what feels like forever. So, you decided to sneak into the clinic and snag whatever pills you thought would knock you on your ass. It was easier than you anticipated and you considered telling Tommy that the honor code that he’s trusting the good people of Jackson leaves a lot of room for thievery. 

The pills work much faster than anticipated. Within thirty minutes or so, you’re out cold. Who knows how long you’ve been asleep before it starts. The incessant, haunting echoes invade your subconscious with a vengeance.

In your right ear, you hear Tess. You had the chance to do something different. 

But you didn’t. In your left ear, Peter’s voice, juvenile as it cracks. 

The two of them, forming a sick cacophony of cries. You didn’t help me.

With each flash of light, you see them. Tess in anguish and defeat as you grab at her hand pathetically. Peter’s skin tearing with each slash of the Stalker’s boney fingers. The worst part? When they stop talking, when all you hear are screams and pleas. 

You wake with a gasp, sweat beading on your lower back as you pant. Blinking rapidly, you beg your eyes to adapt to the midnight black of the room. Once you can make out the dresser, the one you share with Adam, their presence vanishes. Just like ghosts. The empty side of the bed serves as a reminder that there’s no one here with you to check under the bed or in the closet. The apparitions can return—they will return. And you? You’ll be alone.

It’s a blur. Getting dressed, leaving your apartment, taking turns you didn’t even realize you had memorized. It’s surreal until you’re standing on the porch and your knuckles rap on the door on the front door. Once, then twice. You’re about to knock a third time when you hear shuffling inside. The lock clicks, the knob turns.

“Beck?”

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