#wordywarriorwrites

“Should we get going?” he asked. “Before he turns into a monster?”

Maria nodded and patted her husband’s arm, her smile soft as she gathered their belongings. After they bundled up and said their farewells, the trio headed out into the night cold, where fat snowflakes whirled and spiraled to join the blanket that already covered the ground. Joel stood watch on the porch, eyes on their retreating forms, and a few moments later, you, Ellie, and Charlotte joined him.

“We’re headed out, too,” Ellie said as she zipped up her coat.

Joel put his hands on his hips, “Alright, remind me of the plan again?”

“Party at the hall,” Charlotte piped up as she tugged on her mittens. “Then, back to my parents.”

Ellie tugged on her hat, “I’ll be staying over.”

“They’ll be back in the morning for breakfast,” you added. “And we’ll all go together to the town’s Christmas dinner tomorrow night.”

A gust of wind blew through the trees, and on the heels of it, Joel received another unexpected Christmas gift from Ellie. The first had been a set of delicately crafted wooden guitar picks; the second came in the form of a hug. Not an abrupt squeeze, but a genuine embrace, and on instinct, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Have fun, baby girl,” he managed to say around the lump in his throat.

“I’ll try,” she deadpanned.

Mitten hands joined. A chorus of be safe and see you tomorrow. Then, Charlotte and Ellie teetered together down the slippery porch steps, snow crunching beneath their boots as they carefully made their way along. This time, you stood by his side as he kept an eye on the girls, your arms wrapped around his waist and head tucked against his shoulder.

“Not a bad way to spend our anniversary,” you remarked quietly.

Joel nodded and squeezed your hip, “Not bad at all.”

Toddler-sized snow angels, now buried beneath fresh snowfall. A large snowman just a few feet away – built by Tommy and Maria. The tree inside – situated in the corner, decorated by Charlotte and Ellie, with the paper rings and ornaments that you’d painstakingly made yourself. Cards from friends and coworkers lined up on the mantlepiece of the fireplace that warmed the house and prompted steam to join up with frost on the windows.

Back inside the house, you went to the kitchen, and Joel turned his attention to reviving the fire. You returned with two servings of whisky and settled into what had become your place on the couch. Once the flames had been sufficiently stoked, he joined you, snuggled close with an arm around your shoulder and a blanket draped over both your laps.

Drinks sipped. Time alone savored. Conversation about mundane things, like dishes and laundry and leftovers. Ellie and Charlotte and how inseparable they’d become. Work and New Years. How big the baby had gotten. Joel needed a new pair of jeans. Maybe some boots, too. You were out of the bath soap you liked. Would there be enough bread and eggs for everyone tomorrow?

“Tired?” Joel murmured.

“No,” you replied.

“Want to go to bed anyway?”

“With you? Always.”

Glasses set aside, the two of you headed upstairs, the nightly routine somewhat altered by a shared shower that left you smelling like him from earlobes to toes. Veins buzzing with booze and desire, Joel trailed your towel-clad form into the bedroom. His eyes hungrily followed the trail of water droplets that cascaded down the nape of your neck, and he’d just set about chasing them with the tip of his tongue when he spotted a sprig of mistletoe on his pillow.

“Where’d you find this?” he asked as he carefully retrieved it.

You simply shrugged, as if it was a mystery, perhaps even a Christmas miracle. All glittery eyes and smiling bright, you plucked the mistletoe from his hand and held it above your head.

“Guess you better kiss me, Joel Miller.”

“Be bad luck if I didn’t.”

You jutted your chin, “Yes, it would.”

Mouth offered up, lips and tongue eager to meet. Warm, naked skin on soft, clean sheets, smoothed out over a bed that had somehow become more comfortable now that it was yours and his together. Your nimble fingers tangled in his still damp hair – kept longer now at your insistence. The taste of you in his mouth – drawn in, soft and slow, until your hitched breaths gave way to soft cries.

The consonants and vowels of his name gasped, stretched, elongated, in the wake of your orgasm. One that he prolongs, driven by his own, base need to ensure your satisfaction, to hear and see you come apart for him again, to bask in the light of your pleasure. When you call out to him, beckon him, he answers without hesitation.

“Been thinking about this all day,” you exhaled.

Joel smirked and nuzzled his nose against yours, “Sorry to have kept you waitin’.”

“No, you’re not,” you giggled as you nipped at his chin. “You knew what you were doing this morning. Teasing me like that.”

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he rumbled playfully.

Your lower lip, stuck out in a mock-pout, urges him on. As soon as he kisses you, you draw him into your arms, and secure your knees against his ribs. Mouths fused, ankles pressed into his lower back, you take him into you – hips tilted up with unbridled want that will no longer be delayed or denied. Fingertips dug into the plush flesh of your thighs, canines sunk into his lower lip, Joel tries to anchor himself, but it’s damn near impossible.

Eyes focused on your fluttering lashes and parted lips. Bodies pressed tight together. Joel sets a careful pace; a slow surge-and-retreat that he’s come to learn works best. It makes him last longer, and the effort it takes to get you off is worth it – especially because it leaves you a trembling, satiated, resplendent mess afterward. His back and his knees have never thanked him for it, but when he’s deep inside you like this, when he can feel you coming, when you make it so easy, every day, to fall in love with you even more…

“Needed this,” you exhaled, breath hitched and thighs trembling, teeth sunk into his shoulder as you squeezed, squeezed, squeezed all around him. “Needed you.”

A statement of fact – not a confession. Because there are no secrets between the two of you, not any longer. And you don’t have to say it, but you do anyway, because you know Joel never tires of hearing it. That confirmation of your desire, your wish to have him near, to be with him, to share your time and life with him – he reciprocates, feels the same, expressing it often – more with action than words, but still.

Cock burrowed deep and thrusts steady no longer because you’ve come around him, and it’s impossible not to follow you down – hips flushed tight against the cradle of you, groan released against the hallow of your throat, nonsensical things, soft, tender things, all mumbled against the shell of your ear, the hairs along your brow, the slope of your nose…

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Joel whispered.

You cupped his cheek and smiled up at him, “Merry Christmas, Joel.”

The other table, situated beneath a large, overly blurred poster of a coffee bean, had been taken up by a middle-aged woman with a cellphone that she was manically glued to. He'd gotten a brief glimpse of the screen and knew the lady’s poison was online slots. Addicts were everywhere, even in small towns, and her wild eyes indicated that she had zero intention of leaving the only place other than the library that offered free Wi-Fi.

“That’s Veronica,” she whispered gently. “She’s… Well, she’s struggling.”

Between the choice of sitting with him or the twitchy gambler, this woman seemed to find him the lesser of two evils. Dave wasn’t flattered or insulted by it. He could’ve left – just vacated his seat, taken his overpriced java and too-dry hunk of banana bread, and walked right out the door. He could’ve gotten back into his shitty car and kept on down the road, but he didn’t.

Instead, he looked up at her, and when he met her eyes, he realized the mistake in his assessment. She wouldn’t slit his throat – that much he was confident about – but she was trouble of a different kind, and something about her made a synapse fire in his brain. Dave hadn’t meant to nod because even the most innocuous things, like sharing a table with a stranger, could cause problems.

But then, she smiled, and that was that.

A nondescript Toyota, with a false VIN and fake plates – that was Dave’s home and mode of transportation. A flat tire should’ve been relatively easy to deal with, but he couldn’t get the damn thing off with the tools he had on hand. Being trapped had thrown him into an even higher plane of hypervigilance, and though several people had slowed down and offered to help him, he’d either ignored or refused them.

Then, she arrived.

Her vehicle – a dark green truck with an open bed and flashing hazard lights – slowed to a stop right next to his. There hadn’t been a polite offer for Dave to refuse or disregard because she hadn’t bothered with one. She simply climbed down from her truck, snagged her toolbox from the back, and joined him on the side of the road.

“Well,” she sighed as she rolled up the sleeves of her maroon-colored hoodie and crouched beside him. “Looks like you’ve damaged your nuts.”

In the past, he would have laughed and maybe even engaged in some light banter. But this wasn’t the past, and he wasn’t amused.

The silence that followed was broken only by an occasional car passing by. Her bolt extractor and hammer, his brute strength and stubbornness – a winning combination that saw the flat removed and the equally pitiful spare put into place.

She stood tall and wiped her hands on her dark blue jeans, “You’re going bald.”

Dave grunted and packed up the toolbox. The flat went into the trunk, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her gesture with a pointed toe encased in a leather loafer toward his back passenger tire. It should’ve been replaced thousands of miles ago, but he kept that to himself. He kept all his thoughts to himself and slammed the trunk shut.

If she thought him rude, she didn’t show it; she just recommended a shop a couple of blocks over that would give him a fair price on a set if he was interested.

He quirked a brow.

She retrieved her toolbox, waved, and took off without a backward glance.

Dave no longer had the pretty face he once had, nor did he have access to CIA-level tech, but he still could learn things about people when he put his mind to it.

He found out her name. Discovered she was the town’s resident bookkeeper, and she worked from home. Was informed that she preferred appointments, but also took walk-ins, and her standard order at the café was a triple-shot espresso.

And chestnut brown, Dave decided, was the color of her hair.

A small, one-story brick house on the end of Corduroy Lane, with an antique-looking business sign in the front yard that listed her services and credentials. A solitary concrete step that led up to a stoop too small to be classified as a porch. A bright red door. A brass claddagh knocker.

The last notes of the bell had just faded when she answered, dressed in black slacks and a pale green button down, face fixed into a professional expression. A practiced exterior that faded quickly, followed by a pleasant greeting and a smile – neither of which he returned. Instead, he held the coffee he’d purchased for her aloft and gestured for her to take it.  

She accepted it with a small nod, and as she sipped, Dave thought what an easy target she’d make.

A single woman who worked alone and most likely lived alone. The kind of woman who invited strangers into her home, trusting they wouldn’t hurt her as she poured over their financials and unwittingly learned all their dirty, little secrets. The type of woman who sat at tables with men she didn’t know, who stopped and helped them change flat tires and accepted coffee from them. A woman ignorant to the danger that could reach out and grab her at any time… 

“Do you like pizza?” she wondered.

Dave blinked. Nodded.

“Fiona’s - the bar around the corner - makes a good pie.”

That smile of hers appeared again. A car door slammed shut.

“Sorry to cut this short, but my next appointment is here,” she announced, eyes momentarily pulled to the delicate timepiece on her right wrist before returning to him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Dave may have shrugged. He might not have. All he knew as he headed back down the sidewalk toward his car with its’ four brand-new tires that had depleted nearly all his savings was that she needed a better deadbolt for her front door.

By the time Dave arrived at the bar, she was already two slices into an extra-large meat lovers, and the pint of beer she’d ordered was half-empty.  

A high back stool with legs that wobbled like a newborn foal. Tomato sauce and oregano and maraschino cherries. A stereo that blasted Guns and Roses fought for dominance with a flat screen that had been turned on to the ballgame. A neon Coors Light sign. A sticky floor that made his boots squeak with every step.

“Beer?” she offered.

He nodded, and a few moments later, the bartender slid him a pint of whatever was on draft with an acceptably foamy head. While he settled in, she grabbed a handful of napkins from the pile by her elbow and dropped several slices onto a paper plate.

“Place is a shithole,” she declared as she placed the napkins and plate in front of him.  “But the beer is cold, and the pizza is good.”

Five pieces later, Dave agreed, and her unassuming presence, combined with nobody else joining them at the bar, helped keep his shoulders from crawling up into his earlobes. It was a lot for him – the noise, the smells, the people, the terrible lighting, but seated next to her…

“Diner up the street has fish fry on Fridays,” she voiced. She dipped her crust in a little plastic cup of ranch and shrugged as she brought it to her mouth. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Dave sat back. Ran a napkin over his mouth. Her profile was soft. Her ears were pierced, but unadorned, and she had a freckle about an inch from her lateral canthus. The high-waisted bellbottoms and buttercup yellow sweater made her look warm. Approachable.

As she chewed, he tried to find something – anything, really – to explain why the hell a good-looking woman like her would bother to give a man like him the time of day. He’d been trained to sniff out subterfuge and knew exactly what pity looked and sounded like, but he could sense none of that.

He finished his beer. The bartender refilled it.

“Fridays?” Dave muttered.

“Fridays,” she replied.   

He nodded. She saluted him with her own refilled glass.

Dave met up with her at the diner on Friday.

Stupid, really, to allow himself to become entangled with her. A risk, too, because of her standing in the town and his unfortunate-looking face. People liked her. Knew her by name. The waitress who brought the menus and silverware covered in water spots eyeballed him hard, and Dave should’ve cared about that, but he hadn’t given a damn.

Because he was uncharacteristically horny. And suddenly starved for attention. Her attention. 

Pathetic.  

“I’ve never broken a bone,” she stated absentmindedly.   

The booth across from them was crammed with high school kids in nearly identical letterman jackets. One boy, maybe sixteen, was seated on the outside, leg outstretched to accommodate a rather large, neon-pink cast. The large “C” on his chest indicated he was the boss of the bunch, and the way the others sucked up to him confirmed it.

Dave had already clocked the rowdy group and the crutches against the wall when he walked in, but still, he followed her gaze until it returned to him. She popped a fry into her mouth and chewed politely while she seemed to consider him.

“Have you?” she eventually wondered as she reached for her drink.

The ice rattled as the straw passed her lips, and the thought of her mouth and all its unknown capabilities burned through him like a shot. Dave imagined how sweet her cola-coated tongue would taste. How nice it would feel wrapped around his cock. He wondered if she’d swallow.

Embarrassed and ashamed, he cleared his throat and looked away. The waitress chose that moment to return and glare at him some more, which he inwardly admitted he deserved. Outwardly, he ignored her. Refills, extra napkins, and more tartar sauce – the topics covered gave him time to compose himself, and when they were alone again, she prodded once more.

“Several,” Dave finally answered.

“Bad accident?”

“Pushed off a cliff.”

She paused mid-squeeze on a lemon wedge, but her eyes never wavered. Even when the waitress came back with their requested items, she didn’t look away. Even when the bell above the door chimed and announced the arrival of more customers, her stare remained focused.

Two toddlers in the booth behind him had been jumping up and down and singing the same refrain of Wheels on the Bus for a solid fifteen minutes. The couple seated behind her had been arguing over everything from the cable bill to the acceptable amount of pepper one should put on mashed potatoes. Someone dropped a plate, and the sound of shattered ceramic momentarily sucked all the noise and levity from the room.

Still, she hadn’t flinched.

Dave had told so many lies about his scars that it had become impossible to remember them all. Even the doctors and nurses who’d saved his life never learned the full details of what happened. She was the only person he’d ever told the truth to, and the unintended admission had somehow made the burden he carried feel less heavy – like simply telling her, even without the gory details, had halved the weight somehow.

Chaos resumed quickly, but the tension remained and stifled the little conversation they’d been having. Eventually, she transferred her purse to her lap and outed two twenties. Crisp, clean, and not at all like the bills he had wadded up in his pocket, she placed them next to her plate and polished off her soda.

The strap of her bag was thin, with a shiny silver buckle, and it slipped over the round of her shoulder without any fuss. When she scooted out of the booth, Dave followed suit, and the narrow, cramped space of the aisle put him in the closest proximity he’d been to a human being since his brush with death.

“I like you,” she asserted.

He stared down at her, “That’s unfortunate.”

Brow furrowed, she turned and headed toward the door. Dave followed her and silently admired her form as she stepped out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. He knew her truck was parked close to the building, which he thought was very sensible, and he escorted her to it.

She outed her keys, “Ever slept with someone on the first date?”

“No,” he answered.

“Me neither,” she admitted. "But I want to. With you."

Once the locks were disengaged, Dave reached for the handle and opened the door for her.

“This wasn’t a date,” he said.

She sighed, “You sure about that?"

It had been two weeks since fish fry Friday.

Well, thirteen days and sixteen hours, to be precise.

Dave’s primary focus had become getting out of town, which he needed money for – a few hundred, at least, if he wanted to put some real distance between himself and this woman who’d started to preoccupy his thoughts entirely too much.

Luckily for him, the town had enough small business owners who supported veterans. Once he’d told them his injuries were war-related, and that it had been hard for him to find steady work, they’d been all too eager to let him do odd jobs in exchange for cash. He was a liar, yes, but not a thief, and it would take a few more days – maybe a week – but only if he stayed focused.

It was Thursday. The clock on the dash signaled it was nearly midnight. He’d just gotten to his preferred parking space – a spot behind the animal shelter that offered direct escape routes, good coverage, and lighting that allowed him to see anything that might come at him.

There was another, smaller lot behind the grocery store, but he only parked there on nights when he couldn’t sleep. Tonight, he was tired. So, he parked at the shelter. And perhaps if he hadn’t been so tired, so focused on getting the hell out of town, on getting the hell away from her, he would’ve noticed her truck when he pulled in.

She emerged from the back door, bag of trash in hand. Head on a swivel, she scanned the lot as she marched toward the dumpster. She opened the lid. Tossed the bag inside. Dave stupidly held his breath, as if that would somehow prevent her from seeing him, but she knew his car.

As soon as she spotted him, she stopped.

Dave had a half tank of gas. The key was still in the ignition. But his treacherous hand went for the door handle instead. The hinges squeaked loudly, and as he slowly climbed out, she crept forward, until she’d moved out of the light and into the shadows with him.

“I volunteer here,” she said.

“I park here,” he replied.

She nodded. Shoved her hands into her pockets. Told him she’d made lasagna, if he was interested in that sort of thing, and headed back inside.

Twenty minutes later, when her truck eased onto the street, he followed.

Dave recalled washing his hands at the kitchen sink. He ate three servings of lasagna. Drank several glasses of water. Whatever happened after he helped clean up was lost on him because, like a fade-to-black moment in a movie, his mind blanked.

When he came back online, it was to the scent of dark roast and sunlight. Other details trickled in slowly, like the too-small couch and the ache in his lower back. The soft blanket draped over him and the pillow tucked beneath his head. Belt and boots off. Shirt and pants on. Big toe stuck out of the hole in the seam of his sock.

He sat up. Wiped the sleep from his eyes. When he looked around, he spotted her in the kitchen, robe donned and steaming mug in hand.

“You snore,” she voiced.

He grunted. Stretched. Got to his feet.

“Bathroom?” he yawned out.

She gestured toward a slightly ajar door with her mug. After Dave finished and stepped back into the living room, he looked around her home and took in all the minuscule details he’d only briefly glossed over the night before. Like the shearling rug beneath his feet, the candles on the coffee table, and the small television in the corner. Books. Magazines. A coat-and-shoe-rack combo with seasonal attire and several pairs of well-worn shoes. A fish tank without any fish. Gauzy curtains, creaky hardwood floors, and an antique mechanical calculator.

A pair of double doors with frosted windows – that’s what separated her personal and professional lives. A neat-as-a-pin space, with carefully situated office furniture, fake plants, and tall floor lamps. The desk was also tidy – just a laptop, a box of tissues, and a pen holder. There was a small filing cabinet within arm’s reach, a framed degree on the wall, and a sideboard with a Keurig.

A contradiction of spaces – one he took in the source and reason of when his eyes finally stopped ping-ponging and returned to her. Adorned in a clownfish orange robe and holding an obscenely large cup with the phrase Save the Whales on it. A bruise on her shin and toenails painted a deep berry color. Her hair glowed in the sunlight, and when she turned and opened the cabinet nearest her, the hinge squeaked.

“Name’s Dave,” he confessed to her back. 

She stilled for a moment. Then, both mugs were carefully placed on the counter. She didn’t say anything – just turned her head slightly, revealing the slope of her nose, the apple of her cheek, and the barest, upturned corner of her mouth.

A few footsteps – that’s all that existed between him and her, and he shortened the distance until his hands could reach the frayed fabric of her robe. The rounds of her shoulders fit perfectly in his palms, and her hips filled his grip when he squeezed them. The robe had been worn in, made softer by repeated washing and wearing, but it was nothing compared to her skin. A tiny sliver of it was revealed to his eyes and touch because there was a tear the size of his thumb just above the belt around her waist, and it was enough to make him ache.

“What do you want, Dave?”  

"You," he admitted, eyes trained on the flutter of her lashes.

She let out a ragged breath, “Okay.”

Throat tight, he swallowed hard and reached for the tie beneath her belly button. Dave tugged at it until the belt gave way, and the halves of her robe split open like a curtain, revealing to him what he could have only imagined just seconds before. A bare line of flesh, from collar bone to pubic bone. The curve of her breasts. The soft swell of her belly. Another tug and the robe became a forgotten heap of cotton on the floor at their feet.

He paused. Allowed his thumb to find a home in the space between the vertebrae in her tailbone. The coccyx – a small, curved bone at the base of the spine – was extremely difficult to break, but he’d done it before. He'd made it look like a slip-and-fall accident. He could do it again if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered as he guided his hands up her sides. He cupped her breasts and squeezed gently. “I won’t hurt you.”

"I know," she replied, tone strong and certain, bowing into his touch. "I know you won't, Dave."

He closed his eyes, pressed his nose to the crown of her head, and nudged at her ankle with his foot. He hadn’t said a word, but still, she’d listened beautifully and shifted her stance. That action alone was enough to get him buzzed, to fill his cock, and make his mouth water. When he opened his eyes, the sight of her ass stuck out and her hands braced on the counter made him groan.  

Dave unbuttoned and unzipped. Shoved his jeans and underwear past his hips. He knew he no longer deserved this, but he wanted it. He wanted her. Was starved for her. His body practically vibrated with a need so strong that it felt as if he could be broken all over again by it. His mind was so wild with anticipation, with such an overabundance of eagerness, that he nearly froze. 

“This morning,” she exhaled shakily, voice now tinged with shyness. “I touched – but I couldn’t. I tried. I’ve been trying…”

The immobility that had threatened to overtake him fluttered away and was replaced by something akin to empathy. Teeth dug into his lower lip, Dave carefully reached between her thighs and found the evidence of what she’d barely managed to admit to. Hot. Wet. Swollen with arousal. He slowly spread his fingers around until they were coated in her slick, and she whimpered when he slid two deep inside her warmth.

She pushed back against him eagerly, and Dave may have been rusty and nervous as hell, but he hadn’t forgotten. The addition of another finger and slow, firm strokes to her clit with the pad of his thumb – that's what made her flutter and roll her hips. He pushed her hard toward her orgasm, not because he wanted to rush, or because he wanted his turn, but because he could sense just how badly she needed it. She needed it desperately – almost as desperately as he did. 

“How long?” Dave demanded gruffly. “How long have you been like this?”

She held the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, “Since the restaurant.”

It happened fast for her, just as he'd hoped. Her thighs twitched, and then, her knees wobbled. Pressed up against her as he was, Dave felt the way it trembled through her, the way her chest vibrated as she vocalized sounds of relief. He saw her through it, let his touch absorb the delicious aftershocks, and when he slowly slid his fingers out from between her legs, she whined in protest. 

“Still want it?” he asked against the shell of her ear.  

“I want it, Dave,” she exhaled with a nod. “I want you.”

Fingertips dug into the meat of her hips, Dave guided himself into her, right down to the base. He clocked her gasp. The way she strained on tiptoe. How her plush ass flexed against his groin. She adjusted, surrendered, and squeezed down hard around him like she’d be content to hold him within her, just like he was, for however long he desired.

Jaw clenched, eyes fixed on where they were joined, Dave eased back and pushed forward again. He watched, transfixed, as he disappeared inside of her. She was drenched, and his cock glistened with every retreat and thrust.

Paces matched, rhythm found, gratification coaxed until it burned painfully hot and bright. Hips sharply angled. Fast and deep. She whisper-chanted his name as he strummed her clit, and the scent of her shampoo, the soft backs of her thighs, her hands splayed wide across the countertop – so erotic, so beautiful…

“Feels good,” she murmured, words soft and blissed out. She pushed back down on him and stuttered out a breathless curse. “You feel so fucking good, Dave.”

Head drooped, the line from the nape of her neck to the slope of her shoulder was fully exposed. Compelled, without consideration or reason, suddenly greedy and inexplicably possessive, Dave sank his teeth into her flesh. An untamed sound escaped her throat, one that instantly became imprinted on his brain, and when she gushed around his cock, his head spun.   

He stroked her already oversensitive bundle of nerves until she jolted and whimpered and knocked what would’ve been his mug of coffee into the sink. Dave could feel the way her body warred, how eager she was to both drown in and escape from the onslaught. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, and with her face upturned and her eyes on him, he felt truly seen. 

And completely safe.    

“You want it inside,” Dave stated, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Don’t you?”

She croaked out an unashamed, “Yes, I want it inside,” and that spurred him into doing perhaps two unwise, but wholly necessary things. Dave came inside her – rocked his hips and ground himself deep as his release rushed through him. Then, he kissed her – used his tongue to pry her mouth wide open and plunder. And she reciprocated, all muffled mewls as she held him within her, thighs pressed tight, and walls furiously clamped.

He grazed his teeth over the shell of her ear. Ghosted his mouth along the hinge of her jaw. Felt a pang of displeasure when he eventually slipped from her – an emotion that was almost immediately replaced by something dark and ferocious as he watched his come trickle down her inner thighs.

She turned slowly toward him and smiled, “Wanna go get tacos?”

Dave’s stomach growled and served as an answer. When she smiled, he decided she was more than worth the trouble.

Took the Pledge: Took the pledge and became a Pedro Scout!

Joel Miller: I read @undercoverpena-fics Midnight Bedsheets. I gasped. I swooned. I experienced THE FEELS!

Fluff + Smut: For a story I wrote called Assignation.

Blocked a Porn Bot: I know we all have done had to do this...

I Set Sail on the Friendship: I asked @atinylittlepain for a go-to Pedro gif, and their choice did NOT disappoint. 🤣

Enemies to Lovers: So, I'm not sure if this is breaking the rules, but I'm going old school with @frannyzooey Listen fic, because DAY-UM. 🥵🥵

Played a Tag Game: I have played MANY tag games on Tumblr. Hahah

Friends to Lovers: I Like The Way You... by @undercoverpena is a damn fine example of this trope. Absolutely loved it from start to finish. 🥰🥰

Ezra Fic: I've been reading Adversity by @the-ginger-hedge-witch. Can't wait to see what happens next on their adventure!

Hurt/Comfort: Walls of Glass by @sixhours. So beautifully written. An emotional rollercoaster that you feel with every word.

Frankie Morales: Of course, we've got @frannyzooey out here, showing us how it's done with Drive-In. Oh, lawd!!

Giflet: The entire giflet masterlist by @morallyinept is epic, but I particularly enjoyed The Wolf & The Lamb.

AskNado: Completed!

One Bed: This isn't a "traditional" one-bed trope, but Squirming by @frannyzooey definitely has the same vibe because of the whole "share one sleeping bag" thing it has going on.

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels: Omg, I've read Palomino so many times. @fuckyeahdindjarin wrote such an epic romance that I just... ::: sigh:::

Fan Art: I've for sure loved and shared a lot of great fan art.

Slow Burn: I read Death and An Angel by @littlemisspascal and was hooked from chapter one. Binge-read the entire thing in one sitting, and was completely invested from start to finish. Such a beautiful and creative love story!

Crack/Dieter: I got a hilarious two-for-the-price-of-one with Low Hanging Gruit by @covetyou. This was another recommendation that definitely made me laugh out loud. Googled a Term: I can't tell you how often I've had to Google something fic-related. I'm old. I can't keep up with the "cool kids" anymore...

Got Silly in the Tags: It is rare for me to get really silly in the tags. I like to use my tags for organizing (type A much?) and I mostly get silly in the reblog with comments/gifs.

Marcus Moreno: Throwing it back to @frannyzooey and The Secret series, which was my fic intro to Marcus. Deliciously written. Chefs kiss (per usual).

Song Fic: It's not a "traditional" song fic, but I Hear a Symphony by @projectionistwrites is all centered around Joel's rediscovering his love for music.

Coffee Shop AU: Again, it's not 100% traditional, but Hot Coffee by @omgreally was a treat of a one-shot that gave me the jitters!

Rom-Com: Grays by @fuckyeahdindjarin made me laugh from the get-go. By fan-fic standards, it's probably considered an "oldie," but it's definitely a goodie.

Awakened a Kink: I have no children. I also have no desire to have children. But breeding kink fics sometimes makes my brain go "brrr." Especially if it's mixed with competency and the reader is taken care of/protected.

Forced Proximity: @goodwithcheese recently penned Girl Next Door and when I say I am UNWORTHY... I mean... Jesus H. Christ...

Dark Fic & Max Phillips: Blood & Tinsel by @morallyinept is a dark(ish), spicy, smutty mix that pulls you in from the first sentence!

Javi G: Care for a Little Golden Hour by @all-the-way-down-here is a Javi G. x Male Reader fic full of spice and care.

Sent a Horny Anon: I've sent them anon and not anon. LOL

Whump: Omg... Tonight You Belong To Me by @intheorangebedroom is the whumpiest-whump that ever whumped. If you're into angst and being all up in your feels, this is a fic for you!

Din Djarin: An oldie, but a goodie from @charnelhouse called In the Dark. It's the "we almost died" smut story we all know and love.

Soulmate: Again, Death and An Angel by @littlemisspascal was an amazing fic. A totally different take on the soulmate trope that had me hooked from chapter one. I absolutely loved it!

Fluff: Let Me by @polaroidpascal is a very gentle fic about taking care of your partner and giving them a bit of extra love - especially when they need it most.

Bookshop AU: The Book of Love by @undercoverpena is still one of my favorite Bookshop AU fics to read. Full of all the feels and fluff and flirting.

Mortifying Typo: I think we've all done this before. LOL

Marcus Pike: All the Time in the World by @whataperfectwasteoftime was a beautiful one-shot about a couple's first time together. Very romantic and full of emotion and so very, very gentle. I loved it!

Angst: Emergency Contact by @javiscigarette definitely hit me right in the feels. So much emotion packed into a one-shot!

Western: There are two that stick out in my head: Palomino and Adversity. Both are so amazing!

Dave York: Just read Second Sight by @goodwithcheese and literally had to dig my own grave because I perished. PERISHED, I tell you.

Booped: Oh, you know I booped. I booped my way to the top. lmfao

Got hooked up with these amazing peeps (@sizzlingcloudmentality, @hellfire-state-of-mind, @joelalorian, @sweetenerobert, and @imaginativefanatic) and we've already hit the ground running.

Week One: We got our S'mores for Everyone Badge by submitting our 3 fics. Masterlist to come soon, but here's what our team submitted: Death & An Angel, Petals of Affection, and Life is But A...

Week Two: To create a piece of fan art for a favorite fic and reblog a fic that features queer characters. I created a fan art for Down to the Ankles by @atinylittlepain (post HERE). Also, shining the spotlight on Sunrise by @undercoverpena because it made my brain go 'brrr' and I need MORE!!!

Week Three: For the "Zipline" badge, I read Lavender by @iamskyereads. For "Saddle Up" and "I Got Wet" badges, I will shamelessly plug my fic, Got You.

Week Four: We turned in our "fic recs "go bag" fics (Adversity, From Eden, and Cowboy Like Me) for our team activity. Still (from Adversity) definitely has a one-two punch of rope use/knot tying and helping me pitch my tent. WHEW.

Week Five: I shined a light on one of my fellow campers and we created our constellation, The Clan of Two.

Week Six: We kidnapped Cabin 4's Mascot and turned him into our rootin' tootin' bandmate. The second activity involved being sneaky and sending things on anon, but the idea I got in my head (that I couldn't let go of) involved images, so... Oh, well! LOL

Week 7: The amazing @joelalorian made our awesome Camp Song! I submitted this Superhero Accessories Question for the PSC Talent Show.

Something about you had revived and coaxed out parts of him he’d thought dead and buried long ago. But he played it very close to the vest - not only because you’re half his age and completely out of his league, but also because you deserved more than his old bones and bloodied hands could ever give you.

You deserved better. You deserved the fucking best.

Everyone in Jackson adored you, and they were right to do so. Even after all you’d been through, all the pain and loss you’d endured, you were still so good. Joel, on the other hand, had always been a blunt instrument - contractor, smuggler, killer, guardian. And sure, he may have been permitted to be a member of the town, but he’d never been widely well-liked or fully embraced - not in the way you and Ellie had been.

For the longest time, the need to protect Ellie and keep her safe had outweighed everything, including any misgivings he’d had about a prolonged stay in Jackson. But after a year in your continued presence, he realized he stayed because you’d made him remember what it felt like to actually want something - to want someone - for himself.

And the longer he remained, the more invested he became.

Rushed meetings, focused on getting assigned a house, learning the town rules, and being added to the job rotations. Then, more prolonged conversations over meals in the mess hall. In the past few months, there’d been walks and rides and movies and books. Ellie liked you, trusted you, and seemed to enjoy your company as well. The more time Joel spent with you, the more he realized he wasn’t just attracted to you; he’d started to feel comfortable - maybe even safe - with you, and that complicated things.

It wasn’t until you polished off your drink, and the tip of your tongue darted out to catch a wayward drop, that Joel started to think about your mouth and all the ways he’d enjoy it if you ever became his. And as his thoughts continued to mosey on down that unlikely, dangerous path for what seemed like the trillionth time, he realized your tongue would taste especially good coated in whisky - all warm, smoky, and sweet. 

“Any plans for tomorrow?” you asked in a conversational tone.

Joel shrugged away his treacherous thoughts and raised his hand for a refill, “Might visit Tommy and his family. Hang out with Ellie. You know, the usual.”

You nodded. Offered up your plate for sharing. Joel accepted your ready-made concoction of bread, cheese, and jam; a surprisingly good combination, but then again, you’d never steered him wrong.

“What about you?” Joel wondered as he wiped crumbs from his shirt. “Spending time with Carl?”

You gestured for your own refill and waited for it to be delivered before you spoke again.

“We decided to go our separate ways,” you announced tersely.

Joel paused with his glass halfway to his mouth, “When did that happen?”

“This morning.”

You tilted your head back, and he watched as the amber liquid disappeared down your throat in one swallow. You maintained an even temperament and possessed an impressively good poker face. Even when Carl sidled up to the opposite end of the bar - bold as brass, with his arm wrapped very familiarly around another woman’s waist - you didn’t react.   

The reason for the split became all too clear, and just like that, your ex went to the top of Joel’s own special kind of Naughty List.

“You can’t kill him,” you insisted.

He rolled his jaw, “Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault.”

“He’s the one who cheated. Not you.”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh, “There are different kinds of cheating.”

Joel wanted to know what you’d meant by that, but you steered the conversation out of those muddied waters, and asked about Ellie and how she was doing in school. That safe topic saw you both through another round, and while you shared another plate of food, you talked shop and swapped stories about past Christmas celebrations.

“I mean, I was eighteen when it happened,” you explained. “But I remember Christmas at my house was always a bit stuffy. Not like this, you know?”

“You mean you weren’t hanging out in a bar, doin’ shots of whisky with an old man?”

“Shut up.”

Joel smirked, “You sure you shouldn’t be at home, dreaming of sugar plums like the rest of the little children?”

You pursed your lips and smacked his shoulder, “Har-fuckin’-har.”    

While everyone in town would attend a big Christmas Day dinner, the Christmas Eve party was an adults-only affair. With the kids safely tucked into their beds, the grownups had gone out to play, and as people started to blow off steam, the party became both raucous and crowded.

Someone attempted a rendition of Elvis’ Blue Christmas and failed spectacularly. Then, the jukebox was turned on, and people danced like fools. The delicateness of pine, mixed with the headiness of firewood. Laughter and mindless chatter and a bit too much Jingle Bells.    

Joel sipped and chewed, and as he pondered your new relationship status, you ordered yourself another. As the night’s bartender hustled over, she jerked her thumb toward the ceiling, and he watched as you caught sight of the mistletoe. Something he’d hoped and feared you’d notice had been blatantly pointed out, and Joel tried not to cringe as the bartender poured and explained that it was tradition to kiss beneath it and not doing so would bring bad luck.

You waited for her to walk away before you looked at him, brow arched, “That true?”

Joel shrugged and scratched his chin, “It’s an old wives’ tale, but yeah.”

You nudged him. He nudged you back. A shared laugh, and then, a moment of hesitation. A flash of unspoken, are we really going to do this? You nodded - said it would be better not to tempt fate. Joel agreed - said he’d had enough bad luck to last a lifetime.  

Like all fires, it started with a spark; the anticipation of first contact as you both leaned toward each other on rickety, unbalanced stools. A rush of flames soon followed; your lips fitted sweetly against his, stoking the need, causing it to flare brighter.

Without any conscious thought whatsoever, Joel gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger and swept his tongue into your mouth. From there, it turned into an inferno. Your nails dragged along the skin at the tape of his neck, and he introduced his teeth to your bottom lip in response. When he cupped your face in his palms and caressed the apples of your cheeks with his thumbs, you wrapped your hands around his wrists and squeezed. Joel felt the vibration of the pleased sound you let out, and as goosebumps erupted along his body, he slanted his mouth more firmly over yours, and let himself get lost in the warmth of your kiss.

A couple of very inebriated, gray-haired women singing Santa Baby at the top of their lungs bumped into you and effectively burst the bubble. They apologized profusely. You graciously waved it off. Then, you looked at him - lashes aflutter, pupils blown, and mouth all shiny and kiss-swollen; you’d never been more beautiful, and Joel would’ve happily picked up where you’d left off had you not suddenly jerked away from him and rushed to your feet.

“I have to go,” you announced abruptly.

Joel cleared his throat and swallowed hard, “Alright. You want me to walk you?”

You shook your head. Pulled on your coat. Mumbled Merry Christmas and hurried out the door.

Just his luck.

The urgency in her voice rid him of his crankiness. It also cleared the cobwebs and prompted him to scramble upright. When she said you were downstairs and looked as if you’d been hurt, Joel quickly tossed back the blankets, and reached for his pants and shirt on the floor beside the bed. As soon as he was dressed, he rushed out of his bedroom and to the landing. The house was dark, but familiar, and he darted down the steps to the first floor without hesitation.

Ellie, hot on his heels, directed him to the kitchen. The cooktop light above the stove had been turned on and revealed a trail of muddy footprints and smeared blood that led to your slumped, shaking form. You held a red-stained towel in your lap and stared blankly at the floor. Split lip, swollen eye, bloodied nose – you looked as if you'd taken a beating. Torn clothes, scratched forearms, broken nails – you’d also given as good as you got.

Joel knelt and gently touched your knee, “Sweetheart?”

You lifted your head slightly, “Joel?”

He nodded, and when your face crumpled, he snagged the chair next to yours, and sat across from you. Without having to be asked, Ellie retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the sink, and brought washcloths and towels from the bathroom. A bowl of hot water, a glass, and the bottle of bourbon were placed on the table as well.

“You take care of her,” she murmured. “I’ll keep watch and yell if I need you.”

Joel cleared his throat and dipped his chin, “Thank you.”

As she walked away, he popped the lid off the kit, and reached for his stowed baggie of hydro. With his encouragement, you took the medication, and emptied the glass. After Joel wrapped a towel around your shoulders and pressed another serving of bourbon into your hand, he set about the task of carefully cleaning you up.

Chin cupped in his hand, Joel gently dabbed at your forehead, cheeks, and nose until they were free of blood. He was able to cover the cuts on your knuckles and arms with a combination of bandages and gauze, but it wasn’t until he had your dirty, scraped feet in his lap that he decided to break the silence.

“Will you tell me what happened?” he asked as he patted your right foot dry.

You blinked slowly. Huddled further into the towel. Touched your tongue to cut on your lip. You reopened the wound, but hardly seemed to notice, and Joel remembered how Ellie had worn the same, vacant expression when she’d been attacked. He knew he needed to be patient, allow you to come to him, and he held his breath while he waited.

“Wesley,” you finally rasped. “Cornered me in the barn.”

Joel switched to your other foot and listened hard as you got it all out. You explained you stopped by to visit Bella after work and Wesley had been there. He’d been the one you’d traded with for all the food and beer, but had been of the opinion that you owed him something more than what you’d already bargained for. When you politely turned him down again, he’d responded with violence.

You pressed your tongue to the cut again and snorted, “He knew the food was for you. Said there was no way an old man could keep me satisfied. I tried to walk away, but…”

Another drink. Another refill. Then, you described the way Wesley had reacted as if a switch had been flipped. How the rage had poured out of him like a tsunami, and you hadn’t been able to get out of the way in time to avoid it. He’d yanked you by the hair, slammed your face into Bella’s stall door, and attempted to wrangle you up the stairs and into the loft. When he failed to do that, he tackled you to the ground, and beat you until you nearly blacked out.

You burrowed into the towel and sniffled, “And I knew – I knew what he…And I fought. Pulled his hair, scratched his eyes, nailed the piece of shit in the balls.” Your lower lip trembled, and you let your head fall back against the wall. “Guess he couldn’t get it up after that.”

Joel swallowed hard. Ran a hand over his mouth. Felt a strange mixture of pride and fury swell in his chest. You’d been weaponless and alone, and like Ellie, you’d saved yourself. You’d survived, but you weren’t safe, and you wouldn’t be safe until Wesley was taken care of. The only way to ensure he’d never hurt you again was to kill the son-of-a-bitch. Joel knew he couldn’t get away with it – not in town – but there were other ways...

“M’so tired,” you sighed. “M’so tired, Joel.”

He stood and took the empty glass from your hand, “Let’s get you into some dry clothes and into bed so you can rest.”

You were slow to get to your feet, and you leaned on him as he guided you up the stairs and into the bathroom. After he grabbed you a change of clothes and a dry towel, he asked you if wanted to be left alone, or you needed Ellie to help you.

“She’s just downstairs,” Joel insisted. “I can go get her.”

You grabbed his arm, “Don’t go.”

There was a new timidness and vulnerability in your voice that he’d never heard before, and when Joel looked into your eyes, he saw a glimpse of the raw, wide-eyed terror you’d tried so hard to keep hidden. You hadn’t said a word, but he’d heard you just as surely as if you’d screamed, and your welled, silent tears tore him apart inside.

Joel swallowed hard. Reached for your top. Waited until you nodded and lifted your arms over your head before he cautiously peeled it off. The mirror above the vanity revealed scratches and bruises along your back and shoulders, and he tallied each of them as he unclasped your bra and patted your chilled skin dry.

As soon as he had you wrapped up in one of his flannels, he asked you to take care of the button on your jeans, and once the denim and your underwear were down past your hips, he knelt at your feet, and guided your legs out of the fabric one at a time. There were so many more wounds, especially on your shins and knees, and you winced uncomfortably when the sweatpants he pulled up and over your hips dragged against them.

You were droopy-eyed and quiet when he guided you out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. Seeing you in his clothes, tucked into his bed, with your head on his pillow and his comforter pulled up beneath your chin – it was intimacy the likes of which he never thought he’d ever experience – not in the world he lived in and especially not at his age. You’d trusted him, viewed him as a safe harbor, and that stirred up an even fiercer need to protect you.

Intent on keeping watch over you, Joel grabbed the ridiculous accent chair he never used from the corner of the room, and placed it next to the bed. The moment he was seated, your hand appeared from beneath the blanket, and he leaned forward to take it. You thanked him, and Joel made a low sound of acknowledgement as he secured the sheet up over your shoulder and tucked a damp, wayward strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You can’t kill him.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your bruised knuckles, “Why not?”

A clap of thunder, and then, you whispered your intention.

“Because I’m going to.”