Vampy Doll

All you wanted was to escape the stifling monotony of this rundown, bumfuck-nowhere town. Where time seemed to crawl and every day bled into the next. There was nothing to do except drink cheap beer in collapsing barns with the people your age you could tolerate—which, frankly, wasn’t many. Your graduating class had barely scraped together two hundred students, and most of them were already neck-deep in their great-grandparents’ conservative, redneck ideologies, content to stay trapped in the same traditional, endless loop you were desperate to escape.

Entertainment options were laughably slim, unless you counted gossiping at the diner or staring at the peeling wallpaper of your living room. The highlight of the week was usually a herd of cattle escaping or a barn dance, where everyone pretended their lives weren’t as dull as dishwater.

It was no wonder that generations before had filled their houses to the brim with children. After all, raising a family gave them something to do, a purpose to cling to in the otherwise monotonous grind of small-town life. And maybe, just maybe, it helped fill the silence that crept in at night, the kind that even wolf songs couldn’t drown out.

It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At night, the air hummed with the songs of frogs and crickets, a sound that felt almost sacred. The stars lit up the sky in a way that was impossible to see from the city, their light twinkling like scattered diamonds. Fireflies blinked alongside them, tiny, fleeting beacons in the dark. Those moments, rare and quiet, made this place almost bearable.

Almost.

But Christ on a cross, when the sun rose, it brought the same crushing realization: there was nothing for you here. Nothing except Sunday mornings at church, where people whispered behind hymnals and dissected the sins of their neighbors, the same people they'd smile brightly at as they prayed for blessings to come to them. At least they handed out free donuts. Small mercies, you thought bitterly, kicking at a loose pebble on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against your spine. The highway stretched ahead in an unbroken line, a mirage shimmering in the distance, promising freedom just out of reach. All you needed was someone to pull over, just one car willing to take you somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.

You even went so far as to wear the most revealing clothes you could find, not that your wardrobe had much to offer in that department. A perverted driver was still a driver, and at this point, you were desperate. You’d taken scissors to an old shirt, hacking it into a crop top that bared your midriff. The fabric was frayed and uneven, but it did the job. Your shorts were another matter entirely, uncomfortably tight and clearly too small, leftovers from when you were a kid. The waistband dug into your skin, and you had to keep tugging them down to avoid cutting off circulation.

God forbid any girl showed an ounce of skin in this town. The stares you got on your way out were enough to make you want to sprint out, but you were banking on that very same scrutiny to catch the attention of a passing car. Modesty might have been the golden rule here, but you weren’t above breaking it if it got you out of this dead-end stretch of nowhere.

You felt ridiculous, humiliated even, but the thought of staying here was far worse than enduring the leering eyes of some old man. You were used to that already. Men in this town had a way of looking at you like you were an object on a shelf they might pick up, inspect, and set back down when they were done. You’d learned to ignore it, to shrug off the uncomfortable heat of their stares and the muttered comments you pretended not to hear.

This was just more of the same, except now you were using it to your advantage. If showing a little skin meant one of those creeps would stop and offer you a ride out of this godforsaken town, then so be it. Dignity wasn’t exactly high on your list of priorities right now—freedom was.

If only one of these fuckers would actually stop. You’d been standing here long enough to feel the sunburn creeping across your shoulders, sweat pooling at the small of your back. You threw your arm out every time, trying to look as pitiful, or enticing, as possible, but all you got in return were waves of hot air as they sped by.

Was it just your town where men stared at women like predators? Or was that just how men were everywhere? You had no way of knowing. Your entire life had been spent here, in this suffocating bubble of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Sometimes you wondered if the rest of the world was different, or if the same lecherous glances and whispered judgments waited for you on the other side of this horizon.

Still, staying here wasn’t an option. Even if the grass wasn’t greener anywhere else, at least it would be different grass. And different was all you were asking for.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the thunderous roar of an engine, deep and rumbling, shaking the stillness of the road. A semi. Your heart leapt, both with hope and a twinge of unease. You’d heard the stories, truck drivers were lonely old men who’d fuck anything with a heartbeat, and even that was a stretch. The thought made your stomach twist, but desperation outweighed caution.

Throwing your arm out again, thumb raised high, you focused on the massive vehicle barreling toward you. The sheer size of it was almost intimidating, the largest thing you’d seen on the road. Its grill gleamed in the sunlight like a steel beast, and you could already hear the hiss of brakes as it began to slow down.

This was it. Maybe luck was finally on your side—or maybe you were about to make the worst mistake of your life. Either way, it wasn’t like you had much to lose.

The semi groaned to a stop a few yards ahead of you, its engine idling. The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a man, an old man, just as you’d expected.

His hair was almost completely gray, though uneven splotches of the lighter color dotted his scruffy beard like it couldn’t decide whether to age gracefully or not.

The glare of the sun bounced off the truck, making it hard to get a clear look at him, but you could tell enough. He was much larger than you, his frame broad and solid like he’d spent his life lifting things far heavier than the backpack you hauled. His hair had a slight curl to it, messy and unkempt, like he hadn’t seen a comb in days.

He tilted his head toward the passenger side, gesturing with his chin as he spoke. His voice was deep, slow, and unmistakably southern.

"Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You need a ride or what?"

There wasn’t much kindness in his tone, but there wasn’t any malice, either. Just a bluntness that matched the heat of the day. Your hesitation lingered for a moment before you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You all but scaled up the side of the truck, your legs shaky from a mix of exhaustion and the strain of hauling yourself up. The heat of the day clung to you, making every movement feel heavier than it should have. By the time you managed to get one foot inside, your muscles were screaming in protest.

The older man was already back in his seat, one wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, the sound wet and unmannered as he watched you crawl in with a measured gaze. His eyes flickered up and down your figure, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. You swore you saw his hand shift subtly, adjusting himself as a low groan escaped your lips from the effort.

You settled into the passenger seat, the cracked leather sticking to your bare thighs. His stare lingered for a moment too long at the way they expanded before he finally spit into an old plastic bottle by his side.

“Where ya headin’, sweetheart?” he drawled, his lips curling into a half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Now that the sun was no longer blinding you, you could finally get a good look at him. To your surprise, he wasn’t all that bad-looking. In fact, he was quite handsome in a rugged, weathered sort of way. His deep chocolate-brown eyes had a sad look to them, like they had seen more than they cared to share. His nose was prominent, giving his face a bold, defined structure that worked with the lines etched into his skin. Those wrinkles, instead of detracting from his appearance like you'd expect them too, seemed to enhance his features.

Your eyes flicked to his hands resting on the wheel. They were large, rough-looking, the scarred, calloused kind of hands that did hard labor. An old, scratched watch clung to his wrist, the leather strap worn and glass cracked, but still functional.

Practical, like him, you figured.

Despite the circumstances, you found yourself momentarily distracted by his appearance.

“Well?” he asked again, the smirk on his face still lingering as he spit tobacco into his bottle. “Where ya headed?”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here,” you muttered, your voice low but firm.

He chuckled at that, a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cab. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near here for a good long while. Buckle up, sweetheart.”

You slid your backpack off your shoulders, letting it rest on your lap as your fingers found the charms hanging from the zippers. You twisted them absentmindedly, trying to occupy your mind and ignore the creeping weight of his gaze. The truck didn't move. Confused, you glanced at the gear shift, expecting to see his hand on it. Instead, his hand rested on his thigh, his fingers tapping lazily against his jeans.

Looking up, you caught him staring at you again, his dark eyes locked on yours for a moment before shifting downward. He sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was deciding what to do next. Without saying a word, he leaned toward you.

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, his face so close you could almost feel the faint stubble on his jaw and the silver strands in his hair. His arm brushed your shoulder as he reached for your seatbelt.

"Seatbelt's stuck," he muttered, though you hadn't even tried to buckle it yourself. His large hands gripped the strap and gave it a few tugs, his breath fanning across your cheek as he grunted, the plastic clicked before the webbing slid free and he pulled it across your chest.

The motion seemed smooth at first, but you stiffened when his knuckles grazed the curve of your breast. He didn't pause or acknowledge it. His gaze wasn't on the seatbelt or even his hands, it was fixed lower, right where the strap pressed against your chest. His eyes lingered there shamelessly.

He adjusted the strap, tugging it tighter against your chest, his fingers brushing over the swell more than once. The way he moved was deliberate, too slow to be casual, like he was testing how far he could push before you said something.

It didn't feel accidental, but it wasn't obvious enough for you to call him out on it, either. Your throat tightened, and you froze, unsure whether to flinch or let him finish.

“There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as he clicked the belt into place. For a moment, he didn’t move, his face lingering close enough for you to see the faint lines around his eyes and the uneven streaks of gray in his beard. Then, without a word, he leaned back into his seat with a grunt, as though the small task had been a chore.

His hand moved to the gear shift, and the truck rumbled forward, pulling onto the road with a jolt. “Can’t have you flyin’ out the windshield,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You didn’t respond, your heart still racing from the unnecessary closeness. Staring out the window, you gripped the straps of your backpack tightly, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his hands, unease prickling along your skin.

Joel glanced at the cracked dashboard clock, tapping it lightly with his knuckle as if that would somehow make the time change. "We’ll probably hit a truck stop in a few hours," he said, his voice breaking the long silence in the cab.

He finally broke the silence with a grunt and a glance at the dashboard. “’Bout two ‘til we hit the next one,” he said, shifting in his seat and rolling his neck like it ached. “Gonna pull in there, grab some food. Might get a room if the lot ain’t full.”

You didn’t look at him, just nodded a little, eyes fixed on the streak of pavement disappearing beneath the truck. “Okay.”

He glanced at you then, like he was waiting for more. When you didn’t say anything, he added, “They got showers too, y’know. Clean ones. Not five-star or nothin’, but they get the job done.”

“Cool,” you murmured, trying to sound neutral, like you weren’t clocking every word.

Then he smirked a little—just a flicker, barely there, but you caught it. “Don’t worry, you can have your own bed,” he said, voice low, tone meant to be reassuring but sitting wrong in your gut. “Unless, uh... you’d rather save a few bucks.”

You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “I’ve got cash,” you said, flatly.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joel said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to your chest again, not even subtle about it this time. “Just jokin’ around.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

He scratched his beard, shifting in his seat again. “You’re real quiet,” he said after a moment. “Kinda figured a girl like you’d be more talkative.”

“A girl like me?” you asked, without looking at him.

“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone casual as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “C’mon you ain't exactly dressed for church, honey.” He turned to you with a grin.

You rolled your eyes before you forced yourself to focus on the landscape outside, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. But even as you tried to tune him out, you could feel his gaze darting toward you. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge—quick, almost imperceptible glances at your legs, your chest, the curve of your neck.

Every time you caught him, he shifted slightly, like he hadn’t been looking at all. His fingers rubbed idly against his thigh, the movement subtle but deliberate.

“Don’t get too quiet on me now,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. “A guy can only handle so much quiet before he starts gettin’ lonely.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just tired,” you muttered, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.

“Tired, huh?” Joel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his seat, one hand lazily adjusting his belt. “Bet you’ve had a long day, stickin’ that pretty thumb out on the highway. Lucky for you I came along. Not everyone out here’s as friendly as me.”

The way he said “friendly” made your stomach churn. You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your backpack as an excuse to look away. “Yeah,” you said flatly, unsure of what else to say.

He chuckled again, a deep, gravelly sound that filled the cab. “You know,” he started, his tone turning thoughtful, “truck stops ain’t so bad. Some of ’em even got little diners... Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even find a little entertainment.”

You glanced at him sharply, but he kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth, damn religious upbringings, you forced yourself to be polite and dryly humor his conversation. “What kind of entertainment?”

Joel shrugged, his fingers still idly tapping his thigh. “Depends on the stop. Some got TVs, little gift shops... and sometimes, you meet interestin’ people. Y’know, folks passin’ through, lookin’ for a little... company.”

Your pulse quickened, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said quickly.

His grin widened, and he let out another low chuckle. “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.”

You turned back to the window, your heart pounding as the shadows outside grew longer. The truck rumbled on, the uneasy tension between you thickening with every mile.

The truck’s turn signal clicked lazily, a rhythmic tick that cut through the hum of the engine as Joel guided the semi off the highway and into the glow of the truck stop.

The lights hit first, flickering fluorescents mounted on leaning poles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The parking lot was littered with rigs and pickups, a few scattered sedans, and the occasional figure ducking in and out of the convenience store’s heavy glass doors. Beyond that, a rundown diner and a flickering neon sign that buzzed louder than it glowed. It wasn’t much, two diesel pumps, a few bent metal benches out front, and a crooked billboard advertising pie that probably hadn’t been served fresh since the Reagan administration, and behind it, the shape of a small roadside motel slumped under a sagging roofline.

Joel shifted the truck into park with a heavy hand and let out a grunt, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked. His faded shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of his stomach, leathery and scarred. He caught you looking, not at that, exactly, just observing the place, but he smirked like you’d been staring.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Cozy little stopover.”

You looked out at the rows of trucks and diesel pumps, trying not to fidget. The stillness inside the cab after the engine died was sudden, as if the noise from the it had been cushioning something you didn’t want to feel.

You said nothing, unbuckling your seatbelt with a quick snap and reaching for your backpack, your fingers finding those familiar charms again. You rolled one between your thumb and forefinger, grounding yourself. The tension in your chest hadn’t left since you climbed into the truck. If anything, it’d only settled deeper.

Joel opened his door and climbed out with a grunt. “Food’s better than it looks,” he said over the roar of the diesel engine cooling off. “Diner’s got burgers, eggs, hash. All the heart-attack bullshit you could ever want.”

You followed after a beat, the door heavier than you expected. He waited for you at the base of the steps, one hand resting on the open door like he was holding it open for a date. You stepped down, trying not to flinch as his eyes moved with you, tracking every inch.

You stared past him at the diner, its windows fogged and glowing yellow under too-dim lights. A man smoked on a bench by the door. He looked tired. Everyone here did.

Joel jerked his chin toward the motel attached to the back of the lot. “Gonna check if they got any rooms left,” he said, spitting a wad of his chewing tobacco into the dirt. “You hungry, or what?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice flatter than you intended. “Starving.”

He grinned at that, like it pleased him. “Go on then, I'll meet'cha.”

Inside, the diner smelled like grease and bleach, two things that didn’t mix well. The waitress behind the counter didn’t look up when you entered, too focused on a crossword puzzle. Joel slid into a booth a few minutes after you had, patting the cracked vinyl across from him.

The seat felt sticky. He leaned back, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest like he owned the place, the other already reaching for a menu he clearly didn’t need.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at you. “Order whatever. I’ll cover it.”

You eyed him, unsure if it was kindness or another invisible string. He caught your look and smirked.

“C’mon. Not tryna poison you. Just don’t like eatin’ alone.”

You nodded slowly, glancing down at the menu as he watched you over the top of his.

Joel leaned back in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. One arm sprawled across the top, the other cradling his plastic cup of water. He let out a long sigh, an exaggerated exhale, like he was trying to be noticed.

“Been on the road five weeks straight,” he muttered, glancing out the window like he might spot someone he used to know. “Start talkin’ to myself if I don’t get some damn conversation.”

You looked up, cautious. He smiled, but it was thin. Forced.

“Life gets quiet when you get to my age. Too damn quiet, sometimes,” he said, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. “Wife gone. Kids don’t call. Truck’s about the only thing still wants me 'round.”

He chuckled softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. More like he expected a certain reaction and didn’t care if it was genuine.

“That’s why I don’t mind pickin’ up company when I can,” he added, taking a sip and eyeing you over the rim. “Makes the road feel less... long.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded faintly. He didn’t seem to care—he’d already settled into his little performance.

“Not askin’ for much,” Joel went on, looking down at his calloused hands. “Just someone to talk to. Hearin’ a pretty voice now and again reminds me I’m still 'round, y’know?”

His eyes flicked to your mouth when he said it.

“Hell, you don’t even gotta talk if you don’t want, face's pretty 'nough on its own,” he added with a little grin, eyes crinkling like he was doing you a favor. “I’ll just ramble on till I lose my voice. You can pretend I ain’t even here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you want someone to listen to you talk till your mouth hurts.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Alright, fair,” he said, scratching at his beard. “I like a little attention. Guilty as charged.”

The waitress came over, tired eyes scanning the table. Joel ordered without looking at the menu—“bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, and a Coke,” before nodding at you to go ahead.

As you gave your order, you could feel his gaze on your face, lingering just a tad too long on your lips when you spoke. When the waitress walked off, Joel leaned back again with a grunt.

“Bet you think I’m some sad old bastard,” he said, smirking.

You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t seem all that sad.”

He laughed again, low and knowing. “Don’t gotta be sad to be lonely, darlin’.”

He said it so easily, like it was the kind of thing he’d said a hundred times before. Like it worked on someone, once.

There was something off about the way he spoke—too rehearsed, maybe. Like he’d said this all before. The “poor old man” routine. Alone on the road, no family, no one to talk to. It felt... thin.

Still, something about it tugged at you.

Maybe it was the way he sighed after every sentence, like he didn’t expect you to care. Maybe it was the worn in look behind his eyes.

You glanced down at your lap, your fingers twisting the zipper of your backpack until it bit into your skin.

You knew better. You really did. People didn’t get like this for no reason. Men didn’t hand out kindness for free. But even as your gut whispered caution, another part of you, smaller, quieter, felt bad for him.

He wasn’t pushing anything. Not yet. And you were tired. Not just from standing on the side of the road, but from months of going nowhere, of waiting for someone, anyone, to see you.

Joel caught your eye again, that half-smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to lay it on thick,” he said, almost sheepish now. “Guess I don’t talk to people much these days. Gettin' rusty.”

You tried to smile, but it came out just as performative as his. “It’s fine. I get it.”

He tapped a finger against his glass, his tone softening. “You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

You hesitated. “Not really. Just… done with where I came from.”

Joel nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ out. Some places don’t give you much reason to stay.”

His voice was quieter now, less performative. For a second, it felt more real. Or maybe you just wanted it to.

You studied him for a beat longer—his hands, his eyes, the worn creases in his skin. You could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers pulling your seatbelt earlier, still see the way his gaze had lingered a second too long.

But right now, he looked tired. Lonely. And something in you, despite everything, softened just a little.

“I appreciate the ride,” you said quietly. “Really.”

Joel looked at you for a second, then nodded once and leaned back again. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Like I said, road gets real damn quiet.”

You both fell into silence after that, the kind that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

He’d tried to make small talk over greasy plates and chipped mugs of diner coffee—asked about your favorite music, your family, whether you had a boyfriend “waitin’ around somewhere.” He framed it as harmless banter, chuckling over his fries, talking with his mouth half full like it wasn’t meant to mean anything.

You mostly nodded, gave short answers. Your appetite had all but vanished the longer his eyes lingered on you.

They didn’t wander constantly, Joel wasn’t that obvious. But every so often, as you cut into your food or brushed hair out of your face, you’d catch him watching you instead of eating. His gaze would always drop quickly, back to his plate or the tabletop, but the silence between those glances felt thicker each time.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, overthinking.

But by the time he paid the bill and motioned for you to follow him outside, your stomach had twisted into something tight and uneasy.

The air had cooled a little with the setting sun. Crickets had started their nightly hum, and the truck lot buzzed quietly with the sound of engines cooling and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the diner. But your ears were filled with the sound of your own footsteps following Joel’s.

He led you past the edge of the lot, toward a squat, single-story row of motel rooms behind the diner. Faded numbers were bolted onto each door, and the porch lights above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to bother staying lit.

Joel stopped in front of one, jingling a key in his hand. “Only had one left,” he said, turning the knob. “Told the guy it’s just for a few hours’ shut-eye. Not like I’m settlin’ in.”

Your heart skipped. Just one?

The room door creaked open. Joel stepped inside first, tossing the key on the nightstand and flipping on the light. A yellow glow filled the room, bouncing off stained wallpaper and a twin bed with a faded comforter. The A/C unit in the window rattled weakly.

The moment you stepped into the room, something felt different.

Not in the air itself, the motel room still smelled like bleach and dust, but Joel’s presence had changed.

He didn’t say much after unlocking the door. Just let it swing open, stepped inside like he owned the place, and gave the room a lazy once-over. Gone was the exaggerated sighing, the talk of loneliness, the half-hearted chuckles meant to make you feel bad for him. Now he moved slower, more comfortably, like someone who’d settled into something.

You weren’t sure what.

He let the door close behind you with a click that made your pulse hitch. He didn’t bolt it, he didn’t need to. The message was already clear.

Joel walked over to the table near the bed and dropped the room key with a soft clink. His hand hovered for a second, then he sat in the chair near the window, stretching out with a tired grunt. One arm slung over the backrest like he was getting ready to stay awhile.

“Not bad,” he muttered, adjusting the waistband of his jeans before running a hand through his graying hair. “Could be worse.”

You didn’t answer. You were still standing near the door, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.

Joel’s eyes flicked up to you. Slower now. Less polite. Like he didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.

"You can sit, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t gonna bite.”

He grinned at his own joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were darker now. Not cold, just… sure. Like whatever this was, it was already decided in his head.

You moved slowly, choosing the edge of the bed farthest from him—you wished the separate beds calmed your nerves, they didn't. The springs creaked as you sat, and the sound felt too loud. You kept your backpack in your lap, your hands gripping the strap.

Joel let his gaze linger for a moment longer, then leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Y’know, most folks would be grateful by now,” he said idly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Free ride, free food, place to rest. Ain’t a bad deal.”

Your spine stiffened slightly. There was no edge in his voice, no threat. But there was something underneath it. Something that made your stomach coil.

“I am grateful,” you said carefully.

“Mm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “You’re just real quiet is all. Hard to read.”

You didn’t reply.

Joel scratched at his jaw. “Guess it’s just been a while since I had company.” He looked at you again, head tilted, lips just barely curved. “It’s nice. Real nice. You're nice.”

You felt your shoulders tense. He wasn’t doing anything, not really, but you could feel it building. The shift. The subtle way he took up more space now, like just getting you through that door had changed everything.

Joel stood up, stretching again with a low groan, and walked toward the mini fridge. He bent to open it, empty, but lingered there a second longer than needed. When he straightened, he looked at you again. Still that same expression. Casual. Relaxed. Like this was just the natural next step in whatever he thought was happening here.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks,” he said, voice lighter now, maybe even cheerful. “You want soda, water, somethin’ stronger?”

You blinked. “Coke’s fine.”

He nodded, already halfway to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, then turned back.

“You lock that behind me if it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I’ll be back in five. Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”

He winked. Not playful. Not mean. Just… like a joke he thought you were in on, even if you didn’t know the punchline yet.

Then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.

The silence returned.

You sat still, backpack clutched to your chest, heart pounding a little faster than before. You weren’t sure what Joel thought this was. But for the first time, you were sure of one thing:

He thought he was owed something.

You weren’t sure why you stayed.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the weight of your backpack digging into your spine for hours that made you too tired to run again. Maybe it was something worse, something harder to admit. That small, scared voice that told you: This is what you asked for, isn’t it? A ride. A room. A way out.

You told yourself it was fine.

But when Joel came back a few agonizing minutes later, holding a single room-temperature soda like it was some kind of gift, that thin illusion started to crack.

"Vending machine’s shot to hell," he said, tossing it onto the end of the bed like he expected you to jump at it. “Still good, though. S'just warm.”

You nodded, reaching to take a grab the bottle. You tried not to acknowledge the way your heart sped up as you leaned closer to him, your hand shaking.

Joel didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He kicked off his boots, grunted as he lowered himself into the creaking chair near the TV, and grabbed the remote from the armrest.

The television flashed on, its speakers crackling as static fizzled into some old cable rerun. The volume was too loud for the tiny room, but Joel didn’t adjust it. He just leaned back and settled in, letting the laugh track fill the silence like white noise drowning out your thoughts.

You nerves were so shot, you hadn’t noticed the bottle hadn't hissed when you twisted the cap.

When your leg started to shake it was just a tremor at first, barely noticeable. But it spread, up your thigh, into your stomach, into your chest. Your heart fluttered under your ribs, fluttered wrong. Your throat was too dry. The lights were too yellow. The TV too loud. His breathing, even and steady from across the room, was the only rhythm that didn't match your panic.

You stood quickly, too quickly.

“Bathroom,” you muttered, grabbing your bag without really knowing why. Just needing it close.

Joel gave a vague nod, his eyes barely lifting from the screen. “Take your time.”

The bathroom was even smaller than you expected. Dim light. Cracked tile. A fan in the ceiling that buzzed faintly behind the walls. You closed the door and leaned against it, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.

Your reflection stared back at you, paler than before. Eyes wide. Lips dry.

You didn’t even notice you were crying until the first drop hit the sink.

You weren’t scared, not exactly. But something inside you was twisting tight, something old and instinctive that didn’t care about politeness or gratitude or second chances. Something that whispered, Leave. Now.

You splashed water on your face. Once. Twice. The cold shocked your nerves, grounding you just a little, enough to breathe. But your hand trembled as you reached for the towel, and you had to brace yourself before you looked in the mirror again.

You stared at your own eyes for a long time.

You could still leave. You hadn’t unpacked. Your legs worked fine. The door wasn’t locked.

But outside that door, Joel waited. Not a stranger anymore. Not really. And that was somehow worse.

You dried your face, turned off the faucet, and in front the door of the bathroom for a beat, staring at the crack under it, the yellow-lit room shared the space of flickering blue light from the TV.

“You alright in there, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice warm again, sounding gentle despite how he'd had to hollar over the TV.

You took a breath. Then another. You told yourself you were overreacting.

People were weird, sure. Joel was… weird. But maybe that’s all it was. Maybe your nerves were shot from being on the road, from standing in the sun for hours, from not eating enough. You were tired. That made everything feel worse.

One night. Get some rest. Ditch him in the morning.

That was the plan. Simple. Safe.

You pushed open the door and stepped out into the dim light of the room again, trying to slide your expression back into something neutral. Something nice.

You gave him a polite, too-sweet smile in return, it was automatic, from that church-girl buried deep in your gut. You didn't owe him anything, but you still felt like you had to at least perform gratitude. Like that was part of the deal.

It was tight-lipped, polite, instinctual. The same smile you’d been trained to give since you were a kid, the smile that didnt reach your eyes, that said I’m fine, thank you, don’t worry about me.

He smiled back.

Not kindly. Not broadly. Just this thin, smug little thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He tried to play it off like nothing. Reached for the remote. Adjusted his posture. But it didn’t go unnoticed, not by you. Joel looked over at you from the chair, his arms resting behind his head now, relaxed.

You crossed the room, easing yourself onto the top of the bed. The blanket was old and dusty and reeked of stale detergent. Still, it beat the side of the highway. You opened the Coke and took a sip. Flat. Warm. Still, it gave your hands something to do.

On the TV, that same crusty sitcom was still going. Joel had turned the volume up since you'd gone. The laugh track punched through the tiny speakers like a drill to the temple. The jokes came rapid-fire—loud, overacted, dated.

You weren’t really listening until one of the characters—a middle-aged man with a gut and a mustache—joked about slipping a woman something to make her “act with less prudence.” The studio audience howled. His female co-star gave him a fake slap on the shoulder with an annoyed glare. The scene moved on.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even smile.

Joel did.

Not loud. Just a low huff of a chuckle, amused. Right in time with the laugh track. Like it had hit a nerve in him. The wrong nerve.

You stiffened. Your spine straightened just a little more. You didn’t look at him.

It was the type of joke that made men laugh in bars when they’d already had too much and weren’t watching their tone anymore.

Joel’s laughter stopped as quickly as it came. But when you risked a glance, you saw it, that same smug curl at the edge of his mouth, his tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say out loud.

You looked away.

It’s the show, you told yourself. It’s the show. He’s just laughing because it’s on.

But the hairs on your arms were standing up anyway.

You shifted around on the stiff mattress for what must’ve been the better part of an hour. The bed creaked with every movement, the scratchy comforter brushing against your skin like old sandpaper. You kept changing positions—legs folded under you, then stretched out, then pulled back in. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt settled.

You kept reaching for the bottle of Coke on the side table, fingers brushing it absentmindedly before pulling back. The ritual repeated over and over until finally, you just brought it into your lap. The half-full bottle had lost what little fizz it had, but you held onto it anyway. The weight of it in your hands was something solid, something to focus on. It gave your fingers something to do besides twist the hem of your shirt or pick at your skin.

Joel hadn’t said much. The flicker of the TV lit up his face in little bursts. Every so often, he’d glance over at you. Not long enough to say anything. Just enough to make your body flare up with heat as your blood rushed.

You tried to focus on the show, but your brain had gone fuzzy. Not foggy, exactly, but distant. Like your thoughts were moving through syrup. Your limbs felt a little heavy, your eyes dry.

The Coke sat in your lap like a small weight. When you went to take another sip, you hesitated, your hand lifting slower than you expected. The bottle felt heavier than before. Not by much. Just enough for you to notice.

You frowned a little, blinked once, then twice. Maybe it was exhaustion. Your nerves had been running hot all day, your body could just be crashing. That had to be it.

Still… something felt off. You gripped the bottle a little tighter.

Your head rolled slightly on your shoulders as you tried to blink the haze away. You gave a small shake, like maybe you could rattle the exhaustion out of your skull, but it clung to you—draped heavy over your limbs like a damp blanket.

You weren’t that tired.

At least, you hadn’t been.

You blinked again. The TV was still flickering, the show’s punchlines rolling out like clockwork. Joel chuckled along with the laugh track, low and content. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way he wanted it.

You didn’t look at him. You just focused on the bottle in your hands.

It wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it could be. Your fingers curled a little tighter around it as if that might tether you to the present. You told yourself again that you hadn’t eaten properly. That this was just your body protesting the long day. That the motel room was warm, and Joel’s TV was loud, and your senses were frayed.

But still… your skin was buzzing. Not panic, just static. An edge.

You reached for your phone without thinking, fingertips fumbling slightly with the zipper of your bag. You didn’t even know who you’d text if you needed help, but the need to do something was rising in your chest, your instincts growing louder, like background noise you could no longer ignore.

“Feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Joel asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You jumped slightly at his voice, your fingers freezing over your backpack. You glanced at him.

His eyes were still on the screen, but his smirk was back. Not wide, not obvious, just there. Subtle, like he was hiding something behind it and didn’t care enough to try hard.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel made a little humming sound, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back further in his chair, exhaling like a man pleased with how the day turned out.

You turned your eyes to the bathroom door again.

It wasn’t far. You could go in, close the door, lock it. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.

You planted your hands on the edge of the bed and pushed yourself up. Your legs didn’t respond the way you expected.

For a split second, it felt like they weren’t even attached. Your knees nearly gave out as you stood, a sharp, disconnected jolt rushing through your lower body like the numbness you get from sitting too long in one position, but worse. There was no familiar prickle of circulation returning, no tingling promise of sensation coming back. Just absence.

And something about that absence made your chest tighten.

You reached out, grabbing the wall for balance. The Coke bottle in your hand slipped from your fingers.

Behind you, Joel’s chuckle drifted lazily through the static of the television. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel thinner.

“You alright there?” he drawled, voice a little too casual. A little too slow.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just, stiff legs.”

Your voice sounded strange even to your own ears, it was muted, distant. You could feel his eyes on your back now, tracking your movement more attentively than before.

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t say anything else.

You pressed your hands against the rough motel wall, the chipped paint cool against your skin. Your legs felt weak beneath you, shaking softly, and you couldn’t seem to make them move.

Your breath came fast and shallow, chest tightening with each inhale. The vintage chair creaked faintly nearby, a reminder that Joel was still in the room, still watching.

You didn’t look over.

Your eyes darted to the flickering TV, its pale light casting long shadows on the cracked wallpaper. It buzzed softly, filling the silence with pointless noise.

Maybe not so pointless.

You could hear him settle out of his chair, the scrape of fabric on denim. Joel’s footsteps shuffled behind you, slow and deliberate.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth, and far too casual. Almost mocking. It didn't sound like a question.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your palm harder against the wall, willing the tremors in your legs to stop. But the more you willed it, the worse it felt, like your body was betraying you, leaving you trapped between fight or flight, but doing neither.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, biting your lip to keep from shaking or crying. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.

You wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.

But you stayed still.

You didn’t realize he was approaching again until the floor creaked just to your left. A soft sound, but close. Too close.

“Hey, c’mon now,” Joel said, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should lie back down.”

His hand reached out, palm warm and rough as it hovered near your arm. Not yet. The faux tenderness in his tone didn’t sit right with the look in his eyes. They were too alert, too interested.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice was hoarse and small. You hated how it sounded.

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re swayin’ a little.” His hand landed on your arm this time, solid and steady. But he didn’t grip.

That should have made it better. It didn’t.

It was the stillness in his hand that made your skin crawl, how his thumb pressed, then circled slowly, like he was mapping out your pulse.

“C’mon,” he said again, guiding you gently, not forcing, but not offering space to resist. “Just for a minute. You’ll feel better when ya do.”

When... not if.

You let yourself be led. Partly because your legs still felt unsteady. Partly because you didn’t know what would happen if you pulled away.

He walked you the few steps to the bed, hand never leaving your arm, and helped you sit. His other hand reached for your shoulder, too familiar now, the way it rested there a beat too long.

You flinched.

Joel paused, then gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Easy now. Ain’t tryin’ to scare you."

But when he leaned in to adjust the pillow behind you, his knuckles dragged against your collarbone. His other hand hovered lower on your side, not quite touching your hip—but close enough that the heat of it made you recoil inside.

“You’re all tense,” he murmured, gaze slipping down your frame like a slow leak. “Just breathe, alright? You’re safe.”

The worst part was how convincing his voice sounded.

But you knew better.

Your body knew better.

You sank down against the bed with a strange sort of heaviness, like your own limbs no longer belonged to you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, a dry, musty scent rising up from the sheets.

You tried to sit upright, to keep your spine straight, but your body leaned without permission, your muscles slackened under the weight of your own breath.

Joel didn’t go back to the chair.

You heard the soft groan of the mattress again, felt the subtle shift beside you before your eyes caught up. He sat on the edge of the bed now. Right next to you.

Not touching, but close.

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes trying to focus. Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought dragging through molasses.

“Why…” you started, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come.

Your tongue felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.

He smiled, small, faint. You might've miss it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking. Because watching him felt like the only thing tethering you now.

“You okay, sugar?” he asked again, quieter this time. Closer. He didn’t sound worried. Not really.

You tried to speak, but your words came out slurred, barely above a whisper. “M’fine…”

It took all your strength just to swallow the lump in your throat, even that felt like work. You could feel your pulse behind your eyes now, slow and sluggish.

Joel didn’t move away.

His arm rested across his lap, hand curled on his thigh. The same hand that had guided you here. The same hand that lingered too long.

His eyes weren’t on your face anymore.

You saw that.

You felt that.

Still, you couldn’t quite pull your body back. Couldn’t seem to make your limbs respond.

You were here. And so was he.

And something deep in your gut told you the space between you wouldn’t stay empty much longer.

Joel's calloused hands reached toward the strap of your bra that had peaked out from your shirt. He lifted it in his fingers almost carefully, letting it lead up to the top of your bra. Your mumbled incoherently at his touch. He shushed you softly.

He didn't speak anymore, he didnt need too. He brought his fingers back up to your collarbone before laying his palm across it, the strap caught between his fingers as he pushed it down your shoulder. His body leaned forward to press his lips to your collarbone. His beard was scruffy and sharp against your soft skin, like needles.

His lips were dry and cracked, the wetness from his saliva being the only softness. He pecked at the bone a few times before his mouth wrapped around it, sucking.

Your hands weakly moved to his shoulders, but his hands patiently wrapped around your wrists, pushing them to sit by your head. The bed dented down. Your writhed weakly. He continued sucking and nipping at the spot till a dark mark appeared.

The knot in your stomach churned as he licked over where he bit to soothe your skin, his beard felt like a hundred tiny needles digging into you. Red appeared around the purple. His thumbs pressed into your wrists, feeling your pulse as you whimpered. His mouth lifted for a moment, his breath hot on your irritated skin.

"Your hearts finally slowin' down sweetheart, ain't losin' ya am I?" He huffed with a humor only he had. His mouth wrapped around the mark again, his tounge tracing your collarbone as he hummed.

He hadn’t lied, your heart finally slowed, but the panic stayed lodged in your chest. Each beat hammered against your ribs, like it was trying to tear its way out and leave you behind. The thump in your chest spread your blood throughout your body, heat rising on your skin.

His hands weren’t tight on your wrists, his thumbs traced slow circles on your pulsepoints before sliding into your palms. His mouth kept defacing your shoulder. There was no violence in it, if anything, he almost seemed to be comforting you.

You couldn’t decide if that made it better, or worse, or if it changed anything at all.

Your knees dragged upward in another weak attempt to slip free, but your bones felt like wet cement, heavy and useless. You turned your head away with a thin whine, your body mustering what little control it had to spill tears that slid into your ears. Your chest heaved as you writhed.

Joel shushed you without cruelty, his hum low and pitying, the vibration running from his throat into your collarbone. His mouth scattered pecks over the marks fresh on your neck and shoulders before he propped himself on an elbow, still looming above you. One calloused hand smeared the tears across your right cheek while his lips caught the ones on the left—and you swore his tongue slipped out to taste the salt straight from your skin.

“Don’t cry, sugarpie… I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise. Didn’t mean to upset you none. I just get real lonely out on the road, is all.”

He looked and sounded so genuine, like he truly believed every word he spoke. His lips brushed your ear when he talked, his voice almost swallowed by the blare of the TV—and now you understood why it was so loud. Not that it mattered. The only sounds you could make were thin, mousey whines, easy to mistake for the creaks of the old bedframe or an actual mouse.

Your lips trembled as you turned your face from his hands, eyelids pressed tight. The only refuge you had was to pretend, if only for a moment, that none of this was real.

“Hey now… look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby.” His voice stayed soft, but there was an edge of annoyance beneath it.

When you didn’t obey, his hand closed around your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered. He tilted your head toward him, but your eyes stayed shut. He clicked his tongue, then used his other hand to peel one eyelid open. Your iris was barely a ring around your blown pupil, whatever he’d given you was already winding through your blood, sinking heavy into your bones.

He smiled softly. “There she is…” he whispered, letting your eyelid flutter shut as his hand slipped into your hair, fingers combing slow like he meant to soothe. “Pretty, pretty girl.”

His lips met your forced pout in a mockery of a kiss, his tongue brushing gently against them, coaxing for a response you never gave. When you didn't reciprocate, he nipped at your lips gently.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your eyes still screwed shut, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of his touch. His hand hovered at your shoulder, and he grinned at the weak tremors rippling through your body. Slowly, he let his fingertips trail down to your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts to trace the waistband, his blunt nail dragging a cruel line across your pelvis.

"It's okay, hun." He whispered as he slipped another finger into the waistband.

You felt his hand turn in your shorts, the pads of his fingers now touching you. You tensed but made no move to resist, not that you could. His hand slowly, painstakingly, moved deeper into your shorts. You quietly cried as his middle and pointer finger dragged across your clothed clit before it was quickly replaced by his palm, fingers down to your slit. Your heard a gravelly groan reach out of his throat.

"Fuck sweetie, you're soaking through your panties." He chuckled near the end of his words before exhaling heavily.

Your eyes wanted to shoot open, but only managed to lift with a furrowed brow. His eyes met yours, his bottom lip between his stained teeth. Confusion was painted on your features.

"Yeah baby, you're panties are fucking ruined." He huffed, his palm pressing onto your swollen clit.

A humiliating gasp was ripped from you as more tears fell from your eyes. No, no no no...

"Mhm, shit baby, see? Your body knows I'm not hurting ya, what was all that fuss about?"

The pads of his fingers brushed over your clothes slit, the wetness became more obvious as you heard a sickening squelch when he pressed them into your sopping hole over your panties.

"Ah... Joel.." you cried, your voice never felt smaller.

His hot breath fanned your face with a pant, "Yeah, baby, say my name."

You shook your head weakly, your eyes traveling down to where his hand disappeared into your shorts. You remembered you had hands as you tried to push his hand away. In your haze, you accidently pushed him closer, letting his palm rub harder into your clit.

You wanted to puke when your felt a shot of pleasure crack through you, you wanted to die when you felt your hips roll into his hand. Your voice cracked with a wordless 'No'.

Joel beamed, "You got such a needy pussy, baby... look at her, she wants so bad. She knows whats best for you... she just wanna feel good."

You grit your teeth as your hips rolled again, his hand meeting it with a circle of his own. Your nails dug into his forearm, but they barely made an indent. You felt his leg cross over yours as he hummed your thigh. His cock was hard in his jeans, the bulge large and visable despite your brain fog and the dark room.

His hand left your shorts for a moment, and you felt a wave of relief before you felt them fall straight to the button on them.

He unbuttoned them with one hand as he groaned, lifting himself to his knees. He grabbed at the waistband at both your hip bones and tore them down. You tried to cross your legs but one of his hands met your thigh and shoved it to the side, just long enough to get your shorts off.

He brought both hands to the back of your knees, dragging you down for his thighs to meet the back of yours. He spread you open and stared down like he was holding his fridge open, deciding what he wanted to feast on. He barely felt the tug of you trying to close them. In a last ditch effort you moved your hands to cover your crotch, and that's when you felt it.

You were completely soaked through, the wet spot making your white panties transparent. It was like something inside you broke at that moment. Your body had decided to completely betray you.

As if he noticed you resolve falter, he brought his hands to the side of your panties and ripped. One side, then the other. Throwing them across the room to land somewhere on the carpet. You bit into your hands as you stopped pulling away. Eyes distant but open, he would take it.

His hands lifted your shirt over your bra before he shoved that up too. It squeezed over the top of your breasts almost painfully.

"God bless you, baby... perfect fucking pussy," his hand slapped it as he leaned forward, "and perfect fucking tits."

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tounge circling it wildly as he sucked the nub between his teeth. Your body reacted how it wanted, and you could only whimper and whine pathetically. He rested above you on one forearm while his other hand met your leaking slit again. His thick middle finger dragged up and down it, your wetness coating the pad. He brought it to you clit, circling slowly before he flicked it.

He moaned around you nipple when you jumped with a cry. The more your body reacted the more he seemed to lose it. He switched to the other nipple, "Gotta give her some lovin' too." He chuckled.

The actions repeated for a few minutes you think, your perception of time got foggy with each circle, flick, and switch.

The vibration from his groans tickled your breast, making your back arch further into his mouth. He was almost fucking drooling, copious amounts of spit shined your chest like you'd been rubbed down in oil.

He abruptly moved down, his hand leaving to grip your hips, holding them down as he settled between your legs. He licked a long stripe across your slit, shaking his head side to side as the muscle circled your clit before he sunk it into your organ. His hands moved to your chest as he tounge fucked you, fast and unrelenting. He only lifted from you to spit on you pussy before he flattened his tounge across your entire slit and diving back in.

Every groan and moan from his vibrated against your clit and the inside of you. You felt breathless and violated. And when a knot formed in your stomach that you couldn't decipher at first due to the sinking dread that had settled there, it was too late.

With a broken cry, you threw your head back as your legs shook around his head. His voice raised over the tv for a moment with how loud he growled against your pussy.

He detached from you before appearing in front of your eyes and shoving his hot tounge down your throat. You grimaced as you tasted yourself, your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.

"Sweet as cherry pie, baby." He mumbled against your mouth. His tounge dragged along the inside of your mouth, just another hole to him. Along the ridges of the roof of your mouth to the back of your teeth.

He sucked on your tounge harshly before unlatching, raising back on his knees again with a hushed 'Fuck...' undoing his belt. The clink of metal echoed, as he stood. He didn't bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to release his raging cock.

He walked to the side of the bed, grabbing your arm and dragging you closer. His dick hung heavy as it twitched, face level with you. You closed your mouth tightly and turned your head, only to met with a gentle but forceful tap from the back of his hand. The same hand grabbed your jaw as he leaned down to meet your eyes.

"I'm only gonna say this once, you don't fucking bite. I don't wanna hurt you, sugar, but you bite my fucking dick and I'll knock your teeth out." He said it sternly with raised brows.

You only looked at him fearfully before he spoke again, "Do you understand?" You nodded.

He loosened his grip and brought his thumbs to the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. "Relax your throat, sweetheart. Be good for me, m'kay?"

What else could you do other then what you were told?

The tip leaked as he dragged it across your lips before he got an idea, backing up and manhandling you to lay with your head upside down on the edge. He returned to your lips, a couple heavy slaps of his cock landed on your cheek before he told you to stick your tounge out, and he slid into your warm waiting mouth.

He groaned as he moved till his balls touched your nose, stilling there for a moment as you suffocated. You whimpered around him as you brought your hands up, "Breath through your nose, sweetheart." He instructed.

He pulled out leaving just the tip in your mouth before he slowly bottomed out again. He didnt waste time changing the pace, his hips thrusted steadily. Drool dripped from your mouth as he fucked it, his heavy, twitching balls smacking your nose each time. He brought his hands to take your wrists, settling them on your stomach as he leaned forward so he could thrust harder. He panted and groaned, cursing occasionally inbetween.

One of his hands left your wrist to smack your pussy once before he lifted himself. Bringing one knee to the mattress, he stood as he thrusted downward into your throat. His hand enveloped it with a growl when he saw the shift inside of it. His eyes were locked on the bulge that appeared in your throat when he shoved it down.

His thrusts became sloppy as he got louder. He lean forward again, fully pounding your throat before hot seed filled it. You felt it hit your uvula in bursts, forcing you to cough and gag, your body desperately trying to suck in air through your filled neck. He stilled at the deepest point, his tip twitching to hit the back of your throat as you felt his balls tighten against your nose. He exhaled roughly before giving you one more slowly thrust, pulling out.

You gasped desperately, veins bulging in your face and neck. Your eyes were pink and your head was swimming due to it hanging upside down for so long. Spit and snot leaked down from your face along with his cum.

Kneeling next to you, he nuzzled your head with his own with soft shushing. "That's it, breath, honey... You did so good, took it so good. Made me feel so good, baby..." he muttered, kisses moving across your temple.

When your coughing subsided you breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, mumbling incoherently as your brain struggled to process. The fog lifted when you felt his hands around your ankles from the other side of the bed, dragging you to lay on it again. He crawled to join you before twisting you back around so your head was at the pillows.

Cries came more freely now as you saw his still hard cock scoot closer to your pussy. You head turned before narrowing in on a sheet of tablets sitting on the side table he'd been sitting at. Two blue pills missing.

Your throat burned as a weak cry tried to crawl out, but he'd abused it to the point of you loosing your voice. Pathetic squeaks falling from your mouth instead. You felt his cock slap against your pussy, it instinctively pulsed at the pressure. He pressed the tip to your clit, thrusting against it. Your back arched as your hips rolled with his, your brain was so fuzzy you didnt even register the noises spilling from your lips.

The stretch was sudden as he pushed into you. Your lips trembled around him as he slid inside easily. Your spit and already soaked his cock immeasurably, but the lube that leaked from you without permission added to it ease of which he came inside you without friction. You felt impossibly full when his hand came down to push on your lower stomach as he began working.

There was no build up, the speed was set from the jump as he hauled himself over you. His hips met yours with heavy thrusts, pounding into you without thought. The only time he let you breath was when he kneeled again, only to grab the back of your knees and shove them next to you head as he somehow fucked you harder. He felt no need to speak anymore, only occasion growls of how wet you were, which you hadn't needed verbal acknowledgement of. It was clear from the wet slaps that echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears as you laid limp and took it.

Your mouth hung open as noises continued to force themselves from your throat, you had been so gone that you didnt flinch when you spit into your mouth, your throat instantly tensing as you swallowed it. You had lost almost all feeling, your hearing muffled, you took no notice of the impending release.

"Fucking shit baby... pussys so fucking tight 'round me... you gonna cum again? Hmm? You love this fucking cock, you know you do. You're body knows you do."

It went in one ear and out the other, you were reduced to a whimpering hole.

You didnt react when he pulled out to flip you onto your stomach, shoving one knee hip while the other stayed straight. He laid atop your seemingly lifeless body as he shoved himself back in and quickly resumed his previous pace. The cupped smacking sound reverberated with his pounding, your voice now muffled by the pillows you faced.

You felt his weight as his chest met your back and he rutted into you. Your fingers twitched with a mix of exhaustion, pleasure, and anxiety. He swiped your hair from your shoulder as he sucked another mark onto you from behind. Your voice raised a pitch as he thrusts began sloppy again.

"You're gonna make me cum again, honey... fuck yeah that's it, you can take it, knew you could." You whimpered as he lifted your hips, shoving you onto him just as harshly as he was fucking you. But you tightend around him all the same.

"Come on, cum with me, baby! Want your pussy to clamp down and suck my cum right out of my cock... milk me fucking dry, baby... lemme fill up that sexy fucking pussy!"

A scream was at the back of your throat as your body jumped like you were electrocuted. It came out as a broken cry as you shook violently. He didn't stop even after your orgasm run its course, only fucked you faster. Your hips pulled away as you mindlessly scrambled away from his unrelenting ones, but you were still under the influence of his roofie, and he was still so much stronger.

And so for another agonizing few minutes you shook and writhed and cried till he bottomed out. Cumming deep inside your abused cunt. You felt the warmth fill you as his tip hit your cervix, it spread quickly down to your opening where it leaked down onto the bed. He let himself to thrust a handful more times as he drained his balls inside of you.

And then he stayed there, his hand lifting your hips to keep it from leaking out. But there was so much, it filled your entire cunt. You felt his hands reached and pinch your slit closed around his cock. His mouth came to your ear as he whispered.

"Gotta make it stick... make sure you get nice and full."

You have nothing left in you to protest, only tears slipping by. You're so fucking dirty, cum and spit and snot and tears and sweat. The blanket your sprawled on feels like got left out in the rain.

You feel his cock soften inside you of before he pulls out. Two fingers immediately replace it, stuffing the little that leaks out back into your brushed pussy. You begin to lose your senses, your body unable to force itself to fight awake anymore.

He watches you from his spot at the bar, across the tipsy bison, how you laugh with your friends, how your cheeks gain colour with every drink, how you politely refuse any man who makes advances

He knows you’re barely in your twenties, all fresh-faced and so sweet looking, the world can’t possibly have gotten to you yet — that’s what intrigues him, how untainted by cruelty you seem

Tommy catches him staring and scolds him for it — she’s off limits, Joel, there’s a million men better suited for a girl like her

Yes, a million men who you refuse, night after night, offering them your sweet apologetic smiles, and returning to playing cards with your friends. He can’t help but wonder if you’ve got a man already, if that’s why you refuse everyone

One night you make your way over to the bar, stumbling in your cowboy boots, your cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol, your movements a little fuzzy, a vague smile on your face that he recognises from his own youth — the kind of smile only brought out by carefree evenings in bars, cigarettes, and flirting without a goal

You ask the barkeeper for another drink, and accept his wink with a sweet smile when he puts the glass down in front of you. It bothers Joel, this new development. You’re supposed to refuse everyone here

That guy cheats on his wife, he tells you, and your big Bambi eyes land on him, surprised. You two haven’t spoken before. Thought you oughta know.

You cock your head curiously, and lift your glass to your mouth. It’s sweating from the ice, pearly drops of water drooling over your fingernails. You know everyone’s business, Mr. Miller?

You know his name — Joel’s spine tingles. For a sweet girl, you sure manage to hold his gaze, most people would have looked away by now. He’s not known for his pleasant small talk

He wants to ask you to come home with him, but he can feel the eyes of your friends on the two of you, so he restrains himself. Your small hand comes to rest on top of his shoulder, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through him

I wasn’t flirting with him, Mr. Miller, just being polite. You’d know if I was, you say, and then you’re gone, off to your friends again, your dress swaying around your thighs and for a second he has to fight the impulse to drag you back over to him and sit you down on his lap

But he can’t do that, won’t do that, not when you’re so young and half of Jackson would want to see him hang

From then on, you talk to him every time you get a drink — and you start getting them for your friends, too. Any more town secrets to spill, Mr. Miller? How’s that whiskey for the eighteenth night in a row, Mr. Miller? Mr. Miller, I heard Tommy’ll be a Daddy soon — looking forward to being an uncle?

So what if he indulges you? He’s making conversation, people can hardly judge him for it — so long as they don’t know about what he does when he gets home from the bar each evening, imagining it’s your little hand instead of his own

You keep denying all of your admirers, which are more than Joel would like to admit, ever friendly about it. They leave with bruised egos, but glad you were polite about it — all but one. A tall kid, a little older than you but barely 25, and he keeps pestering you night after night. Joel watches the way your brows furrow, the corners of your mouth turning downward rather than up into that sweet smile he adores

The fifth night, the boy touches your shoulder, and your friend pushes his arm away, but he persists. Before Joel can stop himself, he’s on his feet. There a problem here?

Your eyes are round and relieved when they find Joel, and even subconsciously you move towards him. It’s fine, we’re just making conversation, the kid says, so Joel looks at you. You shake your head so slightly he almost doesn’t see it, but it’s all it takes

How ‘bout you ‘n I make some conversation outside? The boy is gone before Joel can put his fist to his jaw, which he’s been itching to do for days now, but after he gives you a slight nod, and you thank him, he leaves your table again to make sure the boy won’t be back as soon as he’s gone

Before he can step outside, he feels your little hand on his arm, and he turns around to look at you. Could you walk me home, Mr. Miller?

He can’t possibly refuse you, doesn’t want to, so he gets your jacket from the coat rack by the door — you don’t question how he knows it’s yours — and leads you outside with a heavy palm on your shoulder

You don’t speak much, but you walk closer to him than you have to, and a sick satisfaction pools inside his belly. You feel safe with him, you trust him to get you home safe, you want to be near him

Right before you reach your house, you look up at him, the apples of your cheeks violently flushed by the cold, snow dotting your hair. Stay a while?

He can’t, he really shouldn’t, not when you’re clearly desperate for him to do so, not when your eyes are all hopeful and innocent and unknowing of what you’re asking of him. Please, I get so lonely at night.

Now, he can’t have that. Sweet girl like you, anyone would be happy to keep you company, and yet Joel’s the one you’re asking. So he agrees, and you open the door into a warm corridor that smells of cinnamon and apples

You take off your boots, revealing your bare legs, only covered by a pair of white stockings to keep you warm, and one of your cotton dresses that can’t possibly keep you warm in this weather. He wants to wrap you up in a blanket and rip it all off at the same time

He stays to ease your mind after he incident at the bar, and after a while you dose off to sleep on the couch, your head drooping and snapping upwards again every few seconds. And he knows you need your sleep, you’re still only twenty after all, so he picks you up to carry you upstairs, but you stir in his arms

Come on, let’s get you to bed, kiddo, he mutters, and in your sleep-drunken state, you rest your head against the crook of his neck, your soft mouth pressing a wet kiss there, and he’s done for, beyond help

When he puts you down on your bed, your eyes open, and he wants so badly to kiss you, to claim you. Sleep with me, you mumble, and God help him, he gets into bed with you, still wearing his jeans

You cuddle up to him, stealing his warmth, his scent, dizzying him with yours. He doesn’t get a wink of sleep, not with the sweet sounds you make while you dream and the way your body molds so perfectly against him

In the morning you smile up at him like you can’t quite believe he’s still there, and then you kiss him, and he knows there’s no turning back from any of it now, not when he’s got you rested and pliant and warm in a bed, not when your legs are wrapped around his thigh so sweetly

So he does what he’s been wanting to do, climbs on top of you, his body weight pressing you into the mattress and pulling the sweetest sounds from your pretty throat — your hands grasp at his shoulders, his back, his arms, when he kisses and licks and bites whatever part of you he can reach

You’re so responsive, like this is the first time someone’s touched you like this, and the thought makes him dizzy. You’re whining for him and he hasn’t even gotten you out of your little dress yet. By the time two of his fingers find your clit, you’re positively trembling under him, and he watches in fascination as you shake and come for him so easily, like you’ve been waiting to do just that, like it’s been building all night. Good girl, my sweet, good girl.

That makes you twitch for him, a broken sound coming out of your mouth that he knows is supposed to be a word. Speak up, kiddo, can’t hear ya.

You do, your hips still moving after your orgasm has faded. D-daddy. His blood starts to boil, and it’s all it takes for him to roughly open his belt buckle, ignore the way his joints pop at the movement, hike up your dress, pull down the cotton panties you’ve soaked, and press the tip of his aching cock against your dripping entrance

When he finally presses himself inside of your tight body, you mewl for him with wide glassy eyes, and it takes all his strength to not just slam into you. He knows you need to adjust to his girth, especially if he’s right and this is the first time someone has fucked you

When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, your breathing comes in little pants, and you throb and clench around him. It makes him want to come inside of you, fuck you until it takes, until that little pussy has what it’s so desperately trying to drain from him

He starts fucking you deeply, as deeply as he can, and you cry for him with every thrust, sweet chants of DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy. You don’t just want it, you need it, eyelids fluttering and your soft red mouth slightly agape. Your hands tangle into his greying hair, tugging and trying desperately to hold onto something

When you come for him again, he rubs at your little clit until you’re done, but even then, you keep letting him fuck you, his cock moving in and out of you easily, your whole body shaking with overstimulation. Want it inside please, Daddy, you moan, your muscles limp. He grips your hips, and empties his balls deep inside of you, keeps thrusting until he’s sure his spent can’t possibly be deeper inside of you

You smile up at him when he calls you his good, sweet girl, a blissed out and happy look on your face

So he stays, fucks you again and again that day, barely lets you leave your bed, until Tommy knocks on the door and tells him he missed patrol and the whole of Jackson is talking about you and him. But Joel doesn’t care, not when the second the door is closed you kiss him

People stare when the two of you walk through the streets of Jackson, your hand in Joel’s, smooth fingers against weathered, calloused ones. You don’t mind, kiss him in the tipsy bison in front of everyone, ignore even Tommy and your friends when they tell you to take some space

You didn’t need to look. You knew the tone too well—warm for everyone else, syrupy for you, sticky enough to rot your teeth.

He was already leaning against the doorway to his office, coffee in hand, smile curved just a little too wide.

“Late night?” Bucky asked, head tilted. Blue dress shirt rolled to his forearms, watch gleaming like he knew where your eyes would go. “You look like you could use a long… slow… morning.”

You kept walking.

“Morning, Mr. Barnes,” you muttered, flat as concrete.

That got a grin out of him. “So formal. C’mon, you’re killin’ me, princess.”

You didn’t slow down. But you felt it—the way his eyes dragged along your body, like he was undressing you just enough to make it believable if anyone else looked.

The open office buzzed behind you. Phones ringing, typing, someone laughing too loudly at something not funny. The interns giggled near the copy machine. A group gathered around the espresso machine, sipping foam like it was champagne.

They all loved him.

Charming. Fair. Cool boss who never micromanaged. Remembered birthdays, handed out bonuses, made everyone feel seen.

Except you.

You didn’t get smiles in meetings. You got stares. Lingering ones. Didn’t get praise. You got princess.

And you weren’t crazy. You knew the difference between friendly and fuckable.

────────────────────────

Later, at your desk, you felt him come up behind you before he even spoke. His cologne hit first—something warm and leathery. Too close.

“Hey, honey,” he said low, close enough you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck. “I had notes on that pitch deck you sent. Slide seven’s still a little sloppy. Might need you to stay late tonight.”

You turned your head just slightly. “I sent that after midnight, and you reviewed it already?”

He smiled. Didn’t even try to hide it.

“Didn’t get much sleep. Had something better to look at.”

His eyes flicked down your blouse for one second too long.

You stared back—flat, unreadable.

“If you’re implying something inappropriate, Mr. Barnes, I'll have to file a complaint.”

He chuckled. “Relax, sweetheart. Jesus. You’re always so wound up. Just tryin’ to make your day go by a little smoother.”

“Then how about you stop hovering over my shoulder?”

He held up both hands, backing off like he was giving you space—though you both knew he’d just invade it again tomorrow.

“You got it, princess. Didn’t mean to rattle you.”

And with that, he was gone. Whistling. Smiling at someone like he didn’t just slide a threat beneath his charm.

────────────────────────

The day dragged.

Emails, deadlines, polite smiles through clenched teeth. Conference calls where people said nothing for an hour and still called it productive. You kept your eyes on your screen, fingers typing too fast—because it helped. Helped to keep your mind somewhere else, anywhere but on him.

Bucky walked the floor like a king. Buttoned-up, sleeves rolled, charm weaponized. He asked about people’s weekends. Laughed at the dumb jokes from accounting. Dropped a $50 Starbucks gift card on someone’s desk “just because.”

No one blinked.

Of course they didn’t. He was nice. A little flirty, sure. But that’s just Bucky. You should take it as a compliment. Relax. Smile. Lighten up.

You didn’t.

You waited until the floor quieted. Lunch hour—half the office gone, the rest too buried in takeout and spreadsheets to notice anything.

You went to the break room.

There was something peaceful in the motion: opening the cabinet, finding your mug, filling the kettle. Small, quiet rituals. A moment where you could breathe.

Until the heat of his body hit your back.

You didn’t even hear him come in. Didn’t see him.

You just felt it—that sudden press of presence behind you. His chest grazing your shoulder blades. His breath, warm against your hair.

“Oh—didn’t mean to sneak up on you, sweetheart.”

You froze, mug in hand, halfway to pouring.

He reached up, stretching one arm over your head. His shirt tightened across his chest. His other hand braced against the counter beside your hip.

You were trapped.

“Just needed sugar,” he said casually, as if this was normal. As if his chest wasn’t brushing yours, his thigh not grazing the back of yours like he didn’t care who walked in.

You stayed quiet. Because what could you say?

He wasn’t doing anything.

That was the game. He never did anything.

Just stood too close. Smiled too long. Let his hand linger when he passed you something. Made you feel dirty for reading into it—even when you weren’t.

His voice dipped, like a secret.

“You always smell so fuckin’ good, you know that?”

Low. Not enough to carry beyond the breakroom walls.

You stiffened.

“Bet your sheets smell just like this.”

You set the mug down. Turned. Stared him dead in the eye.

He smiled, sugar packet in hand like nothing happened. “Relax, princess. Just sayin’.”

He winked. Walked out.

Left you standing there—heart hammering, mug forgotten, skin crawling.

And just like every time before, the cameras wouldn’t see anything. HR wouldn’t believe anything.

Because Bucky Barnes? Was a gentleman.

────────────────────────

You found a rare moment of quiet at the back of the office—the smaller kitchen, the one no one really used unless the main breakroom was full. Less traffic. Less… him.

You stood at the counter, nursing your coffee like it might save you. The silence helped, even if just for a second.

Then footsteps. Soft heels. Familiar rhythm.

“Hey,” Sharon’s voice came, warm and breezy as always. “Didn’t think anyone else knew about this spot.”

You gave her a quick smile. She was easy to talk to. Grounded. Cool under pressure. Everyone loved her.

“Needed a breather,” you said. “The espresso machine was out anyway.”

She chuckled, popping open her seltzer. “I told them not to trust that new vendor.”

You hesitated. Then spoke—carefully, “Hey… can I ask you something?”

She glanced over, eyes curious but relaxed. “Of course.”

You stared into your mug for a second, weighing it.

“It’s about Mr. Barnes.”

That got her attention. Her brow arched just slightly, but she didn’t say anything—just waited.

You kept your tone light. Neutral. Non-accusatory.

“Do you ever… feel like he’s a little inappropriate sometimes? Like, just… with the way he talks? Or how close he gets?”

Silence.

Sharon blinked slowly. Then she smiled—gently, almost pitying.

“Oh, honey.”

And that told you everything.

“You’re overthinking it,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Bucky’s harmless. He flirts with everyone. It’s just his way.”

You forced a smile. “Right. Yeah.”

“He’s old-school,” she added, like that explained anything. “Chivalry, all that. I promise, if he actually stepped out of line, I’d be the first to say something.”

You nodded, but it felt robotic. Your chest tightened.

“I just… feel like he’s different with me,” you murmured.

She waved a hand. “He probably just likes your work ethic. You know he pushes the people he thinks are good.”

That one stung.

You wanted to argue. Say it wasn’t about deadlines or performance reviews. That you could feel him looking at you through your clothes. That you could smell his cologne hours after he passed by.

But Sharon was already walking off, patting your arm.

“Don’t let it get to your head, okay? He’s a good guy.”

And just like that, you were alone again.

Coffee gone cold. Skin crawling. Mouth dry.

And outside that tiny breakroom door, Bucky laughed at something by the front desk—voice full of warmth, charm, and power.

No one saw him the way you did. And maybe they never would.

So you ended up staying late.

Not for the work. You could’ve finished that report hours ago. But leaving meant walking past his office. Past that glass wall he always kept open just enough to catch your reflection. Past the possibility he’d call out one of those stupid names again.

Princess.

Sweetheart.

Honey.

Like he was tasting the word before saying it.

So you stayed.

Let the office go quiet. Let the lights dim on their own. Pretended the silence was comforting, even though it made everything worse.

Your screen glared back at you, the spreadsheet long since forgotten. Instead, you stared blankly at the internal memo still pulled up on your monitor.

“Reminder: Quarterly Mixer – This Saturday @ 7PM! Come celebrate with drinks, food, and the best coworkers on Earth! (Yes, that means YOU!)”

You’d read it four times already.

Couldn’t bring yourself to delete it. Couldn’t bring yourself to RSVP. You didn’t want to go.

God, you really didn’t want to go.

The thought of being in that kind of setting with him—music, alcohol, soft lighting, no desks between you—made your stomach twist. And not because you were scared he’d do something worse.

No. It was because you weren’t sure what you’d do. Because maybe Sharon was right. Maybe it was just you.

Maybe you were overreacting. Maybe he was just flirty. And charming. And hands-on. And you’d made it into something worse in your head because you didn’t like being looked at like that.

Maybe you just didn’t know how to take a compliment.

You rubbed at your temple, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud.

It was driving you insane—this gaslight-loop of doubt. One second, you were certain: he was a sleaze. The next, you felt crazy for even thinking it.

Saturday Night

You barely recognized the place.

The fluorescent overheads were off, replaced by string lights and dim glows from floor lamps pushed into corners. Soft music floated through the air—jazzy, upbeat, expensive-sounding. It smelled like catered finger food and someone’s too-strong cologne.

The office didn’t look like the office. And that made it worse somehow.

You stepped off the elevator, tugging your dress down for the fifth time—not because it was too short, but because you felt too exposed. Too seen. It clung to your thighs like heat, shifted too easily when you moved.

You should’ve stayed home.

But now you were here, and you knew exactly why you’d come.

You weren’t even sure if it was to prove a point—or prove yourself wrong.

The bar was set up where reception used to be. A mini station with backlit shelves, clean glasses, a bartender in black sleeves rolling them up. Everyone laughed a little louder than usual. Smiled a little wider. The tension of workweek deadlines washed out by open bar and soft playlists.

You spotted them near the far corner—your somewhat friends. As close as it got in this building.

Sharon, pristine as ever in a sleek jumpsuit, sipped a cocktail like it had been custom-made for her hand. Maria, in a blazer and jeans, leaned against the wall with the ease of someone who didn’t get rattled by anything. And Rhodey, drink in hand, already mid-laugh at something Sharon said, his smile bright under the lights.

You walked up as casually as you could, past the clusters of people you barely knew. Past interns showing too much skin and directors acting too loose. Past the desk where Bucky usually sat during meetings.

Gone now. Just lights. Music. And you, pretending this was fine.

“Hey, there you are!” Sharon said, spotting you. “Look at you, damn.”

You gave a soft smile, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Rhodey added, raising his glass. “Glad you did, though.”

You nodded, even if it felt like lying.

Maria handed you something pink and dangerous-looking. “Drink. Don’t ask what’s in it.”

You took it—sipped—smiled on instinct.

Nothing wrong. Nothing off.

Just coworkers. Music. Drinks. And the low throb of tension somewhere beneath your ribs, humming like it was waiting for something.

You felt him before you saw him.

That familiar scent—warm spice and something expensive—cut through the air like it had claws. And then the soft clink of ice in a glass. That low, slow voice.

“Evenin’, folks.”

Your spine straightened. Eyes didn’t move. Not yet.

Then Sharon’s voice lit up. “Look who finally decided to show.”

“Fashionably late,” Bucky answered, tone easy, that damn smirk tucked behind the rim of his glass.

He looked unfair.

Black dress shirt, collar open like it was an accident—like he couldn’t be bothered to button all the way up. Sleeves rolled, forearms out. A neat silver watch that caught the light when he lifted his drink.

And the worst part? He didn’t even look at you at first.

He slid into the conversation like he’d been part of it all along. Said something slick to Rhodey about the open bar. Laughed with Sharon about last quarter’s chaos. Leaned in close to Maria, murmured something that made her chuckle and shake her head.

You stood stiff, sipping your drink, eyes forward, willing your body to stay calm.

Then—finally—he turned to you.

“And look at you,” he said softly, eyes dragging over your dress like it was meant for him. “Didn’t think you liked parties, sweetheart.”

You kept your tone even. Cold. “Mr. Barnes.”

The air shifted, almost imperceptibly.

He smiled, and it was all teeth and secrets.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low, lazy. “Don’t be like that. It’s Bucky tonight. No titles, no deadlines.”

You didn’t answer.

Then he turned back to the group, all charm again.

“Mind if I borrow her for a second?” he asked casually, like it was nothing. “Need to talk work. Real quick.”

And just like that, your maybe-friends betrayed you.

“Of course,” Sharon said with a smile.

“Don’t keep her long,” Rhodey added.

Maria nodded, already halfway back to her drink.

They didn’t see it. They never saw it.

Bucky gestured toward the hallway with his glass. “Just a minute.”

You hesitated. Then followed—because what choice did you have?

Your heels echoed off the hallway tile, now dim and unfamiliar in the party lighting. He walked ahead just slightly, guiding with that casual confidence, like this wasn’t just another play.

Instead of steering you into some dim hallway, Bucky led you to the bar.

Not the crowded part near the reception—the side nook where the lights dipped lower and the buzz of conversation thinned into background static. It was quieter there. Warmer. Two empty stools and a bartender too busy wiping glasses to care.

He gestured for you to sit, then slid onto the stool beside you. Elbow resting on the bar, one leg loose, turned slightly toward you. Still casual. Still confident. But not looming. Not smirking.

He looked… normal.

“Didn’t mean to make a thing of it,” he said, voice low but smooth, like he was finally dropping the act. “Just—wanted to talk. Clear the air.”

You didn’t answer. You just sat stiff beside him, drink in hand, every part of you coiled tight.

He glanced sideways.

“You’ve been here what—three months now?”

You nodded once.

“And I know I’ve got a reputation,” he continued, lips twitching like the idea amused him. “Friendly. Loud. Maybe too much. But that’s just me. I’m like that with everyone.”

You said nothing.

He huffed a quiet breath, “Didn’t realize it was coming off different with you. That’s on me.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. Just… calm. Measured. No jokes. No wink.

You didn’t know what to say.

For a split second—a dangerous, tiny second—you felt bad.

He turned toward you slightly, elbow still resting, wrist loose over his glass.

“Look, sweetheart—” He caught himself. Smiled, sheepish. “Sorry. Habit. I mean—look. You’re good at what you do. Sharp. Focused. You keep your head down and your mouth shut. It’s intimidating.”

That startled a short laugh out of you before you could stop it.

“There it is,” he said, grinning. “Knew you could smile.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to let the warmth reach your cheeks.

“I just thought maybe if I lightened the mood, joked a little, you’d… loosen up. Guess I overdid it.”

You sipped your drink, still watching him.

Still waiting for the catch.

But there wasn’t one. Not yet.

He was just sitting there. Casual. Human.

And for the first time in weeks, the knots in your shoulders started to ease.

Maybe Sharon was right. Maybe he was just one of those guys—cocky and oblivious, not malicious. Maybe you had overreacted. Maybe it really was in your head.

Maybe…

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said softly, “but I’d rather work with someone who doesn’t flinch every time I pass their desk.”

Your throat felt tight. You hated how reasonable he sounded.

He raised his glass toward yours.

“To a fresh start?”

You hesitated.

Then clinked your glass with his.

“To a fresh start.”

────────────────────────

You’d forgotten what it felt like to laugh at something he said.

Real laughter. Soft and sudden. No tension in your chest, no pretense in your smile. It hit you halfway through a story he was telling—something about HR training and a mandatory PowerPoint that made everyone fall asleep mid-Zoom.

“Nat legit muted herself and took a nap,” he said, hand miming her slumped over a desk. “I was this close to grabbing a screenshot for blackmail.”

You snorted into your glass before you could stop it. Actually snorted.

And he grinned like he’d just won something.

“There it is,” he said. “God, you’re cute when you’re not looking at me like you want me dead.”

Your smile faltered—not because it was creepy, but because it wasn’t.

It sounded genuine.

Before you could say anything, he was already standing, finishing the last sip of his wine.

“Alright, round two. Or three?” he said, glancing at your glass. “Red or white?”

“Red,” you said, automatically.

“Atta girl.”

You blinked at that—the phrase catching on your ribs—but didn’t say anything. He was already halfway to the bar.

You watched him go, jaw loose, mind scattered. There was this lightness in your chest—not comfort, not trust, just confusion. Emotional vertigo. Like you couldn’t tell if you were falling for real or falling for a trick.

When he came back, two fresh glasses in hand, you felt that smile tug at the corner of your lips again. He held your wine out like an offering, then paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You sure you can handle this one?” he teased. “I’m not carryin’ your ass outta here.”

“Only fair,” you said, reaching for the glass. “I carried your team during Q2.”

He barked a laugh, handing it off. “Damn. Okay. I deserved that.”

Then—just as you both raised your glasses again—someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hey, Buck—just a sec,” came Sam Wilson’s voice from behind him, voice warm, already pulling him into conversation.

Bucky turned, responding instantly, hand gesturing mid-sentence.

You looked down at the glass in your hand.

Something twisted in your gut. No reason. No logic. Just a pulse of dread, primal and sharp.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

You swapped the glasses.

Fast. Quiet.

His for yours. Yours for his.

By the time he turned back, Sam gone, Bucky lifted your original glass with a grin.

“To a truce,” he said.

The clink still rang in your ears when you brought the glass to your lips.

Red. Dry. Smooth. Not bad, actually.

You took a slow sip, letting it sit on your tongue a second longer than needed—partly out of habit, partly out of nerves. Your eyes drifted across the room, feigning nonchalance, while your body stayed coiled under your skin.

And then you felt it.

His eyes.

Not obvious. Not leering. Just a quiet pull—like gravity, like heat.

You glanced back at him over the rim of your glass.

He was drinking too. A casual sip. Perfect posture, relaxed shoulders, eyes half-lidded from the wine or the light or both.

But he was watching.

Not in the way he usually did—not at your legs, or your mouth, or the subtle swell of your chest in the dress you never wanted to wear. No, this time he was watching your mouth on the glass.

The way you drank.

Measured. Intent. Like he was waiting for something.

You smiled. Slow. Controlled.

“Gotta say,” you said, voice light but steady, “I’m glad the office didn’t cheap out on the drinks.”

Bucky’s lips quirked around his glass.

“I’d never let that happen,” he murmured, swirling the wine with his wrist. “Would’ve brought the good stuff myself if they had.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Always the overachiever.”

He chuckled. “Only for the right people.”

Your heart ticked a little faster. Not from the wine.

From the look in his eyes. Warm. Familiar. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You took another sip. Held eye contact this time.

He matched it.

It was all so smooth. So easy. The laughter, the banter, the drinks. Just two coworkers finally getting along.

Except you weren’t relaxed. You weren’t softening. You were watching.

Because somewhere beneath that lazy smile and that loose wrist and that soft tone was a different version of him.

“So,” you said, fingers tracing the base of your wine glass, “what’s your secret?”

Bucky glanced at you, brows lifted in mock confusion. “Secret?”

You nodded toward the rest of the room, toward the crowd that always seemed to laugh harder when he was near. “Everyone in this place practically worships you. Even Nat and Maria smile at your jokes. That’s got to be witchcraft.”

He laughed, easy and rich, tilting his head back slightly as he reached for his drink again.

“What can I say? I’m charming,” he said with a smirk. “Or maybe just persistent.”

You leaned in slightly, like the wine was making you bold. “You ever worry someone’s gonna see through it?”

He blinked—just a half-second pause. Almost nothing.

But you saw it.

“Nah,” he said, still smooth. “You’d be surprised how much you can get away with when people like your smile.”

He took another sip. Slower this time.

You watched his throat move as he swallowed. Then—subtly—he adjusted his seat.

You didn’t move. Just sipped your wine and let the silence stretch a beat too long.

“So what about you?” he asked, voice still casual, but his words came out just a little softer. “What’s your secret? I’ve been tryin’ to crack you since day one.”

You smiled. “Maybe I’m just not that interesting.”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “You’re… not like the rest of them.”

There it was again—something in his eyes. Heavy-lidded. Unfocused for a split second. Like his body lagged behind his words.

He blinked once. Twice. Shook it off with another smile, but his jaw tensed briefly—like he’d forgotten what he was about to say.

You tilted your head.

“Everything alright?”

Bucky leaned his forearm on the bar, a little slower than before. Like his coordination was a hair off.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, nodding. “Just… this wine’s stronger than I thought.”

You clinked your glass gently against his.

“Cheers to that.”

And you smiled. This time, for real.

He blinked again. Longer this time. When his eyes opened, they were just a little glassier. His smile—still sitting on his lips—faltered at the edges, like he couldn’t quite keep the shape of it.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at his temple. “Feels like I’ve been drinkin’ all night…”

You stared at him.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched.

Something cold settled in your gut. Heavy. Dense.

Then it flipped—hot, violent—a surge that nearly made you shake.

That son of a bitch.

You didn’t need evidence. Didn’t need a confession. You knew it. He was trying to fucking drug you.

You saw it in the way he kept watching you drink. The timing. The sudden generosity with the wine. The way he carefully nudged your glass toward you like it mattered. Like you mattered—but not in any real way.

You saw it now—clearly—as the man sitting in front of you, still trying to act normal, couldn’t keep his focus for more than a few seconds at a time.

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Ground your heel into the floor to keep yourself tethered. Because what you wanted to do—what every cell in your body was screaming for—was to hit him.

But you didn’t.

You watched.

He chuckled to himself, looking down at his glass like it had betrayed him. “Man, I’m usually better than this,” he said, words just barely slurring at the edges. “Should’ve eaten more…”

You leaned in slightly, slow and composed.

“Long week,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s just hitting you harder than usual.”

He looked up at you—eyes glassy, lids heavy—and smiled.

Like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t just tried to drug you.

And suddenly, you weren’t scared anymore.

You were calm. Cold. Ready.

He leaned in again.

Too close now—his shoulder bumping yours as he tried to prop himself on one elbow, glass clinking faintly on the bar. You caught the tremor in his hand as he set it down. Subtle. Barely there.

But you noticed.

God, you noticed everything.

“You know,” he said, blinking slowly like the air had gotten thick, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were finally warming up to me.”

You turned your head just slightly, face close to his.

“I am,” you said, voice soft.

He smiled—lazy, slow. Eyes hooded.

“See?” he breathed. “Told you all that hardass shit was just a front.”

His hand dropped to your knee.

Fingertips brushing over the fabric of your dress, thumb tracing a soft, circular pattern just above the hem.

It didn’t even feel bold. Not anymore.

It felt clumsy. Desperate.

You let him do it. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. Just kept your eyes on him as he leaned in closer, trying to press the weight of his shoulder into yours like it was natural—like it was wanted.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he slurred, almost under his breath. “Bet you look even better when you’re not pretendin’ you don’t want me.”

You smiled. Quiet. Almost sympathetic.

“You think I’m pretending?”

He nodded, slowly. Like it took effort.

“I know you are,” he mumbled, fingers tightening slightly on your leg. “You don’t fight me like that unless you want it.”

Your stomach curled—not in fear, but fury so controlled it felt cold.

You leaned in until your mouth was just beside his ear, your lips barely grazing the edge of his jaw.

“You’re right,” you whispered. “I do want something.”

He hummed—low and smug, breath thick with wine and ego.

You looked at him. Really looked.

Pupils wide. Skin warm. Blinking harder now. He swayed slightly when he pulled back, shoulder brushing the bar like his balance was slipping.

Still smiling. Still trying.

You reached down, smoothed your hand over his where it rested on your knee—and slowly moved it off.

His brow furrowed faintly. But he didn’t fight it. Didn’t have the strength.

“Bucky,” you said, sweet and patient.

He looked up at you, dazed.

You smiled. “You’re not feeling too good, are you?”

He blinked. Swallowed thickly.

“I—nah, I’m… I’m fine. Just—fuck, I don’t know. Think I just stood up too fast earlier or somethin’…”

You nodded. “Of course. Why don’t I get you out of here?”

His smile returned, slow and sleepy. “You takin’ me home, sweetheart?”

You slipped your hand beneath his arm. Supportive. Steady. “Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

By the time you led him back into the main room, his steps had started to drag. Not badly. Not enough for alarm. Just… sluggish. A little too heavy.

He tried to play it off with a loose arm slung over your shoulders, his laugh too low, too slow.

“Must’ve hit that last glass a little hard,” he muttered against your hair, breath warm and sweet with wine. “Think I’m gonna need you to hold me up, princess.”

You smiled. Soft. Supportive. Of course you would.

The music still pulsed under the low buzz of conversation. Laughter bubbled near the back where people were crowding the snack table, oblivious. The lights felt warmer now—or maybe that was just the way your pulse had settled into something deliberate.

Nat noticed you first.

She stepped toward you both with a confused look, drink in hand. “Everything okay?”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on Bucky’s waist, letting him lean just enough to sell it.

“Think he’s just had a little too much. Long week, not enough to eat, you know how it is.”

Bucky grinned—dazed, eyes barely open—and waved a limp hand. “M’alright. Just need to lie down. She’s takin’ me home.”

Nat raised her eyebrows, clearly trying to suppress a snort. “Damn, lightweight.”

“Shhh,” he muttered, pressing a finger sloppily to his lips. “Don’t out me in front’a the pretty girl.”

You smiled at her. Light, easy. “I’ll make sure he gets in okay.”

Sam caught the tail end of the exchange, stepping over with his glass raised.

“You sure you got him?” he asked, glancing at Bucky, who had now nestled his head against your temple like he belonged there.

“Yeah,” you said. “My place isn’t far from his. Uber’s already on the way.”

He gave you a nod. “You’re a saint.”

Carol, nearby, didn’t even blink. Just waved you off with a faint smirk. “Try not to let him puke in the car.”

You laughed softly. “No promises.”

Everyone went back to their drinks. Their conversations.

Bucky mumbled something that might’ve been a compliment. Or a thank-you. Or another sleazy attempt at charm.

You didn’t listen. You were already steering him toward the elevator.

His steps dragged. One arm hung uselessly at his side. The other clung to you with a growing desperation, like even his body knew it was fading.

The doors slid open.

And as they closed behind you both, you finally let your smile fall.

────────────────────────

The car was warm. Too warm.

Leather seats, low lighting, soft jazz playing from the radio like the driver was trying to impress someone. You slid into the backseat with Bucky barely able to hold himself upright beside you.

He slumped to the left, head knocking against the window before jerking back up, blinking rapidly.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m underwater or somethin’.”

His words were slow. Slurred. Muddled like static.

You turned toward him, one hand resting lightly on his knee—soothing, sweet. The perfect coworker, still playing nursemaid.

“I know,” you said softly.

He looked at you—or tried to. His pupils were blown, eyes unfocused. He blinked once, long and slow, and you watched him try to center your face in his blurred vision.

“You’re just tired,” you murmured. “Probably just drank too fast. Or maybe…”

You leaned in closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear.

“…maybe it’s the roofie.”

He blinked again. “Wha—?”

“You know,” you said sweetly, still stroking his knee, “the one you put in my drink.”

That finally landed.

His head turned, slow and heavy, brows furrowing like his brain was trying to catch up.

“I—I didn’t…” He shook his head, sluggish. “What are you talkin’ about?”

You smiled.

“C’mon, Bucky,” you cooed. “Don’t play dumb. You picked out the drinks. Watched me drink mine. Didn’t touch yours until I did.”

He stared at you.

Silent.

“You know what I did, right?” you whispered. “While you were too busy flirting? I switched them.”

He blinked again. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.

“That’s why you feel like this,” you continued, voice soft, low, deadly calm. “That’s why your muscles are getting heavy. Why your mouth’s not working right. Why your cock’s probably hard and useless.”

You leaned in closer, lips brushing his jaw.

“Because you drugged yourself, you sick fuck.”

“No…” he slurred, barely shaking his head. “That’s not—no, I wouldn’t…”

“You would,” you said, almost sadly. “And you did.”

He tried to sit up straighter. Failed.

The driver didn’t even glance back—probably just thought a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other.

“God, look at you,” you murmured, watching him with slow, satisfied eyes. “Still trying to talk your way out of it. Still trying to be the good guy.”

He turned to you again, mouth slack, confusion blooming behind his eyes—but no protest came. Just that dazed, terrified silence.

And your hand never left his knee.

Getting him through the lobby was easier than it should’ve been.

Security recognized him. Smiled politely. Probably assumed he was just drunk, out celebrating something. They barely looked at you. Why would they? You were helping.

The elevator ride was quiet—aside from the occasional soft grunt from him when he lost balance and leaned too hard against you. His head lolled to the side. His breath was warm against your neck.

By the time you got him to his door, his hands were mostly limp, only twitching slightly when you shifted your grip.

The apartment was exactly what you expected.

High-rise. Open-plan. Posh as hell.

Marble counters, clean lines, oversized art on the walls. Dim lighting that probably cost more than your monthly rent. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive—like cologne left behind on purpose.

You let the door swing shut behind you with a click.

Dragging him down the hall was clumsy. He kept mumbling something under his breath—your name, maybe, or just sounds that used to be words. His feet barely lifted off the ground, shoes scuffing against polished tile. By the time you reached the bedroom, your patience was threadbare.

You let him fall onto the bed.

Not gently.

His body bounced once, limbs landing crooked and graceless across a mattress that looked like it’d been made by a hotel maid. He groaned faintly, eyes struggling to stay open. One hand twitched at his side before going still.

You stood there a moment, catching your breath.

You stared at him for a moment. Watched his chest rise and fall.

No movement. No protest. Just the soft, useless murmur of a man who was completely and utterly fucked.

You turned from him, slowly taking in the room. It was as meticulous as the rest of the apartment—clean lines, no clutter. No mess. No hint of a second toothbrush, no signs of life beyond himself. The kind of space that told you everything was controlled. Curated.

Your eyes passed over the dresser, the desk, the stack of unread mail in a tray by the door.

Then landed on something just slightly out of place.

It was tucked beside the TV console—half-concealed behind a storage bin. An old video camera. Not one of the sleek, modern ones. This was the kind people’s dads used in the '90s. Black. Bulky. Dusty, but not untouched.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then walked over. Picked it up.

It was heavier than you expected.

You thumbed it open. The battery light flickered red for a second before dying, but it wasn’t the power you were looking for.

It was the idea.

The quiet, sick spark that bloomed low in your gut. Hot and nauseating.

Because the thought hit you all at once—fast, brutal, vivid.

If you hadn’t been smart. If you’d just smiled at him tonight. Taken the drink like a good girl. Giggled when he leaned in too close.

You’d be the one on that bed right now. Confused. Weak. Vulnerable.

He wouldn’t be asking questions. He wouldn’t be wondering why you were like this.

Breath caught in your throat, but not from fear. You turned, slowly, facing the bed again.

The camera in your hand felt natural now. Balanced. Your fingers curled around the handle like they belonged there.

And you looked at him—really looked.

At the boss who made you feel insane for weeks. Who smiled through every boundary. Who laughed at your discomfort and called it charm. Who wanted you broken enough to keep a bottle of something hidden just for this.

You didn’t turn the camera on.

You just set it down on the edge of the bed, the cold plastic weight of it still ghosting across your palm as you stepped toward him. Your fingers itched to move, to do something—clench, press, strike—but you didn’t.

You breathed.

Your body moved slowly, as if your brain had distanced itself from your limbs. Detached, careful. Not out of fear.

Out of precision.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell, slower now, steady in that drugged rhythm. His shirt had ridden up slightly where you’d dropped him, baring a line of toned stomach and the faint edge of his belt.

You stopped at the edge of the bed, staring down at him.

This man—this fucking man—had looked at you every day like you were prey. A challenge. Something to figure out and conquer. And when you didn’t fall into his game?

He made a new one.

You climbed onto the bed slowly. One knee. Then the other. The mattress dipped under your weight, and that was when his body twitched.

A jolt. Barely there. Just enough to register.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed. Unfocused.

But open.

And when they found you—above him, straddling his waist—they barely widened. He blinked, confused, pupils blown wide and glassy.

You leaned down, your palms bracing on either side of his head. Close enough to kiss, if you wanted to. Close enough to make him think that’s what this was.

His lips parted slightly. A quiet, unsure breath.

You smiled. Soft. Almost tender.

“Shhh,” you cooed, voice like velvet soaked in poison. “Don’t talk. You need to rest, remember?”

He blinked again. Swallowed. His jaw moved like he was trying to form a word.

“You’re not feeling so good, baby,” you whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “I told you… that wine was too strong for you.”

His mouth twitched.

“W-what…?”

Your nails trailed down his cheek. Delicate. Soothing. Like comfort.

“You thought you were being clever, didn’t you?” Your voice was almost sing-song. “Figured I’d take the drink, get all soft and sweet for you. Let you do whatever you wanted.”

You laughed, quiet and breathless, more exhale than sound.

“But look at you now.”

Your fingers drifted down to his chest, dragging over the fabric of his shirt. He flinched at your touch, not from pain—just from confusion. His body couldn’t keep up.

“You were gonna take something from me,” you murmured, tilting your head as your nails grazed over a button. “But now? I get to decide what happens next.”

And he still didn’t move.

He just laid there, eyes fluttering like the room was spinning around him—and you were the only thing in focus.

You sank down into his lap.

The hem of your dress rode up automatically, baring your thighs, pressing soft cotton against tailored fabric. The heat between your legs met the thick strain of him beneath his slacks, and even though he didn’t move—could barely lift his head—you felt it.

He was hard.

Your eyes flicked down, amused.

“Really?” you murmured, tilting your hips slightly, just enough to feel the pressure. “Even like this?”

His head lolled against the pillow, mouth parted, eyes hazy and unfocused—but you caught it. That tiny twitch. That unconscious shift of his hips.

You smiled.

“God, that’s pathetic.”

You rolled your hips, slow and shallow, just once, watching his throat bob with a strangled swallow. His hands stayed limp at his sides, fingers barely curling into the sheets.

Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt.

“You always dress so nice,” you said softly, undoing one with a careful flick. “All those expensive shirts. Rolled-up sleeves. That little watch. Like you’re trying so hard not to look like a fucking perv.”

Another button popped.

You leaned down, letting your lips brush his ear.

“But you are one.”

His chest hitched beneath you. You couldn’t tell if it was arousal or panic. Maybe both. Either way, it didn’t matter.

You kept unbuttoning him.

Slowly. Lovingly. Like this was something tender. Your fingertips brushed his skin, warm and smooth under the cotton, as you pulled his shirt apart inch by inch.

“You know what’s funny?” you whispered, voice airy and soft. “I bet if someone walked in right now, they’d think you were just drunk. Poor Mr. Barnes. Went a little too hard at the office party.”

You sat up again, rolling your hips slightly for emphasis. The hard shape of him pressed up against your core, and you felt the pulse of it.

You laughed. A soft, mocking sound that didn’t match the look in your eyes.

“I’m sitting on your cock and you still haven’t figured out what’s happening.”

You tilted your head. “Want me to spell it out for you?”

His lips moved—barely.

A whisper of sound. A plea. Maybe your name. Maybe just breath.

You leaned in, hands sliding down his now-bare chest, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat. He was still there. Somewhere beneath the haze. Still feeling this. Still aware enough to know that he couldn’t stop you.

You rolled your hips again, slow and unrelenting, your weight pressing down against the thick bulge beneath his pants. The cotton of your panties dragged against the expensive fabric, slick now, the heat between your legs soaking through as you kept your rhythm steady.

Every grind made you feel him harder. Bigger. His body had no shame, even if his mind couldn’t keep up.

You looked down at him, watched the way his chest rose faster now beneath the parted edges of his shirt. Skin flushed. Nipples tight. Muscles twitching, but not from effort—from helpless arousal.

You smiled, then let your fingers slide up the straps of your dress.

Pulled them down.

One. Then the other.

The fabric fell easily, pooling at your waist and baring your tits to the cool air of his room. You didn’t cover them. Didn’t pause. You just kept moving, rolling your hips with a little more purpose now, letting the friction mount. Your nipples grazed the soft fabric of his shirt, barely open, grazing your skin as you leaned over him again.

His eyes fluttered, barely open. Lashes fluttering. Pupils too wide.

But they were on your boobs now.

Of course they were.

You let your hands spread across his torso, fingers splaying wide over his pecs, dragging nails lightly down the curve of muscle. His chest arched faintly under your touch, breath catching in his throat.

“You like this?” you asked, voice quiet, teasing. “Of course you do. That cock’s telling the truth, even if your mouth can’t.”

You ground down again, slower this time—pressing your clit right over the length of him, dragging yourself forward with a long roll of your hips. Your breath hitched, not from pleasure—not yet—but from the control. From the heat. From the mess of it all.

“You were gonna fuck me like this, weren’t you?” you whispered, fingers dragging over his chest. “Lay me out, drugged and confused. My legs open. My eyes half-shut. You’d slide right in and tell yourself it was okay, wouldn’t you?”

You leaned closer, your tits brushing his chest as your lips hovered over his mouth.

“You’d say I wanted it.”

You rolled your hips again—hard, slow—grinding right over the head of his cock through layers of fabric, soaking him with every pass.

“But now you’re the one lying there,” you breathed. “Hard and useless. And I’m gonna take every fucking second from you.”

You rolled your hips slower now, deliberately, keeping the friction centered—grinding your soaked panties right over the thick length of him, the pressure teasing you more than you wanted to admit.

But you didn’t move faster. You didn’t break.

This wasn’t about you cumming. Not yet. This was about watching him fall apart.

You leaned forward, letting your breasts brush against his chest again, soft skin sliding against his warm, useless body. Your fingers threaded into his hair, nails grazing his scalp.

His eyes fluttered again. Still open. Still watching.

You shifted your weight just enough, bringing your chest higher—until one of your tits hovered right over his face. Inches from his mouth.

You watched his lips part without a word.

And you smiled.

“Open up, baby,” you whispered, voice low and syrupy, your fingers holding him steady as you lowered yourself.

The soft, swollen curve of your nipple brushed his lips—just barely—and you felt it. That gentle pull.

His mouth closed around you, weakly at first. Slow. Then—

A suck.

Lazy. Slow. Uncoordinated.

But real.

You looked down at him in stunned amusement as his lips closed around your nipple, tongue pressing softly against the sensitive skin. His mouth worked in slow, uneven motions—too tired to do it right, too drugged to know better.

But he was trying.

Trying to suck your tit like he needed it.

Your hand stayed in his hair, holding him close. You let out a soft, breathy laugh, fingers lightly stroking his temple as he suckled like some fucked-up version of comfort.

“Oh, Bucky,” you cooed. “Look at you.”

He didn’t answer—just kept his mouth on you, slow and lazy.

Like instinct. Like obedience.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” you whispered, lips brushing the top of his head. “Still trying to be a good boy. Trying to make mommy proud.”

You gave a slow roll of your hips, grinding your soaked panties over his cock again, and he let out a muffled sound against your breast—half-moan, half-sigh.

His mouth was still working.

Not well. Not fast. But it was there—warm, soft, pliant—sucking at your nipple like it had been trained. Like he was trying to please you, even through the fog.

You pulled back slowly, letting your breast slide free with a wet pop. His lips stayed parted, a thin trail of spit clinging between them and your skin. He blinked up at you, confused and glassy, his mouth twitching like it missed the contact.

You sat up, straddling his stomach again, your soaked panties clinging between your thighs, the cotton now practically translucent with how wet you were.

You looked down at him. His eyes weren’t focused, but they were open. Watching. And his mouth was still slack, slightly parted, pink and wet from suckling.

That’s when the idea hit you.

Quick, sharp, electric.

You shifted back just enough to slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and peeled them down your thighs, dragging the soaked fabric over your knees, letting them drop to the floor.

His chest rose and fell beneath you—shallow, erratic, every breath drawing in the scent of your arousal. You watched his lips twitch again. A tiny sound escaped him. Like a whine.

Your gaze flicked to the edge of the bed.

To the camera.

Still untouched. Still waiting.

You reached for it with calm, deliberate fingers, lifting it off the sheets. It was heavier now—fuller, somehow, because you knew what it was about to capture.

You flicked the power switch.

The soft mechanical whir kicked to life, red light blinking once… twice… then steady.

Recording.

The weight of that hit you all at once—not guilt, not doubt—but power. A perfect circle. He’d planned to drug you, fuck you, maybe film you.

Now he was the one drugged. Flat on his back. And you were about to record him licking your pussy like a good, helpless toy.

You dragged your wet cunt up his bare chest, letting your slick smear across the line of his sternum, your clit catching every dip and ridge of his abs.

He let out a noise—something low and lost, like a gasp or a sigh—and you looked down just in time to see his glazed eyes flicker toward you.

There was no recognition in them.

Just need.

You positioned the camera in your hand, angling it downward. Framing the shot.

And then, slowly, you slid up his chest.

Your thighs spread wide, knees planted firm on either side of his face, and your wet heat hovered just above his mouth.

His head tilted slightly. Lips parting.

You looked down at him, camera aimed at his face, your other hand resting gently in his hair.

“Look at you,” you purred. “You don’t even know what’s coming.”

You lowered yourself just enough that your pussy lips brushed against his. Warm and slick and swollen. You watched the way his nostrils flared, how his breath caught. He could smell it—taste it—and instinct kicked in.

His tongue flicked out.

Sloppy. Weak. But there.

You smiled, dark and slow.

“Come on,” you whispered, your voice like a lullaby laced in venom. “Use that pretty little mouth. Make it count, Bucky. You’re being filmed.”

And you rocked forward, just slightly, letting your clit drag over his tongue as the red light blinked—capturing everything.

His tongue flicked up again—clumsy but eager—lapping at your folds like he was trying to remember what he was supposed to do with it. You let your weight settle just a little heavier, pressing your pussy down against his mouth, guiding him without words.

The heat of your cunt coated his lips instantly, slick soaking his chin, and when his tongue slipped between your folds again—messy, uncoordinated—you moaned softly. Not from the pleasure, not yet.

From the visual.

His mouth—slack, wet, trying. His eyes—glazed, unfocused, but still looking up at you. The red light—blinking steady on the camera in your hand, catching it all.

You tilted the camera, making sure to get the angle just right—your thighs spread around his face, your pussy riding his mouth, and those pathetic, needy eyes staring up through the haze.

“That’s it,” you cooed, voice syrupy sweet, thumb brushing the corner of his jaw. “That’s a good boy, Bucky. You wanted to take something from me? Now you get to give it back.”

You shifted forward, dragging your clit across his tongue with a slow grind. The friction wasn’t precise—he wasn’t skilled like this—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that his tongue was moving. That his mouth was open. That he let you use him, whether he understood it or not.

You leaned forward slightly, the camera still angled down, one hand in his hair, gripping tight enough to keep him exactly where you wanted him.

“God, you’re so fucking stupid,” you whispered with a little laugh, breath catching as his tongue found your entrance and pushed, barely. “Look at you. Eyes all dazed, mouth sloppy, sucking like you’re gonna make me cum just to prove you’re not useless.”

Another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down harder. His nose brushed your clit this time, and your thighs clenched automatically. You let your head tilt back, a quiet gasp leaving your lips.

His tongue flicked again, still too slow, still soft. But it was there. Warm. Willing.

“You like this, don’t you?” you breathed, dragging the camera up to capture your own face now—flushed, wild-eyed, your tits bouncing with every grind. “Being used like this. You were gonna do it to me, and now I’m sitting on your face like I own it.”

You looked down again, shifting your hips with more pressure, your clit grinding right over the bridge of his nose now, your wetness slick across his cheeks.

His hands twitched against the sheets.

His eyes blinked, slow and half-lost, but still fixed on you.

“Mmm, that’s right,” you purred. “Keep watching me. Watch me take what you were never gonna earn.”

You rode his face harder now, grinding down, using his mouth for real—his tongue barely keeping up, drool mixing with your slick. Your thighs clenched tighter around his head, the pressure building, slow but heavy, like a fuse burning down.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, hips stuttering slightly as a tremble raced up your spine. “Fucking don’t stop. You wanted to play dirty? You wanted to make me weak? Now you get to watch me cum on your fucking face.”

Your thighs were trembling now.

Tight around his face, muscles twitching with every slow, grinding roll of your hips. His tongue was still moving—weak, uneven licks dragged through your wetness—but it was his mouth that pushed you closer. His lips, his breath, the heat of him. The fact of him under you, slack and slow, with your pussy soaking his chin.

The camera trembled in your hand. Your grip unsteady, wrist flexing, but the lens stayed locked on him. That ruined face—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, jaw slick with your cum. His blue eyes, glassy and unfocused, still locked on you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

Your free hand fisted in his hair, grinding his mouth harder against your cunt, and your breath hitched in your throat, the pressure mounting fast—sharp and sudden, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to break loose.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—don’t fucking stop—”

Your voice cracked as your clit dragged over the bridge of his nose again, the friction just right. You rolled your hips one more time, slow and deep, and the pleasure surged up your spine like fire.

Your thighs clenched around his head as the orgasm hit you—not gentle, not soft—but heavy, brutal, a full-body tremor as your pussy pulsed over his mouth.

You moaned—loud, guttural, obscene—hips jerking as waves of slick spilled onto his tongue, your cunt grinding down with every twitch, every clench. Your grip on the camera shook, the frame wobbling, but it stayed centered.

It caught everything.

The tension in your thighs. The sweat on your chest. The way his tongue stayed out, catching your orgasm, like he wanted it.

Your body slumped forward, breath catching in your throat, heartbeat pounding in your ears as your high slowly tapered off—still grinding lightly, riding out every last ripple.

Your cunt was soaked. His face was a mess.

You slid off his face slowly, lifting your hips with a gentle roll, strings of slick breaking between your pussy and his lips. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just lay there, breath ragged, mouth parted, the lower half of his face drenched.

You settled back onto his chest with a soft sigh, your bare thighs still spread over him, the dress bunched around your waist, tits out, flushed and gleaming under the soft light.

The camera was still rolling.

You angled it down toward his face again, framing the shot tight—his cheeks slick and shining, his lips wet, his stubble dark with your cum and his drool. His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes stuck together with sweat, blinking like he didn’t know where he was.

Perfect.

You brought the camera a little closer.

“Aww,” you cooed, voice low and syrupy. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”

He didn’t respond—just breathed, sharp and shallow, his chest rising against your ass.

“You’re soaked,” you whispered, tilting the camera for a better angle, zooming in on the shine of your slick across his lips. “You didn’t even know what you were doing, did you? Just licking and sucking like a good little toy.”

You laughed, soft and mean, dragging your fingers down his chest, tracing circles around his nipple, still holding the camera steady.

“You gonna tell me that was mutual, too?” you murmured. “That you didn’t mean to drug me? That you didn’t mean to get me here, get me pliant, get my legs open for you?”

His eyes twitched. Just slightly. Still unfocused.

You leaned in close, lips near his ear, the camera catching the movement of your body, the way your tits grazed his bare chest.

“If I hadn’t switched those glasses,” you whispered, “this would’ve been me, wouldn’t it?”

You pulled back, camera right in front of his face again.

“But now you’re the one drooling, high as fuck, face covered in my cum.”

You smiled, slow and cruel.

“You make such a pretty toy, Bucky. I might just keep you.”

You shifted your weight back, thighs sliding down his body until you were straddling his thighs—bare cunt leaving a slick, glistening trail across his skin. The camera stayed in your hand, angled perfectly to catch his face first—ruined and wet—then slowly tilting down to follow your descent.

You braced yourself with one hand on his chest, the other dragging the lens down the hard plane of his torso.

Then your fingers went to his belt.

You tugged the leather strap with a slow, deliberate pull—the soft snick of the buckle releasing echoed in the room like a starter’s pistol. His hips twitched faintly, involuntary. Maybe instinct.

You hummed.

“Let’s see what you were planning to use on me,” you whispered, pulling the belt out and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

Your fingers worked fast now—unbuttoning his jeans, dragging the zipper down over the bulge that strained visibly beneath.

You let the camera catch it. Zoomed in on it.

The thick shape pressing against the front of his boxers. The outline firm, swollen, twitching like it knew what you were about to do.

You slid his jeans down first, shoving them rough past his hips, down his thighs—just enough to expose the mess underneath. Then the waistband of his boxers followed.

You dragged them down slowly, teasingly, until his cock finally sprang free.

And you froze.

Your brow lifted. A slow, amused smile tugged at your lips.

“Well,” you murmured, panning the camera down to focus fully on it. “Now that’s… impressive.”

Even drugged and helpless, his cock was hard—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach, a drop of precum already beading at the tip. You reached down with your free hand, curling your fingers around the base.

It twitched in your palm.

You looked down at him.

His chest was rising faster now, lips parted again, throat working with another thick swallow. His eyes tried to find yours—still hazy, still out of sync—but you weren’t looking at his face anymore.

You were looking at his cock.

“You were really gonna fuck me with this, weren’t you?” you said softly, your voice honey-slick and edged with venom. “Would’ve stretched me open real good. Would’ve made me scream, maybe.”

You stroked him slowly, base to tip, thumb teasing the precum from the head, spreading it down his shaft as it twitched again in your grip.

“Shame you’re not gonna get to use it the way you planned.”

You tilted the camera, making sure to catch the way his cock jumped with every slow pump of your hand, how your wet fingers slid easily over his skin.

“You know what this is now?” you asked, tone lower, darker. “It’s mine.”

You stayed right where you were, perched on his hips, bare thighs spread wide across his waist as his cock lay hot and hard against his stomach. Your fingers traced up the shaft lazily, curling around it just enough to feel the pulse beneath your grip.

The camera stayed trained on his cock.

You tilted it slightly for the perfect angle—capturing your hand wrapped around him, the gleam of wetness already glistening at the tip, the slight twitch every time you squeezed just a little too tight.

You giggled under your breath, slow and mean.

“Look at this,” you purred. “So pretty. So hard for nothing.”

You stroked him once, long and slow, watching his hips barely lift, just enough to embarrass himself. You let the head of his cock slap softly back down onto his stomach with a wet sound, precum smearing across his skin like a brand.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” you asked, tracing the tip with your thumb. “Your big, bad cock? Was this supposed to scare me?”

Another lazy stroke.

Then another, slower.

He let out a sound—weak and raw, like a moan that couldn’t form all the way.

You looked down at him, eyes narrow with amusement.

“You can’t even move,” you whispered. “And I’m sitting on you, jerking you off like you’re my little toy.”

Your hand left him, just for a moment, as you shifted forward—your soaked pussy hovering over his cock now, your slick already glistening along your inner thighs.

You reached down and pressed his cock flat against his stomach again.

Held it there.

Then rolled your hips forward—slow and heavy—dragging your cunt along the full length of him, grinding his shaft between your folds, your clit catching on the thick head as your wetness smeared across his skin.

“Fuck,” you moaned, breath hitching. “That’s what I needed.”

You did it again.

And again.

Grinding slowly on his cock, your slick leaving wet trails over his abs as you used him like a toy—just friction, heat, pressure, your pussy dripping down his shaft and soaking him completely.

He made another noise—low, shaky.

You smirked.

“Aw, poor baby,” you said softly, brushing his cheek with the back of your fingers. “You’re supposed to be inside me by now, right? That was the plan?”

You rocked your hips harder, letting the ridge of his cock slide against your clit now, slick squelching with every pass.

“But now you’re just a warm surface for me to rub my pussy on.”

You leaned down slightly, camera still rolling, catching every bounce of your tits, every twitch of his cock, the sound of your cunt grinding wet and slow against him.

“Smile for the camera, Bucky.”

You kept grinding.

Slow, filthy strokes. The length of his cock pinned against his stomach, your slick cunt dragging up and down, soaking it more with every pass. The sounds were obscene—wet and lewd, echoing off the bedroom walls like a private show only you could give.

Every time your clit slid over the thick head of his cock, you shuddered—not from pleasure, but from the power of it.

The camera caught it all.

Your thighs flexing. The mess of your pussy glistening over his skin. The twitch of his cock beneath you.

You leaned back slightly, planting one hand behind you for balance, the other still clutching the camera as you tilted your hips just right—letting your folds part and drag along the shaft like silk over steel. Your slick was everywhere now, drenching him, smearing across his abs and matting the hair at the base of his cock.

You let your head roll back with a quiet, breathy moan.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, voice thick with satisfaction. “Listen to that.”

Another slow grind.

The sound was filthy—all wet friction and heat, your pussy squelching against his cock like you were already fucking him.

But you weren’t.

Not yet.

You were just using him.

You looked down at him again.

His face was flushed. Sweating. His jaw slack. His chest rising too fast for how little he’d moved.

And then you heard it.

A breath—shallow, rasping—and a word that barely made it out.

“…please…”

You froze. Just for a second. Then smiled.

“Aww,” you said sweetly, leaning forward again, tits hanging between you, camera aimed right at his face. “What was that, baby? You begging?”

He blinked slowly, like every second of consciousness cost him something.

You rolled your hips again—once—and his body twitched, cock straining against your heat, the glide wetter now, noisier.

You leaned in closer, lips right by his ear, your voice soft and cruel.

“Please what, Bucky?”

You ground down again, dragging your cunt from base to tip, your clit catching the head perfectly—your breath catching with it.

“Please let you fuck me?”

You moaned, slow and breathy, the camera still rolling steady in your hand.

He tried again.

“Please…”

This time, it came out stronger. Still hoarse, still pathetic—but enough to make you pause.

You stopped grinding.

Lifted your hips just slightly, his cock now glistening with your slick, resting flushed and twitching against his stomach. You could see the desperation in his face. Every inch of it—flushed, damp, barely held together. His eyes met yours, glazed and pleading, even if the words weren’t forming fast enough.

You smiled down at him, slow and indulgent.

“Please what, Bucky?” you asked again, softly stroking his cock with your soaked hand, pumping it just once. “Use your words, baby. You were so fucking chatty in the office.”

His head rolled slightly. Then stopped.

Eyes fixed on yours.

“Please… let me in…”

You tilted your head, feigning thought.

Then reached down with one hand, still holding the camera in the other, and wrapped your fingers around his cock again—warm, flushed, wet with your slick.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

You lifted your hips, lined him up, and slowly dragged the thick head of his cock through your folds again—not teasing now, just guiding. Feeling him press right where you needed him.

And then—slowly—you started to sink.

The thick, swollen mushroom tip caught first—your pussy stretching around it, inch by inch, the pressure spreading you open.

“Fuuuuck,” you moaned under your breath, lips parting as the head popped inside.

It was a squeeze. Deep and full and filthy—your cunt wrapping tight around the ridge of him as it slipped past your entrance, slow and wet and heavy.

You angled the camera down between your thighs, capturing everything—the way your pussy swallowed that first inch, the way his cock twitched inside you, already pulsing against your walls.

You held yourself there for a beat, hips trembling, his cock head throbbing inside you like it wanted more, but you weren’t rushing.

You looked down at him again.

His mouth was slack, eyes wide.

He could feel it now.

The heat. The tightness. The realness of your cunt wrapped around him.

You smiled and leaned in, voice sticky-sweet.

“You feel that?” you whispered, grinding just an inch lower, feeling the first bulge of his veins catch against your walls. “That’s me deciding what you get. How much you get. How deep you get to go.”

He let out a breathless, broken moan.

And you sank a little deeper. You didn’t stop. Not when the head popped in. Not when the thick ridge of his cock stretched your walls wide. Not when the veins along his shaft dragged delicious friction against your slick insides.

You just kept going. Sinking down. Deeper. Lower.

Until you were fully seated—your ass pressed to his hips, his balls resting against you, full and heavy. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, filling every inch of your cunt so completely it almost hurt.

You moaned—not soft, not delicate—but raw, a sound from your chest, low and ragged.

His pubes tickled your clit as you rocked just once.

You felt everything. Every twitch. Every pulse. Every buried inch.

And then? You moved.

No mercy. No rhythm. Just need.

You started riding him—hard, fast, furious—your hips slamming down with every bounce, your slick making it messy and loud. Skin on skin. Wet friction. The slap of your thighs meeting his.

The camera was still in your hand, pointed straight down between your bodies—capturing the bounce of your tits, the ripple of your ass, the way your pussy took him deep, over and over.

“Fuck—yes—yes,” you gasped, fingers digging into his chest for balance as you slammed yourself down harder, using his cock like a machine, like a tool built to get you off.

He made a noise—weak, cracked—and you laughed.

“Is this what you wanted?” you growled, barely coherent. “Wanted me open, wanted me fucked? Now you’re just lying there and taking it.”

You bounced harder.

Faster.

Your clit rubbed against his pubes, overstimulating, hot and electric. The ridge of his cock hit your walls just right, thick veins dragging across your insides like they were made to wreck you.

You moaned again, louder, not bothering to hide it now.

Because this wasn’t for him.

It was for you.

Your ass clapped against his hips with every thrust, and the room was full of it—your gasps, the wet slap of your pussy, the camera’s soft mechanical whir, catching everything.

You didn’t slow down.

If anything, you rode him harder now—hips slamming down in a rhythm that shook the bed, the slap of wet skin-on-skin echoing like applause. Your thighs burned, slick pouring down his cock with every bounce, making a messy, gorgeous sound each time he bottomed out inside you.

The camera stayed locked in your grip, angled perfectly—capturing the place where his cock disappeared into your dripping pussy, again and again. Your lips stretched around him, raw and swollen and greedy, your slick coating his shaft, his balls, soaking everything in a film of filthy heat.

You moaned—loud and broken—eyes flickering down to watch it happen.

“Fuck,” you gasped, voice ragged. “Look at that. Look at how well you fit.”

Your other hand moved over your body, sliding up to your tits, grabbing one roughly. You squeezed, pinched your nipple, gasping at the sting—and still, you bounced. Still, you rode. Like your body wouldn’t stop until it broke him.

Then your hand slipped lower.

Your fingers found your clit—swollen, sensitive, already pulsing from the constant friction. You circled it fast, hard, desperate now. The pleasure had crested into need, raw and overwhelming, and you chased it like you were starving.

You clenched around him, hard, your pussy fluttering with every rough grind, and his cock twitched inside you—helpless to the tight squeeze of your cunt milking him.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, louder now, hips stuttering as you slammed down again, your fingers working your clit in messy, slippery circles. “I’m so fucking close—fuck, fuck—yes—”

The bed rocked under you.

Your tits bounced with every thrust.

His cock, soaked and pulsing, disappeared over and over into your cunt while your slick gushed around it, dripping down your thighs, smearing your ass.

Your thighs were burning now. Your hand was a blur on your clit. Your pussy was clenching so tight around his cock it made your breath hitch in your chest.

You bounced harder—faster—wet skin slapping together with every thrust, your slick squelching around him with every messy descent. The camera shook in your hand, still pointed down, capturing the moment his cock stretched you open and disappeared deep inside your cunt, over and over.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum—”

You threw your head back, the pleasure building so fast it hurt, your fingers tight on your clit as your hips moved without thought—just instinct, just need.

And then it hit.

You shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, raw and explosive, your pussy pulsing violently around his cock as your thighs locked around his waist. You screamed—loud, wrecked, unfiltered—riding it out, fucking yourself on him even as your body convulsed.

“Fuuuck—yes—fuck—yes—oh my god—”

Your cunt clenched and clenched, dragging him deeper, wetter, tighter. You could feel every vein, every ridge, every twitch of his cock inside you.

And he whined.

Low, broken, useless.

You looked down at him through the blur of your high, his mouth slack, eyes barely open, and his hips—twitching, trying to fuck up into you but failing.

He was close. You knew it.

So you didn’t stop.

You rode.

Bouncing through your orgasm, dragging his cock in and out of your spasming cunt, your slick spilling everywhere, your thighs soaked, your clit still pulsing under your fingers.

“Cum,” you growled, teeth bared, breath ragged. “Fucking cum, Bucky.”

He let out a soft, shattered sound—almost like a sob.

And then you felt it.

The twitch. The pulse. The sudden heat that flooded you, thick and hot and helpless.

You moaned again, biting your lip, as you rode through his release—his cock jerking inside you, his cum spilling deep, your cunt milking every drop from him.

He was whining now—weak, soft noises of surrender, of overload—and you slowed just slightly, rolling your hips with satisfaction, feeling every last pulse of him spill into your body.

“Good boy,” you breathed, leaning down, your voice sweet and cruel. “Filling me like you were made for it.”

You let out a long, satisfied sigh.

Your body still tingled, pussy still pulsing faintly around the emptiness he left behind. Sweat dripped down your chest, your inner thighs slick, and the ache between your legs was deep and earned.

You finally climbed off him—slow, unbothered—letting his softening cock slip free with a wet, sticky sound.

The mess was immediate.

His cum started leaking out of you as soon as you shifted, creamy white spilling in a thick string down the inside of your thigh, dripping toward the sheets.

You reached for the camera again.

Still rolling.

You tilted it down, framing the shot right where your swollen, soaked pussy gaped around his release. You spread your legs wider, let your fingers drag up your folds, gathering the leaking cum in slow, lazy swipes.

It was warm.

Heavy.

Yours now.

You moaned softly, low in your throat, dragging your slick fingers back and letting them smear across your clit—not to tease, just to feel it.

Then?

You looked down at him.

He was still lying there—limp, dazed, ruined.

Eyes barely open. Mouth slightly parted. Chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

You straddled his chest again, leaned down, and tilted the camera to catch his face.

“Open,” you whispered, voice sugar-sweet, your fingers still glistening.

He didn’t obey—not fully. But his lips parted enough.

You reached down, and smeared his own cum across his mouth, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers over his bottom lip like gloss.

“There,” you whispered, dragging your fingertips down his chin, cum trailing with them. “A little reminder.”

He moaned softly—not from pleasure, just existence—and you smiled.

“You’ll taste that later,” you murmured, “when you watch this back.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. Light. Mocking.

Then leaned back and turned the camera toward yourself, your flushed face framed by your messy hair, your smile feral.

“Say thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

The office looked the same.

The same dull glass walls, the same hum of fluorescent lights, the same low chatter as people settled in with their coffee. Keyboards clicked. Phones rang. Laughter drifted from the hallway—someone retelling a story from the office party.

You stepped off the elevator and into it all, your heart beating too calm in your chest.

This was supposed to be the hard part.

You were supposed to be panicking. Running over every second of that night on loop. Wondering if you'd gone too far, wondering if the police would be waiting by your desk, if HR would come calling with a quiet conversation and handcuffs not far behind.

But you didn’t feel any of that.

You weren’t numb.

You just… weren’t sorry.

You paused by your cubicle, sliding your bag off your shoulder. The seat was exactly how you’d left it. Chair slightly crooked. Pen cap bitten. Coffee mug with your name on it.

Normal.

Except it wasn’t. Because you weren’t.

Your mind should have been reeling. Should have been replaying the sound of his voice breaking, the way he whispered "please" like it was a word he wasn’t used to saying. You should have felt something.

But instead, you just kept thinking the same thing over and over,

If I hadn’t done it to him… he would’ve done it to me.

You could still see it. That glass of wine. The way he watched you drink it. The way he smiled when you swallowed.

The man who was supposed to be your boss, your mentor—your protector, even.

He was going to drug you. Ruin you.

You’d touched yourself to that night.

Not just once—not just idly.

You’d gone to bed Sunday night with your fingers buried between your thighs, cunt throbbing as you remembered how his mouth moved against your pussy. How his cock felt inside you. How warm his cum had been, dripping out of you, smeared across his lips like some kind of sick joke you never wanted to forget.

You moaned his name with your face in the pillow. Came harder than you thought you would.

Not from the memory of sex. But from the power of it. From the fact that it was yours.

So walking into the office Monday, the world quiet and polite, your coworkers buzzing about leftover cake and who got drunk and danced to ‘80s pop hits… it felt like another planet.

Because they didn’t know. No one knew.

And then he walked in.

Bucky Barnes.

Mr. Barnes.

Smiling like a fucking toothpaste commercial, dark hair neatly styled, that familiar rolled-up shirt hugging his forearms, collar open, sleeves cuffed like nothing had changed. Like Saturday night didn’t happen.

He strolled through the rows of desks with a coffee in one hand, nodding at familiar faces, cracking some stupid joke about the party and who should be fired for their dancing. The office laughed.

You just stared.

Because how the fuck could he look so normal?

After what you did to him. After what he tried to do to you.

He passed by your desk with that same effortless swagger and that crooked little grin, and when his eyes met yours—

It was like nothing. Just a nod. A casual, “Morning, sweetheart,” tossed in your direction like usual.

And then he kept walking.

Like he didn’t have your scent still dried on his skin. Like he didn’t remember moaning beneath you. Like he hadn’t filled your cunt with his cum while the camera blinked red.

Your stomach twisted.

Not with fear. With need.

────────────────────────

The note was folded clean, neat, pressed against your keyboard like it had always been there. You spotted it the moment you returned from the break room, coffee still hot in your hand.

Your name wasn’t written on the outside.

But you knew it was for you.

You glanced around—casual, just in case—and unfolded it with a flick of your thumb.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

“Lunch. My office. Door stays locked. You can use me again.”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together.

And that was when you smiled.

Not polite. Not girlish.

A real smile. A sharp, pleased, wicked thing that curled your lips as you sank into your chair and reread the note like it was a gift.

Because it was.

He remembered.

Not just what you did—but how you did it. And he wanted more.

You looked up at the clock.

11:27.

Too early.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. Tried to focus on your screen. Failed. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked back to the clock, watching the minutes tick down like drops of anticipation sliding down your spine.

11:42.

You shifted in your chair, the seat suddenly too warm, your skin too tight. You crossed your legs, uncrossed them, crossed again.

11:58.

You stood.

Heart steady. Mouth dry. Pussy already wet.

You didn’t say anything to your coworkers. Just grabbed a pen you didn’t need, adjusted your skirt like it mattered, and walked—calm, measured steps—straight toward Mr. Barnes’ office.

You didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

Your hand closed around the door handle. And you smiled again.

Because you knew—just like he did—

This was only the beginning.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

Everyone in the group has a job. Except for you.

Or at least, that’s what you hear them say.

That bitch doesn’t do shit.

She never has to lift a fucking finger.

She should work for her meal—just like the rest of us.

Bitterness laces their tones when they talk about you.

Insults grow a little bolder when he’s not around.

Useless.

Freeloader.

Leech.

You might not be out there with a rifle in hand hunting game or invading camps and spilling blood for supplies—but you do in fact have a job, and that job is to make Joel Miller happy. It is your responsibility, your duty, to please him, and to keep him satisfied. Because keeping him satisfied keeps him in a good mood, and one thing you’ve come to learn about your captor is, where there is a good mood, often there is mercy.

Hell, you’re doing them a favor by keeping their violent, fearsome leader in a good mood. Because you’ve seen what he does to them when he’s not. He can be just as brutal towards his own people as he is to strangers.

It doesn’t make a difference, though. They still see you as nothing more than his coddled little whore.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He groans, his thick, callused fingers digging harshly into the softness of your flesh as he holds you firmly in place underneath him. “Oh fuck, baby girl,” Joel curses through gritted teeth, his hands gripping your hips as he uses his own weight against you, pressing you down into the old mattress until you feel every uncomfortable lump, each creaking spring.

While he isn’t fucking you as roughly as he has on other occasions, he’s hardly being gentle. It’s hard, fast.

Loud.

Joel couldn’t care less about the rest of the group, the men and women on the other side of the wall, forced to listen to the sounds coming from the single bedroom of the cabin he decided they would hunker down in for the remainder of the summer season. Strings of curses and brutish grunts that came rumbling from deep within his chest, pleading gasps and whimpers that fell from your swollen, bitten lips. If anything, knowing they were listening only spurred him on—it didn’t hurt to remind them, especially the men with wandering eyes, that you were his special girl.

His good girl.

You certainly did your job, and you did it so, so well.

“Christ, sweetheart. M’so fuckin’ close—” Joel picks up speed, his hips snapping even harder, faster, the front of his thighs slapping against the backs of yours. Each thrust causes the bed’s rusted, iron headboard to slam violently against the wood panel wall.

You clutch fistfuls of the single, stale, yellowing sheet beneath you, each stroke he delivers knocking the wind out of your lungs, making it harder to breathe. He is so heavy on top of you, this big, broad, bulk of a man who makes you feel swallowed, smothered, and small. Joel takes up so much room inside of you, and it’s a wonder how you could possibly have any space left to spare.

It’s a fullness you can’t seem to get enough of.

It’s a craving, a need.

Worst of all, it’s slowly becoming a want.

“Daddy,” you choke out, fisting the sheet tighter, your skin stretching taut over your knuckles. Can the others also hear the squelch of your drenched cunt around his cock as it begs him for more?

“Fuck. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me, baby,” Joel croons his praise. His hands abandon your hips and he hunches over you, his thrusts momentarily ceasing. He crushes his chest against your sweaty, quivering back and leans forward even further, bracing his large hands on either side of you. Then, his lips move to the shell of your ear and he speaks, his breath blazing hot on your skin. “Y’take me so well, honey. Y’take Daddy’s cock so fuckin’ well. This pretty little pussy was fuckin’ made for me. She was made jus’ for me—ain’t that right, angel?”

He’s right.

Oh, how you fucking hated that he was right.

It was made for him. Your cunt. Your body. You.

Every part of you was made for him, and only for him.

All you can do is nod dumbly in agreement.

“Say it,” Joel whispers his firm command. “Wanna hear you say it. Be a good girl and use your words. Say it, say this pussy is made for me.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you moan obediently, prompting him to grin against your ear. “My pussy is made for you, just—just for you. No one—no one else. Only you.” Could this really be the same voice that would break, grow hoarse from screaming for him to stop? The same voice that would beg and plead for him to set you free?

Jutting his hips forward, Joel buries himself to the hilt, eliciting a noise from you, something caught between a pained whimper and a contented sigh. His balls, heavy and full for you, rest on your clit, which is still sensitive to the touch after he’d spent a majority of the morning with his head buried in between your legs. Desiring yet another release, you try wriggling around beneath him in a silent plea for more. More, more, more.

Please, Daddy. More.

Joel’s grin widens. He places one of his hands on your soft lower belly, fingers dragging down the slope of it until he finds the slick swell of your seam between your legs where his girth splits you open. “Ready, baby?”

Nodding, you open your mouth to answer him, but the sound of your own groan cuts you off when his fingers firmly circle around your throbbing, swollen bud. “Oh,” you breathe, instantly sinking right into his touch. Your eyes screw shut tightly in pleasure, and you throw your head back onto his shoulder. The scruff of his beard is rough on your cheek, and it burns, the same way it had burned the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

His hips find their rhythm as you rub against his hand—you’re almost there. He knows this, you can tell by the chuckle that thunders in his chest and against your back. But you’re too busy chasing your pleasure to be embarrassed.

He’s made you a needy, greedy girl.

“Daddy,” you mewl, trying your hardest to move under him, to work your cunt up and down on his cock. “I’m gonna come—” You gasp, back arching as Joel strokes in and out, his fingers rubbing your clit with urgency.

Joel plants a sloppy, wet kiss on your cheek. “Give it to me, baby,” he grunts. “C’mon. Lemme feel her squeeze me.”

Feeling how close he is too, you try to hold on for just a little bit longer, at least long enough to finish with him, but Joel’s relentless, and you’re forced off of the ledge you’re both standing on first.

Crying out, your walls spasm around him, asking to be filled until he’s made a complete mess out of you, until white leaks, and it slowly dribbles down the insides of your trembling thighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel rasps. He lifts himself off you and he pulls out, taking his throbbing cock in his hand. His chest heaves as he fists himself, the wet sound of your slick in his palm filling the room. “Down,” he grits, and you obey him, lowering down yourself on the mattress until you’re lying almost completely flat before him. He gives himself one final stroke just as you look over your shoulder at him, the gentle flutter of your eyelashes the last push he needs. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—” Joel spills his load, shooting thick ropes of warm cum along the soft curve of your spine.

You rest your cheek on your folded arms, biting back a small sigh.

He’s left behind an ache—you feel painfully empty.

But it was Tess, who had been given the task of helping you track your menstrual cycle, that had given him the warning earlier that morning. “She’s ovulating. Don’t be a fucking idiot, Joel. Last thing we need is for her to—”

“Relax,” he’d gruffed in response. “I fuckin’ know.”

Spent, Joel hunches over you once more and he lightly kisses the top of your head before burying his nose into your hair. “Good girl,” he murmurs. Affection that once was unwelcome and unwanted, that once made you feel sick to your fucking stomach, now makes you feel something else entirely. You’re not quite sure what it is, only that it’s warm. Comforting. “Y’did so well for me, sweetheart. Always do.”

Your lips curl into a faint, tired smile he doesn’t see.

A while later, you find yourself perched on the bed with the sheet wrapped around you, quietly watching as he gets dressed. “Daddy?” you say tentatively as he drops into a nearby chair to pull on his boots.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“Do you—do you think we can go to the creek today?”

Joel finishes lacing his boots and looks up at you.

“I’d really like to wash up,” you admit, softly. That, and you would like to see the light of day. He’d boarded up the windows with slabs of wood—sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get some decent light seeping through the teeny gaps.

“Not today, honey. I’ve got some things to take care of. Supplies are low, we gotta do a run. Don’t have the time to take you.” He stands and picks up his rifle, slinging the strap of it over his shoulder. Noticing the crestfallen expression on your face, Joel’s eyes soften. He walks over and gingerly cups the side of your face in his palm. His thumb strokes your cheek. “Promise I’ll take you to the creek tomorrow, sweetheart. First thing. Alright?”

Nodding, your eyes fall to your hands in your lap.

“Okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, then leaves the room.

He makes sure to lock the door from the outside, and you can’t help but wonder if he knows locking you in is no longer necessary.

“I can take her.”

Joel’s dark eyes remain focused on the state map laid out on the table in front of him. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Tess?” He sees her in his periphery, but is too busy figuring out the group’s best route to look her way.

“I heard her asking you to take her to the creek so she can bathe,” she tells him. “I can take her.”

Finally, his head snaps up and he turns to her. “What?”

Tess leans her hip against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. “You and Tommy can take the group, go and take care of what you have to take care of. I’ll stay behind and take her down to the creek,” she suggests casually, as if she’s not asking him to trust her with his most prized possession—the only damn thing on what was left of this fucking earth Joel Miller actually gives a shit about. “Once she’s washed up, I’ll bring her back to the cabin and put her back into the room. Easy.”

Joel stares at her, bewildered. “What makes you think I’d fuckin’ allow somethin’ like that?”

“Oh, come on.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Anytime I bitch about having to do something for that girl, you’re on my fucking case about it, and now that I’m offering to do something for her, you don’t wanna let me?”

He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “You’re talkin’ about takin’ her outside, Tess. Without me.”

“The creek’s just a mile away,” Tess reminds him. “I’m pretty sure I can handle getting her there and back with no trouble, Joel.” When he says nothing, she cocks her head to the side and scoffs. “What? You don’t trust me enough to take her under my wing for a couple hours?”

Joel’s lips pull into a tight line. 

Of course he does. Tess was his right hand woman, his second in command.

He trusted her more than his own fucking brother. She had never given him any reason not to, had never given him a reason to doubt her loyalty to him. No, his lack of trust has nothing to do with Tess—but everything to do with you. He doesn’t trust you. He will never trust you.

“What if she tries to—?” He can’t even say it.

“Tries to what?” She pauses. “Run?”

His throat goes dry and he gives her a subtle nod.

Joel Miller was a bad man who did bad things, but you were his good. You’ve brought back some meaning into this wretched life of his, gave him something that felt a lot like a sense of purpose. You were something for him to take care of, to keep safe and protect.

Tess raises an eyebrow at him. “You think I’d even give her the chance? Besides, the girl’s not that stupid, Joel. She knows better than to try anything. She knows she wouldn’t get very fucking far.”

“Tess—”

“I’m just trying to do something nice for her. Besides, I think it might do her some good to be in the company of someone else for once—the company of a woman.”

Joel peers at her, taking a minute to think it over in his mind before asking, “You’ll have her back in the room before I get back to the cabin?”

“Long before then,” she swears. “All in one piece.”

He hesitates. He’s still not sure.

It’s then that he remembers that disappointed look on your sweet, pretty little face. “Alright,” he relents with a deep sigh. “I trust you, Tess.”

It always feels a bit strange to be outside.

But being outside without Joel?

It feels even stranger.

When he’d walked back into the room and told you Tess was willing to take you to the creek, the news had taken you by complete surprise. When he said he was willing to let her take you, that you almost couldn’t believe. It hadn’t even sunk in until the three of you stood outside the cabin and he was kissing your forehead sweetly in a temporary goodbye before turning to Tess.

“Never take your eyes off her,” he’d instructed her.

“She’ll behave.” She had smiled at you as she pulled her pistol from the waistband of her jeans, the gleam of the silver barrel catching your eye. “Isn’t that right?”

Swallowing dryly, you had answered with a strained, “Of course.”

She’s the last fucking person you wanted to cross. She was almost as terrifying as Joel, if not more.

“Tess? W-Where are we going?” you ask as you trudge along behind her, hoping you don’t sound as winded as you feel. Although you had no way to keep track of the time, it felt like you’d been trekking for at least an hour. Your feet are starting to hurt in your shoes—old, worn, yellow canvas sneakers that certainly weren’t made for hiking. “I don’t remember the creek being this far from the cabin.”

Tess snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already.”

“It’s just—we’ve been walking for a really long time.”

She glances over her shoulder at you. “Here I thought you would be a little fucking grateful to be out getting some fresh air,” she chuckles, shaking her head before turning her attention back to the path ahead.

“I am,” you squeak, stumbling over a fallen branch.

Silence falls over the both of you.

“We’re not going to the creek,” Tess finally speaks after a minute. “I’m taking you somewhere else. Somewhere even better. Just trust me, kid. Now hurry up.”

It takes another hour before you reach your destination, and you hear it before you can even see it, a humming sound that turns into buzzing the closer you get. Then, you feel it, a vibration in the rocks beneath your feet. “Is that a—?” Stepping around her, your mouth falls open in absolute awe at the sight before you.

The waterfall is nestled right in between the trees and surges over the rocky mountain, throwing up bubbles of spray as it plunges into the lake at the bottom, and from there, it foams into a thick, white lather at the base. On the bank, where you stand, you spot different types of vegetation you couldn’t identify even if you tried—all you know is that it’s green, and it’s beautiful.

“This is incredible,” you gasp.

“Way better than some little creek, huh?” Tess tucks her pistol into the waistband of her jeans and shrugs off her pack. She digs around in the front pocket and pulls out something wrapped in a piece of crumpled brown tissue paper. She hands it to you. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Well, if you’d fucking open it, you would know,” Tess rolls her eyes. “It’s my last piece of soap. It’s all yours.”

Her kind generosity comes as a surprise—usually, Tess wanted nothing to do with you. But you don’t question it, and you certainly don’t turn the rare luxury down.

“Thanks,” you say, shooting her a grateful look.

Tess nods towards the body of water. “Alright, then. Go on and get to it.”

You take the piece of soap out the tissue. The scent of lavender is faint, but still very much there. Joel will like the smell of it on your skin tonight, you think.

As you start to pull the strap of your cotton blue dress down your shoulder, you feel her gaze fixed intently on you. Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Uh, aren’t you going to turn around?”

“For fuck’s sake,” she scoffs. “I’ve got what you’ve got. Now hurry up, we don’t have all fucking day.”

Nodding, you peel off your dress and underwear, your face on fire as the older woman’s eyes slowly drag over your naked body. Carefully, you step off the bank and wade into the water. It’s so clear that you can count the pebbles underneath your feet.

Leaning against a nearby tree, Tess calls out, “You have ten minutes! And stay out of the waterfall! Last thing I need is for you to fucking drown.”

As she lights a cigarette, you can’t help but stare at her. Her features, though worn down after the hell she had been through trying to survive the post outbreak world, are beautiful. Big, dark green eyes, a perfect nose, and full, pouty lips. There’s never been a doubt in your mind that she and Joel have been involved with one another, and lately, the mere thought of anything between them made you uncomfortable.

It’s an odd sensation deep in your gut—jealousy?

But what were you jealous of? Her having had him first?

It shouldn’t matter to you, but it does. Insecurities you have never in your life felt before seep into your bones.

“Anyone ever tell you it’s fucking rude to stare?” Tess quips, raising an eyebrow at you. She shoves her lighter into the back pocket of her jeans.

Nervously, you sink lower into the water, nibbling the inside of your cheek. “Tess? Can I ask you something?”

“What could you possibly fucking want to ask me?”

You hesitate.

“How—how long have you known each other?”

“Who?” Tess plucks the cigarette from between her lips and flicks the ashes. “Me and Joel?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Six, seven years?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Long story that’s none of your fucking business.”

You ask your next question before you lose your nerve. “Have you two ever—?” Unsure of how to phrase it, you stop and clamp your mouth shut in instant regret.

“Have we ever what?” Tess studies your face, and she quickly realizes what you’re trying to ask her. “You’re seriously asking me if me and Joel have ever fucked?”

Biting your bottom lip, you glance down into the water at your feet. You honestly don’t expect her to answer, so when she does, you look back up at her in surprise.

“Yeah.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, then adds, “Few times.”

Something unpleasant claws at your insides. “You two were together? Like a couple?”

“Something like that,” Tess mutters, flicking her ashes once more.

“What happened?”

She looks at you, pausing before answering, “You.”

Oh.

Before you can utter another word, Tess snaps, “Quit asking so many goddamn fucking questions and finish up washing. You’ve got eight minutes left.”

Not wanting to push your luck further than you already have, you do as she tells you in complete silence.

You lather up the soap in your hands, washing your hair first, and then your face and body, using your hands to scrub yourself as best as you can. Between the calming scent of the soap, the soothing sound of the waterfall, and the warm afternoon sun, you find yourself relaxing. You try to clear your mind, live in this peaceful moment which you very well may never get again, but your mind begins to wander.

And it wanders straight to Joel.

Closing your eyes, you can’t help but picture him here, standing behind you in the lake. You can almost feel his hands on you, long, thick fingers lathered with lavender soap, sliding down your body. His lips at your neck, he cups your breasts in his hands, rolling his thumbs over your hardened nipples until your head lulls, falling back onto his shoulder. Joel drags his hands further down, over your stomach, going lower and lower towards the place where you need them the most. “Yeah, baby?” he murmurs into your neck, dipping one of them between your legs until you are, quite literally, in the palm of his hand. “This where y’need me?”

Breathless, you respond, “It’s where I want you.”

Suddenly, your eyes snap open.

There is a wetness between your thighs, one that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re standing waist-deep in the middle of a lake. You shake those thoughts away and finish washing yourself.

“Time’s up,” Tess calls. She meets you on the bank with a dry rag. “Here.”

The rag doesn’t exactly cover much surface area, but you dry yourself off as best you can before tugging on your underwear and slipping on your dress. Just as you crouch down to slip your shoes on, she tosses her pack and it lands in front of you with a soft thud.

Confused, you glance up at her.

“There’s about a week’s worth of jerky in there. Longer, if you know how to ration,” Tess explains, calmly. “And a canteen for water. I also packed you a flashlight and a pocket knife. It’s not much, but—”

Frowning, you rise to your feet. “What are you talking about, Tess? What’s going on? Why are you giving me your pack?”

“Because I’m giving you a chance, kid.”

A feeling of dread pools in the pit of your stomach.

“A chance to what?”

“Run.”

Your heart stutters a beat. “Run?”

“He’ll come looking for you. You need to get as far away from here as possible. Run away, as far as you can, and don’t fucking look back.”

All you can do is stare at her in shocked silence.

“I can help you get a head start,” Tess offers, quietly. “I can show you which direction to go in and put you on a path leading to the closest state highway—”

“But what if I don’t want to run?”

Tess places her hands on her hips, and she exhales an incredulous laugh. “Jesus,” she breathes, shaking her head in pity. “He’s really got you fucking brainwashed, doesn’t he?”

You glare at her. “I am not brainwashed, Tess.”

“You’ve gotta be if you’re telling me you wanna go back to him.”

“Tess—”

She cuts you off. “He gave the order to raid your camp and kill your people,” she reminds you. “He fucking slit your father’s throat right in front of you, then took you as his prisoner. He made you his fucking sex slave.”

“He takes care of me! He feeds me, makes sure I have a bed to sleep in no matter where we are. He keeps me safe. He—he cares about me.” You will your voice not to tremble as you stand your ground. “No. I’m not running away, Tess. I want to go back.”

Tess sighs. “You’re really not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“Take me back,” you all but demand, your hands curled into the least menacing little fists she had ever seen in her life at your sides. “Take me back to the cabin—take me back to him, Tess. I mean it.”

Amused, she huffs through her nose. “Or else what?”

“You can’t make me run away, Tess.” As you take a step towards her, she reaches behind her and swiftly whips out her pistol from the waistband of her jeans. You halt, freezing in fear when she aims the barrel of the gun at your chest.

“Actually, I can,” she says, her finger hovering over the trigger. “So here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna walk away now. And if you even think about following me, or trying to find your way back to the group, you will die.” She tosses you a tiny, wry smile. “Believe it or not, I’m doing you a real big favor, kid. Problem is, he’s got you so fucked in the head that you can’t see it.”

“Tess, please,” you plead. “Don’t do this to me!”

She begins to back away. “Remember when you’d say that to him? How you’d beg him not to do those things to you every night? Beg him to let you go?”

“Please, just take me back to him!”

You start to follow her.

“You take one more fucking step and I’ll shoot you,” she threatens, her eyes darkening. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Tess keeps her pistol pointed at you until she slips into the trees and disappears, abandoning you in the middle of the forest.

He’s furious. Livid.

Joel paces back and forth on the porch.

“Where the fuck are they?”

The old, rotting wood that wraps all the way around the cabin creaks, and certain softer spots bend and buckle, threatening to give way beneath his heavy boots. Joel’s younger brother leans against the railing, which is just as fragile, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Christ, Joel. Can you fuckin’ relax?” Tommy grumbles, fishing around in his back pocket for his lighter. “You’re gonna bring the whole damn cabin down if ya don’t cut that shit out.” He sparks a flame and lights the filtered end of the cigarette. He takes a long drag, and exhales the smoke through his nose. “You’re gettin’ worked up over nothin’, brother.”

“S’almost sundown, and they’re still not fuckin’ back.” Joel shakes his head. “Fuckin’ knew I shouldn’t have let Tess take her. Somethin’ happened, Tommy. I just know it.” He lifts his shirt and reaches for his pistol, pulling it from the waistband of his jeans. “M’gonna head to the creek myself to find ‘em. Ain’t gonna sit around on my goddamn hands and wait for it to get fuckin’ dark.”

“She’s with Tess. M’sure the girl’s fine—” Tommy stops, his eyes widening slightly. “Well, hell.”

“What?”

Tommy jerks his chin over Joel’s shoulder before taking another slow, casual drag of his cigarette. He savors the last few seconds of peace before shit inevitably hits the fan and his brother unleashes his wrath on anything, or anyone, in his path.

Joel whips around and his stomach sinks, his blood ice in his veins when he sees Tess approaching the cabin. Alone.

Both his mind and body go numb. It’s a jarring shock to his nervous system, and it takes him a minute or two to fully process the fact that you’re not with her.

“Joel,” Tess says his name carefully as he descends the porch steps and walks towards her. “I need you to take a breath, alright?”

“Where—where is she?” His voice breaks, his weakness momentarily slipping through the cracks.

Not that Tess didn’t already know you were Joel Miller’s weakness, his soft white underbelly, the only vulnerable part of his hardened self that could be penetrated—you would have been his downfall. As much as she’d like to say she did what she did solely for your own good, she also did it for his, and for the sake of the group as a whole.

It needed to be done.

He stands in front of her, a ticking time bomb about to go off.

Prepared to face whatever consequences of the choice she had made, Tess tucks her gun away and sighs. “You need to take a breath—”

Joel snatches her arm, his fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. His emotions hit him all at once.

Fear, worry, anger. It’s the third that takes precedence, and before Tess can utter another word, Joel yanks her forward. She crashes against his chest so hard that it knocks the wind out of her. “Where the fuck is she?” He leans down, his nostrils flaring as he brings their faces the closest they have been in almost a year.

“Joel, take a fucking breath—”

“Where. Is. She.” His grip on her arm tightens with each word he bites out through his teeth. He’s vaguely aware the others have piled out of the cabin, gathering on the porch to watch the altercation.

“She ran,” Tess explains, calmly. She doesn’t falter, not even as his fingers sink deeper into her skin, promising her painful bruises which will take days to fade away. If he decided to let her live. “She ran away, Joel. I turned my back for one fucking second and she was gone. She even took my fucking pack. I tried going after her, but it was no use. She was too fast.”

Behind him, Tommy snorts. “She outran you?”

Her eyes momentarily flicker to him. “Her knees are a lot younger than mine,” she replies, flatly.

“Which direction did she go in?” Joel demands. When Tess doesn’t immediately respond, he shouts, “Which fucking direction!”

Tess manages to snatch her arm out of his grasp. She glowers at him, hissing, “What the hell does it matter which direction she went? You won’t fucking find her.”

His eyes meet hers, and he sees it. Feels it.

She’s lying to him.

“Tess.” Joel’s voice drops dangerously low. He studies her face, his brows creasing with suspicion. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do shit, Joel. She fucking ran away.”

Without warning, Joel takes her by her throat. His other hand brings his pistol to her head, shoving the barrel of it against her temple. His nose touches hers. “Now, tell me why I have the feelin’ you’re not tellin’ me the whole truth?”

Tess lifts her chin. She searches his eyes, a sharp ache shooting through her. After everything, all the hell they had been through together—he would end her life, put a bullet in her because of you? Did she mean that little to him?

Or maybe she’d never meant anything to him at all?

She’s not sure which stings more.

“Because you’ve fucking deluded yourself into thinking that she willingly wants anything to do with you,” Tess finally answers. “That’s why.”

He ignores the burn of her scorching words.

“Where the fuck is she, Tess?”

“If she’s smart, she’s far away from here by now,” she hisses. “I did everyone a fucking favor, Joel. That girl is just another fucking mouth to feed. And what if you get her pregnant? That’ll be another one. Not to mention, a crying baby could draw unwanted attention and get us all killed. Ever thought about that? She’s not an asset to the group, she’s a fucking liability. Besides, I think I can speak for everyone when I say we’re all fucking tired of hearing you ra—”

Joel digs the barrel harder into her temple, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Listen to me. You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where she is, y’understand me?”

“Or what? You’ll blow my brains out?” Foolishly, Tess chooses to call his bluff despite not knowing for certain whether or not he’ll actually pull the trigger. “Go ahead, then. Kill me, Joel.”

His finger twitches over the trigger, but he doesn’t pull it. He can’t fucking pull it. Not on her. Not on Tess.

Still in his hands, she sags slightly in relief.

Swallowing harshly, Joel Miller lowers his gun and does something she’s never seen him do before. He begs.

“Tess, tell me where she is,” he whispers. His pleading is subtle, and only she can hear it. “Please—just fuckin’ tell me where my girl is.”

Tess stands her ground and says nothing.

Releasing her, Joel shoves her aside and with nothing but his gun in his hand, he sets off to find you.

“Ow, fuck!”

You gasp, quickly lifting your bare foot off the ground.

You’d stepped on something sharp—a stick, or maybe a rock?

In a desperate attempt to try and keep up with Tess’ tracks, you had stupidly left behind your shoes back at the waterfall. But the mere seconds you had spared by not stopping to put your shoes on hadn’t given you the advantage you thought it would. She had moved much too fast, and within minutes, you’d become helplessly, hopelessly lost. Every tree and every bush, they all look exactly the same, and for all you know, you’ve probably been going around in fucking circles for the past couple of hours in your search for her footprints in the dirt.

Sagging against the trunk of a nearby tree, you take a minute to try and catch your breath, to give your poor little feet a break from hiking over fallen branches and jagged stones.

Your head falls back, eyes gazing through the canopy of trees. Dusk has settled in, and nightfall is on its heels. It was foolish of you to leave behind your shoes, but even more so to leave behind the pack she had given you—in the pack were all the things meant to help you survive. Knife, flashlight, food.

Sure, you can survive a night out here in the wilderness without any of those things—but then what? Come dawn, what do you do? Where do you go? Do you just stumble around in the woods and hope for the best? Pray you’ll make it onto a highway with signs that will point you to a quarantine zone?

Hell, maybe you’re overestimating yourself. Maybe you wouldn’t survive long enough to worry about your next move. Howls in the distance remind you there’s wildlife out here, dangerous predators that come out after dark in search of their next meal. Or what about infected? It wasn’t unheard of for them to veer off the highway and lose themselves in the trees.

You recall your first few weeks in Joel Miller’s hands.

Escaping them was all you could ever think about, even though the chances of you surviving alone were slim to none, just like they are now. Never having been on your own, death would have been inevitable—but back then, in your darkest moments in captivity, you wished for it. You’d welcomed the idea of starving, freezing, or being torn apart limb from limb by an entire hoard of clickers. At least then, you’d die with your freedom.

Almost a year later, that wish has been granted.

You’re free.

You may very well die, but you would die free.

Closing your eyes, you think about Joel. His arms, that once held you down—held you still—as he did all those things to you without your consent, are arms your heart yearns to have wrapped around you, holding you close.

“Jesus,” you grit, a tear rolling down your cheek.

Maybe Tess had been right. Maybe he really does have you fucked in the head.

Joel was a monster. He had taken everything from you, including your innocence. He’d defiled you in ways you hadn’t known were possible. He was a terrible, terrible man.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you fed.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you warm.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you safe.

Another tear slides down the side of your face. What is fucking wrong with you?

You don’t know. But what you do know is, the thought of never seeing Joel again is somehow more terrifying to you than the thought of dying even the most brutal of deaths.

A loud rustling sound brings your train of thought to an immediate, sudden halt, and your eyes wrench open.

It’s darker now, but you manage to catch a movement in the shrubs, only mere feet in front of you. Panic flares in your chest, it rattles you to your very core, and even though every nerve in your body is urging you to move, you freeze, your back flush against the tree trunk. Your fingernails dig painfully into the bark as you watch the shrubs part down the middle, and a tall, hulking figure emerges with a heavy grunt.

At first, you think it’s just a figment of your imagination showing you what you wanted to see—a hallucination. Blinking furiously, you lightly shake your head, and then take another look at him. Your breath hitches when you realize it’s Joel.

He stares at you in the same manner, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real, or if his mind is playing a cruel, cruel trick on him. Feet cemented to the forest floor, he watches you take a small, tentative step towards him.

Once adamant that you’d never look him in the eye, you find your gaze locking directly with his as you carefully take another step closer. Then another, and another.

“Joel?” It’s the first time you’ve ever uttered his name.

He seems as taken aback hearing it as you are saying it.

“Joel.” It rolls off your tongue smoother, and with more ease the second time around.

It sparks a flame somewhere deep, deep inside of him, a fire that burns differently than those ignited by carnal desires.

No, this is something else entirely, and you feel it too.

“Baby?” he whispers hoarsely. “S’that really you?”

“Joel!” you cry, hurling yourself into his arms.

Joel’s gun falls from his hand and he curls them around you. Burying his nose into your hair, he inhales deeply. The scent of you, the feel of you—you’re fucking real.

Shuddering with sobs of relief, your arms wrap around his waist, and you cling to him as if you’re clinging onto dear, precious life itself.

“Hush now, s’alright,” Joel soothes, cradling the back of your head in one hand, while the rubs soft, calming circles into your back. “I’ve got you, honey. M’here.”

“I swear I didn’t want to run away,” you explain through your tears. “I begged her to take me back to you, Joel, I really did! But she left me out here—she said she would shoot me if I tried following her back. Please, you have to believe me, you just have to believe me!”

He squeezes you harder against his chest. “I do, baby. I do believe you,” he assures you. Pulling away, he takes a step backward and takes your face between his palms, peering at you in concern. “Y’hurt, sweetheart?”

“No,” you hiccup, curling your hands around his wrists. Your lower lip trembles. “I—I thought I’d never see you again. I was scared I wouldn’t,” you admit, softly.

Joel’s thumb wipes away a fresh tear. “M’here now,” he murmurs. “You’re with me, baby. You’re safe, alright?” As a late evening breeze passes through, he lets you go and shrugs out of his brown jacket. He goes to drape it around your shoulders, but you snatch it right out of his hands, then toss it aside.

Something in you snaps. You take fistfuls of his flannel, pulling him down towards you to do yet something else that takes you both by surprise—you initiate a kiss. You lean forward and press your lips to his, a little swipe of your tongue across his bottom lip as you clutch tighter at his shirt, holding him in place. Groaning, Joel opens his mouth more, his tongue brushing yours.

Liquid heat pools in your belly, and before you realize it, you’ve grown frantic, kissing him with fervor. Releasing his shirt, you slide your hands down his chest, over his stomach, lower and lower until you find his belt buckle. Desperate, you clumsily fumble with it, and that’s when Joel tears away from you, his breath hitching.

You’re begging before he can even say a word. “Please. I need you—I want you. Right now.”

You cup him through his jeans, and he exhales sharply.

“Fuck.” Without giving it a second thought, his hands reach for the straps of your dress, pushing them off of your shoulders. He roughly tugs at the material, letting it slip down your body until it falls around your feet. In a tangle of limbs and tongues, you both sink to the forest floor. Your hands brush his buckle, and he catches your wrists. “Not yet, baby girl. M’still in charge, alright?”

Sheepishly, you nod.

“Say it.” His command is firm, but somehow still gentle.

“You’re—you’re in charge.”

“Good girl.” Joel guides you onto your back. He’s over you in a second, swelling your lips with a hard, hungry kiss that leaves you dizzy and breathless. He moves his mouth, teeth scraping over your cheek and jaw, down to your neck where he nips at the tender, delicate flesh over your pulse point. Then, he bites his way over your collarbone and to your shoulder. “Bet she’s already wet for me,” he mumbles into your skin. “Ain’t she, baby?”

Pushing himself back onto his knees, he slides a finger over your clothed cunt, eliciting a small gasp from you. Hooking his fingers under the elastic waistband of your cotton underwear, he yanks the fabric down your legs. It catches on your foot, your wetness smearing against the inside of your ankle.

You’re drenched.

“C’mere,” Joel grunts, sliding his hands under your ass and pulling your hips over his thighs. He leans over you once more, your bare, throbbing cunt rubbing against the crotch of his jeans. He tuts lightly into your neck as you buck against him. “Such a fuckin’ needy little girl.”

Desperate, you try rolling your hips into his. “Joel.”

“Kinda like it when y’say my name.” He starts making his way down the length of your body. “Think I’ll like it even better when you’re screamin’ it. Won’t I, baby?”

Your stomach tightens as he nibbles his way down your neck again, teeth scraping over your clavicle and down your chest to your heaving tits. Taking one in his hand, the other goes into his mouth—his tongue is scorching hot over your nipple. He licks the pebbled flesh, sucks it and bites it while he rolls the other peak in between his thumb and index finger. “Oh fuck,” you gasp.

Releasing your breast with a wet pop, Joel sinks further down your body. He plants hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your tummy, leaving behind a trail of fire in their wake. He stops over your mound and hovers for a fraction of a second before pressing his nose into the silky soft curls there. Inhaling deeply, Joel picks up the subtle, herbal scent of the lavender soap you had washed yourself with. “Fuck, y’smell so fuckin’ good.”

He pushes your thighs open, pinning one to the ground with his hand while the other goes over his shoulder. Your foot slides down his back, toes curling despite the fact that he hasn’t even reached the spot where you’re aching to have him most. Heart thundering, your blood rushes, roaring in your ears.

Joel turns his head, his lips brushing your inner thigh in another kiss. “S’this where y’want me, honey?” he asks you. Goosebumps erupt over every inch of your skin as he draws closer, his breath like steam on your core. He glances up at you, his cock twitching against his zipper at the sight of you laying naked before him on the floor of the forest. Willing. Wanting. “Hm? Right here?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Joel.”

Thankfully, you only have to ask him once, and then his face is buried between your legs, and he is giving you what you want.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Back arching, your head tilts back until the crown of it meets the ground, leaves and twigs finding their way into your clean hair.

Joel’s tongue flattens over your cunt in a broad stroke, then dips between your folds, collecting your slick with a harsh groan, one that sends a bone-rattling vibration throughout your entire body, from head to curled toes. His mouth opens wider—a starving, greedy man trying to eat you whole. Sliding his tongue over your clit, Joel seals his lips around it, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves until it swells in his mouth.

High-pitched little cries and whines spill from your lips. Your hands shoot down, fingers tangling themselves in his dark, graying curls, eliciting a grunt from him when you tug at his roots. “Joel, fuck,” you choke, your nails scraping against his scalp. He slurps and swallows your wetness, the sounds drowning out those of the night—the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the soft hooting of owls are washed away until all you can hear is him devouring your pussy.

Your body starts to tremble, and you know you’re close. Joel does, too. He feels your thighs twitch, threatening to close around his head, but he wrenches them further apart with a muffled but firm, “No.” He drapes his arm over your pelvis, his large hand splayed on your belly.

Relentless, he sucks your clit, gliding his tongue over it, again and again until the muscles in your lower tummy tighten and you burst at the seams, unraveling into his mouth. Warm slick gushes out of you, a sweet mess he licks clean. You choke back sobs of pleasure, your body tensing, vision blurring with every stroke of his tongue, each scrape of his teeth over your clit.

Joel lifts himself onto his knees with a grunt and gazes down at you—his good girl, sweet and pliant and ready to be fucked full of his cock. His hands slide his belt out of its brass buckle, eyes still trained on you as he pops the button of his jeans and yanks down his zipper.

Your mind is fuzzy, still syrupy and dripping—it doesn’t fully register what he’s doing, not until he climbs back over you and you his hard cock brushes your thigh, hot velvet that sears the inside of your leg. Precum smears your flesh.

“Y’feel that? Feel what you fuckin’ do to me?”

“Joel.” Hands shaking, you reach for the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of his skin on yours. You whine when he catches both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. “Your clothes—”

“Stay on.” Ducking his head, he nips at your pulse point and mumbles, “Tell me what y’want, pretty girl.”

Joel shifts over you, his cock now resting on your lower belly, thick and heavy and leaking.

You squirm under him, hips coming off the ground, that hollow thing inside of you begging to be filled.

“Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what y’want.”

“You, Joel—I want you. Please, please, please—”

He hushes you.

“I’ve you, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel promises. He wraps his other hand around himself, dragging the head of his cock along the seam of your puffy folds, up and down—he elicits a ragged little gasp from you when he grazes your clit and his fingers tighten around your wrists. He coats himself in your slippery slick until he’s glistening with it, and then he gives a slow roll of his hips, working himself into you.

Your mouth falls open. No words come out, no pleas for more—only jerky breaths, pathetic little pants for air as you take it.

Joel’s cock throbs, pulses like a heartbeat as your cunt welcomes him home. He presses his forehead to yours. “She’s always so fuckin’ sweet to me.” His voice is low, rough gravel. His eyes meet yours in the dark blue glow of the forest, and he savors the last moments of seeing your pretty face before the last traces of dusk are gone. Brushing his lips to the corner of your mouth, he feeds you his cock inch by inch, murmuring, “That’s it, honey. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You melt around him at his praise.

Releasing your wrists, he moves his hand, placing it on the crown of your head. “Ain’t ever lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he swears. “Alright? Never gonna be apart from me again, baby girl. Never. Y’understand me?” He curls his other hand firmly around your jaw, his fingers sticky with you and him. “Do you understand me?”

“Never,” you repeat, softly.

Joel kisses you, deep and slow, almost sweet. Tender. He breaks away, his lips hovering right over yours as he pushes his hips forward, bottoming out inside you.

Moaning, your hands grasp at his shoulders. Your legs widen further to accommodate the breadth of his hips.

“There y’go.” Joel presses deep within, until your belly feels hot and full. “That’s it, baby. Good girl,” he coos, drawing his hips back, then rolling them right back into you. He takes one of your ankles and tosses it over his shoulder, giving himself a better angle to fuck into you.

A loud cry tears from the back of your throat. “Joel!”

He grins in the darkness. He knew he’d like hearing you scream his name.

Joel’s hand settles on your leg that’s over his shoulder, your thigh already shaking. “Y’gonna be a real good girl n’ give me another one?”

You try to answer him, you really do, but your mind falls further and further away.

His fingertips sink into your thigh. He strokes in and out of you, never retreating more than inches at a time so he keeps you full. Stuffed. “Christ. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” he croons, moving your leg off of his shoulder so they are both wrapped around his waist. Hunching over you, he bears down hard, using most of his weight. He almost chuckles at the little oof that puffs out of you.

Rocks and twigs dig painfully into your back, but all you can do is feel him. How close he is.

You’re right there with him.

“Joel—fuck, I’m gonna co—”

You’re cut off by your own sharp gasp.

“That’s it. C’mon, honey.” Joel slips his hand between your thighs, his fingers firmly rubbing your clit. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock—”

It rips through you like an electric current, a shockwave that has you clawing at the dirt. You come crying Joel’s name, crumbling into a whimpering, quivering mess.

Within seconds, he’s swept away by the same tide.

“Baby,” he groans, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck. He goes still and lets your tight cunt clench at him, gripping his cock as it throbs, pulses, empties into you. After a minute, he brushes a kiss to your neck before mumbling, “My sweet girl.”

Joel makes no move to pull out of you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your soiled fingers toy with the soft curls at the nape of his neck, shattered breaths slowing and piecing back together.

You gaze up through the trees at the night sky, feeling the safest you’ve ever been with the earth at your back and your whole world on top of you, his cock buried in your cunt.

Tess is right. Joel Miller really does have you fucked in the head.

You’re certain of it when you make the realization with a smile.

“No, no, no. Shit!” 

Your car emits a loud creaking sound and begins to shake. Thinking quickly, you drive into a small cul-de-sac, away from the main road and fast cars. It rolls to a stop with one final groan, shutting off completely. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, “are you kidding me?” 

You grab your phone from the center console, noticing the 3% battery, and shoot a text to your friend that you’ll be late to the Halloween party. 

It dies as you press the send button and you throw it to the passenger seat in exasperation. You look around the rows of houses. There’s a Halloween event in the city, which probably explains the lack of cars in the driveways and the turned off porch lights. 

Well, all except one. 

A pickup truck with tools and materials in the bed, is parked in the driveway of a home. The porch light is on and you can see the flicker of the TV through the closed blinds. 

You hope the family is nice enough to let you use their phone or even if by some miracle, one of them knows how to fix your car. As you step out of the car and smooth down your dress, you pray they aren’t judgmental of your outfit choice. 

It’s a tiny, silk dress complete with angel wings and thigh high stockings. You pull the dress down in an effort to cover your thighs but it only brings it down from your chest, accentuating your tits. 

With no choices left, you ring the doorbell to the house. There’s no noise aside from the crickets and the TV, until you hear the heavy thuds of boots walking towards the door. 

It swings open, revealing a tall, older man. His hair and beard have streaks of gray and his brown eyes are lined with soft wrinkles. The button down he wears stretches over his broad chest and as he leans his arm on the door, the bottom of his shirt rises to show a slight belly and a happy trail. 

In other words, he's handsome. A quick scan of his left hand shows no wedding ring. 

You give him a pretty smile, not above using your looks to get what you want. 

“Hi,” you say as you give him your name, “sorry to bother you. My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call a tow truck?” 

His eyes do a slow sweep of your body, lingering on the lacy band of your thigh highs, then back up to your eyes, 

“Didn’t realize you came with a story.” 

Your eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Uh–story? What?” 

“And the angel costume… I guess that’s expected.” 

“May I use your phone?” you ask again.  

He pushes the front door wider, motioning for you to walk in. “It’s in the kitchen.” 

You walk inside and accidentally brush against his body. Aside from his confusing comments, the deep rumble of his voice caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You walk into the hallway, stopping at the entrance of the living room, waiting for him to lead you to the kitchen. 

“Are you… home alone or–” 

You feel his hand snake through your hair and pull you back into his chest. His other hand slips under your dress and cups your pussy, rubbing over the thin material of your panties. 

“What the fuck–” 

You lift your hands to scratch and push him away but he only holds you tighter. 

“Stop playin’ games, little girl,” he growls, “we both know why you’re here.” 

His fingers, rough and calloused even through your panties, glide over your panty-covered slit in rough strokes. You’re frozen in his arms, unsure of what to do. 

Your heart pounds fast in your chest and you feel warmth spread through your body. 

“I don’t–please, sir–” you stutter. 

His fingers slip into your panties and you bite your lip to muffle your moan. He swirls his middle finger at your entrance, gathering the slick that’s dripped out of you, and drags it up to circle your clit. 

You gasp, the sudden jolt of pleasure taking you by surprise. 

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he growls, “can’t wait to sink my cock in ya’, angel.” 

Your hands try to dislodge his arms from around you, but he slips his hand around your neck and squeezes, cutting off your air supply. Your wings bend in his hold and the plastic middle digs into your back. 

“I told them I wanted you to call me Joel,” he murmurs, loosening his hand to allow you to breathe, “but I like sir.” 

“What are you talking about—” 

Joel interrupts you again, ripping your panties in a stinging snap and spinning your around to face him. You teeter and almost trip on your heels, but he crouches and swings you over his shoulder. 

He brings his hand down on your ass, ordering you to stop squirming, girl, while you feel the cool air brush on your naked cunt. 

Joel walks you through the hallway and into a room, dropping you on his bed. You try to scoot away from him, but he grabs your foot and yanks you back down. 

“No, please,” you cry, “I don’t know what this is–” 

“We won’t be needing these,” he says as he slips off your heels. 

“Sir–” 

Joel grabs the top of your dress and rips it half, maneuvering your body so he can untie your wings, leaving you in nothing but your stockings. 

You don’t like the way your belly tightens with each stroke of his rough hands over your heated skin or the way your cunt drips with need every time he calls you a pretty angel. 

He laughs at your attempts to kick or shove him away, and easily overpowers you. Joel pushes your hands back and nuzzles your breasts, gliding his nose over one, sliding to the other, until he suckles a peaked nipple into his mouth. 

It gets you to stop fighting and instead you whimper in his hold, pushing your chest up so he can get more of your plump flesh into his mouth. 

He makes room for himself between your thighs, grinding down his bulge onto your bare pussy. The rough material of his jeans contrasts the softness of his mouth and your brain short circuits. 

“Always the same with you sluts,” he growls, “beggin’ me to stop but look at ya’, soakin’ my jeans.” 

Joel props himself up, giving a kiss to the tip of each breast, and holds your mouth open with rough fingers to shove your panties inside. With your now torn dress, he uses the silk to tie your hands together. 

“Can’t get away from me now, little girl. You’re all mine.” 

Your knees are bent and thighs spread open, giving him a perfect view of your cunt. He uses one hand to thumb your tiny hole while the other unbuckles his belt. 

“Prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” Joel says, “gonna make a mess in it.” 

Joel pushes his jeans down and fists his cock, squeezing the thick length in his hand. A pulse starts in your cunt at the sight and you unconsciously tighten your inner muscles.

You push the inappropriate thoughts out of your head, reminding yourself that this is a stranger, one that you wanted help from–but the dribble of pre-cum on his purple tip makes your mouth water. 

His cock is thick, angry-looking, and curved slightly. A patch of curly hair, silver streaked just like his head, covers his base. 

Joel slips a single finger inside of you and you both groan, him from the snug fit and you from the stretch. Your back arches and you cry out from behind the gag. 

“So fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, “how am I gonna fit in here, angel?” 

He slides his finger out and notches the tip of his cock to your slick entrance. You cry, no, no, please, through your gag, but your resolve slowly slips. 

Joel holds your thighs open and thrusts in with one firm push, lodging himself to the hilt. It takes you a few moments to react, but you scream behind the gag.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, “that’s—fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” 

You flutter around his length, trying to accommodate his size, feeling every veiny and bumpy ridge on his cock. 

He stills, clutching your thighs and sliding his fingers beneath the lace band of your stockings.

“Grippin’ me so well, angel,” Joel groans, grinding down. “Meant to be, yeah?” 

No, you scream in your head, but your body quivers in excitement and you breathe in the scent of his cologne and sweat, wanting him but, at the same time remembering how you ended up here.  

“Look at cha’,” he laughs, “impatient little thing. Already fuckin’ herself on my cock.” 

You try to deny it, that you’re currently not swiveling your hips, bouncing with the little room you have, trying to get him to move, but it’s no use. You’re chasing the warmth that simmers in your belly and you purposefully clench around his length.  

Joel moves slowly, sliding out, watching the flicker of emotions on your face. 

It barely fits, and it borders on pain. But the heat in your pussy only grows with each growl or moan that spills from his mouth. 

You’re embarrassingly wet, making it so much easier for him to pound into you. He watches your joined bodies, eyes half closed but focused on the way your inner lips grip him, on how your slick drowns him from tip to base. 

“Should I keep you, little girl?” Joel groans. “Chain you to my bed so you never leave?” 

The image flashes in your mind—you, naked and sweaty, covered in his cum and spit, completely at his mercy. 

He doesn’t need a verbal answer to know the idea excites you. Little slut, he says, as your inner muscles tighten around him. 

Joel pushes your hands above your head and presses his face into the exposed column of your neck. He stretches over you, trapping you under his heavy weight. 

Even if this isn’t the first time you’ve been fucked—it is the first time you’ve been fucked like this. The sounds you make, whines, screams, pretty whimpers that have him holding you tighter and fucking you harder—it’s all new. 

“Deep,” he whispers in your ear, “so goddamn deep.” 

There’s something strangely intimate about this. He stays fully clothed, only giving you his bare cock to feel, while you lay beneath him, completely nude except for the thigh highs.  

Joel, if that even is his name, is a complete stranger. Yet he pounds into you like he owns you. 

His lips trail from your neck, licking the droplets of sweat that gather on your skin, leaving kisses on the corner of your mouth, uncaring of the drool from your gag. 

Your thoughts jumble from the overstimulation and soon you’re sobbing, filled with his big cock, dominated by the sheer force of his entire being. 

“So fuckin’ tiny,” Joel grunts, “take me cock, little girl. Take it, take it.” 

His breathing becomes erratic and he thrusts harsher, hauling your thigh higher so he can move quicker. He’s close. It might be your mind playing tricks or, his cock could actually be swelling inside of you, ready to fill you with his cum. 

His thumb swipes over your clit in fast circles and you ripple around his length, coming in sticky, wet spurts. Your scream, caught by surprise by the pressure of your orgasm. You tremble and cry in his hold, squeeze him hard enough that he groans in pain. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, “gonna make this pussy mine.” 

And he does. Joel fills your clenching, little hole with his cum, spilling his seed in your unprotected womb. You remember too late that you’re no longer on birth control, but it’s no use. You have no way to stop him from painting your cunt white, so you let him make a mess inside of you. 

His hips piston with enough force to sink you into the mattress. You’re not quite sure if your orgasm ever ended, but your cunt pulses with another wave as Joel fucks the rest of his spend inside of you. 

“All full of me, little girl,” he murmurs, dropping down to lay partially on top of you. 

You won’t be able to walk tomorrow, or maybe for the next few days. Your entire body feels sore and your mind is delirious. 

Joel gently slides out of you and places a kiss on your chin. He unties the silk from your hands and removes the wet panties from your mouth. You hear him walk out of the room, but fall asleep before you’re able to drink the glass of water he brings you. 

-

Joel’s POV.

He’s glad he followed Tommy’s advice and switched to a new escort agency. 

The others aren’t usually so responsive or reactive to his touch. They’ll play along to his fantasy, throw out a few no, please stop, but it never feels real. 

You’re different. 

You kicked, scratched him, drew blood from his skin. It felt real, bringing out the primal side of him that he’s so desperately tried to repress. 

Joel walks into the kitchen to grab you a glass of water and his phone, intending to order you food, when he sees an email from Sweet Angel Agency sent almost two hours ago. 

Dear Mr. Joel Miller, 

We apologize for the late notice but our Angel will not be able to make it to your residence tonight. We will be providing you with a full refund. Please wait 2-3 business days to see that reflected in your bank account. 

For any further questions or to schedule another appointment, please contact us. 

Thank you, 

Sweet Angel Agency

“Who the fuck is in my bedroom?” Joel says after reading the email. 

But as he walks back into the room and sees you spread out on his bed, your inner thighs soaked with your combined juices, marking your heated skin in white and clear streaks, Joel realizes he doesn’t really care. 

He strips out of his sweaty clothes and climbs onto the bed with you. Now that he knows you aren’t from the agency, there’s no reason to let you go just yet. 

- - -

Two days. 

It took two full days for you to bury the body. Six feet, loads of soft dirt, and all his belongings.

You couldn’t exactly go into a store and buy a ladder or a shovel. So you improvised. 

There were enough rural, abandoned farms in Texas that you could sneak onto the properties without being seen and take the things you needed. You have more than enough experience stealing, so you only had a mild worry about the gun-happy folk in this state. 

You found a dirty blue tarp to wrap his body, and once the hole was deep enough, you rolled him right in. You dropped all his belongings in there, too. It probably would have been a better idea to scatter his things throughout your road trip, but you were just too damn tired to care. 

You kept only a few things: his truck, his gun, and the money. 

The money was all your plan. It was a simple heist that involved robbing a small bank, with Anthony as the gunman and you as the getaway driver. You had the floor plans you found using your intelligence and charm. Therefore, the only issues were the security guard and the 8-minute response time from the police. 

Anthony and you were on the highway in 7 minutes. 

But he became too greedy with the money. At first, you were okay with him spending a few at the casinos, but the drugs and strippers became an annoyance. When he walked back into your hotel room with the stench of vodka and perfume, the idea to kill him, to rid yourself of this parasite, had crossed your mind. 

When he called you, drunk and delirious, to pick him up from the 7th strip club of the week, you listened. And when he told you to pull over on an empty road because he wanted to fuck, you grabbed your knife and stabbed it into his eye, straight into his head. 

Blood splattered all over the inner cabin of his truck, and he flailed in pain until red dripped down his entire front. 

It wasn’t a smart decision. You had to park the truck in the back of the hotel, away from the street lamps, while you walked discreetly back into your room to grab all of your belongings. 

You managed to wipe away most of the blood once he was six feet underground, and you thanked your now-dead boyfriend for his decision to choose a truck with an all-black interior. 

There were no tears or regret, only a sense of much-needed relief. He wasn’t necessary for your plans, just a pretty face to look at and a good shot. Until he began wasting your fucking money. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 100 miles away from his grave. 

The smoke billows out from underneath the hood of the truck. You’ve tried everything you can to get it to start, but the engine is completely fried. 

“Ain’t nothing we can do,” the mechanic says, wiping away sweat droplets from his hairline, “gonna need a new engine for it to work.” 

“Okay,” you say, “how long will it take to put in a new engine?” 

He wipes his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag and reaches for a stack of papers. 

“ ‘bout a week. Just need you to fill out this paperwork and we’ll get started on payment.” 

Your heart drops. Fuck. A week is too long. 

“Any chance you can find a new engine sooner? I’m somewhat in a rush, my sister is getting married in three days,” you lie easily. “No matter the cost.” 

He shakes his head, giving you an apologetic smile. “Those engines gotta be special ordered. If you’re in a rush, I suggest takin’ a Greyhound or plane to wherever you’re goin’.” 

Fuck, Anthony. He just needed a brand new truck with difficult-to-find parts. 

“Whatever you do, don’t hitchhike,” he leans in, whispering, “too many people have gone missin’ on this side of Texas.”

One of the other mechanics calls his name and he walks away, putting up his finger to let you know he’ll be right back. You take the opportunity to slip out of the garage, leaving behind the truck. You don’t care what happens to it, it’s under one of Anthony’s aliases, and even if it was under his real name, they have no way of connecting him to you. 

There’s a gas station just a block down the street, so you figure you can try your luck there for some directions to the nearest greyhound station. You drag the suitcase behind you, a firm grip on it as people pass by on the sidewalk or in cars on the street. Everyone seems friendly, most of them smile and say “good afternoon,” which has you feeling more at ease. 

If you weren’t so hell bent on making it out west, you could imagine a life in this small town. There’s cute shops in the downtown area, trees lining the sidewalks, and parks with people enjoying their afternoon.  

The cashier at the gas stations hands you a pamphlet with the bus information and two quarters to use the pay phone once you give her the same story. You thank her, but deny the change, once again surprised by the town’s kindness and make your way towards the pay phone. 

The pay phone is right next to a board full of job posting, community event reminders, and… missing persons flyers. You open your wallet and take out change, sliding two quarters in the slot, and dial the phone number to the bus station. 

As you listen to the hold music, you begin to read some of the flyers. 

Jesse Smith. Male. 32. Last seen 01/08/70 on Tulson Road at 8:59 P.M. speaking to an unknown male in a dark colored pickup truck. 

Sasha Conner. Female. 27. Last seen 03/15/71 on Lake Avenue at 2:46 A.M. speaking to an unknown male, tall with brown, wavy hair. 

James Gonzalez. Male. 26. Last seen 05/22/72 on Wilson Street at 1:47 A.M. in an verbal altercation with an unknown male. 

“Jesus,” you whisper in fear, “I wonder if it’s the same guy?” 

The line cracks and you hear the voice of another person. 

“Thank–for–57th station–how–help–” 

“Hi, I’m sorry,” you say into the receiver, “the line is cutting–hello? Can you hear me?” 

“Are–for–times–hello?”

You hear the voice for a few more moments over static before the line completely cuts out. 

“Damnit,” you murmur. 

Before you can slide another quarter into the slot, a deep voice startles you. 

“These payphones don’t work, sweetheart.” 

You spin around, coming face to face with a brown-haired man. 

“Whoa,” he laughs, “didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.” 

How did he sneak up behind me?

“No,” you say, “it’s fine. So the payphones don’t work?” 

He shakes his head, strands of wavy hair brushing his forehead. He’s attractive in a rough sort of way, like a man who uses his body for manual labor everyday. He has a few scars on his arms and face with gray strands scattered throughout his hair. 

“Ain’t worked for awhile,” he points to the entrance of the gas station, “that’s why they give out those quarters. Just being nice cuz the owner ain’t fixin’ it.” 

You place the phone back on the stand with a resounding thunk and take a deep breath. You could try the diner across the street, maybe they have another payphone or a phone they could let you use. 

You need to call the bus station first, find out which buses are heading as far west as possible, then a taxi company to get you there. 

“Joel Miller,” he says, sticking his hand out for a handshake. “If it’s a ride you need to the Greyhound Station, I’d be happy to help.” 

He motions behind him to a pickup truck. It’s shiny in the sunlight, and looks well taken care of. You accept his handshake and suppress the flutter in your lower belly from the strength in his hold. 

“How did you know where I was calling–” 

“I don’t like seeing young girls alone,” Joel interrupts, motioning towards the pamphlet in your hand, “it’ll be dark in a few hours and Lord knows it ain’t safe out here.” He points to the bulletin filled with the missing persons flyers. “The town is nice during the day, but at night…” 

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. You can handle yourself on your own, it’s been that way since you were a teen. You’re quick on your feet and you know you’re way around a revolver or a pocket knife, but the thought of a serial killer on the loose while you have no way of leaving does frighten you. 

But, you’re not naive. Most men don’t offer anything in this world without wanting something else in return. Especially handsome men like Joel. 

“I can pay you–” 

“No,” Joel interrupts again, “that ain’t necessary.” 

So, he wants something else. 

Joel picks up your suitcase and puts it in the backseat before he helps you into the passenger side. His car smells like leather, pine tree air freshener, and cigarettes. 

It’s only a faint smell, and if the box of mostly full Marlboro reds in the cupholder says anything, he probably only smokes every once in a while. Joel hops into the driver’s side, flashing you a quick smile, and starts the engine. You pull out the map you carry in your purse and quickly find the city you're in. 

“So according to the Greyhound pamphlet,” you say, showing Joel the pamphlet the cashier gave you, “it’s on Thompson Street and 20 minutes away–” 

“Yeah, yeah, sweetheart,” he interrupts, waving his hand, “I know a shortcut. We’ll cut that 40 minute drive down to 30.” 

“It says on the pamphlet that it’s 20 minutes from any part of town—” 

“There’s some construction goin’ on. The drive around town is a lot longer. Don’t worry, about it.”

Joel rolls down the windows of the truck and switches on the radio to a country station. You don’t miss the glances to your exposed thighs, even if he tries to be subtle about it. You don’t mind. You like the way he looks at you, and most importantly, you like how he looks. 

There’s always a seed of doubt present in your mind when you meet new people. It’s difficult to trust others when you’ve been wronged so many times, even recently with Anthony. Joel is a large man, broad and tall, with enough muscle in his arms that he swung your suitcase into the backseat so easily despite it being heavy. 

If he wanted to, he could grab and toss you around with minimal effort. And as you watch him sit in the driver’s seat, thighs spread wide, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of your seat, you suddenly crave violence. 

You squeeze your thighs together at the thought of him gripping you tight while he fucks you hard on the hood of hid truck. You feel the heat of his hand, resting behind you on the leather, not quite touching you but close enough for you to know it’s there. 

“Thanks again, Joel. You saved me from having to find another phone. Or wait for a taxi.” 

He turns to look at you again, giving you another smile, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent when he does. His eyes do a quick once over, but you still manage to notice how they linger. The sundress you wear has ridden up even more now that you’re sitting down. 

“No worries,” he says, “gotta make sure you get to your sister’s wedding, right?” 

You look at him in surprise. 

“I overheard your conversation with the attendant,” Joel says, answering your question before you can ask it, “I wasn’t followin’ you outside but I just needed to know you’d be okay.” 

You turn to look out the car windows, noticing that he’s driven out of the town and into the countryside.

“Oh,” you say, feeling relief. “So are you a local?” 

“Something like that–woah, I think I turned myself around. Would you mind takin’ out your map? The construction that’s going on has me all turned around,” Joel laughs. 

He grabs the map from your hand, touching his fingers to yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the warmth radiating from him. 

“Think we’re on Road 51,” he says, pointing to a spot on the map. “We’ll need to drive straight for a bit until we get to Daley Avenue and make a left.” 

You lean over to take a look at what he’s pointing at, but he folds it up and hands it back to you. “How’s a pretty thing like you end up out here?” Joel asks. 

“Hitched a ride to this town,” you say, already having an answer prepared. 

Joel looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “And where were you before?” 

“Living with my boyfriend–well, ex-boyfriend, a few towns over.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Ex-boyfriend? Can’t imagine any man letting go of a woman like you.” 

If only you knew, you think to yourself. 

“Sorry,” Joel says quickly, “ain’t tryna make you uncomfortable. But you oughta know how pretty you are.” 

There’s a warm glow in your lower belly. You can smell the scent of his cologne mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. It’s been a while since you were fucked, properly fucked. Not the quick, boring moments with Anthony that made you more annoyed than relaxed. 

“No, it’s okay. I enjoy the compliments,” you say, giving him a smile. “You’re not too bad yourself.” 

Joel laughs loudly, shaking his head. “Haven’t heard that in a while.” 

“There’s no one calling you handsome at home?” you ask, running a finger through his thick hair. 

It’s a bold move, one that under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t do. But the sun is setting, the breeze coming in from outside the truck is fresh, and the sound of his voice is clouding your senses. 

Joel makes a left turn onto a road you don’t catch the name of. There’s more trees and an endless road ahead. 

“Can’t say there is,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “Now I suggest staying put in your seat, honey. Don’t play with this old man’s feelings.” 

“Should I play with something else, then?” 

Your hand reaches down to his jeans to palm his bulge. He groans, quickly veering right and straight into the patch of trees. You yelp in surprise, bouncing in your seat, but he parks the truck and drags you to his lap. 

You hear the thunk of your purse hit the truck floor and slide underneath the seat. The thoughts you had earlier, of Joel being dangerous, still linger in your mind. He's quick, strong enough to pull you into his lap and hold you tight against the bulge in his jeans. 

And it scares you. 

But in a fucked up way, it also excites you. His hand slides to the back of your neck and he brings your head down, connecting his lips to yours. Your dress has ridden up, exposing the pink cotton of your panties. You grind down on the rough material of his jeans, shivering in his hold as the goosebumps rise on your skin. 

He kisses with an intensity you’ve never felt before, but one that you’ve craved while you're alone in bed, dreaming of a blurry silhouette who can make you breathless. Joel tugs at straps of your dress, pulling them down and exposing your bare breasts to the warm air. 

You test his strength, wriggling in his lap and pushing gently against his chest, but he immediately grips your hands and brings them behind your back, thrusting his hips into the softness between your legs. 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, honey,” Joel growls. 

He attacks your neck, dragging sharp teeth over sensitive skin and down your chest, finally reaching the peak of your breast with his tongue. You grind down on his lap, gliding your hands through his thick hair to bring his head closer to your tits. 

Joel groans against you, the sound vibrating on your skin while he laps at your nipples. Your legs have turned to jelly at this point, and you’re positive you’ve made a mess on his jeans from the wetness seeping through your panties. 

There is a swirl of heat in your lower belly, the tightening of your inner thighs, and the slow trickle of exhilaration that courses through your veins. You’re close, your orgasm teetering on the edge as you bounce and rub your clit in his lap.

“Sweet little thing,” Joel murmurs, dragging his lips over your chin, “so sensitive.”

His hands roam from your tits down to your thighs and ass, where he grips hard, keeping your hips flush with his. 

“Anthony ain’t ever make you feel this good?” 

For a second, you think you imagined it, that you’re conjuring up words that weren’t even spoken. But it only takes another second for you to realize what he said. Your body freezes in fear, blood turning ice cold in your veins, as your mind rushes to understand why Joel would say Anthony’s name. 

“Nothin’ to say?” Joel whispers, “or maybe you just kill ‘em when you get bored?” 

“Fuck you.” 

With those words, you manage to punch him in the throat, catching him completely off guard. You slide off his lap and fall to the truck floor on weak knees, blindly looking for your purse that slid underneath the seat. Joel tries to grab you by the hair just as you open the passenger door. By the grace of God, your hand connects with metal, your pocket knife, and you climb out of the truck. 

You don’t have time to waste, so you make no intention of taking your luggage or trying to find your purse. Joel is already climbing out after you, screaming your name into the darkness as you run into the trees. 

“Don’t run,” Joel yells, “we were just gettin’ to know each other.” 

“Fuck off, creep!” 

You zig zag through the trees, stumbling through the branches and moss. The sun has gone down completely, so you have nothing but silver streaks of moonlight to illuminate your path. Despite his age, he runs fast behind you, thundering steps that echo all around you. You don’t dare turn around and see how close he is for fear of tripping or losing speed. 

There’s a break in the trees, a patch of grass and in the distance, a wire fence. If you can get through that clearing and climb over that fence, maybe, maybe, you can find a house with people that can help you. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 

You trip, in some stupid, twisted fate, right as you make it out of the trees. You land face first into the soft grass with a loud oomph, momentarily stunning you. You try to regain your senses, managing to get up on your knees, but a large body immediately falls on top of you. 

Joel pushes you back down, easily dodging the swipe of your knife. He brings both of your hands behind your back and takes your pocket knife, throwing it far away. 

“Get off of me, asshole!” 

He laughs at that, undeterred while he flips up the back of your sundress and lands a sharp slap to your left cheek. Embarrassingly, you whimper. There’s so much adrenaline running through your body, fear melting into heat through your veins, that you become aware of every single touch on your skin. 

The night air, the soft grass pressing on your knees and face, the feel of his rough jeans on the back of your thighs, Joel’s hand holding your wrists together, his erection that presses against the wet cotton of your panties–it’s all too much. You’ve never felt this sensitive or vulnerable before. 

“I know it was you, the person who killed all those people,” you spit out, “all those descriptions match you, Joel.” 

“Oh yeah? Guess we got one thing in common,” he says, pulling down the zipper of his jeans, “we like to hunt.” 

“No,” you scream, feeling the rip of your panties and the push of his tip to your entrance, “I’m not–I’m not like you–fuck!” 

You’ve always been proud of how wet you become. How easy it is for you to become aroused and slide your fingers, or toys, or whoever you wanted, right between your tight walls. But in this instance, it almost feels like a curse. Joel slides in, punching his hips in one fluid motion, stopping only halfway as you tighten around his length. 

You figured he was big, everything about this man is big. However, this is new. The sensation of being stretched to your limit or ripped open, you're not even sure. Another thrust of his hips and loud groan from him and he’s fully in, his hands, gripping your hips while he takes a break. 

You don’t even try to fight, don’t try to use your now free hands to push away or fight. You can only breathe in short exhales, too tired from the running and too full of his cock to bring oxygen into your brain. Joel, on the other hand, is breathing heavily above you. He curves himself into your back, pressing hot kisses on your shoulder. 

“I knew you’d be fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans. 

“Stop,” you whimper, fully aware of your leaking pussy and the tight grip you have on him, “let me go.” 

You don’t even believe the words coming out of your mouth. 

“You were in my backyard, honey,” he says through gritted teeth, “shit, you almost found the bodies.” 

“What the hell–oh, God–” 

Joel slowly pulls out, his thick length dragging along your walls, leaving just the wide head of his tip inside of you. His hand slips between your thighs to rub tiny circles over your pulsing clit. He plunges in again, this time harder, pushing right against your cervix. 

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ perfect,” Joel murmurs.  

“Joel–” 

“Saw you drag the body into the hole,” he says, “too bad you dropped his ID.” 

Your body shakes and jolts forward with each of his thrusts. It doesn’t quite matter how you ended up here, your body has betrayed you. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, covering his length and jeans in sticky juices. 

“You–you followed me,” you stammer, “fuck, Joel! You fuck–fucking followed–oh shit–me.” 

He spanks you in three harsh slaps, each followed by the slam of his hips. “Course. I. Did.” 

You wish you had the mental capacity to ask more questions, to try and understand how he found you and what he wants from you. But, he keeps splitting you in half, rubbing his cock through your folds and back into your pussy. 

His lips find your neck and he licks a path from your shoulder to your spine. Joel bites, sucks at your skin, leaving indents of his teeth on your back. His fingers speed up on your clit, bringing you right to that peak. 

“Just like that, sweetheart,” Joel groans, “take that cock.” 

Your fingers rip at the grass as you thrust back onto his cock, squeezing your walls, doing your best to keep him locked inside of you. 

“Little slut’s gonna cum, ain’t she? Killed her boyfriend,” he groans, frantically thrusting into you, “only four days ago and–and already comin’ on my cock.” 

“No I’m not,” you lie, “I’m not–” 

You push back, breathless and vision blurring, as the force of your orgasm sweeps through your body. A scream erupts from your throat, echoing through the empty field, while Joel pistons his hips, never stopping his movements. 

“Cum f’m, honey. Show me what this pretty pussy can do,” Joel groans. 

He lets your upper half fall forward completely into the grass, and then you feel it. The pulse of his cock inside of you and the flood of warmth. He groans your name repeatedly followed by his crude pet name for you, little fuckin’ slut, draining my cock, aren’t ya’, slut?

Joel's cum fills you, drips out of you from how fat his cock is in your tiny pussy. With another, final harsh thrust, he drops on top of you. You don’t know how long time passes with the both of you lying on the ground. 

His nose is pressed into your neck and you hear his rough breathing. Your thighs begin to ache and you feel warmth from where he spanked you. You wiggle beneath him with barely any energy, but he’s quick to wrap a hand around your throat. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

“You had your fun, Joel,” you whisper, “let me go.” 

Joel squeezes your neck gently and rolls off of you. You’re surprised, wondering if that actually worked. Before you can hoist yourself up on weak legs, he grabs you and spins you around, throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.” 

You didn’t trust him—not really. But your body moved before your brain did. Because the truth was, you wanted to be saved. And something in his eyes said maybe—just maybe—he needed to save you.

That night, he made a fire and gave you half his rations.

When you fell asleep beside him, curled into his coat, he didn’t sleep at all.

He stared at the flames. At you.

He looked at you and it reminded him of Sarah.

He holds you when you cry. Wraps his body around yours when the nights get cold. Keeps the world out and teaches you to shoot, to cook, to survive. You become his purpose. Not survival. You. And it soothes something inside him—because protecting you makes him feel useful. Human. A father again.

At first, he calls you “kiddo.” “Darlin’.” Maybe even “sweetheart.” He brushes your hair gently. Kisses your forehead after nightmares.

But one day—you wear something tighter. A shirt that he found for you that fit just right. Or you bend over, and his eyes linger.

And he hates himself for it.

Fuck Joel, she's jus a kid.

But you’re not. Not anymore. Not in this world. And the way you look at him when you smile? Like he’s everything? It ruins him.

He starts watching you sleep. Waking up hard and angry at himself. But he never touches. Not yet.

You start clinging to him more. Your fear of the outside, of strangers, of losing him, grows stronger than your curiosity.

You ask for help with everything.

“Can you cut this for me?” “Will you stay in bed a little longer?” “You won’t leave me, right?”

And Joel drinks it in.

He begins doing everything for you, taking control of little things, such as choices, meals, and even what you wear.

“Too short.” “You don’t need to talk to them.” “C’mere, baby. Sit on Daddy’s lap.”

At first, it’s a joke. A test.

“You want me to call you what?” you ask, laughing.

“Just once,” he says, soft but intense. “Say it.”

You don’t mean it. Not really. But your voice wobbles when you whisper:

“Daddy…”

His breath shudders.

And that’s the moment it snaps.

“You belong to me, baby. Say it.”

From that night on, it’s over.

“Daddy” stops being a game.

He corrects you when you forget. He praises you when you say it right. He fucks you slow and deep and calls it "taking care of you."

He tells you no one else would understand. That the world wouldn’t get this.

But you do.

Because he kept you alive.

Because he loves you.

Because he calls you “his good girl” and touches you like you’re holy.

“Say it again,” he growls, voice low and husky, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His grip is bruising on your hips, dragging you back against him, slow and filthy.

You’re trembling, hands clawing at the bedsheets, chest flushed, brain fogged with nothing but heat and him. “D-Daddy—”

“Louder,” he snaps, and you whimper as his hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to make your body jolt, to keep you right where he wants you.

“Daddy,” you sob this time, and he purrs low in approval, thrusts turning punishing.

“That’s my girl. My good little thing,” Joel murmurs against your neck, voice honeyed and venomous. “Look at you. Cryin’ on my cock like you were made for it.”

And the worst part?

You were.

Your body’s still shaking—legs tangled in the sheets, throat raw from sobbing his name while he took you apart, slow and deep and relentless. You’re curled into his chest, the air thick with sweat and quiet ruin. His hands are still on you. One tangled in your hair. The other stroking your thigh like he’s grounding you. Claiming you.

And then he says it.

Soft. Like a secret he’s never spoken out loud before.

“I love you, my baby.”

You freeze.

Not from fear.

From confusion.

Because he says it like a threat.

“I fucking love you,” he says again—louder this time. His grip on your thigh tightens. “I shouldn’t. I tried not to. God knows I tried, but look at you…”

He tilts your chin toward him.

“Cryin’ for me. So fuckin’ perfect, so good for me. You think I can live without that now?”

Your breath hitches.

“You ruined me,” he whispers, kissing the tear on your cheek. “And I ruined you too, didn’t I, baby? I know I did. I see it in your eyes.”

He smiles at you, staring deeply into your eyes.

“You belong to me. You love me now. Even if you’re scared to say it.”

You shake your head—barely—but he shushes you, pressing your forehead to his.

“You don’t gotta say it back. Not yet. I’ll wait. But you will. One day you’ll look at me with tears in your eyes and you’ll beg me not to let go.”

And then, quieter. Almost reverent:

“That’s the kind of love I give you, baby. The kind you can’t survive without.”

He pulls you close again, kisses your temple like a prayer.

You’re crying again. You’re not sure why this time.

But you don’t pull away.

Time passes, the world deteriorates further, and you're still in that cabin.

Everything is different now.

He’s softer now. Not gentle—never gentle. But softer. Possessive in a domestic way.

He brings you breakfast. Wipes your mouth with his thumb. Tells you to wear the sweater he likes because “you look so sweet in it, baby.”

He won’t let you do chores that could hurt you. Won’t let you carry your own rifle.

“That ain’t your job anymore,” he says one morning as he laces up your boots for you. “Your job’s to stay here. Be safe. Be mine.”

He touches you all the time. Even when you don’t realize it.

A hand on the small of your back. A palm on your thigh while you eat. Fingers in your hair when you’re reading.

You could run.

You should. You know that.

The keys are on the table. The gate's unlocked. His pack is by the door. He left it there for you to see, like a test. Like he wants to know.

Your fingers brush the doorknob. But they shake.

And you remember the way he touched your face the other night. After everything. The blood, the shouting, the other man’s body. Joel held you so gently then. Called you his baby. Kissed your knuckles like you were fragile porcelain he’d die protecting.

“Ain’t nobody ever gonna love you like I do, sweetheart,” he said, lips against your temple. “You know that, don’t you?”

And fuck—you do.

So you turn.

You don’t open the door.

You walk back. Barefoot. Quiet. Straight into the bedroom where he’s waiting in bed, already shirtless, already watching. Like he knew.

It’s not graceful—more like a quiet surrender. Your knees press into the mattress on either side of his hips, trembling a little, breath hitching. And he just watches you. Doesn’t touch you yet. Doesn’t move.

You think he’s going to say something—call you crazy, ask you why you came back when you could’ve been free.

But instead, Joel exhales slowly and opens his arms.

You melt into them, and his hands slowly move down, you let him grip your thighs like property.

“Thought you might leave,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy, voice almost… disappointed.

“Why would I?” you whisper. “This is where I belong.”

His breath hitches.

Then—pride. Dark, bone-deep satisfaction crawling over his face as he cups your cheek and smiles.

“Attagirl,” he says.

You kiss him before he can say anything else. Before you change your mind.

He pulls you close—tight. Like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip for even a second.

“You scared me,” he mutters into your hair, voice rough with something that sounds like grief. “When I didn’t hear the door slam. When I saw you standin’ there… fuck.”

“I know,” you whisper.

And you do know.

Because he doesn’t just fuck you like he owns you.

He holds you like you’re all he’s got left in a world full of rot and ruin.

His hand slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, holding your chest to his, and he presses his lips on your forehead.

“You’re mine, baby,” Joel says, more to himself than you. “Always been mine. Nothin’s gonna hurt you now. Nothin’s gonna take you from me.”

“I don’t want to leave,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s something dangerously soft behind them.

“You stay,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek. “I’ll give you the world. Or burn it down for you.”

You nod.

And Joel kisses you—slow, deep, claiming. Like a promise sealed in smoke and ruin.

You don’t know if it’s love or something darker.

By now, the emotional dependency had rewired your thinking.

You tell yourself he's rough because he cares, that no one else would protect you like he would. When you get scared by his yelling he's quick to switch. — he holds you, kisses you, whispers how sorry he is.

And you let him. Because deep down, you need him just as much as he needs you.

When you please him, you're rewarded. He shows you his soft side, gentle touches, affection, softness, he bathes you and plays with your hair, braiding with his rough, calloused hands.

But when you pull back, when you get scared or begin to doubt or defy him, he takes control immediately, reminding you who you belong to.

“You did so good, baby. I knew you’d come back to me.”

Just because you don’t want to leave him doesn’t mean you’ve stopped dreaming of light. Of normalcy. You don’t tell him about the dreams.

You don’t tell him about the ones where you’re sharing dinners with other people. Where there’s laughter in the room, where the air isn’t heavy. Where you and Joel live somewhere better—a place with windows that aren’t barred and doors that don’t need locking. Where he can finally rest with both eyes closed, because safety isn’t just a word he growls at shadows.

You don’t tell him you dream of a community. Not to escape him— But to give you both a life that doesn’t feel like a slow, quiet war.

You’re eating lunch together, his palm resting heavy on your thigh. The only sound is chewing—slow, deliberate, echoing louder than it should.

“You’re quiet, doll,” he says, pulling you from whatever place your mind had wandered to.

“Hmm?” You blink up at him, dazed.

He’s watching you now. Stern. Focused.

“What’s got you so quiet?” His voice softens just enough to make it worse. “Tell Daddy.”

You shake your head and glance back down at your plate.

“Nothin’. Just… remembered something.” You keep eating like that’s the end of it, hoping he won’t push.

“So you’re not gonna tell me.” It’s not a question.

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It’s not shared peace or understanding.

It’s intentional.

Cutting.

A silence that presses on your chest, that needles at your ribs. A silence that guilt-trips you into talking—not because he demands it, but because he knows you will.

Because he’s done this before.

And he’s waiting.

Because Joel always knows when there’s more.

“I thought about living in a QZ,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps chewing, slow and steady.

“We could go together. Somewhere safer. Be part of a community… maybe even make friends.”

You risk a glance at him. Still nothing.

“I miss that,” you admit, voice thinner now. “Having neighbors. Sitting on a porch and saying hi to someone who isn’t just passing through or dying. I miss that feeling of… of belonging.”

Your eyes glisten, betraying more than you mean to. You think of your best friend—gone now. Think of what life looked like before the world fell apart. Before Joel.

“I heard there’s a QZ not far from here,” you add, trying to make it sound light. Hopeful. “They’ve got houses. Real ones. Nice. Comfortable. Safe.”

Still, he chews. Silent.

And you know he heard every word. You just don’t know which one he’s going to punish you for.

"No"

“Joel, listen to me,” you say, hopeful—naive, maybe, but desperate. “This QZ’s different. They’re safe—there’s clean water, patrols, actual houses. We could have something like—like a life again. Real people. Safety. I could meet—”

His palm is still on your thigh—but heavier now. Not tender. Just there. Anchoring you.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“You think we’re not safe here?”

You freeze, fingers curled around your fork.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He finally looks at you. Not angry. Not even frowning. Just watching.

Waiting.

“You said safer,” he says evenly. “More comfortable.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“Better than this,” he continues, voice low. “That’s what you meant, right?”

You shake your head quickly. “Joel, no— I was just talking. Just thinking out loud. I didn’t mean it like—”

“You miss people.” He cuts you off softly, like he’s stating a fact. “Neighbors. Friends. Community.”

You nod. Hesitant. The truth is still clinging to your throat.

“Right.” He leans forward now, both elbows on the table, his hand still firm on your thigh. “And what am I?”

Your stomach twists.

“You’re everything,” you whisper.

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

Then—quiet again.

“So why are you dreamin’ about leavin’ me behind?”

You blink. His voice cuts sharp and final through the air, slicing your sentence in half.

“Joel—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

He’s already standing. Pacing. Breathing hard.

“It’s not safe,” he growls. “You think these people give a shit about us? About you? You show up alone in a dress like that, and they’ll eat you alive.”

“I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be with you.”

“That’s worse.”

You freeze. His eyes are wild—panicked, almost. Not rage. Not yet. Fear wrapped in fury.

“Joel…” you try again, softer this time. “We could have friends.”

That’s when he snaps.

“No. No goddamn friends. No strangers. No guards with rifles pointed at our backs, sayin’ it’s ‘protocol.’ It’s a fucking trap. All of it.”

You flinch. He notices. His jaw tightens.

“Baby,” he says next—but it’s a command, not an endearment. “I keep you safe. Not them. Me.”

And then softer, the venom curling into honey:

“You wanna laugh again? Sleep through the night? You think any of that comes from a bunch of clean streets and empty promises? Nah. It comes from me. Always has.”

He steps forward. Takes your face in his hands. Eyes you like you might disappear.

“I know it hurts,” Joel murmurs. “But we don’t need them. You’ve got me. That’s all you’ll ever need.”

Lunch ends with the sound of your chair scraping back hard against the floor. You don’t say anything.

You just stand, walk off, and slam the bedroom door behind you.

Joel doesn’t move right away.

He doesn’t follow.

Just sits there for a moment, chewing the last bite of food like nothing’s happened. Like your words didn’t land deep.

Then, calmly, methodically, he starts clearing the table.

Picks up your fork. Wipes down the plate. Stacks everything in the sink.

You can still hear him, faintly. The clink of dishes. The slow turn of the faucet. His footsteps measured as he moves through the house like he owns every inch of it—including you.

Because he does.

He’s not rushing.

He’s giving you time.

Time to settle. To cool off. To come to your senses.

You don’t speak to him for hours. You don’t meet his eyes. You don’t even look at him.

Later, in bed, you lie with your back turned, curled tight around your pillow like it’s armor. He lies awake behind you, unmoving, barely breathing. The silence is louder than any fight you’ve ever had.

You don’t cry out loud.

Just quiet, soft sniffles you try to hide in the fabric. But he hears them. Of course he does.

Finally—his voice, low and hesitant in the dark:

“Baby…”

Nothing.

“Baby, talk to me."

You clench your jaw.

He sits up, leans over your form, fingers twitching at his side like he wants to touch but doesn’t dare.

“I know you want that. I know it must be nice—to imagine makin’ friends, feelin’ normal. You think I don’t want that for you?”

Your breath hitches as you listen to him, still not looking.

“But we can’t risk it. Not when we’ve got safety here. Not when we’ve got… us.”

You still don’t turn around.

So Joel tries again, voice raw now—exposed.

“If somethin’ happened to you out there—if you got hurt, or taken, or worse—I’d burn the whole goddamn world down. You know that, don’t you?”

You close your eyes.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he says next, quieter. “I get scared sometimes. And when I get scared, I get… mean. You know that, too.”

A pause.

“But I need you with me, baby. Not dreamin’ about leavin’ me behind.”

You shift.

Not fully turning. But enough that he sees your face. Tear-streaked. Pouty. Sad.

“I wasn’t leaving you,” you whisper. “I just wanted… more. For us. For me.”

Joel’s throat works around something like guilt. Or grief. Or panic.

He cups your cheek.

“You have more,” he says softly. “You’ve got me.”

He holds your face in both hands now, calloused thumbs brushing over your tear trails.

“You wanted something better,” he murmurs. “I know. I know, baby. And I made you feel small for dreamin’ of it.”

You don’t respond.

“I just—fuck. I get scared when you start talkin’ about things I can’t give you. About people I can’t protect you from. You think that QZ’s safe, but I’ve seen what people do behind clean walls and pretty speeches.”

Still, no response from you.

“I’m not perfect, baby. I know I’m not easy. But I’ve kept you alive. I’ve given you everything. And you still wanna test that?”

You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to dream...Just dream with me. Not without me."

You inhale shakily. His voice—that voice—is like a drug, slow and sweet, curling around your ribs until it numbs the hurt.

“You don’t gotta forgive me right now,” he whispers. “But I’m gonna show you why I’m worth it.”

He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth. Light. Hesitant. His hand strokes your arm, tentative at first, then firmer as you don’t pull away.

You don’t kiss back.

But you don’t stop him either.

He moves lower and removes your panties, gently separating your thighs. Your breath hitches when his tongue makes contact with your clit. His lips wrap around it, kissing and sucking before he laps his tongue across your folds. He looks up at you, checking if you've given in yet.

You're fighting the urge to whimper, not wanting to let him know how easy he's got it.

He introduces one of his fingers, and you move your body, your legs spreading, touching the mattress like a butterfly position, allowing him easier access to you. It's involuntary, a second nature.

He continues to lick your pussy, fingering slowly and deep and soon enough you break. Your back lifts off the bed in pleasure and a whimper escapes you.

Joel kisses your inner thigh while his fingers continue inside you, working through your orgasm. You're too distracted to hesitate or fight back.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against your skin. “And I’m yours. That’s the only world I care about.”

Soon, you're shivering and letting out soft moans, and he knows he has won you back.

Once he's done with you he pulls you into his lap gently, your legs over his thighs like a bridge he's rebuilding piece by piece and slowly you let yourself soften against him and rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you shielding you from a world you don't know and will never do, all thanks to him.

"I love you."

You say softly, almost like a whisper, finally giving in.

He knew you'd say it sooner or later, you'd reciprocate it.

"Say it again."

"I love you, Daddy"

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