Just Thrashing About

He could only really blame himself. Each time, he’d take you over his lap and give you five swats just to get it over with. After which, he’d swaddle you with affection, assuring you that you didn’t know any better. He figured this constant infantilization would put you in your place.

You didn’t let the reductive language make you pliant. Instead, in the midst of his growing impatience, you used it to make sure he didn’t actually hurt you. It would work every single time.

“Is it going to be a spanking?”

You looked at him, large eyes brimming with fake tears.

His mounting anger briefly seemed to dissipate.

He ceased his rugged breathing with one final shaky exhale before roughly knotting a hand in your hair.

“You’re a good girl that hasn’t had good discipline. That’s all. Let me show you just how much I love you.”

His tone was low, caring, and laced with guilt.

“You made me do this.”

With a hand still twisted around a lock of your hair and the other gripping onto your shoulder, he led into your shared bedroom. You tried backing up in the other direction but his hard body stayed behind you and his steps persisted. His heavy boots created loud footfalls that resounded in the hall like some sort of death march.

“Please—I don’t understand… I’m sorry.”

By the time you reached the bedroom, you were screaming and crying, repeating your pleas like a mantra to an unforgiving god. He didn’t even look at you, his face completely stoic.

His fingers unfurled from your hair and you immediately turned around, embracing him.

“I know, baby. This hurts me too.”

He spoke into your hair, gingerly planting a kiss on your forehead before gently prying your hands away from his body.

You clawed at him, desperate to be close to your captor.

You hugged him again, attaching yourself to him like Velcro.

“Are you finally regretting your actions now? Are you ready to be good?”

That same infantilizing tone returned, but this time you welcomed it. You nodded into his chest.

“Good, so that means you’re going to take your punishment like good girls do.”

He pulled you off of him, physically holding you away from his body. Insultingly enough, he only needed to use one of his hands. With the other, he undid his belt, the sound of the buckle being undone rang in your ears. Your heart rate skyrocketed.

“Ten with the buckle and twenty with the leather. How many does that make, hun?” He crooned.

This was new. Taunting. Regardless of his flippant tone, you knew he expected an answer. A switch flipped in you. The tension left your body and your form slackened. Your shoulders still shook and tears still streamed down your face, but your body gave up. The fight left you and you resigned to your fate.

“Thirty.” You said, defeated.

He hummed his response and hooked a hand under your arm, dragging you over the edge of the bed.

He folded the belt, positioning it so that the buckle was at the bight of the loop. You waited for the impact, but it didn’t come. Instead, he bent over you draping his large form over your body.

“I know you can be good, but you chose this.”

He gritted. The hurt in his voice was crushingly genuine.

“I’m going to hurt you very badly, baby. You need to know that how badly this hurts you is how badly I love you. You continue to misunderstand me on purpose. I treat you so…”

His voice faltered.

“I treat you so gently, even when you’re bad. I hold back, but my love for you is forceful and extremely painful for me to endure especially when you continue to reject me like this. So, you need to feel it. You need to feel how bad this is for me. You need to—”

He cut him self off, shoving you further into the mattress. You barely had time to react before his belt came down on your backside, the buckle bruising your thigh. Pain irradiated through you. Instinctively you shot up off the mattress only to immediately be pushed down again.

“You just need to give in…”

He continued, his tone sickeningly soft.

The belt came down on you again. You wailed, hands flying to your backside in an attempt to shield yourself from any more of this hurt.

“Move your hands.” He chided. “Move your hands or I tie them to the bedposts.”

Your hands came away from your sore bottom and gripped the bedsheets for some semblance of comfort.

Another hit with the belt buckle and you were falling apart, letting go of the slightest bit of dignity you had left. You were begging, making promises that you weren’t sure you could fulfill, promising your submission and obedience to him if he just stopped. He didn’t raise his voice at all, but his words could still be heard above your cries. The register of his tone settling in the very depths of your soul. Even in the midst of inflicting so much pain, his words were gentle.

“You’ll learn.” He repeated. “You’ll learn to be a good girl for me.”

He was half speaking to you, half assuring himself that on the other side of all of this will be his perfect, loving, submissive captive.

Between the remaining seven strikes with the buckle, your legs shook and you’d twist around, hoping to relieve your body’s mounting discomfort.

“I know it hurts,” he’d say before he put you back into position. “The hard part is almost over.”

When the ten strikes with the buckle were over, he stood you up. Your body couldn’t help but shake. You were helpless and pathetic looking, the way he liked you, except this time you weren’t faking it. He saw that. In his eyes, he longed to scoop you up, give you a bath and hold you for the rest of the night, hoping that in the morning, you’d be a changed woman. His work wasn’t over, though.

“I said thirty and I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.”

He sighed, not meeting your pleading eyes. You ceaselessly whined at him. He indulged you a little bit by letting you cling onto him for a while. The moment was short lived. Once again, the warmth of his body left you and your arm was roughly bent behind your back until you yielded.

The leather was no better than the buckle. Your ass was numb at this point, but the initial crack of the belt against your bruises and welts left a persistent burning, stinging sensation. Your body physically could not be any more in pain.

There was a point when twisting away created more discomfort than being still and taking it, so that’s exactly what you did. He was speaking to you between strikes but you couldn’t hear him. You weren’t sure if it was because your brain couldn’t comprehend anything or if it was because he was mumbling pointless words to comfort you.

“It hurts me this much when you don’t love me.”

Crack!

“It hurts me this much when you reject me.”

Crack!

“It hurts me this much when you tell me you hate me.”

Crack!

He dropped the belt with a sigh, sounding emotionally spent.

You didn’t move, sobbing into the sheets for a while. He lifted you up, cradling you. The tears in your eyes blinded you and even if you could look him in the eye, it might be too much for you to see him look down at you with that pitiful frown.

He set you down and turned away, so you thought he might leave you alone for at least a moment. You willed your broken body to start dressing yourself. He turned around suddenly, taking your underwear out of your hands and lifting you back up onto the bed.

You tried to form your mouth around the word “no” but you found that you couldn’t. Whether it was because of the fear in your chest or the lump in your throat, you don’t know. All you knew is that you just couldn’t bring yourself to reject his advance, which is probably for the best. Something about the rigid way he held his body over you told you that a word like that might send him off the deep end.

He laid you down gingerly. He fell to his knees with a thud before putting your legs over his shoulders. The way he moved you put friction on your bruises and fresh broken skin. You groaned in pain.

“Shhh, it’s okay. I know, baby. I’ll make it go away.”

He whispered, his lips close to your inner thigh. He started with small kisses on your thighs, then he migrated to where he really wanted to be.

He dipped his tongue into your folds, slipping it against your clit before pushing it inside you. His tongue explored your entrance for a moment, teasing you. You lifted your legs a bit more to give him better access, but he held your thighs in place.

“No, baby. When you lift your legs like that I can see all the evidence of your disobedience. The marks you made me give you make me sick. It’s shameful and I don’t want to see it.”

He was still stern, but his breath shuttered as he spoke. It ignited something in you for the briefest moment, but when you looked down at him, even on his knees, he looked dangerous. His eyes bore into you, holding your eye contact while he began tonguing you once again.

You obeyed, not even flinching when he dug his nails into your thighs. He toyed with your clit, pushing his mouth flush against you.

You arched your back, feeling the end approaching. You bit your lip hard, trying to stop yourself.

“I thought we were past this. You holding on to your pride and dignity is just going to make me bend you over again.”

This was enough to both set you straight and send you over the edge. Euphoria flooded through you and so did shame. Your orgasm rippled through your body, causing your legs to shake even more than they already were.

There was a pounding in your head. Experiencing that much pleasure and pain all within the hour was too much for you to take. Your afterglow was short lived and the pain once again returned. Tears streamed down your face. You just wanted a nap. It’s that quiet, pliant, confused, dazed state that he wants. He didn’t realize how much he needed you like this until he had it.

He’s now your only source of comfort, discipline, direction, entertainment, and affection. Anything a person could be, he became.

Stretching, raising arms above your head, you glance out from your booth and land on the figure who'd set the bell off.

They're unzipping, haphazardly throwing down the hood, parting their jacket before you see the side profile of their face. You’re transfixed, unable to blink as they rustle the short hair atop their head—the outside they’ve brought in dripping onto the worn welcome mat of the diner.

It’s Doris who hurries to greet—a favourite of yours.

She’s the kind of person who doesn’t judge when you order more coffee when it’s gone midnight or you’ve barely moved to stretch your legs; she doesn’t ask if you’re sure you should eat another slice of pie or question if studying in a busy diner is as effective as the library.

Doris keeps her nose out. And does so in a way that makes you think, that if you needed advice, she’d give it to you. Just like she quickly begins doing (unsolicitedly) to the mysterious, almost midnight visitor.

Y’from outta town? Doris asks, rich in cheer, all sing-song-like and innocent to the point it would trick even a dubious soul that she doesn’t gossip.

You wait for a response, focusing on taking small sips of your coffee. A break from the books, from note taking and soaking information. Not eavesdropping, not at all.

No. Just got in late. Saw the sign, and thought I’m a man who deserves a warm drink.

Smiling, almost smirking, you take a larger mouthful. Lie, your brain says; a charmer, you think immediately after. Taking in the slope of his nose and the way he looks lost, unsure—as though there had been no thought after escaping the night and the storm and stepping inside.

Of all the places in the empty diner for him to sit, he chooses the booth next to yours. Jacket sliding off, folding it, placing it at the end of the booth bench he’s sitting in as he faces you.

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t glare when he meets your eyes. Just passes you over, acknowledges but not by too much. It’s you who breaks the stare.

Then Elvis begins playing—as he routinely does. Singing about mail and returning to sender as you tap your pencil against the textbook. Dropping your gaze, and doing your best to ignore him.

You’re not sure your best is going to be good enough.

Six minutes and thirty-nine seconds pass, and in that time you take further glances when you think it’s safe to do so.

For one, taking in how he scratches at the back of his head as he attempts to understand the menu. Next, how broad his chest is, and how it forces the thin fabric of his tee to stretch when he pulls out the menu, lays it down and dips his head lower between his shoulders.

By the following chance you afford yourself a glance, his thumb is pressed to his lips as he studies the plastic, two-sided menu, flipping it over with a crack, before doing so again a few moments later. Undecided, troubled—nostrils flaring as he sighs and you try not to glare through your brows.

You blame the fact it’s been a while for why thoughts are sparking.

Practically unable to stop staring at how thick his fingers are, to stop your body from reacting to the width of his thumb. Your thighs press together under the table, mind running away with itself before it’s snapped back to the present when he flips the menu again.

It’s easier to busy yourself by tapping the toe of your sneaker against the metal pole of the table. Discreet, rubber side up, dotting your paper with the pencil as you urge him to order.

Internally pleading him to.

Counting to thirty and then to sixty, before you drop the pencil and rest your cheek on your palm, staring—more bold and unafraid of confrontation than you might have been minutes ago.

“You having a hard time there or something?”

His head snaps up, eyes a little wide. The stare dripping with surprise before he snorts. Before his index and thumb are lifting the menu, tapping the others against the back.

“What do you recommend?”

“You’d take advice from a stranger?”

Shrugging, he dips his chin, but his eyes remain on you. Dark, yet warm—glancing at you as though he wishes to let them up and down your frame. Before he drags them to the empty plates, the ones stacked, ready to be collected.

“No one else for me to ask.”

You smirk, dropping your hand from your face and straightening your spine. “Touché.”

Then, you make him wait. Take as much of him in as you can. Pencil in hand as you trace the eraser end over, and over a graph in your book. Because he’s handsome, good-looking, in a way that’s understated but you know would make you double-take somewhere else.

It’s the eyes, you try to reason.

A unique mix of doe-eyed and sharp.

Exhaling, you tap your pencil louder before saying, “The coffee is good, and so are any of the pies. The pancakes are good, but not when Ernie is on. And Ernie is currently on—they always taste salty? I try not to think why.”

It’s his turn for his lips to slide into his cheek. “Which pie?”

“Huh?”

He points, right to the plates. “Which pie have you been eating?”

For a second, you take him in. Head tilting, back straight, lips rolling together as you try to place him—nostrils flaring as you take a steadying breath. “Blueberry.”

“Alright then.”

To your surprise, he orders you one too.

It sitting, temptingly in a space between notes, postits and your book. Your stomach grumbles in protest, desperate to taste another slice, knowing the importance of fuel and nutrition to ensure that you don’t fall asleep at the table again.

You wait until he sinks his teeth into it. Tuning in for any groan, any evidence of surprise at how good it tastes. You flick your gaze to him, watching, waiting, eventually stabbing your own fork into it before the filling bursts in your mouth, exploding sweetness that’s balanced by a gentle tang—the crust, as always, both crumbly and smooth, all buttery, a treat. Homely. That’s what it reminds you of, home.

A thing, from the look on his face, he feels too.

“Told you.”

It’s a sight to watch him run his tongue across the front of his teeth, fork sliding across the crumbs on his place. “Not bad for a stranger.”

You release a short laugh, one that you try to bury against the cup you bring to your lips.

“I’m Francisco—Frankie.”

He drops his eyes, embarrassment—most likely. Shyness is another option.

Even with no expectation for a trade, you lick your lips and offer him something else. A nickname as he smiles, eyes narrowing. “—not going to just hand you my name, you could be a murderer.”

“I could be.”

“Your nickname doesn’t suit you.”

“Thank you?”

He laughs, low, but light. It’s then he asks if you’re working, to which you share studying. That you find it easier here, less distractions—

“More pie?”

“There’s that too. What about you? Just fancied a break from the storm?”

Sheepish, that’s the word you’d use. The back of his fingers runs along the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve just landed back. Needed… wanted a minute.”

You nod, letting his words simmer as a bolt of lightning catches you in the corner of your eye.

“Guess we’re one step further away from being strangers.”

He hums, and you dip your head, turning the page of your textbook as it becomes the only noise while one song transitions into another.

Frankie tries not to smile when you jump at a clap of thunder.

He hides it behind his coffee and tries to stare out as another bolt sketches itself across the sky. Then, you ask him if he’ll watch your things so you can use the restroom.

Nodding, throat all of a sudden dry when you stand and he manages to steal a look at your bare legs.

Up until then, he’d only seen the oversized grey sweatshirt from the waist up, and then he finds your shorts sitting somewhere along the middle of your thighs—all skin until socks above sneakers. The latter scuffed, overly worn and likely loved. Things he assesses quickly, training coming into use even when home.

What he doesn't spot is a coat or an umbrella.

A thing which ticks in the back of his head as he wonders how long you’ve been here to have racked up the number of plates and the different glass and cupwear. It ticks over, maths whirring when he hears the bathroom door squeal and the sound of you approaching.

Your thank you comes across softly as you lean back into the seat of your booth chair, rolling your neck—and massaging your temple before reaching for something in your bag.

It’s a test, he thinks when you begin to apply gloss. Sliding it over your lips, not glancing up at, as he tries not to even let his eyes wander. To follow.

He fails.

Watching, seeing it glistening, the exposed lighting above the two of you sparkling on them like glitter.

And, he tries to drink his coffee; tries to think of what the next song could be. Whether it will be Elvis again or something else.

The song begins before he has come up with an answer. Having been too focused, too busy silently working out what flavour your gloss is.

Whether it would be tacky against his mouth—

“If you keep staring, Frankie, I’ll think that you want to take a picture.”

A light laugh escapes him, shaking his head, scratching at the back of his hair as he sighs. “Only if you pose for it.”

Your laugh is loud, sweet—gentle on the ears as you pout and roll your eyes. “You’re distracting me.”

Frankie swallows that you’ve been distracting him since he sat down.

By the time it reaches the third hour he’s been here, Frankie finds himself opposite you.

Having relocated, taken some pity on you to help “test” you on something. It had ended quickly when his hands held your notebook and spotted your illustrations along the edges. That’s when he spots a half-bad sketch of himself. A little heart on his jawline, one of his fingers tracing it on his skin, running over the patch that doesn’t fill in like the rest of his beard, before seeing an arrow with the name Frankie at the end and some dots.

“Morales. My surname.”

Grabbing your notebook back, eraser removing the dots, he watches as you write out his name. Immortalise it against the lines pages of your studying. Committing him there, a memory you can keep or erase, the choice entirely yours.

“Now, give it here.”

For a second, you look like you wish to argue, before you surrender, smirking. Pencil placed down as you lick your lips.

Amongst his name, are notes. Swirly handwriting that becomes more chaotic the longer he thinks you’ve sat here. Some circles, some with bubble clouds drawn around them, doodles on doodles—and then there’s your textbook. Post-its and scraps of receipts sticking out from different parts.

“You studying for an exam?”

Nodding, stretching your back in your seat, a little groan emitting.

“How long have you been here?”

Smiling, more telling than wicked—the opposite, he suspects, of what you intend. Your hand reaches for the pot Doris has left, tilting your cup, his eyes spotting its emptiness before your fingers wrap around the handle the black handle on the glass pot.

“Put the coffee pot down, Blue.”

Laughing, the edges of it cutting into your cheeks, “Blue?”

“Better nickname—because at this point, you’re nothing but blueberries and coffee.”

“Oh. Is that right?”

Wrapping his fingers around the handle, smothering over yours, he stares—ignores it, the pulse from your fingers, the warmth. The way his throat dries and he wants nothing more than to slide a palm up your leg to see if it’s as smooth as he thinks it will be.

“What would you say if I said I think I’d rather be full of something else…”

Your words hang, linger.

Lips sliding up into his cheek, feeling your hands loosen from under his. The silence thick. A second away from it all shifting, ruining, mood dampening and changing. So he leans, elbow resting, then forearm—finding some form of confidence buried under the responsibility he usually has to carry.

“You think you can handle that, Blue?”

“What?”

Swallowing, dropping his voice as he glances over his shoulder before staring at you. “Being full of me.”

There's a definitive pause. A glide of your eyes up and down him. Dragging, practically scraping. “Oh, I think I’d like to give it a go, Morales.”

Placing your notebook down, sliding it across the table—tracing his tongue across his teeth. He nods before muttering get your coat.

That’s when you hand him your name, your real name, and he tries it silently before he follows you up out of the booth.

He follows your car—close, not allowing another vehicle to squeeze in between, but not tailgating.

There are barely any blocks, but he doesn’t chance it. Parking behind you, exiting as you do from yours, throwing his bag over his shoulder, as you wait for him outside an apartment building at the end of a small walkway.

Frankie considers the option to turn back.

To consider his choices, to opt out of something that could become complex, awkward. But, he doesn’t. Not when he holds the door open after you’ve let them both in, or when he rides the elevator to the fourth floor, to the fourth door, four-oh-four you whisper as you stick your key in and the lock sounds in the night.

He doesn’t give it another second when the door shuts behind his back, hand grasping, swallowing your gasp when his mouth slides over yours. Bag thumping to the ground, palms wrapping around the sweatshirt as he forces it to cling to your waist when he presses you to him. Your warm, sweet—all plump lips that have the remainder of your gloss.

Tacky, he thinks. Smirking the thought to your lips as he cradles your jaw, as he licks into your mouth and earns himself his first moan.

“Can still change your mind?”

You shake your head, peeling your sweatshirt off—revealing practicality. A little grey sports bra, nothing impressive, nothing you feel embarrassed for. Your nipples are hard, peeking through the fabric as the light from your kitchen paints you in gooey yellow.

“You can change yours though?”

He smirks, almost snarling out, “Not a fucking chance.”

Throwing your sweatshirt, you slide both thumbs under the band that meets your skin and take that over your head. He almost lunges, crashing his mouth to yours, hand cupping one breast as his thumb rolls over it—circling over it. Walking you back aimlessly, unsure of any route, eyes assessing, watching, until he moves you against a wall.

One hand against it for leverage, his other slips down the band of your shorts—passed cotton, it digging into his wrist as two fingers glide through your slick. Feeling your want, your need, able to spread it, smother it over your clit as you whimper, as your arms knot behind his neck and pull his mouth to mould to yours.

“All for me?”

“Shh,” you whisper, grinning, one of his thick fingers sliding from your swollen clit to dip into your pussy. Your hips grinding into him, against his palm, groaning—almost moaning against your mouth at the feel of you. More so when he catches you whisper, “Please.”

“Answer me then, is this all for me?”

Nodding, lips ghosting over his before he slips another finger in. Sliding them in and out, curling. Feeling you tighten around him, clenching.

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“Not so hard, was it?”

His fingers curl, finding that spongy spot that has you whining a completely different noise—has your fingers digging into him, leaving little marks that’ll take hours to fade. He hopes they bruise.

The more he thrusts his fingers, the more you flutter—the more you rut into his hand. The more the noises you emit become strangled, mewls that are wrapped in a moan.

“That’s it, use me, Blue. Take what you want.”

“Fuck, m’gonna… fuck, I’m so—”

Frankie smothers your babbling with his mouth, licks his tongue into your mouth, vanishes them, erases them. Half-about to confess how hot it is that you’re so riled up, all because of him. That you’ve barely invited him in before you’re humping his hand, desperate, aching all for him.

Your fingers tighten around his forearms, hips shuddering, moaning right into his mouth as he feels your slick coat his fingers, his palm. Working you through it until you’re nudging his hand free, pulling it up to your mouth and meeting his eyes.

Then, you’re a fucking sight, a vision. Tongue sliding between his fingers and up and over them, tasting every part of yourself from his hand before his palms clutch your cheeks. Before his mouth is on yours and you’re guiding him to the bedroom, to your made bed of pale shades and decorative cushions.

“Condoms?”

Your hand reaches, shifts awkwardly for the handle, as he swipes at your hand—leaning over, reaching. He spots them, foil in the centre of papers and—

“Fuck, Blue,” he hisses. Looking down, finding his cock in your hand, mouth hovering closer, teasingly, breath fluttering over the leaking tip as you ask you clean and he nods.

Almost set to choke out words when wet warmth envelopes his cock. Cheeks hollowing, doing all you can to take as much of him from this position as he drops his head back, as his fingers grasp at your sheets, as the condom crinkles in his fingers before it scratches, protesting and reminding of its importance.

He’s throbbing in your mouth. Too in awe of the actual fucking sight of you—a person he met four hours ago—who is now a dream come to life.

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hand on cheek, easing him out of your mouth, “Wanna feel you come around me.”

Your eyes narrow in fury as he shifts back, rests back on his knees, eyes unable to tear away from how you lick the small taste of him from your lips, thumb swiping at the spit that had slid around your parted mouth as he rips the foil open.

“Are you sure you want this?”

Lifting up, taking the condom from the wrapper, sliding it down his cock. “Oh, I want you. Wanted you the moment you walked in.” He laughs, watching your hand wrap around his length. “I mean it—I don’t… don’t do this. But, I had to.”

Taking your hand from around him, leaning you back before lifting your leg, he lines himself up—sliding the head of his cock through your folds. Smearing himself in your wetness, coating him, watching you try to style out your little changes in breath.

“Had to?”

Nodding, “Had to, Morales.”

“Frankie,” he says, urges. Slowly pushing himself in, head tipping as he watches how you stretch around him, how perfect you are, how good.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan as he bottoms out.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and your chest arches into him. Your hooked leg tightening, forehead pressing into his neck as he rubs a circle on your back, comforting, aiming for relaxation as your head lifts, as eyes—glassy, lust-blown and filled with want.

“Good girl. S’good for me.”

Then you flutter, loosen a little, grind your hips—

“You like that, Blue?”

“Move, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

“Please. Please, Frankie—fuck me, fuck me—”

Your words fade, swallowed by a whine as he begins to move. As his hips begin to snap to yours in a rhythm so unrelenting, so desperate. Kissing you between heavy breaths as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and swallows a different moan that almost makes him grin as his fingers spread out along your back.

Because fuck you feel good.

A thing he’s sure he groans, says, spills.

Your mouth close to his ear, hands tugging at him, pulling—feeling you everywhere, taking him, all that he’s giving you. As his arm hooks under your leg, spreading you a little more, placing a palm down to the bedsheets as he squeezes the cotton as you tighten around him.

He knows you’re close, can feel it, can see it, a look that he’d seen only in diluted light*,* but now gets a real view of.

And it’s enough to push him over the edge.

“Say my name, baby. Please—”

“Frankie—fuck, m’god, Frankie, right…”

It shifts into a cry, your body tensing as your pussy flutters, tightens—contracting and constricting. Then there’s your nails, the ones clawing at him, scratching. Digging into him in a way he wants you to over, and over, again as he moans.

Because you feel good. Perfect.

His breath fans across your neck and he finds himself so hard, so desperate as he slides in and out, hand grasping at your hip, easing, helping—

“Come for me, Frankie. Need it, need you t—”

“Fuck, m’give it to you.”

It’s dizzying, the way he snaps—gripping your back as liquid pleasure rushes through him, making all sounds mute. Except the ones of his skin slapping against yours—of your whines and breaths as he jolts, as he twitches. Coming hard as a groan rips from his throat. His hips stutter, losing their pace, hearing your whine change as overstimulation layers thickly before he slowly lets himself collapse against you.

A thing, he suspects, you’re eager for. Arms encasing around him, holding him—heartbeat hammering against his in a rhythm that doesn’t match, but could, he supposes.

Then you kiss him.

Drag his mouth to yours, bodies both slick with sweat, glistening, shimmering as your tongue licks a thank you at the back of his teeth and his fingers grasp one of your breasts, sliding a sweat-soaked thumb over your peak as you groan.

He’s not sure of the hour, but he knows it’s morning when he wakes.

The shower’s running. Steam billowing into the bedroom from the ajar door with warm light leaves a line that guides him to you.

A part of him thinks he should leave. Should take the easy option, knowing things—how you feel, how he feels. Hand on your hip between the first and then the second—the time on your clock barely acknowledged as you ask him what he does, where he’s come from.

It rolled from him, the truth. A thing that should frighten him, that he should have held back—

You serve?

Yeah.

Against your sheets, the ones that smell of you and then him and then the two of you, running a hand over his face. Recalling the way you touched his cheek, brushed your palm, staring, before you whispered:

Lemme guess, a pilot?

Eyes widening, hand on your chin as he made you look at him, silently asking, how do’y know, how d’you see me? You kissed him instead of answering.

It's why it would be easy to go—to leave in the mid-morning, disappear, vanish.

But his feet are taking him to the bathroom door, pushing it open with two fingers—the same two that tipped your chin up, made you look him in the eye as you came on his cock—steam greeting him before it clears. Before he sees your back to him, half-covered by droplets and glass until he’s padding across tiles, remembering your words the last time when you’d been shimmering with sweat—

“I can’t do serious, Morales. So if you have a taste of me, don’t fall in love with me.”

He’d snorted, sliding his mouth down your stomach, thighs twitching against his palm as it remembered the other ways he’d already made it shake. “It’ll be you falling when I’ve done with you.”

Your fingers slide the glass open now, that conversation there, hanging like fairy lights that you both ignore as water cascades down your skin—and he steps in, welcomed, lips finding yours as the glass shakes when it slams back into place.

It’s a few more hours until he’s dressing, until he’s drinking a cup of coffee and finding himself having trouble making an excuse to leave.

Because these things aren’t easy, comfortable. Yet this is.

Opening the door, the scent of coffee from the pot you made still filling your place, you let him pass—hovering, lingering.

“Hey?”

Glancing at you, how you’re biting the nail on your thumb, one foot on the other. “Maybe, call me—when you’re next in town? If you want.”

“Thought you didn’t do strings.”

“We can be friends… can’t we? Friends who…”

“Fuck?”

He watches you nod, laughing, before he mumbles friends into the air as he lags. Swallowing. Fingers lightly tapping against his jeans before he rests his arm against the door. “Blue?”

“Hm.”

“What if I said I’m not expected anywhere for two more days.”

Your teeth bite your lower lip, scratching at the back of your head, before that same hand grabs a fistful of his shirt, moving closer, chin tilted up. “I’d say, I think I could handle a bit more of you, Morales. If you want?”

Oh, God. Heat rises to your cheeks before you stumble out a quick explanation. “It is! Broken. It’s broken. There’s no, uh, hot water.”

“Oh.” He takes a step toward the object in question, his broad back and shoulders beneath his thick long-sleeve flannel impossible not to notice. His right hand reaches out and turns the handle, waiting a few seconds before running his fingers under the stream of water. “Yeah, that’s pretty cold. Not good in the winter time. I’ll have to take a look.”

He turns the water back off, drying his hand on his jeans. Wide palm and strong fingers carelessly dragging up and down the denim over his thigh as if he has no idea how many times you’ve pictured that same thigh wedged between your own.

Which he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Much to the relief and to the dismay of almost every woman in this town.

Ever since he arrived in Jackson a few months ago, Joel Miller has occupied the top spot on an admittedly short list of eligible bachelors. A shallow dating pool one of many drawbacks of a post-apocalyptic world although you have no doubt he would have done just fine regardless. 

The man is ridiculously competent and unbelievably gorgeous. Older, as well as the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, but what really clenches it for you (pun intended) is that he seems to have no fucking clue that he is the reason why everyone suddenly seems so into home improvement.

There’s practically been a feeding frenzy, Joel’s to-do list a mile long from the moment Tommy mentioned at the town meeting that Joel was a contractor and open to work. Yet the elder Miller brother has greeted every flirtatious look and open invitation thrown his way with crossed arms and a seeming inability to focus on anything that isn’t a two-by-four. Case in point…

“Mind if I take a look real quick at your downstairs?” 

You blink at him, suddenly aware that he’s been staring at you while you were busy contemplating the size of his hands. “My downstairs?”

His brow furrows again. “For the water heater?”

“Oh, of course, yeah. Water heater. Yep.” What if you just threw yourself out the window? “I can show you where—”

“S’alright. I remember from last time.” He gives you a friendly nod before moving to step past you, and, God, the body heat rolling off this man. The smell. Sawdust and mint and… Have you ever wanted someone so badly in your life?

“I’ll just—” you start to say and Joel draws up level to you to listen, peering down at you with those deep set brown eyes, and here is actually the thing that makes you feel so fucking weak when it comes to Joel Miller. 

Those eyes. The sadness in them when he thinks no one is looking. The pride in them when he looks at Ellie. The joy in them when Tommy says something to make him laugh. 

For a man that says so little… simply seeing the way he is with the people he cares about has told you a lot.

“I’ll just be down in the kitchen,” you finish mumbling, cheeks burning again when your eyes drop to his mouth before you make a hasty retreat. “Take, um— Feel free to take your time.”

*****

Damn, he’s rusty at this. 

Joel continues to glare at his open toolbox on the bathroom floor just as he has for the last five minutes, his frustration having nothing to do with its contents or with the job itself. 

This he knows. Twenty years since he last worked full time as a contractor and it’s all come back like riding a bike. 

But figuring out if a woman is interested in him? That is still leaving him feeling completely unequipped.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to shake off the anxious feeling in his stomach before he gets down on the floor and ducks beneath the bathroom sink. Attempting to distract himself with fixing something rather than thinking through the fuck ups in his past. 

Sarah’s mom. Tess.

In both cases, they had practically had to shout at him before he realized they weren’t just being nice. They’d spelled it out for him and yet he’d still fucked up. 

The first he’d given too much of his heart to. The second not enough. Did he really need to go for three?

As if in answer to his question, your soft voice reaches his ears, and he sits up without thinking, smacking his head under the sink. Wincing he peers out into the bathroom, any embarrassment he feels fading with the dull throb when he realizes you aren’t in the room. 

“What the—” He stops, hearing you talking again and spending a good few seconds looking around before he notices the floor vent. 

Must be over the kitchen, he thinks, going back to his task and doing everything in his power not to listen to— “He’s up there working. Just offer him a cup of tea for God’s sake. You can do this.” 

Joel pauses, tool in hand. Is she talking to herself? About me?

“Joel?” Your voice carries again, this time shouted up from the stairs. “Would you like some tea?”

“Alright,” he yells back, reminding himself that you’re only being polite before he quickly adds, “Thank you.”

He’s been trying to remember his manners again, wanting to set a good example for Ellie, so that the town doesn’t think they’re just a couple of feral barn cats. Although some of the thoughts that run through his mind whenever you’re around don’t exactly border on respectful. 

You just have such a sweet way about you. Shy smile, pretty laugh, kind heart. Always helping people out around town and…always looking like something he wouldn’t mind sinking his teeth into. An urge that he frankly hasn’t felt in a while since he’d been so focused on just surviving, but now… his ability to wield a hammer isn’t the only thing that’s come back.

Through the vent he hears the tea kettle go off, a sharp whistle that shocks him out of the images in his mind and prompts him to reach down and adjust his jeans before he gets back to work. 

“Okay, good,” he hears you say, “so now you just take him the tea and try not to stare at his arms.”

His arms? Joel frowns, looking at the sleeves. Did he have something on his shirt? He had showered after working in other houses all day and put on a clean button-up just before coming over but maybe he’d missed something. He’d even thought about shaving before he had contemplated how good you’d look with whisker burn on your neck…on your inner thighs.

“You can do this,” you’re saying, as if you’re giving him the pep talk. “You can—Damn it, why does he have to be so hot?”

The wrench drops out of Joel’s hand as he fumbles, a loud smack echoing into the room that he conceals with a few more random smacks to the pipes.

“Joel?” Your voice comes up the stairs again a moment later. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just…getting this faucet taken care of.” He waits, and he can feel you waiting too at the bottom of the stairs. “How’s that tea coming along?”

“Good, good.”

Hot. Had you called him hot? Maybe you’d said the tea was hot and he’d misheard. Although, speaking of hot water, Joel looks back at the pipes under the sink and immediately notices what the problem is. He grins, finally feeling something other than nerves pooling in his gut. 

By the time you appear in the doorway with two mugs of tea, he’s already packing up.

“You’re done?” He’s pretty sure now that there’s disappointment in your voice, in the slight scrunch between your brows. “That was so fast.”

“Yeah, well…” He takes a mug from your hand. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to be able to fix it just now. Gotta come back to it.”

“Oh?” You look so flustered, as if you’re not sure if you’ve been caught. “I—Really?”

“Mmhm.” He steps closer, still testing. “That little knob under there flips the hot water on. Looks like it’s been tampered with.”

You bite your bottom lip. “Weird.”

Yeah, he thinks, already knowing he’s about to try again even though he still worries he shouldn’t. Weird.

“I’m really sorry,” you mutter, looking away from him only to be confronted with the image of the two of you standing close in the bathroom mirror. Something he’s also definitely noticed himself. “I made you come all the way over here for something so silly. And I know you have a lot to do and—”

“Can I make you dinner?”

Your mouth falls open. And Christ, he likes that mouth. “You want to make me dinner?”

Joel nods, taking a calm sip from his slightly scalding tea as he prays that maybe this time he won’t fuck it up. “As an apology. For taking so long.”

*****

Joel Miller is cooking at your stove, towering over it as he deftly prepares some chicken and veggies. Nothing super complicated since you hadn’t really been expecting a dinner guest, but if he’s the one cooking it, it could be inedible and you probably wouldn’t complain.

He’s still not saying much, seeming to prefer listening to you talk, but you don’t mind. There’s something reassuring about his presence, like as long as he’s here it’ll all be okay. As long as he doesn’t figure out you’re the one who tampered with your sink.

The truth is you’d run out of actually broken things for him to fix a few weeks ago, and after listening to the women in the food hall talk this morning about how excited they were for their appointments with him, you’d felt a snap of unwarranted jealousy. 

Before you knew what you were doing, you were marching up to him and babbling about a hot water emergency.

Has he cooked for them, too? You feel like someone would have blabbed if they’d had Joel Miller in their kitchen, but what if you’re nothing special… 

“You alright?”

You look up to see Joel assessing you from where he’s leaning against the counter, the mug of now cold tea you’d brought him still nearby. Maybe you’re just making a fool of yourself…

“Fine,” you say quietly, sitting up straighter as he plates up the finished dishes and carries them over. “Sorry, was thinking.”

“About what?” He drops into the chair beside you and he certainly looks interested in what you have to say. “Anything I can help with?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “You’ve already done plenty.” The edge of self-imposed hurt in your voice makes it come out sounding wrong and you scramble, “I mean, you fixed all this stuff in my house and now you’ve made me dinner. You’re so sweet to everyone.”

He laughs this time. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You fix stuff for everyone in town.”

He frowns, looking genuinely confused. “That’s my job.”

“Yeah, but you go out of your way for people. All I had to say was that I didn’t have hot water in my sink and you fit me in to—”

“I don’t do that for everybody.”

There’s a beat of silence as he continues to look at you, and you take a bite of steamed green beans just so you have something to do as your heart skips. Of course, they’re good. Of course, he didn’t make you something inedible. So damn competent. 

Because he’s had to be…

The thought intrudes without warning, reminding you that neither of you have found your way here without getting lost along the way. That both of you have had to do what you had to do to survive. 

It’s easy to forget sometimes. Everything feels so domestic in Jackson. As if the world isn’t still burning beyond the gates. As if you hadn’t spent years living on instinct. As if almost everything you gave didn’t end up eventually costing you.

I don’t do that for everybody. Joel Miller just told you that you were in fact special, and all you can think is if anyone has ever told him the same.

“Thank you,” you tell him, not meaning it lightly as you take another bite of food. “I appreciate you taking care of things—of me. Thank you for taking care of me.”

He starts to say something, his serious expression creasing the corners of his eyes. Those damn eyes. They really do tell you everything you need to know.

You get up from your chair before you can stop yourself, closing the gap before leaning down and putting your mouth on his. He’s so surprised that it takes him a full agonizing second before he drops his fork and grabs for you instead. 

Joel starts kissing you back as he hauls you into his lap, a pleased grunt escaping him as he fits you tight against him. One of his hands cupping your jaw, the other spanning your back to keep you in place as he takes the kiss deeper. 

There’s heat to it. Hunger and need and a thrill of desperation that doesn’t make you think twice about letting him strip off your shirt, your fingers fighting with the buttons on his own while his mouth closes over your breast through your bra and you whine his name.

“Fuck.” It’s the first word he’s said since you both started, and for some reason it makes you giggle, your heart melting when you see the answering flash of a dimple on his face. But then he’s standing up, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist for as long as it takes to lay you out on your kitchen table. 

“Fuck,” he says again, remembering the plates when your back hits the edge of one and makes it clatter against the surface. “Should we go up—”

You shove the plates off the table with the sweep of your arm, then go straight for the center clasp of your bra in case that hadn’t been clear enough. 

His eyes go dark as the fabric falls away, gaze raking your skin before he braces himself above you and picks up where he left off. 

“Been thinking about these,” he says, before he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, using his tongue and his teeth until it’s a tight, overly sensitive bud. Satisfied only when he has you whimpering and squirming beneath him, he places an almost chaste kiss on it before he sets out to make the other one match it. “Fuck, been thinking about you so much.”

“Been…” You sigh, liking the way his whispers scratch against your skin as he works his way back up to your mouth. “Been…thinking…about you too.”

He kisses you again, lingering over it while you push his shirt from his shoulders. Your fingers kneading into his muscles, your palms grazing over his warm skin as you let your hands wander. 

He groans, even that touch enough to make him pick up the pace again. He moves down your body, sucking a mark into the soft skin of your stomach, another high on your hip when he starts to tug your jeans down. You arch up to help him, feeling yourself get wet at just the way he looks at you when you’re bare. 

“Christ.” His hands skim up and down your body, possessively squeezing your breasts, your hips, your thighs. “So fucking pretty.”

His tongue presses against his bottom lip as he tugs you to the edge of the table, spreading your legs after he drops back down into his kitchen chair and pulls you closer. Your hands go to his hair and you tangle your fingers in the strands just like you pictured earlier, moaning when he sucks another mark into your inner thigh. God, he’s going to ruin me.

“Staking your claim?” you tease, the sudden intensity of your feelings making you desperate for some form of relief. 

He smirks, looking up at you from his place between your legs before simply stating, “I don’t share.”

“Me either,” you reassure him, and his smile reaches his eyes before he nods. “Good.”

Then his mouth is on your pussy and you can’t think of anything else, his thick fingers spreading you so he can be thorough. His tongue working you until he has to put one hand on your abdomen to keep you still. 

He likes when you say his name, when you moan, when you pull a little too hard on his hair, telling you with a low groan that you can feel. He rewards you by slipping a thick finger inside as he sucks on your clit, by adding a second finger when you come and using it to work you up all over again.

“Need to open you up a little more, sweetheart,” he tells you when he slowly eases in a third as he stands behind you. “That’s it.”

You can’t even remember when he turned you on to your stomach, positioned you so you’re bent over the kitchen table. All you know at this point is that if he doesn’t fuck you soon you’ll go out of what’s left of your mind. 

“Joel,” you buck your hips back into him, and he lightly smacks your ass in warning. A poor one since that only seems to make you wetter and you’re already dripping down your thighs. 

You’re about to make another demand when you feel the wide, smooth head of him at your entrance, and you’re abruptly glad he had the restraint to work you up to this even if you didn’t. You raise up onto your elbows, gasping when you feel the stretch, and he places a reassuring hand on your back to lower you back down. 

“You’re alright. I’ve got you,” he mutters. “Just breathe, sweetheart. Should see how pretty you look on my cock.”

Jesus.

You shift, trying to accommodate him. It doesn’t hurt. He made sure of that, but it’s a lot. So much. And yet, you only want him deeper.

“That’s it,” he says again, stopping once he’s finally all the way inside and bending over you to kiss the nape of your neck. He scrapes his teeth there when you whine again. “Good girl.”

Still covering your body with his, he pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, waiting to see how you respond before he does it again. And again. And again. 

You’re moaning so loud that the neighbors can probably hear you by the time he’s thrusting hard and fast, his left hand on your back again and his right between your legs. Joel ruthlessly pushing you towards another climax because he wants to feel you come on it. 

You hope they can hear you. And him. You hope the whole goddamn town knows by tomorrow morning that Joel Miller is yours.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters again as you start to come, burying himself deep to feel every wave of it before he pulls out. His spend hits your back and ass a few seconds later, his thumbs smearing it into your skin as he lets out a satisfied hum. 

Apparently you’re his, too. 

“I don’t think I can move,” you mutter, and you hear him chuckle. A heartachingly gorgeous sound that you only have a few seconds to appreciate before he’s scooping you up and cracking your heart completely in two with the way he’s smiling down at you as he takes you upstairs.

“Joel,” you say, as you pass the bathroom sink on the way to the tub, “about the faucet…”