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gutsby · 6 months ago

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Father Figure

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Parents’ Weekend looks a little different this year with Joel showing up in the place of your father.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Dad[dy] kink. Age gap. Oral (m!receiving). Premature ejaculation (Joel cums in his pants while he’s kissing you AS REAL LOVERS DO). Drinking and drug use. Gratuitous dad rock references.

Note: We all saw that video. This was begging to be written.

Another note: For a more immersive read of the pregame, listen to my freshman year Kegs & Eggs playlist (yes, it sucks).

Word count: 19.0k

Read on AO3

Freud would’ve had a field day with this shit.

Really, there was no sane explanation for the obsession that seized you and your friends come Parents’ Weekend every year. But there it went. Again. Like clockwork, all the forty- to fifty-something fathers arrived for their first meal on campus. Like the cock-starved coed she was, your roommate bumped your shoulder as you walked and nodded to the first set of families approaching the dining hall. Out of the pack, you spotted four grey heads.

“Would, would, would, and would,” Aly observed, almost clinically. Her strides were long and resolved in their path

“That one could get it.” Her brother shrugged on your other side. He tipped his chin up, then added: “Look.”

And look you did. The batch of men, women, and all their college-aged children struck you as little more fun to ogle than your average wall of paint waiting to dry. Though the moms and dads were, admittedly, the kind of attractive you rarely saw outside an L.L. Bean magazine—as were all the rest of the kempt and polished crowd that populated your school—you were hungry as fuck. You’d agreed to join your roommate’s family for the kickoff banquet of the weekend, and you needed food. On top of that, you’d sworn off middle-aged men forever.

Aly and her brother didn’t know that, though, so you played the game and trudged ahead. When a handsome blue-eyed man born in 1970-something stood back and held the door open for your trio going in, you had to fight back a smirk at the look Aly gave him after thanking him.

“Oh, he wanted me bad,” she hissed once safely inside.

“Looks a bit like Rob Lowe,” you offered noncommittally.

“What about your dad? Is he gonna be here tonight?”

That last fragment of conversation had come from Aly’s brother, and the curiosity in it was sincere. Then he’d wiggled two dark brows your way and said he bet your dad was a silver fox like no other, and you’d had to roll your eyes before strolling into the wide open dining area. You were late; the food, evidently, was all already served.

“My dad’s at home with a broken femur, so…no,” you answered slowly. Starting to weave your way through a sea of round tables and following Aly’s lead as you did, “Probably not your type. Just old. Very embarrassing.”

You stuck your index in your mouth and pantomimed gagging, and the sophomore beside you just laughed.

“Yeah? Desperate, too?” he challenged.

“Pathetic, really,” you replied.

For a second, you felt a pang of guilt at the way you were describing your father. Surely he couldn’t deserve being characterized like that. Then you recalled how he’d boned your mom’s best friend while he was married, had never really made amends after the fact, and was still fucking said mistress’s brains out on the reg to this day.

You’d done plenty of wrong behind his back, to be sure, but that kind of took the cake for fucked up betrayals. He could stand for a little bit of ribbing every now and then.

Presently, Aly was paving the way straight toward a pair of bright and beaming faces at a table near the back.

“Our parents named us after a goddamn Grateful Dead song and the city they first saw the band in concert. Nobody does pathetic better than Scott and Michelle.” She waved her arm in a wide arc and grinned over there.

And you would’ve gladly countered that no, that actually makes them very fucking funny and cool, but the chance to do that was gone in a moment—the next had you approaching their table and meeting with big hugs.

Even for you, who had never seen these people before in your life, there was a warm welcome. You got long, suffocating embraces and cheery greetings of, ‘Oh, you must be Aly’s roommate!’ and ‘We’re sorry you got stuck with our shithead kid’ before you had a grin plastered on again and were being ushered to sit down.

You took note of the little placards opposite each chair, counted four, five, six of them altogether, with an empty spot beside your own, per usual, and you took your seat.

“Dallas, honey, I love you,” the woman across the table, Michelle, said with all the restraint she could conjure up, “I love you to pieces, but what the hell are you wearing?”

That steered the conversation in a decidedly light, playful direction from the start, with Aly’s brother defending his decision to be decked out in full school-sponsored athleisure tooth and nail. He’d been recruited to play lacrosse, so naturally, wearing the far-too-tight crimson lycra was all part of the deal. Aly insisted that he just wanted to show off the biceps he didn’t have, Scott hypothesized it was the crisp, wintry Boston air that had made his son dress like a total douche, and Dallas tried bringing the inquisition to a speedy end by lifting one middle finger up and flipping his napkin into his lap.

“Fuck you guys, I’m hungry,” he declared, emphatic. Fighting the urge to laugh along then grabbing a fork.

Just as fast as he’d picked it up to dig in, though, his mom was slapping the silver utensil out of his hand.

“Not yet,” she chided.

“Why? We’re all here,” Dallas groaned.

“Because,” his father returned, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin before casting a quick look around him, “We’re still waiting on one more to join us. See?”

With that, Scott nodded toward the card next to you, and immediately, your cheeks warmed. You shook your head, mouth working a little less fluidly than you would’ve liked as you piped up and told them—assured them all, rather:

“My dad’s not coming. He got a little, uh…hurt at work.”

And you were certain that would be the end of it. You’d just moved to grab a fork yourself, eyeing the plate full of food in front of you then, when another hand stopped you on the spot. It was Aly beside you, grip insistent as she gave your wrist a little shake, and in your periphery, you could see her tilt her head the opposite direction.

She was staring, silent—totally unlike herself.

Normally when something crossed her path nearby to make her twist her whole fucking neck to get a glimpse, it was followed by a dry remark. A comment, a compliment, or a lewd invitation to fuck me, please.

While the last of the three clearly wasn’t an option to use around her parents, you at least would’ve expected to hear something. When nothing came, you turned your head too, having just snagged a bite of roast beef on your fork and shoveled it in before looking that way.

You followed her gaze and nearly inhaled the food.

With a startled gasp and a ‘Christ!’, your eyes widened to find a man who wasn’t your father at all—just his best friend and your ex-fuckbuddy, Joel Miller, walking over.

It was a sight you weren’t prepared to see in a million years. What the everliving fuck this man was doing two thousand miles from Austin, Texas, on your college campus, striding into the very first meal of Parents’ Weekend, looking like that, was so far beyond your comprehension you couldn’t speak. You just stared and sucked in the sharpest, strangled breath, fought back a cough, and tried not to die swallowing a cube of meat.

From the way that man was approaching you now, asphyxiation might not be the worst, you thought idly.

Joel’s here.

Joel’s here, and he’s wearing slacks and a button-up.

Joel’s wearing business casual, and he’s walking over.

Who the fuck does this man even think he’s trying to—

“Sorry I’m late,” Joel cut in, smile bright and easy on his face. Then, stepping behind your chair, leaning down:

“Hey, sweetie. How are ya?”

He kissed the top of your head.

The tone sealed his fate completely.

Joel was pretending to be your father.

This wasn’t his brightest idea.

Call him sick, insane, selfish, besotted, or rotten straight down to his core, Joel Miller was no longer one to care. He had a goal in his head. Less than a week ago, you’d left him high and dry in Austin after having told him you loved him—in the middle of climax, but aloud, no less—and the month before that, you’d left him again. Back to college, where you could happily pretend he didn’t exist.

Tonight, he wasn’t letting that happen. This weekend, Parents’ Weekend, was of course reserved for families, but Joel knew your father wasn’t coming. He knew you wouldn’t be expecting your dad or anyone else to be there, and since you’d taken to the usual course of ignoring all his calls and texts, he felt he’d had no choice.

You couldn’t stay closed off like this forever.

Eventually, you’d both have to reckon with what this was and how to move forward, or the mess of the last month would never change. You would never believe he saw you any differently from a one-off hookup or a taboo outlet of pleasure. And if that was all you saw him as, so be it. But he had to get the truth of it out now, one way or another.

Even if he had to roleplay the father figure and play the most fucked up game of paternal charades known to man, he’d get the answers he needed this weekend.

You were good at games. Unfortunately, Joel was better.

He’d take this fake-out to the max and be the best faux father you’d never asked for. Maybe you’d hate him for it.

As he’d squeezed your shoulder and sat down beside you at the table, felt your gaze heavy and stunned on his, he also couldn’t help but hope you might still love him after.

“Scott Ingram. Pleasure to meet you.” The broad hand had been extended his way before he was even fully seated. The face across from him was kind. Intrigued. Tinged with a faint trace of curiosity, “So you’re dad?”

“Stepdad, yeah.” Joel had had to leave a bit more room for plausibility before he’d made his formal introduction.

Then he’d met Michelle. Aly. Dallas. The latter two more piqued with interest than the first, as though unsure of what they’d just been told, but willing to go on anyway.

“Old and pathetic my ass,” Dallas had murmured your way, low enough for Joel to know those words were meant for only you to hear. You stiffened in response.

“So glad you could make it up! Is your leg doing better?”

Aly had smiled warmly over at him, and Joel had only hesitated a second. Then he remembered his friend.

“Oh, my— yeah. Just…peachy. Yeah. All healed up.”

He didn’t flit a look to you; he could feel the searing imprint of your gaze and the way you hadn’t bothered to hide your frown when he’d referenced the leg he’d never broken. The way you could’ve pulverized the napkin in your lap to dust from how hard you were squeezing it in your fist—you didn’t like to admit it, but that was your nervous tic, and Joel knew it well. He propped his elbows on the table and didn’t miss the way a head turned his way from a neighboring group. Then another. He hated every starch white button-up he owned with a burning passion, but he couldn’t deny this one was eye-catching.

Not that it mattered, really, because the only glossy gaze he cared to snag was presently nailing him with daggers in its path. Still, it was a comfort to know he’d make a good-looking corpse if that look of yours ever did kill him

“Oh, my, my, oh hell YES—”

The sing-song trill of a baritone beside him roused him from his trance. He looked over and saw Scott grinning.

“—honey put on that pa-a-a-a-a-arty dress!”

It was Michelle that finished the line for him, while they both bobbed their heads along to the Tom Petty song blasting overhead. Evidently, dad rock would be alive and well all weekend. Joel wasn’t mad to see that happen.

“You a Tom Petty fan?” Scott jerked his chin up to him.

Before he could answer, though, Michelle interjected:

“I’d say he’s more of a Simon & Garfunkel guy.”

Whatever the hell that meant. Joel smiled.

“Mom, Dad. Please stop,” Aly moaned.

“Seriously.” Dallas’s mouth was full.

And, just as he fought to swallow the heaping glob of food he’d just crammed in, his dad snapped his fingers.

“No, I know it! You’re a Billy Joel man, Joel. No doubt.”

Joel blanched as white as the shirt on his back. You coughed. He hadn’t even noticed you’d chanced a bite of food beside him, but now you were sputtering—choking on a morsel of beef or mashed potatoes or something—and he didn’t think twice. He pivoted right to you and dropped a hand on your back in the space between your shoulder blades. He patted you twice, eyes a little wider.

“Hey, you OK?”

Fleeting memories of a night not too long ago flashed through his mind: driving town by town, state after state, blaring Billy Joel extra loud in his Bronco with you riding shotgun. It had been something special between you then. Now, your gaze was on him like you despised him.

“I’m fine,” you answered, tone clipped.

You shrugged his touch away. Joel blinked back to Scott.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he said, thoughts occupied by you all the while, but he reckoned it was something his neighbor had wanted to hear, because he saw a satisfied little smile cross his lips, ‘I told you, Michelle.’

“Everybody likes Billy Joel, dad.” Aly rolled her eyes.

And Joel would’ve liked to look your way again. Maybe dropped the fatherly moue for half a second and flashed an apologetic look shared just between you and him. But then the conversation shifted; the whole table began to eat, more pleasantries and questions about home life and backgrounds followed, and all the talk from there converged on where they were planning to go out after dinner—how they’d make the very most of Parents’ Weekend. You sat back and ate in silence, mostly. You wouldn’t meet his gaze for even a moment, and when you rose from your seat to get another drink, Joel felt himself stand too, as if out of habit. He hadn’t meant to.

It hadn’t been his intention to follow you out of the dining area, strides swift to try and keep up, but he did.

It hadn’t been his goal to corner you by the soda dispenser, either. Away from the eyes of everyone else, or at least in a private enough space not to be seen by too many people, Joel felt a little more at liberty to talk. He lowered his voice and drew even closer then to speak.

“Sweetheart—”

You’d filled a cup halfway with water. As soon as he’d said that word, ‘sweetheart,’ you turned and chucked its contents directly in his face. Liquid splashed up at him, and for a second, Joel had only to stand there with his eyes closed and his body completely frozen in place.

Water dripped in silence before he wiped at his chin.

At the same time, you were tossing your cup aside.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ call me that,” you growled.

Then, shortly: “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Honestly, he didn’t know. He opened his eyes.

And, just as he raised both hands in a semi-conciliatory kind of gesture, you scowled and backed away from him.

“You’re sick, Joel. Pretending to be my goddamn da—”

“I know. I know,” Joel winced as he spoke, wrinkles no doubt creasing even deeper along his face as he saw yours fall. You weren’t happy to see him in the slightest. “I know it’s fucked up. I just…needed to talk to you, hon.”

“About what?!”

He could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. He wanted to cup them in his hands, or else kiss the frown off your lips in a way that would be totally inappropriate for a stepdad to do, but already, he sensed his resolve was eroding. It didn’t matter, anyway, because you weren’t letting him get within an inch of you, based off your look.

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed, “There’s just so much—”

Of course, the next moment was punctured by a voice. His words were cut short; you were both forced to turn.

“It’s all settled now,” Aly declared with cheery conviction. She snagged a cup and started filling it up with Sprite, “Pregame at Dallas’. Seven Oaks after. Lucky’s after that. Maybe a brief intermission at The Alley, if you’re up for it. Afters at A.J.’s, probably. Depends what the vibe is like.”

Joel had barely processed half of what was said, and it still sounded like a lot from where he stood. He blinked.

Then Aly’s eyes fell to his collar, and she lifted a brow.

“You got a little…drinking problem there, Joel?”

He glanced down at the mess on his shirt and tried to smile with her. It was hard to fight the color jumping to his cheeks simultaneously. He scrambled for the words.

“Oh, uh—”

“Dad’s real smooth with it,” you cut in, suddenly, like the paternal moniker was nothing at all. You didn’t look back, “I’m fine drinking wherever. Your parents coming, too?”

Aly’s grin stretched even wider. It looked devious.

“They wouldn’t miss this bingefest for the world.”

At just the intonation of those words, Joel’s pulse sped up. He saw a knowing look pass between you and your roommate, and in a second, he sensed he was fucked.

He really shouldn’t be drinking tonight.

A hundred shots probably wouldn’t have been enough to kill it—this ringing in your head hurt like a motherfucker.

Joel wanted to talk.

Of course he wanted to talk.

Just on his terms, on his time, with your closest friends and their family members all assuming he was your dad.

Because that made a lot of fucking sense.

You’d meant to split from Joel the second you showed up. Dallas’ off-campus house was many things, but small and quiet were not among those descriptors, and you planned to use all of its space to your advantage tonight.

Simply put, the place was a glorified playground for college degenerates. Afforded the distinct honor of housing eight members of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity in 2,700 square feet for over fifty years, the Craftsman home was no small wonder to anyone who saw it standing today: the house was shit. Dallas loved it.

You’d enjoyed it, too, for at least the first year or two of college. Then you’d wisened up to the antics of a few too many numb-skulled Pikes, got tired of listening to the same ten tracks being blasted in your ears every other weekend, and decided you’d just stick to the bar scene, where at least patrons were prohibited from standing on elevated surfaces and breaking bottles over their heads.

When Dallas rushed, and eventually joined the fold last year, you’d been hesitant to go back. Then, when he’d promptly decked the first guy who tried dragging you up onto a table with him, you figured you could safely visit again and not have to worry while your friend was there. The kid did a pretty good job of weeding out assholes.

“My lady.” He stood and bowed before presenting you with a fifth of Pink Whitney like it was the finest wine.

The bottle was half empty. You’d been passing it back and forth for the last hour in between rounds of pong.

“Been sayin’ shit like that ever since he saw Gladiator II.” His housemate Cory called from closeby. He flicked his wrist once and sank his shot in the second to last cup.

“You are not General Acacius, brother,” Cory’s teammate Pete chimed in. With a lucky throw of his own, he hit the final Red Solo cup and shook his head like it was nothing.

You were all on the third floor, away from the noise downstairs. While the so-called ‘pregame’ surged ahead on first, in the basement, and outdoors, you’d managed to find relative quiet among eight or nine friends and acquaintances, plus a guy railing lines off a frisbee in the corner. Nobody knew where the fuck he’d gotten it from.

“I like to pretend,” Dallas said with a shrug. Then, once you’d taken a swig of the pink drink and handed it back: “My parents play next. Gavin, put the coke away, please.”

Gavin sniffed the air at least four times like he had a cold. Then he tucked his credit card back in his wallet, put the wallet in his pocket, and knocked the frisbee on the floor.

‘Yessir’ was all you heard before he was leaning back contentedly. The girls Cory and Pete had just played seemed equally indifferent as they sauntered off—likely looking to get their hands on whatever the hell else the redhead had in his jeans and quick to forget about the game. Blow was way too easy to spread at these parties, and clearly, no one gave a shit about redemption round.

“Gavin.” Dallas’ tone was a warning.

At the same time, his housemate had just snagged an ID where it was left on the table and held it up to the light.

“Hang on, it looks like this guy, uh…” Cory squinted to read the text on an apparently too-old driver’s license. “Looks like he called dibs on next round…Joel Miller.”

Your grip tightened on the spot. You said nothing. Cory was just then starting to remark that this dude’s the spittin’ fuckin’ image of that one guy from Game of Thrones, Dallas, come look, when the door to the room swung open, and in walked the man of the hour himself.

Joel was joined by Scott, Michelle, and a horde of others.

Well, maybe five in total. They were all freshmen girls.

Giggling, grinning freshmen girls who were quite literally hanging off his body on either side, or else trailing behind him, admiring him like he was the single greatest thing.

Where were all their fathers? That was your fake dad.

Christ, that sounded bad, and you hadn’t even said it.

When Dallas offered you the bottle again, you declined. You were more than just buzzed. And Joel was drunk.

Apparently.

And was he—well shit, were they trying to strip him?

One of the bubbliest girls from the group was tugging on Joel’s shirt. Three buttons were already undone, and a smooth, tanned patch of flesh glistened through the ‘V’ in the fabric. He’d been working up a sweat downstairs.

A sea of black-and-grey hairs peeking out through the trough of cotton was the last thing you saw before you had to look away. It was too familiar. And there you saw some girl fresh out of high school, feeling him, teasing at the material while she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“You are so lying!” she slurred, voice pitchy and shrill.

What was worse, you couldn’t even fault the girl for it. That had been you just a few short years ago, hadn’t it?

Beside her, her friend snagged his sleeve: “Show ussss!”

Scott and Michelle had approached the table where Dallas was setting up the cups for the next round and you were trying not to stare. You reckoned you were failing pretty miserably at the task when the next thing Mrs. Ingram did was lean in closer to you and whisper.

“Real hot commodity with the girls, isn’t he?” It was soft.

She was right.

You forced your gaze to your feet, pretending to assess the wet and sticky mess underneath them. You hummed.

“Yup. Real ladies’ man,” you answered quietly. Strained.

“They’re convinced he’s got some ink hidden under his shirt. That’s a creative way to get a man topless if I’ve ever seen one.” Scott chuckled next to you, tone teasing.

Something twisted in your chest, though you couldn’t quite place what it was. It hardly felt like jealousy at all—but that was worse, somehow. Joel was your stepfather in every other mind but yours and his, and here he was, soaking in all this attention that you couldn’t give to him.

Maybe that was for the best.

Joel deserved a woman he didn’t have to love in secret.

“OK, who’s up—Joel or mom and dad?” Dallas asked.

“I’m out. Joel can take my place. And don’t we—”

Pete snapped his fingers, then pointed at Cory.

“We forgot to grab the other keg, didn’t we?”

“Fuck me.”

“Let’s go.”

They were gone in a second. That left Joel, Scott, Michelle, plus one open spot. Dallas set the last cup.

“Who’s gonna be Joel’s partn—”

“ME!”

That had to have come from three girls, at least. One on the couch and two more on either side of Joel, along with a slew of hopeful looks from others in his orbit.

They’d dispersed some, thankfully. Though not physically clinging to your pseudo-stepfather and begging him to peel off his shirt, they stayed close.

One of them giggled and nudged her friend: “Maya can!”

The girl who’d just been playing tug-of-war with the front of Joel’s button up waved her hand in mock indignation.

“I suck at pong. You go, Claire,” she crooned.

It was clear from the sideways glance the first girl had flashed that she wanted Joel to protest. Maybe insist that she play anyway, if you had to guess. It was all so confusing—what with how this group was flirting, and fighting, and insisting simultaneously that they couldn’t possibly play, even though they’d like to, but maybe…

Your skull started ringing again.

You were just about to turn to leave, when Dallas cut in:

“Sorry, ladies. Gonna be a Daddy-Daughter duo tonight.”

Then he gestured to you, beckoned to Joel, and grinned. Your stomach could’ve plunged to that floor you’d just been pretending to study. You quickly jerked your head.

Even Joel, for all his calm and unaffected dealings, the pretty damp mop of hair hanging in ringlets against the sides of his face, and the way he kept pretending not to be concerned by the flock of girls, had to pause a beat. You saw his throat work. Before you could try and decipher the look that was crawling up his face, you made the split-second decision to interject yourself.

“No, Dallas. I’m not playing again.”

You tried to avoid grinding your molars.

This time, the tone he heard wasn’t one of a thinly veiled acceptance—something begging to be disputed when it tried to decline the offer—but instead an emphatic ‘no.’

No way were you playing another game with this man.

Joel already had your head fucked ten ways to Sunday by being here at all, and now you had to pretend to be platonic, his goddamn beer pong partner, while a gaggle of freshmen girls sat frothing at the mouth for his dick?

Yeah, but no.

Hard fucking pass.

You didn’t care what it looked like. You shot Dallas a look, grabbed a stray Solo off the table, and made your way to the door, calling something over your shoulder about being too tired to play, and offering your spot to Maya.

That should make your old man happy enough.

It wasn’t like he could do anything here with you.

And then you left. Before you did, though, you passed Gavin and the mysterious white bag he was starting to fish out of his pants, and without thinking, you grabbed his hand. You didn’t like doing coke, had never seen the point in taking your level of intoxication that far out on an ordinary night, but, all things considered, this evening was anything but normal. You deserved some relief. If that couldn’t come in the form of Joel packing all his shit and leaving, then so be it. But you weren’t about to hang around and play the nice and polite stepdaughter when all you wanted to do was scratch your fucking eyes out.

A few lines wouldn’t be the worst way to start the night.

Joel wasn’t drunk.

He wasn’t tipsy, either.

And even if he had been, he wouldn’t have appreciated the way this hazel-eyed firecracker had nearly crushed his toes from how hard she’d jumped up and down at hearing you abdicate your position. Maya had shrieked, and Scott and Michelle hadn’t been able to fight back smiles, and trying not to wince too hard, Joel had politely excused himself. He’d claimed that he needed some air.

The oxygen he found down the hallway a few minutes later was stale as shit, but he couldn’t exactly complain.

He’d asked for this, after all: the thumping bass, shaking floors, passageways that reeked of weed and cheap perfume, and girls that refused to let go of his neck.

Well. He hadn’t asked for that last thing.

Thirty years ago, he might’ve found it cute—what Maya and Claire and every other glossy-gazed Phi Mu seemed to be offering with every bat of their lashes. Now, if the arms latched around his throat weren’t yours, the idea just made him sick. He cleared his throat and walked.

And before long, his feet had carried him to the end of the hallway. Where in the hell had you gotten off to?

Would you be back soon?

And why had you taken that kid with you?

Joel’s palms were sweaty by his sides. He didn’t like being kept in the dark—didn’t think traveling some 2,000 miles to be closer to you would still leave him wondering like a fucking idiot if he would see you again.

Then he reached for the nearest door. A bathroom.

The door was just cracked, allowing a sliver of light to shine through and a peek at a sea of tile flooring to greet him. Joel pushed on the knob without thinking to knock.

When he stepped inside, he had to stop.

It was too much to process and walk at once.

For the first time in his life, he felt shell-shocked.

You were on your knees in front of that red-haired fucker. Stabilizing one hand on a denim-clad leg in front of you, patting his thigh, having him murmur something back—probably words of encouragement for how nice your mouth felt around him—and then tilting your head up.

Joel could only see you from behind. His vision was red.

“What the fuck are you DOING?!” he bellowed out.

The two of you leapt apart, your head jerking back.

He wasn’t thinking. Joel blew straight past you and went for him, the little pencil-dicked Pike who’d just had his dick down his stepdaughter’s throat, presumably, and he grabbed him by the shirt. He shoved him hard against the bathtub on the wall, watched him flail a few steps, and then, before the kid could recover his balance, Joel shoved him again. He might’ve tripped further back and fallen into the tub, had the older man not reached for him again—and reared back to punch him square in the face.

That blow never landed.

In the next instant, a smaller body was forcing itself in between him and the kid, and the only other thing Joel could see through his own blinding rage were your two eyes—wide and panicked and horror-stricken, clearly.

“JOEL.”

Still not prepared to retreat, Joel reached out again.

Your hand knocked his down in a blink. Hard.

“J— Dad. Dad. Stop. Please don’t hit him.”

Suddenly, that tone was approaching a plea. You must’ve caught a glimpse of the rage pulsing through his veins and sensed it might’ve been too much for him to control—but of course, Joel knew better. He could always stop.

He stepped off and turned to you at once, teeth bared.

“How the fuck could you even—” he started again.

“I’m sorry, dad,” you broke in, words sounding like a sob, “It’s not his fault. Really. I— I didn’t mean for you to see.”

Sucking some other guy’s cock. Yeah, of course not.

Joel’s face flared with an anger unlike anything he’d felt in years, and if it weren’t for the skittish sack of shit stumbling away, and the warning that was starting to radiate off your skin, he would’ve liked to knock him out.

He might’ve, if the kid hadn’t run out of the room.

If you hadn’t turned slightly, he might’ve yelled again.

And then he saw it, from where you’d pivoted—the toilet.

Sitting on the smooth white porcelain lid in three thick stripes, the sight greeted him like a punch in the gut.

He wasn’t sure what it meant for an excruciating second. He stared. Then he processed what that substance was.

You’d been crouched over the toilet doing a line of coke.

He wanted to feel relief. For a moment, maybe, he did.

When your eyes narrowed on his and you shook your head in a scowl, it didn’t feel like he should be happy. Or ready to celebrate this latest discovery. Instead, realizing that you hadn’t been blowing a guy in this bathroom but were simply doing drugs in front of him, Joel felt bile jump up his throat. It was like a knot the size of his fist, and he wasn’t sure how to react, but he couldn’t stand that look on your face. You were just as angry as him.

“What the hell was that all about, Joel?!” you snapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut back in:

“Sorry, sorry—I mean ‘dad.’ You fucking asshole.”

“And this is why you up and left?” Joel hissed.

“I just—”

“Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“I didn’t—”

“What that could’ve been laced with?”

He pointed to the cocaine on the lid of the toilet—apparently there hadn’t been enough space on the skinny porcelain sink to set up your lines—and at the same time, to Joel’s amazement, you sank to your knees.

“Well, I don’t know, dad, why don’t we test some out?”

And then you swiped a casual touch through a line and lifted your index to your mouth. With your other hand, you pulled at your bottom lip a little, and were evidently about to test your drugs the old fashioned way: by rubbing the powder against your gums to see if it made them numb. Joel swatted at your wrist before you did.

“Don’t,” he growled. Without even realizing it, he reached and grabbed your chin. His fingers engulfed half your face in an authoritative, upward-tilting grip. “Put that stuff anywhere near your mouth, and you will regret it.”

That didn’t seem to stir you, but your hand stayed put.

Joel stepped away just as quickly. He went to the door.

He shut it.

And when he returned, you hadn’t moved from where you’d been knelt. He was glad. Something quiet and dull throbbed between his ears, though he wasn’t recovered enough from the shock of the last few minutes to really investigate that. He just stood back over you, frowning.

His voice was lower when he spoke again:

“What am I gonna do with you, honey?”

It was a question as much for himself as it was for you, and your lips twitched at the end of it. You shrugged, and you sank back onto your heels, peering up as you did.

“You thought—” you started, soft.

“I thought you were in here blowin’ that little shit.”

Your smile split into a grin. Your eyes glistened.

“Is that so?”

Joel didn’t have the strength or the presence of mind to answer, so instead, he just nodded. His scowl deepened.

“You and me,” he resumed, having just exhaled a breath, “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat later. Got that?”

And he meant it. Not just about drugs and other men and the dangers of accepting cocaine from strangers. He had more to tell you tonight than his overwrought mind was likely capable of sharing right now, but he’d say it.

Soon.

Eventually.

Once he got this bulge in his slacks sorted out.

With you, it was never a conscious decision, and it rarely ever occurred at times it was appropriate to happen. Like when your friends and their family and half of the Pike fraternity weren’t all milling about around this house. When he hadn’t almost decked a kid for giving you coke.

When you weren’t shuffling on your knees to greet the growing erection in his pants with a grin on your face.

“Will this ‘chat’ come before or after you fuck Maya?”

That was it.

Joel seized hold of your head again—this time, from the back. One palm rounded the base of your skull and yanked your face forward, mushing your nose and your lips against the fabric of his pants in an obscene sort of kiss. He made you rub your face against the hardened tent there, and he groaned when you whimpered. The reverberations of it traveled from his groin to his brain in two milliseconds flat and made him think insane things.

Like having your mouth right now.

Taking from you here what he thought he’d almost lost.

The sight of your head hovering anywhere near another man’s crotch made it crystal-clear to him, though he’d known it well before: he wanted you. He needed to have you. How you could even crack the joke about a shred of his attention being elsewhere had him tightening his hand in a fist in your hair. He didn’t care if it felt wrong.

“You know what girls like Maya can do for me?” he said.

He tilted your head back so your gaze could find his. He didn’t let you answer, but he let you stare for a second, and then he worked your pretty parted lips over the front of his slacks again. He let the taut grey fabric tease the cusp of that opening, tasting a bit, before drawing back.

“That’s right,” Joel went on as if you’d just responded, “Nothing. Absolutely fuckin’ nothing. Open your mouth.”

And you did. Wider. From the look of it, there was spit pooling inside, and your tongue hovered just within it when your lips met the front of his pants. You cupped your mouth around his clothed erection and kissed it.

Your eyes were locked on his as you did. The sight felt extra obscene—Joel couldn’t ignore the fact that he was dressed in near-formal attire, and you had on jeans and a tight cropped tank. He looked polished and professional; you were a beaming pretty thing making space between his legs to kneel. You felt like a dream with your lips over his swollen, aching cock; Joel felt old. Paternal, almost.

Was it wrong to think you needed to be taught a lesson?

Of course it was. He wasn’t your dad. He didn’t do that.

But when you smiled up at him with your lips still brushing his straining bulge, Joel couldn’t resist the smallest impulse to wonder—what if he showed you?

What if he let you know exactly what he wanted, how he needed it done, and that he only ever craved it from you? If he couldn’t say it outright in words, he could guide you.

Teach you.

Your tongue traced the seam of his zip, and he groaned.

“Damn near gave your old man a stroke, y’know that?”

“I know,” you said softly. Kindly, “I’m sorry, daddy.”

His cock throbbed at that last affectionate word.

His hands couldn’t help themselves: one stayed planted on the back of your head, and the other made its way to his belt. He undid his buckle, button, and zip in a blink.

“And what was that prick’s name?” Joel grumbled.

“Gavin.”

Your mind seemed two million miles away from any shit-brained fratboy at the moment as your gaze fixed itself on the length he was working out of his pants just then.

When it bobbed out and got within an inch of your rapt expression, your lips parted on instinct; you leaned in.

Swiftly, Joel’s hand on your head halted the movement.

“Gavin, huh,” he returned, tone treading on patronizing. He knew you were salivating for that little pearl on his tip. He gripped your hair hard. “This what you’d do for him?”

You whimpered.

“No, daddy. No, just— just you.”

Joel hummed his approval but didn’t let you move. He watched you eye the head of his cock like there was no single sight more appetizing in the world, and then he saw you lick your lips. You’d get positive reinforcement.

He would take things slow, and by the end of it all, he hoped to have made it clear that this was what he wanted: you, and only you. That he didn’t want you doing this with anyone else other than him. Here, now, or ever.

The last was a lot to say, so he fed you an inch instead.

He let his cock slide between your lips and stretch them.

You breathed something soft and sweet at the first intrusion of his tip; your mouth cushioned that inch, and his head was immediately enveloped in warmth. Your tongue darted out to greet him in a gentle lick. Joel groaned again, and his fingers constricted in your hair.

“That’s it, honey,” he told you, “Suck on daddy.”

His hips hadn’t meant to jump, but the pleasure from just the cusp of your mouth was too much for him not to flinch a little. He stabbed another couple inches in that pliant ‘o’ and felt you work your jaw open to take him whole. You looked so obedient. You were doing so good.

You bobbed your head gently, and his hand didn’t need to coax you at all. You were hungry, mouth sliding up and down his thick, throbbing dick and leaving trails of spit in its wake. You wanted to please him now; he could feel it.

You had no idea what you did to him. All he wanted now. It was like trying to explain a color in words, and all the man could do was just hold your head in place and watch you take him. When your back straightened and one palm braced itself up against his thigh, the other about to curl around the base of his length, he shook his head.

He brushed that hand away and made it rest on his other leg, so you were left with just your mouth around him.

You peered up, confused. Joel was, too.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew he had to lead the way. Make you see what he wanted you to by guiding your motions and filling your mouth the way he needed. He tried as much by shifting his left hand to meet the right at the back of your head. Gently, he pushed your face forward to suck more in.

“Breathe through your nose, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Feel you deeper, he should’ve said. Either way, it made for a slow and painstaking slide down your tongue—sensing you flatten it and inhale a shallow breath as he worked his way in—and at the stretch, you gagged a bit.

Joel eased up, just enough to let you flit your gaze to his.

“You wanna feel me, too, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

You nodded, mouth still full of cock. Your eyes glistened in a way that said you might’ve guessed there was more to it, but you weren’t exactly in a position to ask just what. You let the fingers of both his big hands splay against the back of your head, and your jaw slackened more. Your gaze stayed on his as his cock slid deeper.

In that, there was wordless, tranquil reprieve. The sight of his spit-soaked length stuffing your mouth, skin all shiny and wet, and the way he kept going further and further and further, until your soft pert nose grazed the hairs of his belly, made Joel’s member swell harder still. There was scarcely an inch in between your lips and his heft of stomach. Your eyes were still fixed on him, and as the seconds ticked by, there was moisture welling at the corners. Joel moved his hands to thumb at those tears.

“Good girl. You’re doin’ so good for daddy,” he praised.

And something stirred in the depths of his body when he felt you try to nod again, like you were thrilled to be giving him pleasure and wanted to show it in some way.

Joel could’ve stayed like that for hours if his dick would only have let him. As it was, though, he felt the stir in his stomach accompanied by something else—a familiar pinch, and a warning jolt of pleasure. He cursed quietly.

You’d just started. He’d barely got an inch down your—

“Fuck,” he cursed again, when he sensed you swallow around his dick. The head of himself was breaching somewhere deep within your throat, and he felt it.

This wasn’t what he’d planned. You’d taken him deep before—at your father’s birthday bash last month, actually—but then you’d been blowing him under a table. He couldn’t hold your gaze or watch your throat open around him, couldn’t see the minuscule wince in your eyes or try to brush that discomfited look aside with his thumbs in the way he could now. He felt it in the pit of his gut, though: he would burst if he didn’t slow down.

With that one grounding thought, Joel tried pulling out.

Your body below him responded in sharp protest.

‘Daddy, no’ seemed almost to jump off your tongue, though it was presently weighted down by his cock. Your nails worked deeper into the fabric of his pants, like the tight, possessive grip was all you could manage to let your intentions be known to him. Then the look flared in your irises, too. They were begging him to stay in place.

Joel obeyed. Though it was you on your knees for him, lips, tongue, and throat pulsing and sucking to give him the utmost pleasure, he felt pangs of powerlessness, too.

He couldn’t help it when your lips stretched more, when your mouth opened wider, and your throat took him in all the way. He was fucked. He let out a sharp, hoarse grunt to let you know as much, and he cursed out loud again.

And then, completely axing his every well-laid plan, Joel felt the first rope of cum unload from his throbbing tip. Then another. And another. And another hot flurry of pleasure cropped up from that place your mouth was presently attached to him, and this time, the wave was too much to be overcome. The whole thing flooded him.

Without a hope of beating out that primal instinct, Joel just cupped your face in his palms and let his climax fill your throat. He couldn’t think, and while you seemed a tad surprised at how early it came, you didn’t fight it, either. You simply sat back, peered up, and let him fuck your mouth in the gentlest, most desperate thrusts, mind likely eager to feel his spend paint your open throat.

You hardly had to swallow at all—hardly could swallow, with how deep he’d gone. His cum jetted in milky strings through your plush, wet channel, and Joel could feel it gliding down with just a moment’s hitch of resistance.

Impaled as you were, you gagged once, and he withdrew in the next instant. He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath or for his cum to get down inside you. He felt too much to be troubled now; he yanked you to your feet and drew you into him. He pushed you back against the sink.

Your legs latched around the backs of his, and your body was thrust against the mirror. It was tender, somehow. Joel didn’t fight to claim your lips or invade your mouth with stifling kisses; he just pressed you to the reflective glass and hedged you in under him. He kissed you gently.

In between movements against your body, he mumbled:

“I’m sick of missin’ you all the damn time, sweet pea.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. It just came.

Much like he had, except the stringy ropes of cum that had spurted from his dick seemed far less of a mess than whatever the fuck was coming out of his mouth right now. He felt exposed as soon as he’d spoken it you.

Then he saw your lips twitch. You kissed him back.

Someplace within where your mouth slotted over his, you were able to get out a couple murmured words yourself.

“I wish you didn’t have to,” you returned in a whisper.

You snaked your arms around the back of his neck and kept kissing him, over and over again, like your body was just starting to melt, and the heat was making you dizzy.

Joel could relate. Every time you touched him, he felt it.

He gripped your legs where they were still curled around his sides, and he held you tighter to him. He pressed his torso to yours until he was half-sure he was hampering your breaths, and then he pulled back. Briefly. Panting.

When he opened his mouth to speak, you cut in for him:

“I wish you could…be here. I wish we didn’t have to…”

Hide.

Your mouth seemed to have your mind and your usual reservations beat by a mile. It was moving fast, like his. Before you could stop yourself, your thighs constricted around his hips, you pulled him in closer, and just as you were about to finish that last quick, splintered thought—

“We’re leeeeeeeeav—OH! Shit!”

Aly Ingram’s sing-song tone was shortly supplanted by a shriek. She’d thrown open the door, unannounced, and when she saw the two of you collapsed against the sink, Joel’s undone pants hanging precariously over his hips and your mouths scarcely two inches apart, she jolted.

Or jumped, really.

She almost leapt through her skin, it seemed, and before she could even begin to recover, she just slapped her hands over her eyes and stumbled back. She was drunk.

“I didn’t see that! I did not seeee—”

“Aly!” you half-hissed, half-groaned.

“I literally didn’t see shit. You’re all g—”

Before either you or Joel could utter another sound, or attempt to split apart, Aly let out a second shrill yelp. This time, it was because she’d just tripped over a trash can backing out. She’d only very narrowly regained her bearings, had grabbed hold of the doorknob and was dragging the door shut, when the girl all but sang again:

“Have fun, be safe! Don’t make babies!!”

Joel scarcely knew how to react to that.

As it turned out, your roommate was open-minded.

Ply her with four or five shots of tequila and a couple High Noons, and she’d probably believe the moon was made of cheese if you told her in a serious enough tone.

But your goal tonight hadn’t been to convince her of a lie—it was to get a big, ugly truth off your chest that you’d been hoping to keep under wraps this entire weekend.

Now, after getting caught with your fake stepfather’s jizz drying in your throat, you had had to come clean about this thing. It wasn’t a story you’d wanted to tell, but it was one that needed sharing given the circumstances.

Aly had laughed her ass off when you told her everything.

Blame it on the strobe lights, the thumping music, or the thick, fetid air of the bar you’d just arrived at, but Aly had laughed a lot. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and slapped the tabletop beside her, like that was the single most insane thing she’d ever heard, and why don’t you write her a How-To? She’d love some tips on boning old men.

“He’s not that old!” you’d protested over your beverage.

She’d bought the drink. She said news like this was cause for celebration, and you couldn’t deny that. Smiling as you spoke, you figured this was good.

In fact, you thought getting caught by your closest friend was one of the best things that could’ve happened, all things considered, because now you knew at least one person was supportive and in your corner regarding Joel. On top of that, you had someone to help cover your ass—if a touch or a look between you two was too suspect, she’d tell you. From the second your group had Ubered to the bar, she’d been keen to see you close…though not too close. Presently, she grinned and squeezed your leg.

“I think you two would make a damn cute couple.”

“Huh?” You had to shout over the music to be heard.

“A cute couple!”

“Come again?”

You were really trying your best, but the blare of Bon Jovi overhead was a bit too much. You leaned in closer to her.

“YOU AND JOEL WOULD MAKE A CUTE COUPLE!”

And, as if on cue, Joel and Aly’s father reappeared at the table, holding the drinks they’d left to buy. Thankfully, the volume in the room was near-deafening, and neither seemed to have heard a word of hers. Scott was nursing some bottom shelf whiskey concoction while Joel double-fisted two shitty beers beside him. You had to admit, the latter looked good from where you sat: one more button was popped on his icy white shirt and a smile was plastered on his face, eyes straying to you more often than they should. The moment after that, you were doubly grateful for the blast of ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ in this bar—the next thing you knew, Joel was dropping his head casually and murmuring in your ear,

“Aly sure likes to stare, doesn’t she?”

Followed shortly by:

“Wanna give her somethin’ to watch?”

He was clearly joking. Your cheeks warmed anyway. Then, when he started to lift his head, he left a quick, parting kiss to your temple that could’ve been construed as a paternal gesture. To anyone else but you, him, and Aly, it likely was. Your gaze slid from Joel’s face to his forearms, where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. He smelled like pine, sweat, and Natty Light, and you were just about to tell him that somehow that combo worked for him, when Scott interposed, loud as hell.

“You ask her yet?!” he bellowed.

He knocked shoulders with Joel in a playful way, and the pair nearly stumbled sideways. Scott elbowed his ribs.

“He’s drunk as shit,” Dallas observed idly.

“Well, what’s he—” you began to say.

Before you’d even finished the question, your answer came in the form of Joel nodding, visibly pretty buzzed himself, as he waved his friend off with a shove and a laugh. Scott just grinned bigger as Bon Jovi gave way to Steely Dan over the speakers. Joel leaned back to you.

“Scott invited us to go skiing out in Jackson, Wyoming.”

“He loves planning trips drunk,” Michelle added.

“Like they’re best friends,” Dallas chuckled.

You ignored Aly’s half-concealed smirk on hearing that; you were too stuck on the look Joel was giving you. Like he was drunk, but dead serious—like he’d agreed to this.

Something set for a future date, however nebulous and far-fetched and stupid the idea may have been, made your insides stir a little all the same. You tried tamping it down with another sip of your drink, but you still shared a glance with Joel. He was watching you more intently.

“Is that something you’d wanna do, hon?” he asked.

You might’ve liked to warn him that he was drawing too close—that his breaths were too warm on your cheek and Aly was straightening in her chair, blinking harder—but anything even approaching a remonstrance was evidently never meant to leave your mouth, as the next second had you nudged off your barstool, taken by the hand, and dragged toward the bustling crowd at the center of the room. Scott had suggested dancing; his son had readily agreed and was now leading you out to the crowd himself. You snagged one fleeting look at Joel.

Mr. Ingram had been dying to get out there, apparently. Behind you, the man spun his wife the best he could through the jam-packed dance floor of students and parents bumping their way through the very best of the ‘70s and ‘80s. He took a few graceless turns himself; while Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, and AC/DC reigned supreme over the wide open space, he pulled some mildly impressive moves. More importantly, though, he didn’t give a shit how he looked. This encouraged your group to let loose a little, too, and you somehow found yourself burrowing even further into the sea of people.

Your arms were compressed on either side of you. Your shoulders were bumped, and nudged, and given little more than a quarter of an inch for your chest to expand in the shallowest of breaths. Every pull of your lungs was an effort, and still, you couldn’t help but smile as you ran a quick look over the heads of everyone around. This was fun. Private, even. With dozens of nameless, faceless bodies gyrating in time with the music, you could blend right in. You could pretend that everything was normal.

Even with the press of a familiar form at your back, you could pretend it was just the crowd forcing him there—that Joel had just sauntered in behind you by accident.

It was risky, to be sure. The lights above flashed in bright white bursts, undulating with every pulse of the song being played, and it wasn’t too far from you that Aly and all the rest of them were strewn throughout the crowd.

But Joel hadn’t seemed to have noticed. Beneath the myriad limbs of the bargoers around you and him, he moved a hand to your waist. It hovered precariously for half a second, then tightened. It drew you closer to him.

You tried to push it away on instinct, heart jumping in your throat: what if Scott or Michelle or anyone else turned their heads at that moment and found him touching you there? What if the grasp their eyes caught wasn’t the wholesome, blameless kind that was meant to be shared between stepfather and stepdaughter? Who the hell was supposed to do the explaining to them then?

Clearly Joel wasn’t all that concerned about it; he slid his palm back up your side and gripped your hip hard after you’d nudged him off. He took a daring step forward, and you could feel him shake his head behind you. Smiling.

“And if I made a joke about father-daughter dances—”

“I would kill you with my two bare hands, Miller.”

Your backside glanced off his front. It wasn’t so much a deliberate move on your part but a byproduct of the rhythm. Some soft rock song was coming to an end, and your body rolled gently with his. The friction was minimal. This kind of proximity was easy to be explained away, if Dallas ever happened to look in your direction—

“Joel!”

Something hard pushed into your ass. You had to steel yourself quick, eyes darting furtively about to make sure no one had seen what you’d just felt between your legs. Then you tried wriggling away, off of him, and were rewarded with another hand on your side. It gripped the flesh just above your hipbone with a tender conviction.

Joel’s lips grazed your cheek briefly. His grip loosened.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, and the fingers that he’d eased around your waist were turning you back.

Facing him now, away from your group. More bodies filled in between you and them, and the force of that influx pushed you closer to Joel. It shoved you together. It almost couldn’t be helped—that was what you kept telling yourself, anyway—when your frame melded to his, and his hands lowered to your hips, and one finger worked its way through your taut, denim belt loop in a manner completely unbecoming of a normal stepfather.

That callused finger held you firm to him with your jeans. It didn’t give an inch, and his eyes on yours did the same.

You were drifting further out. This didn’t matter as much. Anyone who saw you now would just have to guess that you were Joel’s, and Joel’s was yours—if only for now.

Your lips and his were gravitating closer then, too. You were just about to part yours to speak, when one soft, opening sequence broke out in the air, and you groaned.

No fucking way.

An all-too-familiar mid-tempo tune flooded the room and coursed in and out of your skull with a low, rhythmic tick.

It was eerie. Dreamy. Nearly haunting in the way it rang out right here, right now, with Joel’s hold on your sides tightening more and more with every passing second.

You hoped like hell he didn’t know this song, though you were half-certain this was a big hit from back in his day.

When Joel tipped his head back and fell right in step with the swaying cadence, you weren’t left guessing for long. Of course this slick bastard liked George Michael.

Of course he did.

What more of an appropriate song to be dancing to now, other than fucking ‘Father Figure’ of all the throwbacks?

Joel lifted both arms in a half-shimmy, half-slide and flashed a shit-eating grin down at you. It was smug.

‘For one moment, to be warm and naked at my side.’

Joel raised his brows with it, as if hearing the lyrics for the first time and being shocked. He wasn’t, clearly, as he rolled his shoulders in a stupid and seductive way, and dragged you closer to meet his body’s movements.

‘Sometimes I think that you’ll never understand me.’

Right. You would likely never understand Joel Miller.

‘But something tells me together we’d be happy.’

Well…as long as your father didn’t kill him first.

Emboldened by the pre-chorus beat and the ever-increasing swell of people around him, Joel snaked an arm around your waist. He let your body fall in line with his, rolling in gentle sorts of motions until he could find what kind suited you two the best, and he led the way.

When his head dipped to yours, you could feel it coming.

‘I will be your father figure. Put your tiny hand in mine.’

This time Joel was singing along, grin wide on his face. As if to mirror the lyrics, he took your hand and squeezed it. You might’ve rolled your eyes or pulled away when the man leaned down and slid his touch to your wrist. He kissed your palm. Then he kissed it again, sponging his lips to the skin in time with the rhythm of the song. It was both innocent and lewd. Wholesome and sensual.

Something trapped between perverted and polite, like Joel was testing the waters while trying not to make it seem that way at all. You kept moving in time together.

Joel’s other hand held you to him. His fingers flexed.

“You can’t…”

When his grip slid to your ass, you shook your head.

As much as you would’ve liked to indulge the urge that was currently flooding your system, the timing was off. The choice to give in now was wrong, and risky to make.

Your roommate and her family were no more than fifteen feet away. No matter how many strangers stood between you and them, Joel was toeing a dangerous line with his hand lowered to where it was. With his face only inches away and a sly grin spreading on his lips, it was clear he knew better than this. But he was eager to talk.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

Where that single term of endearment had once made you bristle, you now sensed it warming your insides.

You nodded but were quick to add: “Joel, we can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because…”

You found yourself trailing off again, just as you felt Joel’s erection grind into your front, somewhere close to the space between your legs. It rubbed right where you needed him. While another stream of airy, dreamlike notes floated out and a tenor’s voice crooned if you ever hunger, hunger for me, you peered up to find Joel deep in contemplation. He didn’t blink when you met his gaze.

Instead, he nudged you sideways. You inhaled a breath, and not long after that, you felt your back pressed to one of the lone barstools sitting at the outskirts of the room. You’d strayed far. And now, away from all the people that you’d come here with, you had two big hands sliding up the sides of your body. Cupping your face. Guiding your mouth to meet a warmer, more desperate set of lips than you’d ever been expecting to find. Joel’s kiss was rough.

It was open and aching—a wound not willing to be soothed by anything other than your tongue on his. Swiftly, he coaxed your jaw open and slid in. He licked in. He practically panted into your mouth, fingertips carving crescents in your cheeks from just how hard he was holding your face. He didn’t let up, and that hunger bled from his lips to yours. You felt a heady wave wash over your brain, and at the same time, your thighs tensed.

You pulled away.

Your lips were bitten numb. Your cunt was throbbing.

While your pulse thundered through your ears like a fucking kickdrum, your grip loosened on the front of Joel’s shirt, and you started to turn yourself from him.

What you needed to do was leave. What you couldn’t stand was getting caught again, and risk it being someone who wouldn’t take to it as kindly as Aly had.

But even as you walked, you felt a pulsing in your skull.

Between your legs, the feeling was worse, like there was something thrumming a frantic beat in that precious and defenseless place that you knew was needing him most. You were weak. You swiped a hand over your mouth like that would do anything, and you kept walking, knowing how closely Joel would be following you all the way out.

On such a clear, frigid night, the air outside should’ve been a relief. Instead, your pulse hammered and swelled. Your cheeks burned. You could’ve ground your teeth so hard that you cracked enamel, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to bite back the words inside your throat.

You turned to Joel wanting to tell him no. The expression that met yours said he was expecting as much—and was preparing to object—when you swiftly cut him off again.

It should end there. Nothing good ever came of you shedding your inhibitions or clothes with Joel Miller.

He reached out; you winced. You shouldn’t say it.

“Let’s go home, Joel.”

You were running again.

You’d nearly knocked him to the floor the second he’d turned the key in the door of his dingy little motel room, lips frantic over his and hands making fists in his shirt. It was exactly what he’d been hoping to see—part of why he’d booked this place and made the drive that weekend, to have you cradled in his arms again—but as he crossed the threshold with you all over him, Joel grew unsettled.

He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but something told him that you were only here to escape an unsavory urge. Like he was a bad habit to be flooded from your system.

You seemed to say it with every motion of your hands: skating down his front, clawing at the buttons, busying themselves with quickly trying to rid him of the fabric while your eyes stayed trained anywhere but on his face. It stung. Normally Joel wasn’t the type to ruminate on the reasons why a girl might be tearing his clothes off, but tonight, with you, this wasn’t what he usually did.

The ache unfurling in his chest wasn’t the kind to be imparted by just anyone, he kept reminding himself.

Which was why he took hold of both your wrists. Tightly. Just as you were about to try and peel his shirt from his shoulders and expose the whole naked expanse of his chest, he stopped you. He swallowed as you groaned.

“Joel.”

“You didn’t want me kissin’ you at all back there.”

In the bar, outside the building, in the car ride over here. You’d scarcely let him hold you for half a minute before begging to be taken home, and now that you were inside this room, alone, now you wanted to be touched by him.

Joel tried not to feel stupid saying it aloud, but hell, he felt pretty fucking pathetic peering down at you then.

You shook your head. Took a small step back from him.

“Yeah. Trying not to get us caught again, remember?”

And when you backed off, you stayed off, if only to start unfastening the little straps of your top and kick your shoes off your feet. You made your way over to the king-sized bed at the center of the room and sat down. Joel took off his own shoes but didn’t follow, opting instead to rest his weight on the old TV stand across from you.

He planted his hands on the hardwood surface on either side of him, watched you shuffle to the edge of the bed, and had to steel himself when the next pieces of clothing came sliding off your body. You were lifting your shirt over your head, then dragging your jeans down your legs.

Before you were stripped bare, Joel cleared his throat.

“I said we were gonna have a little chat later, too.”

He sounded like a dad. This really had to stop.

Instead of following his lead, you only kicked your pants off at your feet and leaned back. Joel approached the bed, and you greeted him with a coquettish look, like you already knew where this was going. But you couldn’t.

Joel made sure that you wouldn’t when he cupped your chin in his hand and made you tilt your face up to him.

“Honey,” he started, stern, while you reached for his belt.

You’d almost succeeded in threading your fingers through the leather and tugging it loose when Joel’s grip drew tighter. He jerked your chin up in a pinch, ignoring the roll of your eyes, and for yet another beat, he felt that obscure urge to discipline you again. Like you needed it.

If he could just control himself and play things right…

“Listen, I’m not trying to be your father.”

Wait. No. That came out wrong.

Your eyes widened some.

“Oh, really, daddy?”

Well, shit.

Joel straightened where he stood and tried not to puff out his chest like an old father-type might do, but the effort was useless—everything the man said and did was like the fucking calling card of a patriarch. He scrubbed a hand over his face and pretended not to see you grin up at him, your gaze bright and fiery as the Fourth of July.

He could hold important conversations and still not try to jump your bones immediately. He could control himself. He could slap on a semi-austere look and just tell you.

“I love you, you know that, right?” he blurted out.

Your eyes widened again, this time in alarm.

“Christ, Joel.”

You were sliding back on the bed. Shaking your head and pursing your lips in a grimace like this wasn’t happening.

“We’re not doing this again,” you added in a grave voice.

Joel was already making his way up after you—again, like a fucking moron, he felt—crawling on hands and knees across the moth-eaten, coral-colored bedspread and trying not to panic and failing miserably, per usual.

“‘S’alright if you don’t wanna say it back, I just—”

“I didn’t mean to say it in the first place, Joel!”

But there was a strain in your words. Denial.

You were working in earnest not to expose that sliver of self that wanted him, too. Joel could feel it. He planted his knees on the mattress and met you closer to the headboard, where your breaths were coming in faster. You shook your head, but you also didn’t stop him when he drew in even closer and lowered his body to yours.

He was hovering, almost.

Just as he’d been poised above your soft, beaming face all those weeks back in some little podunk town—at Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge, where you’d been stuck together, only to fuck each other for the first time that night—he pressed a touch to your side. He rubbed his thumb just over your hipbone, where the panties you had on still clung to your skin, and he watched you tense up.

It was like before, only worse: now you knew his touch, and he knew yours, but there was a dread in your eyes.

As if you couldn’t stand to be under him, you slid back.

“Joel, please…don’t,” you murmured hoarsely.

“Don’t what?” His stomach dropped.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

That he loved you?

Joel never thought one string of words could hurt him so much, but there it was. While his heart unwound and his ego met with a swift and unceremonious death, he felt something like agitation twist inside him, too. Cruelly.

This was what he’d come this whole way to tell you.

The man could handle rejection; that wasn’t the problem. What bothered him now was how unflinchingly committed you seemed to misunderstand his intentions. Something surged in his chest again, and this time, it wasn’t all hurt—it was anger, too. Why you refused to accept that someone might love you was beyond him.

He didn’t reach for you again or crowd you further, but he raked a hand through his hair and heaved a hard sigh.

“Why won’t you believe me?” This time pleading.

“It’s not that I won’t—I just can’t, Joel. I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

You started to speak, but then that balloon of rage swelled bigger in his chest, and it wasn’t meant to be directed at you—it was only meant for himself, why wasn’t he enough—and he spit the words like venom.

“Haven’t I shown you that I mean it? That I— I— I care? I’m here. I came to see you. I’m telling you that I love you. How else am I supposed to show the woman I love that I care when you won’t let me in an inch, except when—”

“Except when you’re seven deep in me?” you scoffed.

It was bitter and derisive, and you slid farther back.

“For Christ’s sake,” Joel gritted through his teeth.

He didn’t even wait for you to interject, as he came back: “Is that all you think of me? Is that what I am to you?”

His voice was loud, and he hadn’t meant for it to be.

He was pushing off the bed, watching you sit back.

“I just think it’s real convenient,” you snapped again, “Betraying my trust by not telling me about dad’s affair, finding me in a weak moment, letting me believe you feel the same so you don’t have to deal with this…this…guilt.”

Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think I did all of this out of pity?”

“I think you’re trying to be a—”

“That I would lie about it?”

His heart rate was spiking. He felt his pulse thudding in his ears as he stalked around the footboard and scowled.

“Joel, I—”

“No.” He shook his head hard. He was sincerely trying not to fit the bill for ‘hot-headed, explosively angry father,’ but the efforts he made seemed all in vain. Joel could hardly talk now without raising his voice to a shout.

“I have—” he started, only to stop himself, swallowing.

His throat ached, and he almost choked on his words.

“I have been in love with you this whole fuckin’ time!”

His eyes burned. The sound came out angry, hoarse. Maybe he was; he just couldn’t contain it anymore. Silence filled the open space, and time distended.

He couldn’t stand the way you wouldn’t believe him, even now, as you straightened and shook your head.

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.”

“You don’t mean—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!”

He stared back and watched your gaze erupt in ire. Indignation. Lips drawing tight and teeth baring and hands gripping the bedspread beside you, as if enraged.

“I do. I can. You’re— you’re full of shit.”

Your words made him want to hurl something at a wall.

“Am I?!” he bellowed.

“Yes!” you spat.

“How can you say that?!”

And, without meaning to, Joel’s knee hit the side of the nightstand while he turned abruptly from you. The whole thing shook; the lamp nearly toppled, and the man immediately reached for it, then out to you. The gesture was a reflexive apology, but you responded by shoving his hands off. An angry sound racked through your body as you moved from him—“You—you don’t mean it, Joel.”

“I do. I mean it. Believe me, I do.”

That sound from his chest could’ve been half a sob.

He reached for you again, knees sinking with the springs of the mattress beneath him, and you shuffled further back. Your movements slowed. Suddenly, Joel’s stopped.

He couldn’t see it without a wince—your hands shaking. Your fingers tried making fists but failed, and in an effort to conceal the fear they held, you seized the comforter.

His throat ached, and that pain only soared in a second.

“You can’t…you can’t mean it if I’m just a secret to you.” Your tone was a rasp. The lips that spoke it were curled, revealing teeth still gritted. Eyes filling with more tears, “You can’t say you love me if…if you’re just gonna leave.”

By the end of it, your words were ground to a murmur. Your voice was hushed and slow and begging to be spared notice, as though every syllable hurt to say.

Your bottom lip was quivering too. He knew you were kicking yourself for it—could see the embarrassment etched into your gaze as you blinked back nothing, then one, then two, then a barrage of slow, hot tears—but no matter what you did to fight it off, your body trembled.

The whole thing was practically vibrating with hurt. Humiliation and anger had evidently joined the mix, and before he could even think to speak, you mumbled again:

“You’re gonna leave me, Joel.”

The hurt wouldn’t stop.

“You don’t love me.”

Your voice cracked to continue, pain clinched with a sob.

“You can’t.”

In the look that met his, he saw a wall of warring fears. It wasn’t all for him, either. There were wounds that were the work of years beneath the surface of your skin, ones entrenched in flesh since long before he’d ever known you or laid a finger on that part himself. It started young.

Your lashes battled to keep the tears at bay, but the floodgates had opened. Your secret was gone. There was no sense in feigning indifference when the truth was laid bare—that you didn’t deem yourself worthy of love, and likely never had. Regardless, you worked hard not to cry. You scrunched your nose, mashed your lips together, and stared anywhere but him, and the tears kept flowing. Gently, but without slowing, they streaked down in turn.

“No, sweet pea, I love you. I love you. I ain’t leavin’.”

It was all Joel could do to keep his own vision clear.

He already knew you wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t stop him from saying the words all the same.

“I— I said it first,” he went on, words tumbling out.

You turned wet, sad eyes to him in utter silence, and that made him want to ramble on forever. As long as it took.

“At the fair, a month before you ever said it, I was trying to tell you I loved you then. You ran off before I could.”

That was the truth.

If Joel had any hope of regaining your trust, it would need to start there. And out of one truth came another.

“I already knew I loved you before that. I would’ve said it, except it just felt wrong, with all that…that stuff I knew.”

He meant knowing about his best friend, your father, and his little rekindled romance with his former mistress. It wasn’t right, keeping you in the dark about something like that, but he also hadn’t wanted to hurt you. There was more to the story that complicated things further, and frankly, Joel had been too swept up in the novelty of this thing you two had had to choose the smarter path.

That didn’t excuse what he did. Hell, it only hurt him worse seeing your eyes gloss over and stay fixed on his.

Knowing you’d trusted him not to hurt you—and he had.

If you didn’t accept what he told you now, he wouldn’t fault you for it. All he could do was slide off the bed and pull you to a perch on the edge, while he planted himself on the carpeted floor and kneeled in between your legs.

Cupping your tear-stained face in his hands, pleading:

“Baby.”

You blinked back at him but ventured nothing.

“Sweet pea, I am not keeping you a secret.”

A beat.

“I’m not leavin’. I want more—need more.”

And for some reason, that felt like a weightier admission than he’d even thought possible. He wasn’t good at this.

He wasn’t quite cut of a cloth to know just how to soothe you and make things right, but he did know that holding you felt right to him. So he did. He rubbed his thumbs in little circles over your warm, wet, puffy cheeks, and he pulled your face closer to his. He held your gaze and watched an internal war wage somewhere far behind your eyes as you tried to contend with this new feeling—that of being wanted and needed and loved as you were.

You sniffled between his two broad palms.

“I want you to stay,” you said softly.

Joel’s heart hammered at that.

He couldn’t hope to leave out the rest. He let go of your face then and felt an irresistible urge to go on, even if it was much too soon and he had meant to show you later. As stupid as the idea had been, he’d already made it, and there was no going back anyhow. He would tell you here.

He reached in his pocket for his wallet. He broke your gaze momentarily to take it out, flip it open, and then card his fingers through the bills a few aching moments before pulling it out—the thing he’d wanted to show you.

When he held it up, a set, he flitted a quick look to what he’d lifted between you and him, as if the sight might give him answers on what to say. Sadly, nothing came.

Joel was totally on his own in explaining what this was. Lucky for him, though, you didn’t seem keen to judge.

“They’re…they’re tickets,” he started. Stupid.

You raised a brow, trying to read, and he forged ahead. Just as the words first appeared to register in your mind, and the faintest look of shock took shape, he hurried out:

“Billy Joel’s got a show comin’ up in Austin this June. I…I thought— well, I hoped, I guess, that maybe we could…”

Spit it out, Miller.

Spit. It. Out.

He frowned.

“I’m no good at this. Sorry. I wanted us to go…together.”

And then…

“And I want your dad to know about us before then.”

There it is.

The last lynchpin in the man’s resolve was gone. He’d said it. There was no turning back from what he’d offered, or what it required, and now you knew he wanted things to be real and committed. Serious.

Terrifying.

Your eyes remained fixed on his. For a second, that look, and your whole upper half, appeared so still Joel thought you might’ve stopped breathing altogether. You blinked. Glancing down at the tickets in his hand and batting your lashes again, as if you weren’t quite sure how to answer.

Then, at last, he heard a sharp inhale—Or was it an exhale? He couldn’t tell—and before he could blink back or wonder so much as a thought, the breath was battered out of his own chest. You rushed him.

You’d moved so fast, hugged him so quick, Joel scarcely knew what was what until he felt your arms snake around his neck. You joined him on the filthy, soiled floor and dropped your knees on either side of his body in a kind of straddling hug. It was as swift as it was unexpected, and it took him a second to adjust. But no longer than that.

Joel was relieved to feel your warmth. Squeezing him. Choking him, almost. He didn’t think you’d ever held him that hard in his life, so he did all he could to soak it in.

It was only when he heard another sob that he paused.

“You…you want to?” Your voice was tiny against him.

“‘Course I do, darlin’,” Joel answered in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He cupped the back of your head to him and held you tighter, “Of course I do.”

Then, because the impulse struck again: “I love you.”

He didn’t need you to say it back; a look was enough. When you drew back and met his gaze, eyes still doused with tears but smiling faintly at him, Joel was content to see your acceptance. Allowing love in in some small way.

And when your lips succeeded that look, meeting his in a soft kiss, and your body shifted up toward the bed, he didn’t protest. He kissed you back. Joel didn’t have to have love spelled out in words for him to feel what you meant. You said it gently, but somehow with even more force than when you’d stumbled into this room together, touch beckoning him in as you laid back on the mattress.

Admittedly, every inch of this place was seedy. On such short notice Joel hadn’t had much of a pick among his choice of accommodations, and the shortage showed. Still, when you slid up that old, worn bed and stretched yourself in wordless welcome, he couldn’t have asked for more. He only wished that he could give you more, but for right now, at least, that was out of the question. He leaned in and found your lips like second nature, slotting between your thighs and kissing you harder. The concert tickets had shortly been cast aside on the night stand.

“I love you.”

It slipped out again, and Joel didn’t care. His tongue chanced past the seam of your lips and, once inside, explored every contour, ridge, and crevice it could find.

While he did, a touch palmed your breasts over your bra. Your skin was warm; gaze soft, the last he’d seen of it. The scent of you rose to greet him like a mist of some wild intoxicant: citrus, mint, a tinge of sweat, and a liter of your favorite fruity drink, if he’d had to guess. You flooded his senses. It wasn’t enough for him simply to hold flesh in his hands and explore your body with his lips and tongue; Joel wanted to consume something more, though he hardly had the words to articulate it.

You unclasped your bra just as his mouth slid down to your neck. There was a beat—your sharp intake of breath when his teeth met skin and marked it with the tenderest bite—and then your arms reached out. You discarded your bra and bared yourself to him, and when Joel tilted his head to take in the view, he had to groan your name.

There was no other logical route for him to go.

You’d just begun to wind your fingers through his hair when he slid down to greet that newly-exposed place.

“I love you,” he repeated against your skin before drawing one nipple between his lips. He kissed it.

Your grip grew tighter.

“Joel, please.”

His teeth had only reappeared a second to tug the pebbled flesh between them, tongue hungry and wet and laving gently across that hardened peak, when your legs wound around him too. You pulled his body into you.

Joel was helpless to the inducement. His torso fell more heavily to yours and his lips suckled with a vigor that betrayed sheer desperation. He felt it strain in his pants. When he moved from one breast to the other, he heard a wet pop, and the whimper when he re-attached himself was enough to make the bulge he felt swell even bigger. His tongue caressed in laving, measured motions along the curve, and he tried not to grow overly eager from it.

Don’t get too excited. You need time. Lots and lots of—

“Joel,” you exhaled on a particularly harsh press of his mouth. Your ribs heaved with it. “Come— come here.”

He was clambering back up in an instant. The ministrations of his lips that had practically engulfed your skin and smeared it with his saliva were swapped in a blink with them returning to your chin, jaw, and cheeks, planting kisses in between the words he murmured next.

“Yeah? Every—” To the side of your mouth. “Everything OK, sweet pea?” Feeling guilty but also simply needing to calm himself down. “Too fast?” Another to your cheek.

It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t gone too far, too soon before. In fact, it was a pretty regular occurrence with the sex you had. Joel just needed a reset—had to make sure this was alright, and that he could cool down if needed.

He felt a pinch in his groin but ignored it.

Suddenly, your gaze was on his again.

Fingers carded through the sweat-damp, striated tufts of black and silver hair at the sides of his head, and you leaned in closer until your nose and his were touching.

“Here,” you pressed him, low. Need crept into those words, and your grasp constricted. “Stay here, please.”

It was clear you were inviting him back to your lips, to kiss them, so Joel did just that. He bracketed his arms on either side of your head and let his mouth explore as it had before. Where he resumed at equal force, you met him with still more warmth and wanting and open fervor, tongue curling around his in some soft and wordless plea

Below the belt, Joel was throbbing. He didn’t need to reflect long at all to know what that meant. Then your lips parted wider, your ankles dug deeper in the backs of his calves, and your hips started grinding against him.

Dry humping.

Whining at the friction.

“Feels…feels so good, Joel,” you told him breathlessly.

“You like that?” His lower half mimicked the motions.

Need blossomed across your face as the ridge of his cock rubbed in just the right way through his slacks. Something harder than he meant—a thrust, like he was fucking you into the bed—shook your frame, as well as the mattress underneath it. Springs creaked. Metal groaned. Warmth spread, from the pit of his stomach to where your body met his. The movements kept going.

You were slick beneath him. You must have been. Your whines had heightened to punctured gasps and your hips were so desperate, rubbing your barely-clothed core to the front of his pants and brows pinching as if—

You were already expecting this to end.

You didn’t think that he would stay.

“Baby,” Joel panted again.

By now, desire consumed him, but the urge to smooth that tiny crease of worry was coursing just as powerfully. He swallowed, gripped the linens beside your head in one hand a little harder, and opened his mouth to speak.

Another flick of your hips. Another sigh. Another whine.

Another pinch somewhere deep within him, and a groan.

Suddenly, your hands were on his shoulders, sliding up and toward his neck. Your fingers clawed for his hair.

“Joel,” you panted back.

Joel had tried to slow the motions of his lower half to talk, but yours had only sped up to grind yourself against him. He could feel the heat bleeding from you now. Wetness formed and expanded in a patch through your pink cotton panties and likely stained his front, or would.

His cock was swollen stiff and throbbing. Precum pearled at the tip of him, no doubt, and with every jerk of your body, he could feel it smearing and aching to slip in.

He wanted to be inside you. His balls twitched, his stomach ached, and his senses were suffused with you, a white-hot desire to paint your mouth, your skin, or your insides with his cum nearly as strong. But he had to stop.

Then you kissed him.

Joel’s lips were still parted when your mouth found his, kissing him sweetly and without reserve. Your fingers that had threaded through his hair pulled taut. Hard.

Your center slid up the length of his fully clothed cock, and with one more press of your legs, Joel felt you.

He’d never wanted anything more in his life, and still, he fought to speak��to reassure you that he wasn’t leaving.

“Joel—”

“I know, I know. Baby, I—fuck.” His breath hitched in his throat when his bulge pulsated again. His head swam.

With what meager resolve the man still possessed, he ventured another kiss, then drew back. His eyes dropped and searched your expression, half-crazed, and just when the words were taking shape again, you parted your lips and brought them to his. You rolled your hips, balled your fingers into fists through his hair, and with your mouth and his a quarter-inch apart in puckered, pretty ‘O’s, panting with every thrust that shook the bed:

“I love you, Joel.”

It was a breath, and the taste had never felt sweeter.

One more jerk of his hips and you were drawing in once again, panting in his mouth as if to make sure he heard.

“I— I love you. I love you so much,” you murmured, low.

His cum unloaded in thick, hot ropes. He couldn’t stop it.

Joel Miller, at the age, maturity, and level of experience he could boast, had never cum virtually untouched and in his own fucking pants since…he couldn’t remember when. But he was. His spend pulsed out from the head of his cock in dizzying bursts, and his stomach clenched. He gripped the bedspread and let out a guttural groan while he soaked the front of his boxers from inside them.

His dick throbbed and leaked, and his breathing slowed. He mumbled something back, quietly—‘I love you, too.’

Then he pushed up and off of you, out of the bed.

Seconds stretched; he didn’t feel it. Stars burst behind his eyes with every step, and he staggered that path to the bathroom like his life or his pride might depend on it.

As a matter of fact, the damage was already done. He’d jizzed in his pants like an overeager teen getting his dick touched or sucked for the very first time. What was worse, you hadn’t been doing either when he came; you’d told him you loved him, and that was enough.

Enough to make him look like a goddamn idiot, Joel thought without blinking. He kicked the door shut behind him and reached for the zip of his pants.

Sticky. Wet. A whole fucking shitshow below the belt.

He ran the tap. He had his undone slacks and boxers pulled down past his hips, and he was facing the sink in seconds, assessing the extent of the damage. Then his face flushed red at the sight of the sticky, milky mess swarming his groin and he could’ve kicked himself. He settled for yanking a towel out from one of the cubbies beneath the counter and running it under the water. He daubed quick and without much precision, gaze darting to find dozens more clumps of his spend strewn about than he thought possible. He’d cum an absurd amount.

Before he chastised himself, though, he had to pause.

“Joel?”

Your voice was soft. Sometime since he’d unzipped and started scrubbing his crotch in vicious circles, you’d appeared at the door, head peeking around curiously.

You must not have been standing there for long, because you actually drew closer to join him. Feeling comfortable enough in roughly thirty square feet of space, you shut the door again and leaned your hip against the counter.

If Joel didn’t know you better, and he wasn’t already occupied with wiping cum off of his cock and balls, he might’ve searched your face for a smile. A smirk, maybe.

It wasn’t like teasing each other was suddenly off-limits now that Joel was brimming with embarrassment. Half your communication was giving the other shit for little mishaps and quirks, and he expected that his last accident in the bedroom would be no different.

He flinched when you reached out instead.

Hooking your fingers under the waistband of his pants and his plaid boxers, you shuffled in closer to him and let out a breath. You tugged once, twice—gently, so as not to further disrupt the mess or make him wince—and then coaxed the fabric down his legs, lower and lower.

When you peered up at him, Joel couldn’t find so much as a trace of amusement in your eyes or on your lips. You just nudged his slacks to the tiled floor and hummed.

“It’ll be easier if we wash it off in there.”

You nodded to the shower behind him.

Joel turned slightly, as if considering or trying to get a glimpse of the freestanding shower with its wide-open, mildewed curtain seeming to beckon him in, then stopped. He turned back and chucked his towel.

“Alright,” he said while kicking his pants off at the ankles. Talking softly and not meeting your gaze, “That’s fine.”

He pivoted once more to peel his shirt off and make toward the shower by himself, and you surprised him, again, when you bypassed his much larger frame and hopped in first. You slid your panties off and tossed them into the pile of clothes by the sink, and you twisted the knob on the wall. You sidestepped the first stuttered sprays and drew the curtain back in wordless invitation.

Joel hovered, eyes scanning the cramped space.

“I don’t think we’re both gonna fit in here.”

Then, as though to emphasize his point:

“I can wash off by myself. It’s…fine.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so stilted, but that was just how he felt: stiff and awkward and raw with feelings of recent embarrassment. He tilted his head to the side.

Your head tipped right back, and you raised a brow.

“Just get in, Miller. Freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off.”

And there was a smile: the first one. Faint.

Not mocking, snide, or condescending. Just the kind to usher him in and drag the curtain behind his hulking body, wipe a slick, wet hand over your mouth and grin—‘You do know I’ve seen you naked before, right?’—and that set his mind at ease. He almost smiled himself.

“So you remember that I’m a grower, not a shower.”

Joel cupped his hands over his softening length in faux protective fashion, as if you hadn’t seen the thing dozens of times by now. When he sidled up and cornered you between the soap tray and the shower stream, he found the edges of his lips kicking up a little, unable to help it.

You’d seen him hard, soft, and everything in between—mostly hard when near you. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that you were getting to experience him like this.

That made him lean in closer. Chance another joke.

“Looks like your old man’s stamina has taken a hit, too.”

Joel had meant it to sound playful. Suggestive, even. Instead, it came out dismal and gruff, like he was trying to overcompensate for something he was sorely lacking.

He might’ve wanted to kick himself again, were it not for the next move you pulled on him, which was enough to pluck his thoughts—and his breath—out of his body.

Without wasting a second to pretense or teasing, you simply brushed your hand down his front and touched him, gently. He was softer, smaller, and almost wholly spent from his last exertion; still, you reached and wrapped your fingers around his length with care.

Sparks ignited from the place where you trailed. Joel had to swallow a groan, oversensitive and fairly stunned, and his palm came to rest on the wall behind your head. His chin dipped toward his chest while his gaze dropped too.

He watched you stroke him once, rub your thumb along the tender skin, then bring your left hand to join the mix, carrying a bar of soap with it. You started from the base.

“Baby,” Joel rasped. The muscles of his stomach clenched while you drew circles to spread the soap.

“My old man,” you repeated affectionately.

It was artless and kind. Friendly and gentle. Most every other time he’d been touched where you had him, the hands had meant to arouse, and seek something else. Here, you were trying to help. Clean him sweetly and without concern for yourself while also drawing him in, like you always did. It made his chest hurt—and not in a way totally unconcerning for a man his age. Nonetheless, he leaned into that feeling and shifted his body to yours.

His head and your head were now doused with water, his hovering above so close that little droplets streaked from his chin down your slightly upturned face. Joel could feel you watching him. He flicked his own gaze back to meet yours, and as he did, your palm stroked him from root to tip. His hips jerked involuntarily; he swelled in your grip.

His cock stiffened but still remained far from fully erect. Joel swallowed, anchored his hand harder on the wall, and wished himself a decade or three younger, at least.

“You alright with this?” he muttered.

“With what?” you mumbled back.

Joel sucked in a breath just as your hand, and the soap, slid back down his length, and rubbed casually around it. You assumed a leisurely pace and scrubbed his tummy.

“My body ain’t what it was—”

“And it’s more than enough.”

Suddenly, your eyes weren’t just resting on his but pressing. Piercing. The circles working to clean his skin increased in pace and force, and you set the soap aside. You nudged him closer to the water, but all Joel felt was the urge to draw you with him. The shower stream pelted his chest, his belly, his freshly soaped lower half, and past the suds, a gradually hardening cock. Gradually.

You had him in your hand; you were rinsing him clean. Joel should’ve extended some murmured thanks, a calm and uncalculating touch coming to rest on one of your shoulders while you did him this innocent favor. Your lips twitched. His cock hardened. Then your back was flat on the shower wall, and Joel was hovering over your drenched and naked frame again, only his touch was descending to your hip instead. He held it firmly.

“You could have your pick of any guy—”

“Good thing I only want you.”

Your grip tightened too. Now that you’d scrubbed him clean, you seemed ready to let go in the next second, but old habits died hard. Joel leaned in to nose your cheek.

“That so?” His hand moved from your hip to what he knew would be a scorching heat between your thighs.

Two thick fingers glided through your folds and forced a whimper out of your throat. You were soaking wet, and not just from the shower’s spray. Joel rubbed that slick, delicate seam with all the self-control he could muster in the moment, and he kissed your cheek. Every inch he could feel of you was brimming with warmth and need.

You tilted your chin and caught his lips. You parted your legs and held his almost-fully erect length in your grasp.

“I— I mean it, Joel,” you answered him, surprisingly soft then. You kissed the sides of his mouth while you continued to stroke up and down. “I want you.”

Joel’s hips shifted involuntarily. As if moving of its own volition, his lower half stirred beneath your touch, and shortly, he had your legs spread wider and his body slotting in the gap between. His fingers pushed deeper.

And, just as his hand was all but cupping your mound and the wet heat of your cunt was pulsing against him, Joel slowed. He sucked in a breath and met your gaze.

“How do you want me, sweetheart?” he murmured.

In reply, you gripped his base and guided him closer. Flicked your thumb over the fat, leaking tip and sighed.

“Right…here.”

“Right here?”

Joel hadn’t meant to move you so quickly, but one blink and your hand was off him completely; your back was turned to him, and your ass was pressed flush with his groin. He had to hunch in the tight, wet, fog-infested enclosure with his chin jutting in over your shoulder and his palm splayed over your tummy. He spoke softly again:

“You want daddy in here, pretty girl?”

Your whine was all he needed to hear.

And perhaps it would’ve been wise to wait a beat or two. Work two fingers in and out of your aching cunt, drag his tongue through your folds, or else use his throbbing tip to ease you open for him. Before he could even think to make use of his hands, mouth, or head, though, you were reaching behind and taking him yourself. You pressed a palm to the wall and pushed up on the tips of your toes, and with impatience bleeding through your every movement, you slid back onto him. You did it quickly.

In the absence of adequate foreplay, entry wasn’t swift. Joel almost choked at the feeling of how tight you were around him—how rigid and warm and narrow you felt on that first slide. He planted a grounding hand next to your own out of sheer necessity. He held your hip in his other and swallowed a groan that seemed fit to nearly kill him.

“Sweetheart,” he panted against your neck, “Easy. Easy.”

You tried to nod your understanding but slid up just as fast. From a glimpse of your profile, Joel could make out some consternation fanning out. Your brows pinched.

The pretty, slick ‘o’ encircling his cock clenched again, and it was evident you were trying to force the motion back down against your body’s wishes. You whimpered a little and dropped your free hand between your legs.

Joel kissed your jaw. Your cheek. Your ear. Partly to remind you that he was fine to take things slow and partly to quiet his own hammering heart inside him.

It wasn’t working.

You were just so. fucking. tight.

“I— you gotta slow down, sweet pea,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Your walls pulsed again, and it nearly sent him spiraling. The second your ass met his hips and he was buried to the hilt, he stifled a groan into your neck.

“But I need you, daddy,” you whined, “Need you inside.”

Another grunt. Another moan. Another suffocating pulse.

“I’m gonna blow if we don’t slow down some, honey.”

It was mortifying, but it was the truth. Tonight, Joel just couldn’t seem to keep his cum confined to his balls like he normally could. Presently, they rested firm and heavy against the globes of your ass and were just then preparing to hit a rhythm as you rocked back and forth.

Your gaze flashed to his over your shoulder.

“That’s OK. You…you can— oh.”

Before you could finish that thought, your words were torn from your tongue and lost to a shuddering moan. His cock plunged deep within your soft and airtight channel, and your head lolled back a little more.

Out of habit, Joel pulled out and then plunged back in, feeling the wet clutch of you stretch around his cock.

“I can what, honey? What can daddy do?”

Lax as his voice made him sound, the man was coming apart at the seams; he had only to search your face for a fleeting, desperate moment, find you hungry as he was, and he thrusted even harder, absorbed the shockwaves of your pleasure while he fucked you up against the wall.

Gradually, the spatter of water on white glossy tile gave way to the sounds of your skin and his hitting again and again. Your face softened, and the once-taut walls eased to accommodate his girth. You squeezed Joel from base to tip, making the most obscene noises when he slid in and out, and from the look you gave him then, he could sense the need before it ever left your lips. He saw desire fill your pretty, glossy stare and felt compelled to sate it.

Again, it seemed you were begging him to stay.

Expression so pleading and sweet and soft.

“Daddy, I— I want you to cum inside me.”

Joel almost blew his load on the spot. His hips had to stutter in place—so taken aback by what you’d just said—but then you were bouncing back and forth again, neck craning to flash him the most winsome smile.

“Oh, honey…”

“Please.”

He’d finished in you before. It had been an accident. The night had ended with you and him hauling ass to the nearest CVS and hitting the Plan B like it owed you money. And now you were asking him to do it?

“I’m about to start my period. It’ll be fine.”

The half-starved look in your eyes said you’d been thinking about this for awhile. Maybe not with your rational brain, but certainly in earnest. Your smile said it.

Joel’s good sense was shot. He knew it was wrong. He was assured beyond a shadow of a doubt that if your dad ever learned he’d deliberately painted your insides white—or worse yet, knocked you up—his best friend would personally sever his dick and sauté it for lunch. Still, the urge to be joined with you in this brand new way was damn near debilitating. He couldn’t tell you no. So instead of doing what he should’ve done, he simply said:

“OK.”

For some reason, it felt wrong to finish in the shower. So he cut the water, toweled you both, and took you to bed. He slid under thin, sodden, wildly outdated motel sheets without letting his lips disconnect from yours once. He propped your legs around his hips and kissed you harder. He found a home within the furthest recesses of your body he could find, and his heart still throbbed for more. It was the best and worst agony, to be so delirious in the need for someone else, but each time you met him and accepted him in, his pleasure soared to new heights.

His cock dragged in and out of your heat in sloppy, shallow thrusts. He felt your wetness ease his passage and welcome him deeper, until the mouth of your cunt was stretched as taut against his base as it would go and your walls were pulsing with need. You squirmed underneath him. Your whines turned into whimpers, and the whimpers became ragged, hiccuping gasps as you clawed at his back and begged for more, more, more.

“‘M’so full. Feels so, so good, daddy,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” Joel said, and he glanced between your bodies to see you stretched and stuffed to the brim with cock. He groaned involuntarily. “I fit so nice, don’t I, baby?”

“You— you do, daddy. You do.”

“Can I fit a little more in?”

Your eyes widened.

As soon as realization dawned, you nodded your head and gripped him tighter. You hardly needed another stab of his hips, his thumb on your clit, or so much as a word spoken besides—at just the thought of being filled with his seed, your body seized in anticipation. It was you trembling, shuddering, clenching hard and reaching bliss before you even meant to get there, really. You were wholly overstimulated and clamoring for more, the pulses of your cunt milking his cock with all you had.

Joel scarcely had the presence of mind to get a syllable out, but he knew what he needed to say before his pleasure took hold. He smoothed a hand over your cheek, cupped it, and lowered his lips to yours, so only the cusp of his mouth and his stubble were grazing your open pout and the words he spoke were all yours to hear.

Sliding deeper. Meeting and holding your gaze with bare, uncontrived sincerity: “I’m yours, baby. I’m all yours.”

His balls tightened. He wanted to say more to set your mind at ease and assure you what you meant to him, but evidently, your bodies had other plans. In the next moment, he felt a familiar warmth spurt from his tip, and his hips jerked. His cock burrowed as deep within your wet, pliant walls as it could go, and he unloaded rope after rope of his cum. Joel let out a full-throated groan.

The wild hum of his pulse through his skull all but rendered him deaf to the sounds around him, but he knew he told you that he loved you; he knew you said it back. He felt you anchor your heels into the backs of his legs and accept him completely. You spent what felt like hours kissing, writhing, panting, and murmuring words of the warmest affection. In reality, this lasted seconds.

With you underneath him, in his arms, it didn’t matter.

“I love you, Joel,” you whispered again, smiling.

He grinned and kissed you, “I love you more.”

And he’d meant what he said: every inch of him was yours. Every moment you would let him have from that point forward, he’d spend showing you that he was there to stay. He didn’t care how long it would take to prove it.

For once, he didn’t care what your dad would have to say

#GETTING TO THE WORD COUNT AND REALIZING THAT THIS IS THE LENGTH OF A NOVELLA………………..I SCREAMED #LIKE DUDE SHUT UUUUUUUUPPPPP!!!! SHUT UP #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel

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connorsui · 8 months ago

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Sylus: *walks inside of a church,goes knees bent, hands praying* ...Dear Lord, if she's not the one for me... force her to be....

.. Bind her heart to mine, tie her soul to my own. If there's even the slightest chance that she's meant to be mine, then let every step she takes lead her closer to me, let every thought of hers drift my way. And if I must wait, if I must earn her heart, then grant me the strength to be patient, to be worthy. But don't let her slip from me. Not now, not ever. And if the stars themselves must be realigned, then let them shift in our favor, until the day she looks at me as though I’ve been hers all along."

#love and deepspace #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus x reader #lnds sylus x reader #lads sylus x reader #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #dude is asking for the gods to step in and do sum thats when you know he got it baaadddddddd

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deunmiu-dessie · 1 year ago

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he misses you. he misses you like a flower misses the sun. like the desert misses the rain. like you are the entirety of his being. as if you hold the key to his fierce, thumping bloody heart within the palm of your hands, like he is nothing without you— and perhaps he isn't. he doesn't feel like himself, no, in fact, he feels empty. like a shell of the man he used to be before you. he feels as though the world has lost its color, its meaning, and it makes him feel bare— it makes him feel.

he misses you. he misses the warmth of your perfume, a sweet and spicy blended aroma of saffron and sugared lavender. he misses your smile, all wide and pretty— genuine and charming, and always all for him. he misses the sound of your laughter, raw and boisterous, but sometimes soft and breathy, intimate. he misses your kisses, shy and cloying— yet fierce and angry at times as well. he misses the small things, like the scatter of moles across the expanse of your body that he finds himself counting when he can't fall asleep. or the way you fuss over him, mumbling curses and your love for him all in the same sentence.

he is nothing without you, and he knows it all too well.

the soft jangle of your keys in the lock makes him look up from his journal, the door swinging open. and despite himself, he finds that he's softened underneath your warm, loving gaze. ah, he also misses the sound of your voice, euphonious and soft, a tone you use for him specifically.

❝why are you looking at me like that?❞

he can feel his heart dance within his chest, pounding fiercely as you slant your hip to the side, the very same hips he adores holding onto when swaying with you to music. your eyes, which always seem to sweep him under with their intensity with no fail, are glittering with mirth, it knocks the breath from his chest. ❝ i adore you,❞ he utters— he sounds like a fool in love, and he doesn't particularly mind it. your cheeks flush with color and you playfully roll your eyes. that's alright, you don't need to say it back, he knows.

❝help me with the groceries?❞

he? ⸺ SIMON, gojo satoru, DAMON SALVATORE, soap, older!TANJIRO, scott mccall, GAZ, clark kent, EMMETT CULLEN, leon kennedy, STEVE HARRINGTON, giyu tomioka, JOHN PRICE, loran, ULYSSES, rick grimes, KÖNIG, dick grayson, SPENCER REID.

honestly it can be anyone you envision.

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lemoniceteee · 10 days ago

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Bob doesn’t want to be apart from you, like at all. That man will find any way to get his grip on you, his hands around your waist - at the table he’ll start playing footsie, keeping his knee pressed to yours on the couch.

But when you fuck, its a whole different story. Once he’s in, he never wants to leave. Barely moving, just small minuscule movements of his hips grinding in - even though he’s already buried to the hilt. Rutting inside like theres still room, trying to get right inside, be perfect just for you.

And afterwards, he’s still buried deep, cock soft, slick with his own spend and your slick, but he doesn’t leave, he keeps it in despite your protests. Holding you close to his chest, arms wrapped around you, head buried in the crook of your neck, warm breath on your skin, “s’just a little longer, baby, please.” - the guy’s strong, so even if you try to wiggle your way out, he’s got you pinned onto his skin like a blanket. Sometimes if he does come out, in the middle of the night he wakes up to put it back in, a soft whimper catching in his throat, another small rut of his hips, careful not to wake you but a little voice in his head almost wants you to.

You drive him so crazy he can barely speak, slurring words, most of the time it’s just mumbled babbles - so pathetic it makes you almost feel bad for the man, but it still sends shocks to your core, uncontrollably squeezing around him, making him buck up into you and finish too fast.

He gets embarrassed, of course, but he makes it up to you so, so good

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #lewis pullman #robert reynolds #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts #dude im so down bad for this guy #im ovulating #real fuckin bad

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rawme-price · 8 days ago

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Soap is the exact type of guy to make u ride his pillow with ur bare cunt just so it smells like u when he sleeps.

Yes, hes dead serious when he asks u abt it. He loves to guide ur hips with his hands, maybe working a calloused finger over ur clit as u buck and whine. Soap takes the pillowcase with him for his bed on base and has no shame about huffing that thing every night even when he has to share a room with gaz lol.

#gaz: dude at least share its been so long...#soap either rails gaz and shoves his face into the pillow. or he tells gaz to fuck off while jerking it bc he doesnt give a fuck lol #cod #cod smut #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap smut #afab!reader #afab reader

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

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I Feel You

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/TheVoid x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: The new medication you’re taking is making your sexual cravings unbearable, and when Sentry returns to the compound from a mission, it tests every inch of composure you have.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, The medication is technically sex pollen (but not really, it’s not the central focus of this but it’s what’s makin the reader a little on edge) Reference to Medication Use, Reader was sick prior to this and the science behind the medication is referenced to and explained.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Y’all…You know what I’m gonna say lol), Breeding Kink, Praise/Worshipping Kink, Reader is taking additional measures to not get pregnant (Birth Control Shots), Dirty Talk, Sentry is a tease and a little bit ‘bratty’, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Is this a little feral? I would think so.

Author’s Note: I got an idea from a semi-request/statement from an anon by the name ‘book reader’ and a lot of other people. I literally couldn’t write this any faster! It was so fun to write, and I mean…Sentry with a breeding kink is something else, so I had to. Can’t resist pleasing the masses. I can’t wait for tomorrow’s update though!

Word Count: 6,395

The elevator doors dinged down the hall, and your ears practically perked up from the notification-like sound. You didn’t need to check the time, or the monitors that you had on your tablet. You knew exactly who it was that had arrived.

The heavy booted footsteps confirmed it completely for you–one heavier than the other, slow, grounded, and familiar in a way that made your heartbeat spike. The quiet thud of his body weight, the hum of his energy radiating through the hallways, and the buzzing that came from each ceiling light he passed due to the reservoir of power that was still slipping out of him from the mission he had just returned from.

You could practically track him from the elevator, to the kitchen, to the start of the hallway that led to your shared quarters. And unfortunately for your dignity, you could already feel yourself squirming in your spot.

You tried to stay still, buried under the blankets with your book held high like it might block out the oncoming disaster. But the second the door cracked open, and you peeked over the top of those long forgotten pages–any hold you had on your composure shattered.

Sentry stepped inside, still in his full mission suit. You had seen him in it a hundred times, you’d seen him take it off, you’d also seen the multiple variations he had gone through to get the correct fit, and every time he was in it he looked phenomenal, there was no question about that. But right now, laying in the bed you shared with Bob, the image in front of you made every fiber of your being tense up.

The gold fabric clung to Sentry's body like it had been vacuum-sealed against him. There were faint dirt stains and burn marks that were scattered along the shiny golden landscape which only emphasized the thick curves of his shoulders and the strain of his biceps beneath the sleeves. His cape had slipped down one side, draping behind him like an afterthought, it was dark, a sharp contrast to the sun-kissed yellow that he displayed on his body. His chest was rising with effort, muscles shifting with every exhale as he dragged one boot off, then the other.

You could feel your jaw slacken slightly, and you tried your best not to let out a moan at the sight.

“I know,” Sentry muttered suddenly, glancing briefly toward you with a sheepish breath, “I know. You told Bob that when I come back from missions, I need to use the other door to get to the washroom so I don’t get our room dirty. I just…Need more space right now and I don’t want to accidentally wreck the bathroom.” You didn’t respond. You were too busy watching the way his arms raised behind him as he tried–and failed–to reach the latch of his cape. His triceps flexed hard, rolling under the gold, every movement slow, strained, and achingly distracting. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat crawling down your neck.

He grunted in frustration, “This damn thing…” God, even the noises he was making were causing you to shift against the mattress for some sort of relief. He shook the cape loose a bit, but it got stuck again. You could practically see every detail of his shoulder blades shifting under the suit, and each time his muscles flexed it felt like real-time torture. Your stomach clenched, and your thighs pressed together beneath the blankets.

Then he let out a defeated sigh, turning halfway towards you again.

“My sunshine…” He started softly, voice coaxing, like he could feel your stare, “Can you please help me out of this thing? I’m getting very annoyed by it.” The nickname made your gut twist. It was the one he always used when he thought you were angry at him, the one that always forced a smile onto your lips because it was just too hard to stay in a bad mood around him, even if he did stupid things. You weren’t mad this time though, and if anything, that soft, familiar tone just made your stomach twist up even more.

You remained frozen, eyes devouring every inch of him like you hadn’t touched him a thousand times before…Like this was the first time you were seeing what his body could do, or how it moved so…Nicely.

When Sentry didn’t hear any shuffling of sheets, or your usual reluctant sigh you made when you had to leave the fortress of blankets you created around you, he spun around to look at you fully.

”Sunshine?” He repeated, a hint of confusion and concern lacing his words–then he stopped dead in his tracks. Your eyes were wide and glossy, practically shimmering with need. You looked like you weren’t even breathing, and he could see a faint sheen of sweat glazing your skin. You were locked on him like he was your prey, and you were about to pounce.

His eyebrows raised at you, “Um…Why are you looking at me like you’re going to eat me?” He asked, taking one step toward the bed. Your hand shot out like a warning.

“Sentry, I will rip you out of your suit,” You choked out, half-laughing, half-pleasing, “Don’t come any closer.” A grin appeared on his lips, the warmth immediately radiating off of it.

”What’s going on with you?” He asked teasingly, crouching down beside the bed, voice dipped low, “You look all sweaty and…Stressed.” He reached out, and placed one of his large, warm hands on your cheek. You flinched slightly at the contact, not from discomfort–but because the heat between you doubled immediately. Your skin felt like it was vibrating beneath his touch.

”And you’re boiling hot,” He murmured, “Are you sick again?” You shook your head quickly, turning slightly as he leaned closer to you, his nose brushing against your cheek. But then he breathed in–slow and deep–and you could instantly see the way his face changed, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

Something soft and ripe lingered in the air around you–faintly fruity, like the first bite of an overripe peach or the skin of a plum warmed by the sun. It wasn’t artificial in any sense of the word, and it certainly wasn’t perfume. It was just skin and hormones bleeding quietly into his senses.

He knew that scent very well because he had smelled it once before. When stolen kisses and late-night touches between you and Sentry didn’t exist. Before you ever pressed your forehead to his and whispered his name in pure ecstasy. Before you got on the birth control shot that muted everything and dulled it out, flatting it to a faint sweetness that he could only smell if he had his face buried between your legs.

Now that he was smelling it again it brought on the ache of nostalgia. But it also made him hyper aware that something had changed.

”You’re ovulating” He said dryly, swallowing the thick saliva that began to coat his tongue.

”No Sentry, I’m not ovulating. I’m on the shot, remember?” You responded, which instantly earned a very stern shake of his head.

”No, no…This is not your usual scent. I would know. I’m all over you all the time basically. You smell like how you used to smell before you were on those birth control shots. Have you…Have you stopped taking them or something? Were you thinking of surprising me?” He asks, with a smirk coming up on his lips.

You let out a groan, dragging your hands down your face like that might save you.

”Of course I’m still taking the shots…It’s just this stupid medication has put me down the path of becoming a feral animal.” He let out a small laugh, and he realized it seemed like he had missed a chapter of your life–because he didn’t remember what medication you would be taking that could cause something like this.

”What medicine did they give you?” You threw your head back against the pillow, with a huff.

”It’s this stupid antibiotic-antiviral crossover thing. The med bay said it’ll help me heal quicker from that stupid systemic infection I got from that lab a few weeks back–but they also mentioned that the chemical makeup of the drug technically has similar derivatives from sex pollen plants. So here we are now…Going through the side effects.” Sentry moved back slightly, and his brows knitted together.

”And you thought you could override the effects? What did you think was going to happen?” He asked jokingly. You groaned, placing your palm against his chest, trying to push him back slightly.

”They told me all the side effects were manageable, and for the most part they are…Sue me for trusting the medical professionals. And move back–for the love of god, you’re literally exuding your hormones onto me.” He laughed harder this time, bringing one of his hands to wrap around your wrist, rubbing his thumb gently across your forearm.

“I’m not doing anything,” He said with feigned innocence, eyes gleaming, “I’m just sitting here checking on my girlfriend.”

”Sentry, shut up,” You gritted through your teeth, jaw tight. He leaned in again, lips ghosting against your boiling hot cheek.

”What’re you going to do if I don’t?” His voice was smooth like honey, and his breath fanned over your skin, sticking against it. You squinted, eyes narrowing at the questions.

”Maybe I won’t take off that annoying cape you were complaining about.” You shot back, and his eyebrows lifted, grin spreading even wider.

”And keep me in the suit that turns you on enough that it makes you look at me like you’re about to jump my bones?” He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes glowing with barely restrained amusement, “Please…I can already tell I’ll need to give the designers a call to order me a new suit with those eyes you’re giving me right now.” There was a pause. The kind that stretched and hummed with too much heat and too little space.

You could feel his eyes tracing over your face and you couldn’t look away. Your jaw clenched, tight like you were trying to bite back everything you wanted to say–and everything your body was already begging to do.

Then your voice cracked softly through the air.

“You’re right.”

He blinked, not fully processing the shift until you moved–quick and sudden, like gravity had finally won. You surged forward and grabbed his face between your hands, tilting it just enough to crash your mouth against his.

The kiss hit hard. No warning. No patience.

Sentry let out a small grunt of surprise but met you without hesitation. His lips were hot, tasting faintly of smoke and salt, still buzzing faintly with power. His hands flew to your waist, then one slid up your back with desperate care, cradling the back of your head like he was afraid to let you go.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, threading through those soft light brown strands you loved, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth at that, the sound cracking open something inside him as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss—tongue brushing yours, kiss turning rough, messy, addictive.

You whimpered against his mouth, your whole body rising off the mattress, arms locked around his neck, knees bumping into him from beneath the blanket that had began to slip off of you.

His breath hitched. Then broke.

Sentry pulled back only slightly, lips swollen, panting softly, his pupils blown wide as his forehead leaned into yours.

“Okay,” He exhaled, voice ragged, almost trembling with restraint. “Okay–please take the cape off. I need to get this suit off in one piece before you kill me.” You were dazed and flushed warm, your thumbs dragging across his smooth cheeks, “I was just joking about calling the suit designers,” He added quickly, a breathless, nervous little laugh escaping him, “If I wreck another one Val is actually going to tear my head off…So please. Spare me that.”

You laughed into his mouth and reached up, fingers sliding under the collar of the cape. He sat back on his knees and let you pull at the fastenings. Your hands were trembling slightly, not from nerves–but need. The second the clasp popped loose, the fabric slipped away from his shoulder like silk.

His shoulders heaved as he exhaled hard, finally freed.

“Thank god,” Sentry groaned, “Now let me take the–“

You didn’t let him finish. Your hands curled around the edges of his face, and you kissed him again–hot and fast, like the ache in your body had officially taken the wheel.

”The–“ Another kiss, more demanding this time, your mouth pressing against his again.

”Rest of the–“ Your lips moved to his jaw now, biting softly as your hands ran over the fabric that caressed his shoulders.

“S-Suit off–“ He gasped when you kissed the corner of his mouth again, slowly–torturous even–your hand sliding down his chest as the golden fabric shifted beneath your fingers.

”Before you–“ You kissed him once more, longer this time. Tongue grazing his lower lip, pulling a shudder from deep inside his chest.

“Kill me–“ He breathed against your mouth, voice hoarse with a laugh, his forehead pressing against yours. You reached behind him, fingers finding the hidden zipper of his suit with ease–due to muscle memory, and need–dragging it down with a soft tug. The sound it made was practically obscene, echoing loud in the quiet room. You wrapped your other arm around his lower back to guide the rest of the zipper down, knuckles grazing skin that was already burning.

Sentry let out a low, breathy laugh against your mouth.

“I guess now I know how you feel,” he murmured, his voice still laced with warm amusement, “when I’m in such a rush to get your clothes off I get all shaky and stuff.”

You smirked against his jaw, kissing the corner of his mouth again.

“How the tables have turned, hmm?”

His laugh deepened, husky and half-gasped as the zipper caught just above his hips. “I would say it’s karma…But who’s paying attention to terminology right now?”

You leaned into him, kissing him once more before undoing the large crest-shaped belt that wrapped around his waist. The buckle clicked free with a satisfying snap, and the heavy piece dropped to the floor with a muted thud. His arms wrapped around you, momentarily startled by the sound, then eased again as you pushed the blankets fully off your legs.

You shifted upward onto your knees, the hem of your oversized t-shirt lifting with the movement–settling just at the tops of your thighs, tickling the overheated skin there.

Sentry’s breath shook against your lips as you kissed him again, this time slow and devastating, your hands peeling the gold fabric down his shoulders. He let it happen, arms slack, breath catching as the top of the suit was pulled away completely, revealing the flushed skin beneath.

His muscles were tight and still pulsing from exertion–shoulders broad and slick from the leftover heat of the mission, chest rising fast with each pant. His collarbone glistened faintly under the dim lighting, skin smelling like ozone and sweat and the faintest trace of smoke. That post-mission scent you always craved but never admitted to. You pulled back slightly, eyes drifting downwards, as you lost your words.

No matter how many times you saw him naked–or half-naked like this–it still drove you insane. It didn’t matter how many nights you’d spent curled against his chest, how many times you’d touched him. Your body always reacted like it was the first time.

And somehow, there was always something new.

Your eyes caught it as he shifted–just below his right pectoral, near the delicate curve of his ribcage. A tiny cluster of freckles. Soft, scattered like constellations you’d never noticed before.

You reached out, fingertips brushing lightly over them.

Sentry went still, his chest tightening under your touch.

“What…?” He asked softly, looking down at your hand.

“You’ve got freckles here,” You murmured, voice dazed with awe. “I’ve never seen them before.”

He looked down too, brow furrowing slightly. “Huh. I didn’t even know I had those.”

You ran your fingers over them again, slower this time, watching the way his skin twitched. “They’re really cute.”

His breath hitched under your touch, and you looked up just in time to catch the small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Must be that medication making you hyper aware of all my little features,” He commented, eyes flicking to yours with playful fondness.

You tilted your head, your voice soft but laced with teasing. “Or I just pay attention to you all the time and never thought to point out the new things I’ve seen until now.”

He groaned quietly at that–overwhelmed in the way he always got when you were like this. Not when you were wrecked and needy, but when you were quiet. Focused. When your eyes saw more than just his body–when they saw him.

“Ever the attentive lover, Y/N.” He whispered, brushing his nose along yours, kissing you again–slow and unhurried, despite the tension buzzing between you. You smiled into his mouth and leaned back just enough to rest your hands on his hips, fingers curling against the thick golden fabric that still clung to them.

“Take the rest of the suit off, please.” His eyes darkened slightly, the golden hue turning a slight caramel colour. He was happy to play along.

”Command heard, Sunshine,” He said with a grin, backing up a bit. You watched as he reached for the waistband of the suit and pushed it lower, easing the fabric down over his hips slowly.

The moment it dropped far enough for you to see the curve of him pressing hard against the tight black briefs beneath, your breath caught.

He was already half-hard–thick and heavy, straining against the material like he’d been on the edge ever since you kissed him.

You let out a soft, involuntary “Mmm,” and he chuckled, amused and smug.

“You really are losing it for me, huh?”

You nodded instantly, words spilling out with zero shame. “Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

His smirk softened into something more gentle, something a little stunned, as if that sort of confession still knocked the wind out of him. Then he leaned in again, mouth finding your jaw, lips brushing a kiss just under it.

“I think I can get used to this.” Your stomach fluttered as his hands slid up–slow, teasing–under the hem of your oversized shirt. The pads of his fingers were light, tracing over your heated skin like they had all the time in the world. Your breath stuttered at the sensation. He kissed down the column of your neck, slow and methodical, like he was marking out territory with his mouth.

”You’re wearing too many clothes,” He said, voice rick and low against your skin, “Especially for someone who wants to be fucked into the mattress.” A sharp, shaky breath escaped you, your fingers digging into his arms as he whispered the next part, almost sweetly–

“Let me help you. Hmm?”

Your voice broke around his name. “God–Sentry. Please.”

That was all it took.

He grinned, one hand sliding to your waist while the other gripped the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, over your head in one clean motion. He tossed it aside without even looking, his eyes locked on the newly exposed skin in front of him.

Your breasts were soft and full, rising with each shallow breath you took. Your nipples were already peaked from the cool air in the room–even though you felt like you were on fire from the inside out. Heat was radiating off your skin, sweat slicking your sternum in a sheen he knew the taste of far too well. His mouth had been there many times, had claimed that skin like sacred ground, had suckled and bitten and worshipped you in every state imaginable–but somehow this still stole the breath from his lungs.

And then his eyes dipped lower.

The black lace underwear you wore clung to your hips like a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. They were cheeky in the back, riding high on your curves, and dipped just low enough in the front to tease him with a hint of what was underneath. The lace was delicate, sheer in some places, and it hugged you like it had been made for his hands to slide beneath.

A puff of air escaped his lips–barely controlled, like he’d just been given the first glimpse of heaven again. “My god,” he breathed, golden eyes burning, “You’re so beautiful. As always.”

Your arms slipped around his neck like instinct, pulling him close, your lips finding his with a heat that almost knocked him back. The kiss was messy and greedy–tongue and teeth and too much want spilling into it. His hands slid down your back, fingertips pressing into the arch of your spine, pulling you against him. He groaned into your mouth, shifting forward, his hands slipping under the edge of your lace waistband just enough to feel skin–just enough to tease. And then he pulled back slightly, his nose brushing against yours as he spoke.

His voice dropped, thick and sensual, velvet-drenched and trembling with restraint.

“Lay back for me, sunshine,” He murmured, “Let me taste the sweetness that’s driving you mad. Let me worship the ache between your thighs until you forget your own name.” His eyes were shimmering and the air around you pulsed like it was responding to the divine hunger that was curling within you, “I want to see how wet you are just from watching me breathe.” Your head fell back on a gasp, the words so obscene and godly at once it made your thighs twitch, your breath catch, and your soul stutter. You met his gaze again with a fire that matched his own and slowly laid back against the pillows, legs parting slightly in invitation.

Sentry inhaled sharply, almost broken.

And then he descended.

His palm pressed flat over the lace between your thighs, and he groaned.

A long, broken sound that cracked in his throat like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. The fabric was soaked–utterly drenched–and the heat radiating off your body made it stick wetly to your core like a second skin.

Sentry’s eyes fluttered shut for a split second as his fingers dragged slowly over the slick fabric, then pressed in harder, rubbing a circle just above your entrance.

“Oh–fuck,” You gasped, your hips arching up involuntarily.

His jaw clenched at the sound. His mouth watered so fast it made his tongue press against his teeth, and he dropped his head with a strained grunt.

“This is–“ He breathed, voice ragged as his fingers curled into the waistband and yanked them down off your legs in one rough motion. “These are ruined.”

He balled the soaked lace in his fist, his knuckles going white, and brought them to his nose before you could say a word.

Then he moaned.

It was shameless, guttural–like something unholy had crawled up his throat and made a home there. He inhaled again, eyes fluttering, golden lashes trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” He growled, voice thick with something feral. “I’m keeping these. You smell so…” He trailed off, groaning again, deeper this time. “So fucking good. Fuck.”

He was panting now and before you knew it he was on the bed fully, his massive frame pressing you down into the mattress as he settled between your legs. His shoulders pushed them open a little wider with zero effort, spreading you like a meal he’d been starved of.

“I want to see all of it. I want your scent in my lungs until I can’t fucking think anymore.”

You whimpered, already gasping before his mouth even touched you.

And then it did.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

He dove in like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue was obscene–long, hard, and flat from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groaned again, louder now, into you, like the taste was more than he could bear.

His tongue circled, then flicked, then sucked—mouth latching to you with greedy, wet pressure, and your fingers immediately tangled in his hair. You pushed it out of his face, the strands clinging to your sweaty palms as you cried out beneath him.

“Oh my god, Sentry–!”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even pause.

He growled into you again, biting softly at the inside of your thigh before licking back up and sucking again, harder now–no rhythm, no restraint. He lapped you open, tongue dragging and curling and licking so deep and rough it had your legs shaking within seconds.

He was messy with it–face slick, chin soaked, groaning constantly as he devoured you like a feast he hadn’t earned, like this was divine punishment for something and he wanted more of it.

“Sentry–fuck, it’s–oh God, oh God–I can’t–!”

You were writhing, hips rolling against his mouth, and he just held you there, huge hands locking over your thighs, pinning you wide open while his tongue fucked into you, lapping greedily at your soaked heat before pulling up to suck your clit between his lips again.

And he wouldn’t stop moaning.

It was constant–this low, vibrating, starving sound, like you were pouring into him, drowning him in it, and he wanted to sink deeper.

Your nails scraped his scalp and he groaned again–louder, sloppier, tongue dragging harder and faster, chasing your high like it would save him. His mouth was fucking soaked. Your slick was everywhere–coating his lips, dripping down his chin, making obscene wet sounds every time he dragged his tongue through your folds again.

When he pulled back just barely, panting, face wet and eyes completely wild, he growled–

“You smell so fucking good right now. I can’t think–I can’t breathe.” And then he bit your inner thigh. Hard.

You yelped, the jolt shooting through you like lightning, and he soothed it with a slow, open-mouthed kiss, tongue flicking over the mark like an apology he didn’t mean.

“You taste like everything,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I need to come with your taste still on my tongue.”

Then he ducked down again, and this time he didn’t tease.

He buried his mouth against your core like he was staking a claim. Tongue thrusting deep and curling inside you while his nose bumped your clit. You could feel the moans vibrating through you as he sucked and licked and fucked you with his mouth like he was trying to crawl inside your body and live there.

Your vision whited out.

The sounds echoing off the walls–wet, vulgar, desperate–were barely human anymore. Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably, and your hands were tangled in his hair like lifelines.

“Sentry–Sentry, I’m gonna–!”

He growled against your clit and then sucked so hard your back arched clean off the bed as you screamed his name, the orgasm tearing through you so violently you swore you blacked out for a moment.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked through it, into it, mouth still worshipping, dragging every last tremor out of you until your legs buckled and your thighs clenched hard around his head.

Only then did he slow–kissing gently now, reverently, dragging his tongue over your sensitive folds with soft flicks, breathing ragged into your skin as he groaned again.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” He murmured hoarsely, eyes half-lidded and golden. “Sunshine…I’m fucking addicted to you.”

You could barely form words–panting, dazed, your body trembling in the aftermath.

And still, his hands cradled your thighs like you were sacred, kissing them like they were altar stone, soft and warm under his lips. He nipped gently at the skin, then soothed the bite with his tongue, waiting for your breathing to even out.

“Did that give you a little bit of relief?” He murmured, his voice low, thick with satisfaction and reverence as he looked up at you. Your fingers combed slowly through his hair, and the soft strands seemed to ground you. The way you touched him–gentle, languid–made his chest ache. He kissed you again, higher up your inner thigh this time, and whispered, “Y/N…Still with me?” Your eyes fluttered open, dazed and glossy, and you gave a breathless laugh, voice cracking as you exhaled:

“God, you’re so good with that mouth of yours.” A slow, bashful smile appeared on his lips, but it didn’t last long–because your hand was already tugging at him, pulling him up your body with a hunger that made his heart stutter.

He kissed up your stomach as he moved, slow and hot, letting his tongue swirl in a line past your navel, over the sweat-slick curve of your ribs, before finally claiming your lips again. The moment his mouth met yours, you tasted it—your own sweetness still on his tongue—and the sound you let out was pure sin.

Your fingers hooked under the waistband of his briefs, tugging firmly.

“I need you to fuck me, Sentry,” you breathed against his lips, eyes blazing with the kind of desperation that made his cock throb painfully hard inside the tight fabric.

He cupped your cheek, thumbing gently at your jaw, his voice reverent and dark.

“I’ll do way more than that.”

You gave a breathy little laugh, and he kissed the sound right off your mouth.

Then his hand dipped low, pushing his briefs down and off with one swift movement before tossing them aside without care. The moment he was free, your breath caught.

He was painfully hard–thick and flushed, the head a deep red and glistening with precum. You whimpered, hips twitching, thighs falling open for him on instinct.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

Sentry gave himself a few slow, teasing strokes, his erection heavy in his hand as he guided it toward your soaked heat. He dragged the head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness, smearing it over your clit in lazy, sinful strokes that had your entire body tightening.

Then, finally, finally–he lined himself up and pushed in.

You both gasped.

The stretch was overwhelming. You could feel every ridge of him, every thick inch dragging against your fluttering walls as he sank in slow and deep, inch by devastating inch.

Sentry groaned above you, burying his face in your neck. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” he breathed, his voice strangled, almost wrecked already. “You’re clenching around me already–fuck–like you were made to take me.”

Your back arched at the words, your hands gripping his biceps so hard your nails left marks.

“Sentry–please–move–” You begged, gasping against the shell of his ear.

He growled and started to thrust.

Hard.

He didn’t ease into it–he didn’t need to. Your body pulled him in like a vice, slick and hot and pulsing around him. His hips snapped into yours, his cock dragging against your sweet spot every time he slammed in, and it made you cry out.

The sound only drove him harder.

“Fuck–fuck–you feel perfect,” He snarled, grinding into you, his lips brushing your jaw. “So fucking warm and wet–tightening around me like it wants to keep me forever.” Sentry grunted as he bottomed out again, cock twitching inside your soaked walls. His hands were braced beside your head, caging you in, and the look in his eyes made your breath hitch–feral, starved, and glowing with something divine and dangerous.

“You sure that birth control works well enough?” He murmured low against your ear, thrusting deep and hard, dragging another desperate cry from your lips. “Because you feel like you’re begging to get knocked up.”

You gasped, nails raking down his back. “Maybe I am.”

He stilled–just for a heartbeat.

Then he snarled.

“Oh, fuck–you want me to do it, huh?” he hissed, grinding his hips in slow, brutal circles. “Fill this pussy so full of cum it takes root? Fuck a baby into you while you’re this wet and needy?”

You whimpered, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs shook around his waist. “Fuck, Sentry–yes–please–”

His jaw clenched. “You know I’ll do it,” he panted, hips snapping harder now, punching gasps out of your chest. “I’ll give it to you, sunshine. I’ll fill you so deep you’ll never be able to get rid of me.” He grabbed your hands suddenly, intertwining your fingers with his, and slammed them down into the mattress beside your head. The weight of him over you, the way his grip locked yours in, made you cry out with need.

“That little shot won’t stand a fucking chance when I’m done with you.” He hissed, mouth brushing your ear.

“Oh my God–fuck–do it,” You gasped, voice cracking into something filthy. “Do it, Sentry–fill me up–fuck your cum into me until it takes–make me yours.”

That broke him.

He let out a feral, animalistic sound, driving into you harder, faster, each thrust slamming you against the bed with enough force to make the headboard rattle.

“You’re mine,” He growled. “You’re mine, you hear me? I’m gonna fuck you until you scream with it–‘til there’s so much of me inside you your body won’t know what to do but keep it.” You cried out again, the coil inside you twisting impossibly tight. Your legs were trembling violently now, your vision going hazy around the edges.

He could feel it.

He knew.

“Fuck, sunshine–come for me,” He groaned, still pinning your hands. “Come while I fuck a baby into this perfect little pussy of yours–let me feel you break.” You shattered.

Your body arched violently, walls clenching down so hard it made him curse, your orgasm crashing through you in white-hot waves that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

He fucked you through it.

Harder.

“Fuck–fuck–you’re squeezing me so tight–God–I’m gonna–”

One final grind of his hips, deep and brutal–

And he came.

Hot, pulsing streams of cum spilled inside you, thick and endless, coating your walls with such pressure you felt it flood you. It didn’t stop. He kept grinding, deeper, groaning against your throat, body shaking with each twitch as more and more poured out of him.

“Oh my fucking god,” He gasped, biting down on your neck, not to hurt–but to ground himself. You whimpered, breathless, and ruined. He groaned into your skin, hips twitching one more time as he pushed forward, sinking his cock just a fraction deeper–pressing every last drop inside like he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling out yet.

A long, shaky sigh escaped his lips as he finally stilled, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. His grip on your hands loosened, and slowly–almost reluctantly–he shifted his weight to one side so he could look at you properly.

Your face was flushed and dewy, lashes fluttered half-closed, mouth parted slightly as you panted through the aftershocks. Completely dazed. Wrecked. Glowing.

He blinked, then let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your hair gently back with the knuckles of his hand. “How was that?”

You blinked slowly, then gave him the laziest, most satisfied grin imaginable.

“So fucking good,” You murmured, your voice rough from how much you’d been crying out his name.

He smiled, warm and proud, and leaned down to kiss you gently–long and sweet. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing slowly across your damp skin. And just as your lips parted with a hum, your walls fluttered around him–still full, still holding him deep.

He pulled back with a groan, resting his forehead against yours.

“It’s like you have a spell on me,” he whispered, golden eyes flickering, “All I want to do is be inside you… Or buried between your thighs. You must be a sorcerer of sorts.”

You let out a hoarse little laugh, breath hitching as your fingers pushed back the sweaty strands clinging to his forehead. “Or,” You murmured, “You just love me very much…That could also be the thing, too.”

He nodded solemnly. “That too…” And the two of you broke into quiet laughter.

Then he started pressing kisses all over your face. Your cheeks. Your forehead. The tip of your nose. “If it wasn’t for the fact that it would require you getting sick again,” he said between kisses, “I’d want you to be on that medication more often. Feral you is very interesting.”

You giggled softly, voice light but worn out. “Sentry… I’m practically always feral for you and Bob. This just heightens everything.”

He smirked at that, nuzzling his nose along your cheek. “It also makes you a siren,” he muttered. “I felt like a sailor who was about to die at sea.”

You snorted and pulled him into another kiss, soft and lingering. “I’m going to boast to Yelena that I almost killed a God.”

His laugh rumbled against your mouth, warm and low. “By all means…Boast all you want, You’re deadly.” He replied, dragging his lips down your jaw, planting one last kiss on your throat as you both sank into the mattress–warm, tangled, and thoroughly undone.

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bamsara · 1 year ago

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I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

#small rant brought to you by: listened to my younger sibling's friend be very upset today because an original story she wrote gets bashed #the story itself is fine maybe a little fast paced but overall she was happy with it's progress #and there is this one dude who keeps trying to tell her that her story needs to go another direction to 'make sense' and it changes the end #after she's repeatedly explained she's happy with the outcome and does not want to expand on that plot point any further #dude says she's 'unreceptive to criticism' no dude you're just being a dick #constructive criticism helps the AUTHOR reach THEIR intended goal #not steer the story in the direction a reader wants to see it go #sara shush #pls don't reblog with any 'but i take unsolicited criticism all the time' this isnt about you. your boundary is not other people's boundary

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bogcreacher · 10 months ago

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hey man love your comics! sorry people don’t treat you like a person

#hwat is it about free webcomics that turns some fans into the rudest most entitled people on the planet #this is NOT about my readers I’m blessed to have an extremely kind and patient fanbase thank you I love you <3 #But if you look at any even mildly popular webcomic the comments are filled with demands and hostility like what!!#draw ur own damb comic dude #rant

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millermouth · 2 months ago

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𝕲𝖎𝖇𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝕲𝖎𝖗𝖑

Summary: During the day, the Boston Quarantine Zone buzzed with life. People worked, slaving away under the military grip that kept order. But at night, deep in the underbelly of a crumbling hotel, was an entirely different ecosystem that thrived in the dark. One that was draped in lace and velvet, thick with smoke, sweat and secrets. And Joel Miller could always be found in the same room at the same time every night, though he never touched and he barely spoke. But he made sure that he was the only man you ever saw. || smut MDNI 18+ dark!joel x reader, QZ!Joel, reader is a sex worker (though there is only 1 scene with any semblance of 'work' with a customer that isn't joel), joel goes by 'hazel eyes', reader goes by the stage name 'kitty', dark themes, brothel, power imbalance, size difference, kind of innocent!reader, possessive!joel, jealous!joel, angst?, joel miller is a dangerous man, actually he's pretty scary too, touch her look at her and you die, pinv, grinding, lap dancing, fingering, f!recieving oral, some rough sex, missionary, stoic joel but he gets a filthy mouth when he's turned on, pet names, reader has no physical description but is starving from poverty, reader is afab, tension tension tension || a/n: where my dark joel girlies at? this is completely a self indulgent fic because all I want is joel miller to be obsessed w me inspired by ethel cain's gibson girl word count: 12k (got a bittttt carried away)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew a rat when you saw one.

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

His eyes dragged down your body, slow and assessing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have a customer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kitty!”

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

Right. The new name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped in the doorway, breath catching.

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

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

He was equally terrifying and beautiful all at once.

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

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

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

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

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

And still, he said nothing.

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

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

“Close the door.”

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

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

“Sit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t…do anything.”

He still held out his hand with the cards.

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

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

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

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

And without another word, he walked toward the door.

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

The next night, Gage came for you again.

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

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

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

You turned, and froze.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t look away. “That so?”

You nodded once.

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

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

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

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

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

“Get some damn shoes.”

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

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

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

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

And you would eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guess that means I’ll keep these.”

He chuckled at your silence.

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

You nodded. What else could you do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh hell yes.” she said with a smile.

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

You were downright sinful.

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

But Trixie’s smile faltered. Her brows pinched.

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

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

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

You nodded, turning around. “Y-yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Bruises?” you asked.

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

Your stomach turned.

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

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

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

You didn’t know how to respond.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you finally said, voice quiet.

That was all there was to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, you were alone.

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

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

But then you saw him.

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

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

And he did not look pleased.

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

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

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

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

Maybe this was a mistake.

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

“Sit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, no answer. Just that stare.

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

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

A lie.

And you both knew it.

Slowly, his wide, warm hands found your hips.

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

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

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

You felt the heat of it crawl up your spine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seventeen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you be scared then, darlin’?”

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t. Maybe you should’ve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A smile.

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

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

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

You’d been thinking about him all day.

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

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

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

But instead, you missed him.

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

You pictured the way it would happen.

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

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

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

“Kitty, let's go.”

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

You opened it with your heart halfway in your throat.

But it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Hazel Eyes.

It was a stranger.

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

Your stomach twisted.

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

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

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

But instead, you stepped inside.

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

How stupid.

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

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

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

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

The man’s gaze didn’t leave you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He must’ve taken it as permission.

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

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

“MILLER!”

The shout cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

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

The man jolted too. “What the fuck?”

The voice echoed again, louder, angrier.

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

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

It was him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hazel Eyes didn’t even blink.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Hazel Eyes turned to you.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

Then his voice came, low and even.

“You’re done here.”

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

“What?”

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

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

“You can’t. That’s not—”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d like to see them try.”

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

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

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

Finally, he spoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

“W-where…where am I supposed to go?”

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

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

“Come on,” he said.

And so, you followed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt your cheeks go hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His entire body went still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned in, teeth scraping your jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t want to scare you.”

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

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

Another beat of silence passed between you.

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

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

You already knew.

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

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