emptywwwriting

[emptywwwriting]

Need someone to chase me through the woods then pin me in the dirt and fuck the daylights out of me in an adrenaline fueled, violent yet romantic, haze of passion

[emptywwwriting]

Mean!Joel miller is so underrated, like yes i know he’s a teddy bear but the man has survived the apocalypse, he has an edge.

Need more mean Joel fics.

[emptywwwriting]

This dynamic>

SUCROSE

Sugar Daddy!Older!König x Organic Chemist!Civ!FReader [NSFW, 4.3k]

You're an organic chemist that sugar babies for a laugh, because your days are dull and long. König is an old, battered soldier of fortune that has been sugaring you with an intensity bordering on religion. Neither of you are going to say the quiet part out loud.

CW: unprotected vaginal sex, doggy style, descriptions of nuclear annihilation, descriptions of the opioid crisis, criminally emotionally constipated adults. Barely edited.

König’s place is Spartan. Most things about him are. But he tells you to do whatever you want, you've got his black card if you want anything, and you raise a brow in question.

“Anything, huh?”

He gives you a dry look. “Anything. Literally, I do not give a shit.”

Almost sounds like a dare.

You don't make yourself too-too at home. This thing is still new—the arrangement, the dynamic, the thrill. You know better that it could burn out at any second and leave you all the way hanging. Not a worry, because you are in charge of yourself, and this is only for fun. 

You've been too abrasive for too long to have faith in the idea that others will look out for you. That's always been your duty to yourself. It's sacred. It's safety. 

But he breathes you deep, wanting you in a way that feels like need. 

He likes it when you just come over to his place, because you don't invite him to yours. He likes it when you don't wear anything fancy in particular. He likes it when you put on his boxers and his t-shirt and crash on the bed with him. 

“Bad work day?” he asks, gaiter pulled up over his nose, hiding his face while some bullshit plays on the TV and his fingers rub tenderly behind your ear. 

“Hm.” It's a huff of a laugh. You stay resting on his chest. Your fingertips have only just slipped under the waistband of his sweats, resting on the small paunch at the bottom of his belly. “Didn't want you getting too comfortable alone.”

“Never been,” he laughs in return, a low and rough haa. “The sentiment is appreciated.”

You feel bad for trying to make the joke. You've never been comfortable alone, either. “It's just something you learn to live around,” you further, hoping like hell he understands, because you lack the words otherwise. 

“Yeah,” he hums, his arm tightening where it wraps around you, because he does. “Yeah.”

There are the quiet nights like those, when he just likes having you pulled tight to his body, running your hand over his stomach, ignoring the litany of scars—surgical, and violent, and otherwise—marring his hide. 

Then there are nights where he's a nightmare, and it is a riot to play with him. 

+

There's no preamble, only action. He sends you money for dinner, and the moment you're done, you're asked over to his place. 

“Do you want me to pick anything up for you? To eat,” you clarify, standing on the curb outside of the first restaurant he ever took you to—it's become a regular in your rotation. You're still in your work clothes. You don't even feel particularly human, just functional. 

Fuck's sake, you didn't even expect him to call tonight. 

“No,” he says, his voice tense, even on the phone, “just you. Now.”

You're barely able to knock on the door before he's snapping it open, gaiter pulled up, wearing Dickies and a fleece. 

“You g—?” You don't even get to finish asking, body in flight.

You yelp in surprise as he snatches an arm around your waist, the other sliding up your sensible, frumpy skirt, curling under your thigh. 

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, and your stomach flips at the bizarre, alien sensation. You've never been small. Delicate. Petite—what a vile word, an ideal adored by many, one that you've never embodied, and never could. There is no amount of plastic surgery or product that will ever make you desirably little. A stupid and furious bead burns down into your sternum, one that turns its face from all the boys and men that moaned for you, buried balls-deep in your tight cunt, only to spin a tight 180° and bitch that they wanted a woman they could toss around, manhandle, feel powerful for moving. 

They would fuck you, and want you, but only at the demand of curiosity, lust, novelty. Who would claim you. Who would ache for you. 

König pulls you onto his hip, gripping your ass cheek tight in one hand, and carries you to the bed.

“On all fours,” he growls, turning and swallowing hard, fishing out his wallet, and as an afterthought catches up with him, he adds, “please.”

Your heart is racing from the way he'd bodily executed his decision with you. Your brain is shocked into a standby state, working on intuition and instinct. You arrange yourself on hands and knees, ass up in the air, and pull your panties down, hobbling your knees. At least those kinda cute, and you have the thigh high hose on, sheer and black with lines down the back. 

You thank every fucking deity you know that you hadn't done your laundry and had clean long-johns to wear under baggy jeans today. 

He drops things in front of your face. Papers.

“What,” you grunt, not a question, a complete incomprehension. 

“Read those.” As if that wasn't clear. He hooks his hands under your hips, making you grab for the papers when he drags you to the edge of the bed. There's popping and a grunt as he gets on his knees behind you, and you barely tighten up your throat enough to catch the bark that wants to escape. 

“Fuck—don't!” you snap, frenzied, but he licks a hot, wet stripe from your clit to your asshole, about ready to bury his face. 

His fingers keep your ass spread open and they tense with frustration when he snipes back, “Vas? What the fuck could you—”

“Just fuck me, I'm already good.” You hear another sound of frustration out of him, something that feels like don't be dumb, since you both know exactly how fucking big his cock is, even for your well-played cunt. “You already got me going,” you hiss, shifting your hips, hating that you feel you have to admit this at all, “you—when you picked me up. That did enough. Just—it's time to fuck.”

His hands relax, sliding to push your ugly skirt up over your hips. “Just from picking you up?” he asks, as if that should be impossible. 

“Yes, just from picking me up,” you shoot back, this close to hiding your face in your arms. “I don’t get picked up. I don’t get—moved. Whatever. It was new. That doesn’t happen to me, unless you’ve somehow missed how I’m fucking built.”

All the air goes out of the room as you pull the admission like pulling your own teeth. A crack in the careful facade. A hairline fracture. You are not perfectly unflappable. You are not wholly without insecurity. You are as weak and human as everyone else. 

What a strange, ugly feeling to allow passage through your chest; a slow, inky swimmer swooping around your lungs and stomach, turning everything it touches to ice. You’re supposed to be untouchable, aren’t you? You’ve gone years without that odd, festering jealousy rearing its head. You’re not sure why it does so now.

König just taps the papers again, his breathing strained and heavy, bending to kiss your neck, just below the spot behind your ear that makes your skin snap with static electricity. “Let me eat your pussy while you read those. Don’t like condoms. Don’t want to use them anymore,” he grunts, the teeth he presses into your neck making you realize that he��s pulled down his gaiter.

It’s a weird enough request that it resets your brain. It allows you to read, your head fogged with discordant lust and curiosity as he sinks back behind you, bathing your pussy in heavy, slow attention with his split tongue teasing your clit.

It’s paperwork. A clean result from a recent STI test, and the discharge paperwork from a vasectomy. For your high-geared mind, it has taken an embarrassingly long time to click. He doesn’t like condoms, and doesn’t want to use them. The papers are assurances to you. He’s clean. He won’t get you pregnant.

In the five percent of your brain that is not being used to process the complete annihilation of your soaked pussy with pleasure, there’s a floor-rolling bout of hysterical, giddy laughter that has taken up residence, darting through the fine links of your firing neurons. 

This is a romantic gesture. He is a frightening, stone-faced man, who is twin to you in strangeness, and this is outpouring of bizarre softness and startling understanding. Is there anyone else in the world that has fucked you, let alone exists, that would know the way you find comfort and security in medical results and discharge papers on official letterheads?

If there is, you’ve never met them, and you don’t think you will.

Between his moves—a filthy, slurping plunge into your cunt, figure eights around your swollen and throbbing clit with the halves of his tongue, and almost delicate, sucking kisses that puff your labia—you still find the energy and wherewithal to bust his balls, even as he’s making you so wet that it slicks your thighs, “Alright. So, how do you know I’m clean?” It is a sentence you can barely manage as your body shakes.

There comes a laugh, rumbling and serrated, as he nips your shaking thigh with his teeth, paired with a familiar clap on the ass like you’re a breeding mare prized not for progeny but sentiment and a fondness for your rotten, crank attitude. “You’re mean as a fucking snake, Schatzi, but I know you’re not mean enough to let me tongue-fuck you if you had something.”

You maybe should not laugh at such a succinct round-up of one of your most defining character flaws, but you are, and you grin sharply looking back over your shoulder at him as he rises. His hands—huge, warm, coarse, careful—slide over your hips to savor your shape.

“Further up the bed,” he coaches you, leaning forward just long enough to press a heavy kiss to your mouth, pushing his tongue past your lips so you can taste yourself mixed with his natural metallic tang. 

One of your hands comes to his jaw, pulling him back in when he tries to move away, for just one selfish moment more, swirling your tongues together, needful of his heat and his closeness and the feeling of your noses crushes together as clumsy as college freshmen set loose in a wide, free world.

“You don’t do fuck-all in half-measures,” you mutter, hand finally sliding away, your lids clicking open crisp. You love seeing the scars mutilating his mouth, the way that flush brightens the coppery tint of his skin. The silver in his hair seems brighter, and the gold of the wheat-colored strands giving the silver a home seems deeper, more molten. 

He is a beautiful man. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, and the look he gives you reads weakness.

What a rotten old soldier. What a battered old war dog. 

You don’t want to think about what it means if the weakness isn’t a figment of your imagination. If it is symptomatic of a larger trend; an oncoming crisis, a trend that sweeps and fells and swallows up entire communities, with a bent toward becoming endemic to the local culture, and almost impossible to kill forever after.

+

The opioid epidemic has always come in greater, and greater waves. 

The first in the nineties, off natural and semi-synthetic painkillers, a slow swell beginning with easier manufacturing, laxer laws, and gargantuan pharmaceutical conglomerates pushing-pushing-pushing the easy writing of prescriptions on countless doctors. Generational seeds buried in families, in communities—germinating at inhuman rates, weaving addiction into the DNA.

The second came with the second decade of the new millenia. A resurgence in heroin, when the world began to come down on doctors with fat Rx pads and quick-writing fingers. When you cannot find a fix legally, you will find it illegally, and it comes at much higher a cost. 

There were always more waves, and different ones, and quieter ones. There were always synthesizers, cookers, designers, manufacturers—legal and illegal alike. 

Fent, roxie, percs, bars. Heroin, krokodil, bath salts, flakka. Uppers. Downers. Barbiturates, benzos, phenobarbital. 

It all ties into dopamine, and the ancient, pointlessly leftover biological mechanic of addiction. The sizzling, bumpers-and-bells-and-bright-lights screech of a reward center well-fed. 

König is a beast of a man, and his brain is brutally hardwired for addiction. He's an alcoholic in on-off recovery, he's a medical req amphetamine junkie. He no longer chases adrenaline like most men chase tail, but he sprints after it in his tense, jerking dreams. 

He's just a dog, with wet sad eyes, and his heart chases after trucks that will never see him around blind turns. His surety that the next roaring beast coming around the switchback bend will finally love him back is the thing that is going to kill him. 

+

König can't spell for shit, and his grammar is a barely functional mess of punctuation and weird spacing, but he has a terrifying mind for numbers and nuclear engineering. He's told you before that it takes 10^-20 seconds for an atom to split to kickoff nuclear fission, the process that powers atomic bombs.

You're a doctor, and it didn't at all feel stupid to ask, “Fuck. How can you even comprehend how fast that is?”

You walked side-by-side with him in winter coats. He shrugged at the time, and said, “Hm. Alright, you're at the market. You're looking at apples, or arugula, or fish, or whatever the fuck. We don't know who hit the button, but the missile carrying the warhead is going twenty-four thousand K-P-H. Fifteen thousand miles per hour. You're in Berlin. As soon as the launch is registered, everyone starts launching.”

He stepped closer, elbow bumping yours. When he registered your hard swallow, he slid his arm around your neck and pulled you into his side. 

“So the bombs are launched,” you prompted him, tucked into his side. “When do I die?”

“You died ten minutes before World War III ended,” he hummed, pressing his nose into the spot before your ear, brushing his gaiter-covered lips over your cheek and ear lobe, “you were turned into pure carbon staining the ground, and you never knew there was a bomb.”

10^-20 seconds for the bomb to perfectly obliterate any and all existence of your entire life. Annihilation so utter, there would be no DNA leftover. 

Bombs, destruction, drugs, addiction.

Control. Control. Control.

König will never know that you passed through the eye of the needle in close to the same fucking unfathomable shard of a second, fighting tooth and nail to choose between launching off the bed, denying his low-simmering feelings, and black listing his entire existence in your memory—versus embracing the insane, helpless plummet, releasing your death grip on the demand of understanding and autopsy of everything unknown. 

Your hand loosens on that chain.

+

“Yeah, fuck it. Fuck me,” you say, recovering from the staggering out of body experience. 

He leaves you ass-up in the cold of his apartment, windows open, and returns with his laptop and his black card, throwing them down in front of you. His hands clap your skin as they land on your hips, anchoring him as he pulls himself into place behind you, stroking his cock needlessly because it can't possibly get any harder or fatter.

“Buy whatever you fucking want. You've got ten grand. You don't spend it, you don't cum,” he grunts in a hoarse voice, and that's every bit of warning you get before he plunges his cock in your soaked, swollen pussy, bucking and grunting as you spasm around him and try to scurry away out of instinct. His hips slam against your ass, hands dragging you back against him, and you feel and hear the noise ripping in his throat like the gut-growl start of a chainsaw.

There’s a wolverine in your throat—something, perhaps, that fought hard, and died even harder than that in another life—and it does not take kindly to being bossed, bucked, bitched. It bares its fangs through your mouth, goading you to turn your head, to catch König’s eyes and lock onto them like you’ve caught him in unkind crosshairs. 

“Do I still get to cum if I just make one big, fat buy?” you ask hoarsely, the silver of your teeth flashing between your lips like a threat, eyes wild and too-bright. “Maybe I buy you a decent fucking couch? A good dining table?”

That mauled mouth of his curls into a smirk, and his hand skates up your back—turning threat and  tenderness into a single entity—gripping the back of your neck firmly, but not cruelly, as he redirects you to the screen. 

“You could. Of course, you fucking could. I’m not a liar. But.” He bends low, snapping a sharp and sweet love bite against the skin of your neck, in a spot that your collars will barely hide. “That would be fucking boring. I don’t think you’re boring.”

The tone begs you to tell him he’s wrong in a challenge.

You laugh, backed into a clever corner, gripping the sides of the laptop, dragging it closer as he starts a slow, rolling rhythm, sliding his cock in and out of you. Just taking his sweet time, warming you up all over again, getting those stiff hips of his to unlock, too—more used to marching and storming, now, than fucking.

You start by faking him out as he stretches your wet, throbbing pussy with his grappling-to-relax rhythm, pulling up a Tiffany Co. hardware necklace selling for $4,100.00. Its greatest sins are that it is not only ugly, but, far worse, it is boring. 

“Schatzi,” he growls, fingers tightening on your hips, and, good fuck, it makes you laugh. That earns you the slam of his hips flush to your ass, stealing the air from your lungs, and his huge hand tightens in the back of your hair, bringing your eyes back up as your head swims and your stomach jumps.

“Got the hint,” you wheeze, clicking off the tab, trying to focus on anything but the size of him inside you, pounding you like a brutal metronome. His breathing is tight, and every stroke of his cock sails him straight across your g-spot. Makes your brain shimmer like the bath bombs and body lava you load your carts with. Makes your guts feel filled with poured platinum, same shade and shine as the teal sapphire pendant earrings you purchase.

The orgasm builds in your lower belly—a broiling heat, a ten-ton tightness, driving your pelvis down with its demanding weight—and König stays steady fucking you, relentless with his perfect, unerring rhythm. Somehow that makes it so much more difficult to withstand. 

The first time you had fucked, he had lasted so long you thought he wasn’t going to fucking cum at all, but, no. He was just beastly in bed, sweat pouring down his temples and chest, eyes smirking over his mask until you ripped the fucking thing down and kissed him. He’d tasted, wonderfully, of your pussy and pleasure.

The stamina of a maniac, and the patience he professes that his younger self could’ve never maintained.

At $8,370, your focus gives, and you almost collapse, elbows sliding out from under you. You bury your head in the blankets beneath you, smelling his cologne and the faint odor of his sleep sweat, and it turns your stomach into a cyclone. You’re kissing the razor’s edge of finishing, so close you feel it flooding your blood like the skull-crack cold of a fresh IV line of saline on a hot, sick stomach.

All at once, he stops, one hand heavy-spread across your lower back, the other tight around the shape of your hip.

“H-huh, f—fuck,” you moan, pathetic and brainless.

“You done?” he asks, breathing hard. He grunts like the grit of a stone mill when you nod your head, then shake it, body too confused to settle on an answer. “Think about it. You’re almost there. Tell me how much you have left to spend.”

You turn your head in the blankets, taking a sideways glance at the screen. It’s hard to tell. His hand slips lower, between your legs, cupping your pussy and applying pressure, though he doesn’t play with you. 

Simple math. You’re a doctor. This should not be difficult. But Sisyphus would have an easier time pushing his damned boulder up his hill than you are with basic subtraction.

“One—one-six-three-nil.”

“Mm. Mhm. Sixteen hundred. I’m almost done, want you to cum, too. Get creative.” His voice is hoarse, tight with restraint, and even in your stupor, you can tell he’s struggling as much as you are.

With a sluggish nod, painfully conscious of his cock sitting heavy and throbbing in your cunt, you pull yourself up on one shoulder, slumping as close to the laptop as you can manage. The next page you go to belongs to his bank, and his fingers knead into the small of your back as you one-handed type his account information (the gift of an obscene amount of trust, or the hallmark insanity of a man who simply does not have a spare fuck to give).

Takes ten seconds to transfer a solid two grand into your checking account, and König doesn’t even chuckle. 

He fucking moans. A weak, broken-legged sound that shakes his entire body so thoroughly it rings through yours like church bells.

His grip tightens, and he muscles you onto your back like an afterthought. Slops your legs back open and drops all his weight on top of you, burying his face against yours as he fucks right back into you. He’s done dicking around (you would laugh at the stupidity of your own thoughts, had your brain stem not been atomized by this exact man), hitting a nightmare rhythm of thrusting and grinding that rubs your clit, and just tosses what’s left of your mind in the damned incinerator.

The build is so fast and reckless—a nigh-on lethal vent of pressure that leaves you half-blind and shaking, finally allowed to sprint after what felt like a lifetime of restraint—that you’ve already started to cum, and your mind is only just now catching up with your body. König’s breath is furnace-hot, rolling over your skin like the lungs of a bellows press, your cunt spasming and clenching his throbbing cock wildly. 

When the world finally takes back control of your facilities—putting a fading, slow halt to your paint smear perception of reality—König is crushing you with his weight. His hands grip at the underside of your thighs, and he breathes into the hair behind your ear. “Will move, soon,” he assures you, but you shake your head. 

“Stay put. Your weight feels good,” you respond, chest beautifully crushing under his body, and it calms your heart with the comfort of pressure. 

Lazily, and without much thought, you graph out chemical sequences across his back. Prolactin, dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins, serotonin. All the good shit, overwhelming your blood stream.

+

You're the one to get up for water, calling him ‘old man’ in a snort that earns you a swat to the bare ass, and another gravel-grit laugh. He looks grateful for it all the same—that small measure of care and familiarity. 

Dog, dog, dog, your mind chants. He's just an old dog aching for a fleece bed and a kind hand. The stone in your stomach sinks heavier, and you turn your thoughts away from it. 

When you return, you collapse in the bed beside him after handing over the glass. He's propped himself against the headboard, legs splayed wide and lazy, the heaving of his chest from exertion shallowed by rest. His profile is harsh in the unfiltered light of his side table lamp, and the cold air blowing in through the cracked windows is a relief on your friction-chafed skin.

His skin is gold in this light, like his lightning-streaked hair. His form is sleek and powerful, even in repose. The bulk of him eats up half of the king-sized bed, dressed in barebones linens, and you think of tragedies. How perfectly-built demigods always came with a fatal flaw that became their death, and how nature couldn't figure out a way to give stronger hearts to massive creatures. 

Their bodies simply demanded too much fuel to keep alive for too long. They are powerful, undeniable, and gone so very quickly.

But looking at König, maybe god is too magnificent a term for him. You know he'd despise it. Bomb is a better fit. 

Yeah, no. That is the better fit. The type of man he is? One with his nature? He'd be dead before he even realized he'd detonated. And he'd kill as many people as he could with the blast radius. 

“You ever think about going back to school?” you ask in a fucked-out rasp, as your lips cut into a lopsided half-smile, and he laughs, smirking.

“I fuck you stupid, or…?” he teases, his teeth glinting in the light of the room, eyes pale and calm like cold water.

‘No,’ is the real answer, and it continues, ‘I have only just discovered the fear that comes after realization, and I have let myself pass through the keyhole to the other side. I have never seen this place, one where there is enough room for another person besides myself, and it frightens me. It could be filled, and it could be emptied, and I know that I do not have the resilience to live with that void.’

“Shit. I think you did,” is what you snort instead, pulling the sheets up over your hips. “I'm going to doze for a little while. Then, I'll call an Uber home.”

König says nothing, making an unsure noise of thought in his throat, but you know he won't pursue his offer, because you will turn it down, and he is fragile when it comes to rejection. 

Coward that you are, you allow the invitation to spend the night die in his chest, cemented by him leaving the bed shortly after to shower.

You are not ready to admit to even yourself that there is room for him. What else is there to do but run from it?

[emptywwwriting]

Always my favorite

sundown - one shot

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 6.6k

warnings: age gap, explicit p in v sex, size kink, somno, praise kink, oral sex, overstimulation, painful sex, late summer americana

summary: you're used to being alone. that changes when joel moves into the trailer across from yours.

People leave all the time. 

Sometimes there’s a barbecue, a big show of it, the whole community getting together. They grill burgers and hang streamers on the laundry lines. The kids all run around barefoot, playing tag, tripping over each other. There are hugs and goodbyes and promises to visit real soon.

Other times it’s quiet. Bags packed in the middle of the night, cars rolling out before dawn cracks over the horizon. Windows dark, doors left unlocked, hanging open in the breeze. Little bits of trash and broken things left in the yard.

None of them stay empty for long. 

There's always a new family coming in, kids shrieking and doors slamming, a bike with training wheels turned over in the grass. A couple of retirees, putting up flower boxes and sticking pinwheels into the dirt, waving at anyone who passes. A kid fresh off parole, cardboard box under his arm, sleeping on an air mattress for the first few months.

After they settle, it sort of feels like they were always there. 

And you forget whoever came before.

You’re used to it by now. The coming and going, the faces you never see again. This is a place of passing, and you know better than to expect anyone to stay. 

The place across from you is only empty a week before Joel moves in.

You watch through the blinds as he carries boxes in from the back of his pick-up. Sweat soaking through his t-shirt. His arms are thick, corded with muscle, his hands big and rough. He’s built solid, built big, and it stirs something low in your belly as you watch him carry an old TV up the front steps, knocking the door open with his boot. 

You wait for another car to pull up, the wife and kids and maybe a couple of dogs. But no one else comes. It’s just him, alone, a few yards of bare, sun-bleached grass between your front doors.

And folks talk, like they always do, but they can’t find much to say about Joel. Moved out here from Austin, got set up with some contracting work in town, that development they’re building out past the mill. No family, or none that he’s mentioned. But he doesn’t talk much. Just a few words in passing, a stiff sort of smile when one of the neighbors stops by his porch, pressing a conversation you can tell he wants no part in.

He keeps to himself, mostly. 

You’re not watching him, not really, but you notice things.

He replaces the old skirting, pulling out the rotting wood and tossing it into the back of his pickup. It’s heavy work to do in the dead of summer, but he’s steady at it, muscles bunching under his shirt, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. 

He sits out on his porch most nights, once the heat has settled and the moths come out, fluttering around the porch light. He listens to the radio — baseball if there’s a game on, otherwise the old country station. He never has any guests over, but he talks on the phone sometimes. Not for long, but it’s the only time you ever hear him laugh, the low gravel of it carrying across the lawn.

And you think he notices you too, though you don’t say more than a handful of words to each other in the first few weeks of him staying there.

Some mornings he heads off to work when you’re hanging laundry on the line. Or his truck pulls up in the evening when you’re sitting on the front step painting your nails, sunlight catching on blue glitter. His dark eyes will find yours and he’ll nod, polite as anything, and return your wave.

And you’re not watching him.

Not really.

But he’s nice to look at.

Your HVAC breaks down again, and you can’t get the panel open to replace the filter. The stupid thing always sticks when it gets too hot out, and you’ve been wrestling it for ten minutes. Knees in the dirt, sweat dripping down your spine, trying to dig your nails under the edge of it.

“Need a hand?”

You look up, squinting against the sun, and find Joel watching you from a few feet away.

“You got a flathead?”

He doubles back to his truck, pulling his toolbox from the bed. You hold your hand out to take the screwdriver from him, but he jerks his head for you to get out of the way. And you do, brushing the dirt off your knees and watching as he pries open the panel.

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out the old filter and motions for the new one. And there’s something so easy in the way he does it, his hands steady and practiced as they snap the panel back into place. He stands and raps his knuckles against the metal.

“Should be all set.”

And you’ve never been this close to him, never realized just how much bigger he is than you. Tall and broad in a way that makes your stomach swoop. There’s gray in his hair, gathered at his temple and threaded through his beard. 

You swallow, mouth gone a little dry at the width of his shoulders, the shift of his biceps as he picks up the toolbox. 

“Thanks for that,” you say, “It’s a fucking sauna in there.”

Joel glances up at your trailer, brow creasing before his gaze drops back to yours.

“You on your own?”

There’s something about the way he says it, the edge of concern, of disapproval. 

But you just shrug, “I can take care of myself.”

He nods, but he hesitates before heading back to his place.

“You need anything, you let me know,” he says, “Door’s always open.”

That night, Joel sits out on his porch, eased back in an old armchair, fingers loose on the neck of a beer. The radio crackling on the sill, playing a country song you don’t recognize, the notes carried on the breeze through your open window.

And you want to give him something as a thank you, but you can’t bake for shit, so instead you roll three little joints for him, tucking them neatly in an empty Altoid tin.

He looks up when you come out. Bare feet on the dry grass, denim cutoffs and mosquito bites on your ankles. You jump up on the edge of his porch and lean over the railing. 

“To say thank you,” you tell him, holding out the tin.

He frowns when he opens it and tries to hand it back.

“Don’t really smoke.”

“You can trade ‘em,” you shrug, “The office doesn’t give out quarters, but Gerri’s got a whole stash.”

He huffs a laugh and takes a sip of his beer.

“This place runnin’ on a barter system?”

You smile up at him, “Depends what you’re looking for.”

And you’re flirting, you’re trying to, but something about him makes you bad at it. You’re used to the boys around here, their skinny sunburnt arms and patchy stubble. There’s none of that in Joel, none of the open eagerness that makes the others so easy. He’s solid and steady, knees spread wide, looking at you in a way that makes you feel silly and soft, makes you want so bad it surprises you.

He just shakes his head, the corners of his mouth edging up in amusement.

“You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

But he doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing. And it makes you a little bold, a little reckless, so you point to the beer in his hand and tilt your head.

“Got another one of those?”

That’s how it starts, the strange friendship that stretches between your front doors. It’s easy, even if it shouldn’t be. Joel isn’t much of a talker. Not all that friendly, even.

But he doesn’t seem to mind you so much. 

He drives you into town when you need something, lets you put your feet up on the dash and mess around with the radio until you find a song you like. He listens as you point out the landmarks of the shitty little town: the water tower, the auto body, the vape shop that got busted for selling meth. 

He fixes your shit when it breaks. The whine and rattle of the radiator. The crack in the roof that leaks whenever a storm comes through. The lock on your front door that sticks sometimes. That last one makes him frown, makes him give you that stern look and say something about how it isn’t safe, not with you out here on your own. 

He sits with you on his front porch, lets you steal his beer and talk about your day. If he’s in a good mood, you can even get him to answer some of your questions. You know he doesn’t like talking about himself. But you’ve gotten some of it, the quiet history hidden behind the hard set of his jaw. His brother back in Austin. The lake they used to go to as kids. The chocolate cake his mom used to make on their birthdays. 

And you know that he likes you, even if it’s just a little.

He spots you for milk when you’re short, and won’t take your money when you try to pay him back. He keeps the tin of Altoids on his dresser, the unsmoked joints still inside. And he still wears the little leather bracelet you got for him, right under his watch, the broken one you know better than to ask about. 

But he doesn’t look at you. 

Not the way you want him to.

You’re used to men looking. A whistle out the window of a passing car, something nasty shouted from down the street. The boys in the park with their buzzcuts and bug-eyed stares. The gold-capped leer of the cashier of the 7-11 where you buy smokes.

You know you’re worth looking at.

And he lets you flirt a little, but there’s always a line. When your hand goes too high on his thigh, when you lean in too close. There’s that breathless moment where his gaze lingers on your lips for a second too long, but he always pulls away.

“Trouble,” he’ll say, shaking his head.

And it only makes you want him more.

——————

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You were watching a movie, something old, with cowboys. And you remember putting your legs over Joel’s lap, and that look he gave you. The one you get whenever you push up against that line, the boundary of the things that you want and the things he’ll allow. He never lets you cross it, but he lets you have this. The little press of your toes, the chipped blue polish, against his denim-clad thigh. His heavy hand settling on your bare leg, thumb stroking your skin like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you must’ve fallen asleep like that, eyes fluttering against the soft glow of the screen, the feel of Joel’s hand on you.

When you wake up, the room is dark, and there’s a blanket tugged up over your shoulders.

You should go home. 

You know you should.

But instead you pad down the hall to his room, your heart in your throat, still caught somewhere in a dream. Your stomach swoops when you see that he left the door half open.

There’s a strip of yellow light across the room, slanting in from the window. Joel is laying on his side, fast asleep, the pillow bunched up under his cheek. And you’ve never seen him like this. The lines of his face smoothed out in sleep. The usually stern set of his jaw now slack, his lips parted, slow breaths ghosting across the empty sheets. He looks softer, somehow, the way you know he can be, the way he is with you sometimes.

You stand there for a long minute, toes digging into the carpet, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Your hand goes to the button of your shorts, undoing them and stripping them down your legs, so you’re left only in your thin tank top and cotton panties. The air is cool with the distant hum of AC, and goosebumps rise on your bare skin. You slip under the blankets on the empty side of the bed, curling onto your side to face him.

And he must have felt the shift of your knees on the mattress, because his eyes open.

He looks at you across the stretch of sheets, and your pulse stutters. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tell you to get out. He just watches you with this sort of sense of inevitability. 

Like he’s been waiting.

So you lean forward and kiss him. Testing, tentative. The dry press of your lips against his.

You pull away after a second, a skittering rush of nerves and arousal, searching his face for some shadow of doubt, of disapproval. You can feel your pulse racing. 

Maybe he can feel it too when his hand wraps around your wrist and he tugs you back into him.

His mouth is hungry as it moves against yours, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you tight into his chest. His tongue brushes yours, and he tastes like sleep and toothpaste and Joel.

He rolls you onto your back, and he’s so big over you, warm and solid and sinking you deeper into the mattress. His hand at your jaw, hinging your mouth open, tasting you with his tongue and teeth. You whimper, tangling your hands in his hair, pulling him impossibly close.

He kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his beard making your breath stutter. His hand slides up under your top and over your breast, the callused drag of his thumb teasing at your nipple before he tugs down the neckline, exposing your breasts. 

The heat of his mouth wraps around your nipple and you moan, arching against him. The feeling sparks low in your belly, adding to the heat that's pooling between your hips, burning in your core. You’re so wet and you want him so much it makes you dizzy. His mouth is hungry as it moves over your skin, devouring. It’s a little rough, a little mean. Teeth scraping over your nipple, biting at the swell of your breast, sucking at the skin there until you whine and tug at his hair.

But you like it. The way he presses his hips into yours, trapping you against the mattress, the bulk of his cock heavy against you. He kisses at the swollen peak of your nipple, tongue smoothing over the little red marks left behind by his teeth. 

His hand slides over your ribs and down your belly, seeking out the sticky heat of your core. He cups your cunt with his heavy hand and then breaks the kiss with a low groan, ducking his head against your chest.

“Fuck, baby.”

He strokes the soaked seat of your panties, pressing the ruined fabric against your leaking entrance. His gaze flickers up to your face, the sweaty flush of your cheeks, eyes wide and hazy with arousal. He noses against your jaw, fingers pressing a little firmer against you.

“Messy little girl.”

Your breath catches on a moan, spine rising up from the mattress as his fingers find your clit. It’s not much, a gentle stroke through the damp fabric, but it feels like lightning, a white hot heat that rips through you. You grip his shoulders, breath coming in desperate little gasps as you grind against his hand.

“You gonna come for me?”

And your answer slips out on a whimper, a spit-slurred mess of yes, please, Joel, please make me come. His fingers keep moving against you, firm and focused, stoking the fire that builds inside your core until you’re coming, clenching around nothing, writhing against his hand between your legs. Your breath hot and damp against his neck, face screwed up as everything inside you goes painfully tight, and then liquifies in a rush of sticky wet release.

“There you go,” Joel murmurs, lips grazing your temple, “That’s my girl.”

And it makes your insides go all melty and warm, the idea of being his girl. 

He holds you like that for a while, curled against his chest, his hand still tucked between your legs. You press your lips against the hollow of his throat, tasting the sweat on his skin.

His cock is hard against you, a heavy press along your thigh, and you grind against it, a moan low at the back of your throat.

Joel tilts your face up, dark eyes meeting yours.

“Is that what you need?” he asks, “Does my baby need to get fucked?”

You whine, ducking your face against his neck, overwhelmed by the words, the surge of arousal and something else, something more that you don’t have a name for.

He tugs at your panties, pulling them down your legs, the sticky fabric smearing against your skin. His hand slides down to the bend of your knee and he hikes your leg up over his hip. You feel the bulk of his cock through his boxers, the heat of it against your aching center. Your hips twitch, a choked little moan slipping out of you.

“Fuck — please, Joel.”

He doesn’t tease you, doesn’t draw it out. He shifts his boxers down, pulling his cock out so it presses against you, the head sliding through your dripping folds, nudging against your fluttering little hole.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do, tilting your face up and holding his gaze as he pushes inside you.

Your mouth drops open, a gasp catching in your throat at the stretch of him. He’s big, too big, splitting you open in a slow, steady stroke. Tears spring to your eyes but you don’t look away. You hold his gaze as he works his cock into you, knocking the air out of your lungs.

“Taking me so well,” he murmurs, “Just a little more.”

It hurts, the stretch overwhelming, but you want all of him. He sinks deeper, inch by inch, and it sends little sparks of pain-pleasure flickering through you. But he’s slow about it, gentle as he rocks his hips against yours, his lips pressed to your hair, talking you through it. Pretty little cunt, so fucking tight for me.

He grunts when he reaches the end of you, his hips flush against yours. 

You blink up at him, eyes wide and shining, a tear slipping down your cheek. Joel thumbs it away, cupping your cheek in his hand.

“All filled up, huh?”

And you nod, feeling hazy, shivering on the edge of something electric, white hot and burning beneath your skin.

He begins to move, slowly, his hips drawing back and pressing in again. A steady rhythm, a too-full feeling that burns low in your belly. Your cunt clenches in fluttering, desperate little pulses as the pressure builds.

You come again, a soaking, dripping rush around him that makes him groan against your cheek. His arm tightens around you, a bruising grip as he fucks up into you. His breath comes in heavy pants, hot against your sweat damp skin. And all you can do is hold onto him, nails digging into his shoulder, little whimpers falling from your lips with every thrust.

“Give me one more, pretty girl,” he mutters, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

And you’re already so close, everything inside you tight and hot. He grinds against you, his cock nudging somewhere deep and achy inside of you. Your eyes flutter shut and you come, the climax rolling through you, a wave of heat and sticky wet arousal. 

Joel groans, the sound rumbling through his chest, and his cock throbs inside you, spilling into your aching cunt. His grip on you relaxes, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. Your heart is frantic, beating so hard you think he must be able to feel it when your chest presses against his. 

And some small part of you is afraid that you’ve just ruined things, that this line you’ve crossed is something you can’t come back from. You think that maybe the softness will have gone from his gaze, that maybe he won’t like you as much now.

But when you look up at him, flushed and sweaty, his eyes are warm. All honey-soaked amber and affection, soft in a way that makes your heart clench.

Joel strokes the hair back from your face, lips brushing against your temple. 

“Like I said,” he whispers, “Trouble.”

——————

He tells you it can’t happen again, but it does.

He lets you tag along when he goes into town for beer, and doesn’t stop you when you reach for his belt at a red light. He lets you keep him in your mouth for a while, hand fisted in your hair, grunting low, filthy praise about your tight little throat, before he pulls off the main road. Then he tugs you over into his lap, kisses you all wet and filthy, lets you grind against him ‘til you’re whining and desperate. He keeps his hands on your hips as you try to take his cock like that, face screwed up at the stretch. He calls you a good girl as you ride him, face pressed against his neck, tears leaking onto his shirt.

He comes over to fix your shower head, the unsteady drip of it that drives you crazy. You sit in the hall and watch him through the open door, the bunch of his muscles beneath his t-shirt, that strip of skin above his jeans. And he’s not even finished before you’re wet and needy and demanding his attention. He fucks you up against the wall, hands bruising on your hips, mouth hot on your neck. He comes inside you and makes you wait as he finishes, a drippy little mess, bare from the waist down. He showers with you after, and it’s too small, a bad fit, but you don’t even mind when he gets soap in your eye. He’s real sweet when he kisses it better.

There’s a tornado warning and he brings you to a motel. He books a room with two beds, but you only end up using one, twisted up in the scratchy, bleach-stiff sheets. He pins your wrists above your head and fucks you slow, the steady grind of his hips against yours, until you’re whining and writhing beneath him. You stay past check-out the next morning and the cleaner has to kick you out. There’s not so much as a power line down in the park, but you grab his jaw and kiss him hard anyways, tell him that he probably saved your life. He grumbles and pushes you off, but keeps his thumb tucked in the loop of your jeans so you can’t go far.

And you know that folks are talking. 

You’re keeping it pretty quiet, but people pick up on things. Your shoes left out on his porch, his laundry hanging on your line. 

You can guess what they’re saying. He’s taking advantage. He’s twice her age, old enough to be her father. He’s gonna pick up and leave her ass in the dust. 

But you don’t really care.

You’ll take whatever he’s willing to give you, as long as he’s willing to give it.

——————

He’s been gone almost a week.

And you won’t say you miss him, won’t let yourself be the kind of girl that waits at the window. You’ve never put a name to it, this thing between you, the tangle of your nights together. But you get a funny little tripping feeling in your stomach every time you look and see his truck is still gone. 

You know you don’t really have any right to miss him. 

But you sort of forgot how lonely it was before he moved in. How quiet it gets at nights when it’s just you and the echo of your own thoughts. 

You fall asleep early.

And you don’t hear the truck when it pulls in.

It’s hazy enough that it feels like a dream. The cool breeze slipping through the half-open window, the hum of cicadas outside. The shift of the mattress beneath you, the rustle of sheets. 

And then the slide of your underwear down your thighs. Tangling around your ankles before they’re tugged off, tossed into the corner of the room.

You stir slightly, the slow drip into consciousness. You feel soft and syrupy, all heavy limbs and molasses.

There’s another shift, the groan of the mattress, and then — oh. 

Your eyes blink open. Staring at the stretch of sheets beneath your cheek, the shadowy bedroom beyond. The red glow of your alarm clock. The ball of your panties on the floor. And the low, steady breathing of someone else in the room.

You tense, fingers twisting in the sheets. But a heavy, calloused hand smooths over your spine, pressing you back into the mattress.

“It’s alright, baby,” Joel murmurs, “You’re alright.”

His hand drags down your skin, over the swell of your ass, to the wet heat of your center. 

You feel it then. The sticky tack of your inner thighs, the sheets damp beneath you. And you wonder how long he’s been here. How long he’s been playing with you, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of your sleeping body.

He pulls you apart, thumbs tucked into your swollen folds, exposing your burning core to the cool night air. You feel the drag of his mouth over your skin. Hot breath, the scratch of his beard. And then an impossible heat. Buried between your thighs. Licking at you, eating at you. It’s all teeth and tongue, hungry in a way that makes you gasp, makes your breath hitch and your hips roll.

You feel him groan against you, into you.

“Missed your cunt.”

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you apart, keeping you open. And it’s so much, it’s too much. Half-asleep, sweat sticking to the sheets, a fever burning beneath your skin. 

The wet heat of his tongue slides through your folds, lapping at the sticky-slow drip of slick from your fluttering hole. He teases your clit with the scrape of his teeth, and the sting of it is mean, but he soothes it in broad, flat strokes. You’re so sensitive already, overwrought and rubbed raw, nerve endings burning.  You whine and arch, stomach pressing into the mattress, hips canting higher, chasing the heat that’s building between your hips. 

He takes your clit into his mouth, sucking hard at the swollen bud, and then you’re coming. A tidal surge of pleasure rolls through you, and you clutch the sheets, mouth falling open in a low moan. A fresh wave of slick spilling out into his waiting mouth as he licks you through it, slow steady strokes, a low rumble of approval in his chest.

You bleed back into consciousness, into the heat of your body, the sweaty, shivering mess of yourself.

You can feel the thick press of his cock against you, the weight that you know so well. He grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing precome against your skin, and you whimper. 

“Gonna fuck you now, sweet girl.”

You shiver at the low growl in his words. His cock glides through your folds, sliding the head right over your clenching hole. He pushes in, parting you, carving out space in the tight heat of your body. You cry out, tensing against the stretch that always feels like too much. Too thick, too hard, the weight of him too heavy where it presses low in your belly.

“There you go,” Joel mutters, his voice gravelly, “You can take it.”

And you melt a little at it, the warmth of his honey-thick drawl, the softness of his touch even as he splits you open. 

He sinks his cock into you with slow, steady strokes, pressing deeper with every thrust. You gasp when he reaches the end of you, so full of him you can barely breathe. He grinds his hips against yours, and a jagged edge of pleasure-pain rips through you.  

Joel leans forward and brushes your hair back from the sweaty nape of your neck. His hand strokes along your side, soothing, settling you. 

“I’ve got you.”

He begins to move, steady thrusts that punch the air out of your lungs, filling and emptying you with every stroke. The full is too full, the empty is too empty, and you’re swept up in the tide of confused feelings. The burning, the wanting. The ache and stretch of him, all the things you never say out loud.

You whimper, cheek pressed against the mattress, tears dripping onto the sheets. 

“You crying for me, baby?”

His hand slides down your arm and he tangles his fingers with yours. Gives you something to hold onto.

He fucks you harder, rutting against you, pressing you deep into the mattress. The heat inside of you burns and burns, crackling along your spine. And you know that Joel can feel it, the fluttering grip of your cunt around him, the way you go tense and tight.

“That’s it,” he grunts, “Come on my cock.”

And you do, coming apart on a sob, everything inside you liquid and white hot as you gush around him. His hips stutter against yours and a low groan pulls from his chest as he empties himself inside you.

You barely register him pulling out, his hands sliding over your hips, turning you onto your back. You blink up at him in the darkness, the shape of him looming over you. His face is soft in the dim light, expression tender as he looks at you.

“So sweet for me like this,” he murmurs, ducking down to nose at your jaw, your cheeks. He kisses the corner of your eye, skin still damp with your tears. 

You’re soft and easy under his hands as he turns you to your side and tucks you against his chest.

“Go back to sleep, baby.”

——————

There’s a fair in the next town over, and Joel takes you.

The ground is muddy, grass mucked up under too many boots, and Joel keeps his hand on your waist as you make your way to the entrance. The air is thick with the smell of barbecue and sweet corn, funnel cakes and candy apples. The rides rising up over the treetops, a neon blur of lights as they twist and spin.

And it’s not a date, the way that nothing you ever do together is a date.

But when he wraps your hand in his and keeps it there, you think, maybe. When he buys you a bag of sticky sweet caramel corn and lets you feed him a piece, his tongue chasing the sugar on your fingertips, you think, oh. And when he wins you a stuffed bear in the bottle toss, a big fuzzy thing with a ribbon around its neck, you think, yes. 

Maybe it’s a little bit like a date.

He doesn’t like rides, he tells you as much, but he lets you pull him over to the ferris wheel. Just this one, he says, and you grin. Because it’s enough. 

You sit pressed together on the too-small bench, the plastic still sun-warm under your bare thighs. Joel’s arm is heavy around your shoulders, keeping you tucked into his side as the cart rises up through the air, the fairground getting smaller and smaller beneath you. It slows as you reach the top, swaying a little, caught on a breeze.

And you’ve never thought much of this place, the little corner of nowhere you ended up in. But looking out at it now, the sprawl of fields and quiet winding roads, you think it’s really not so bad.

You look up at Joel, your heart a giddy, tripping thing in your chest.

“You have to kiss me now.”

Joel’s smile twitches in his cheek, looking down at you with something so warm it makes your stomach swoop.

“Is that right?” 

But then he does, leaning over and pressing his lips against yours, kissing you the whole way down.

There’s a chill in the air as the sun dips low on the horizon. Joel pulls his flannel off his shoulders and wraps it around you before you can even ask. And it’s nice, the heat of his body still lingering on the fabric, the smell of his cologne on the collar. He keeps his hand on your waist as the crowd gets a little rowdier.

He takes you back to the truck before the fireworks start. It’s quieter here, at the edge of the fairground, away from the crowds and the noise. He spreads a blanket out in the truck bed and you settle on it, leaning against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. You can hear the distant sound of the band playing, the music drifting through the trees. 

And then colors explode across the sky, the resounding boom reverberating in your chest. Sparks scatter, a shower of reds and blues that burn out before they reach the treeline. You lean your head against his shoulder, gazing up, eyes wide and bright, reflecting the glow.

Joel presses his lips against your neck, murmuring sweet girl in a voice so low you’re not sure he even meant for you to hear.

But you do, and it fizzes inside you, as bright and burning as the sky above.

——————

He’s been at it for hours. 

Bringing you to the edge, making you come again and again until the world blurs. You’re warm and sticky and spread open, the sheets clinging to your skin, dripping slick onto the pillow tucked under your hips. It’s all hazy heat and soft, smeared edges, sunk deep in the feeling of him.

You feel the heat of his cock against your sore cunt and you shiver, clutching at the sheets.

He leans down and catches your lips, licking into your open mouth. His hand rubs over your hip, your tense belly and trembling thighs. Soothing and slow, settling you.

“Just a little more, sweet girl.”

He presses back into you, his own come leaking out around him. And you’re already so sensitive, so drippy and sore. Your fingers twist in the sheets, face screwing up against the sting. A little whine slips from your lips — hurts, Joel.

“I know it does,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your jaw, “But my baby likes when it hurts a little bit, huh?”

You squirm against him, but he holds you in place, working his cock in deeper, pressing and pressing against that too-full pain until his hips are flush against yours. It’s achey and warm, the stretch of him, the fullness. It all drips together, the pain and pleasure, the thrum of your pulse in your ears. It’s good and bad at the same time, a burning heat, an overwhelming ache. 

“Joel,” you whine, but he hushes you gently, his fingers already finding your clit.

“I got you, baby.”

He rubs you slowly, the careful press of his fingers against your swollen clit, and you come again for him. It isn’t much, a trembling little spill of a thing, your muscles spasming weakly around him.

Joel presses a kiss to your tear-streaked cheek, his gaze warm and affectionate even as he grinds his cock deeper inside of you.

“Such a good girl, taking what I give you.”

You’re so wet, dripping with slick and spit and him. And you feel so full of him you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but cry and take it.

He tucks your knees up against your ribs, folding you in half and fucking into the sticky, sore stretch of your cunt. And you can’t get away from the endless heat in your core, the dripping build of another orgasm somewhere deep between your hips. Pooling thickly, burning hotter and hotter on every slow stroke of his cock stretching you.

“One more, baby,” he grunts, “Can you give me one more?”

You can’t, and you tell him so, whimpering as he drives his hips harder into yours — no, Joel, can’t, too much. But even as you say it, you can feel it flickering inside you, your insides tensing and tightening until your vision blurs and you come around him.

Joel groans and drops his forehead against yours, catching your mouth in a searing kiss. His cock pulses inside of you, spilling more semen into your overstuffed cunt. 

He kisses over your cheeks as you come down, soft and affectionate, pressing praise into your damp, feverish skin. That’s my girl. Came so pretty for me, baby. And eventually you come back to yourself, shivering and spent, wrapped up in the warmth of his arm.

“Good?” you ask, eyelashes sticky with tears as you blink up at him. 

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, brushing back your hair, “You did real good.”

——————

There’s a storm hovering on the horizon.

The air is too still, caught on a hum, a distant crackle of electricity. You get restless on nights like this. Skin too tight, sheets too soft. It’s worse now that you know what it’s like not to sleep alone.

There’s a key hidden in the light above his door, tucked in a cobwebbed crevice just above the bulb. Joel says it’s for emergencies only, but you think he only pretends to be mad when you use it.

He’s asleep when you come in, but he stirs when you crawl under the blankets.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles, still half-asleep, voice muffled against the pillow.

You curl up against him, pressing your cold nose against his back. He grumbles and rolls over, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. His hand settles over your hip, thumb slipping beneath your shirt, stroking at your skin.

You nuzzle into him, face tucked against his collarbone, settling into the heat of his body. It radiates off of him, warming the sheets, lulling you into sleep.

Joel presses his face into the damp of your hair.

“S’it raining?”

“Just started,” you whisper.

He grunts and pulls you closer.

“Guess you’re staying then.”

The next morning you eat cereal at the small kitchen table before Joel leaves for work. He always buys the kind you like, even if he says it has too much sugar in it. He puts on a fresh pot of coffee before he leaves and says you can stay as long as you like.

You’re at his place more often than not these days. You know he doesn’t like you living on your own. But he can’t say it, cause the thing that comes after is a question he can’t ask.

You sort of hope he will one day. 

But you don’t mind the way things are now. The way he pretends not to like you so much when you know he really does. 

How he says you oughta find someone your own age, but scares off any boy that looks twice at you. How he grumbles about you staying the night, but makes you breakfast in the morning. How he says you’re too young for him, but fucks you ‘til you cry. 

You spend most evenings with him out on the porch, curled up in the old armchair, watching as he tunes his guitar. He plays for you sometimes, the low rasp of his voice just loud enough for you to hear. You sit there until the fireflies rise up out of the bushes and the park lights buzz to life. When he smiles at you his eyes crease up at the corners.

And you know that no one stays here long, that this is a place of passing.

But for the first time, you think it feels like home.

[emptywwwriting]

That Eddie Munson’s leather jacket bath and body works candle is no joke it smells so fucking good and just like him I swear to god

[emptywwwriting]

I feel like Jackson!Joel would make an effort to make you feel at home if you were a new to town.

He would sit with you at town events, invite you over for a late night cup of coffee, and maybe eventually after a long late night conversation he’d slip his dick into you gently and whisper how much everyone loves you and how appreciated you are.

He would want to make you feel so good I just know it. I think Joel would love a loner loser reader.

[emptywwwriting]

Mean Joel fic recs PLEASS I just love mean Joel he’s so mean and he’s Joel I want Joel to be mean to me I need mean Joel fan fictions.

[emptywwwriting]

I need this so fucking bad right now it’s not even funny

how do you sleep?

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel's always there to comfort you with his words and a warm bed after a nightmare, but tonight, you need a little more

warnings: 18+ MDNI, jackson era, soft!joel, comfort, undefined relationship, getting together, mentions of nightmares & insomnia, smut, unprotected piv, slow/intimate sex, creampie

word count: 3.3k

“Whas’wrong?”

You didn't mean to end up here again. It's the third night this week you swiped Joel's key from under the doormat and found yourself standing in his bedroom doorway.

"Can't sleep," you reply, barely above a whisper. Exhaustion seeps into your voice, permeating your limbs the longer you remain standing.

He already knows why you're here. Ever since you, Joel, and Ellie arrived in Jackson and were offered homes of your own, rest evades you more than it ever did on the road. It's too quiet here, and your racing mind fills the silence with the horrors of a life lived in constant fear.

You know you're safe now. You know that, but it's not enough to convince your body or quell the ever-present tightness in your chest telling you to run, to hide. Your fears are more potent in the dark, and the shadows creeping from wall to wall have sharper edges. Teeth that threaten to tear you apart and rip away everything and everyone you've fought so hard to protect.

The walls and floorboards creak with life that shouldn't be present in an empty, two-story home—too big for a single person, and yet still yours—and quickly begin to sound like impending death.

Nowadays, more often than not, you seek out a different kind of shelter. The familiar, comforting embrace of the man who kept you warm and protected through harsh winters and from monsters prowling in the night. That's where you belong.

Crisp bedsheets rustle in the dark and then you hear Joel pat the mattress twice—an invitation to occupy the space beside him, the one he always leaves empty just in case.

"Well, c'mon then. Hurry up," he grumbles, still half-asleep. But he isn’t frustrated. He's tired, just like you, and he'll probably sleep a lot better knowing both of his girls are resting soundly under his roof.

You trudge over and waste no time burying your face in his bare chest, breathing in pine and cedar wood shavings before exhaling a heavy sigh of relief. Throwing a leg over his thighs, you mold into him, rubbing your cheek into coarse curls and marveling at the calm, steady rhythm beneath you.

It feels good to be home. You're not sure why you let Maria give you an entire house to yourself when everything you could ever want or need was right across the street. Every time you end up back here, you wonder. And every time you leave, you wish you'd stayed.

He wraps you up in his arms and tugs you into his side, murmuring your name with soft lips that tenderly caress your forehead. They're so warm, just like the rest of him, and you find yourself aching to feel them on yours. It's a line neither of you have ever crossed, but tonight's been rough.

For what felt like days, you were forced to watch as your worst nightmares came to bloody fruition. You were dragged through the most brutal outcomes of events you already survived and could do nothing more than pray you'd wake up soon. When you finally came to and checked the clock, it had only been an hour and a half since you'd passed out. The moon was still high in the sky, taunting you with the promise of more. More dread, endless brutality.

Joel can make all of that go away, if only for a few hours. He always does, but tonight...you don't want to talk about it tonight. You don't want to think about it, about anything at all. You just want him.

You'd feel selfish asking for more if there wasn't already something between you. Something nurtured and gradual that's been building for months, beginning on your travels across the country and coming to an unignorable head here in Jackson.

Back then, it was stolen glances while you bathed together in streams and fleeting touches in your shared sleeping bag under star-filled skies. It's more intimate these days. He holds your hand when you're anxious, and you kiss away the frown lines and frustrated wrinkles that mar his skin.

Every day, you skirt the line between platonic companionship and whatever's starting to simmer below the surface. You're scared to hope he feels it too, but the thought of remaining in this undefined middle ground scares you even more.

The furnace drifting in and out of consciousness next to you radiates with an addictive heat you've told yourself to ignore for a long time, but it's quickly becoming an impossible feat. Pressed into his side, you're trying and failing not to writhe against him. But he's starting to notice.

His hips jerk every time your core drags against his bare thigh, a slow, repetitive grind you really shouldn't continue, but feels so fucking good combined with the slick pooling between your legs. You should stop—really, you should—but his breathing's changing and hitching, catching in his throat every time the growing tent in his boxers meets the friction of your inner thigh.

Then, he gasps something cognizant and urgent, and you know you've been caught. His hand snakes down to your ass and traps you against his side with a grip so firm, plush skin spills between his fingers.

“Woah, hold on there," he breathes out heavily, and his gaze drops to yours curiously. His eyes are wide open and alert, shining with the faint reflection of moonlight streaming through an adjacent window. Bright and yet pitch black as his sleep-addled brain struggles to catch up with his body. "What's goin' on with you tonight?"

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, debating whether or not to ask for his help. His expression is gentle but otherwise unreadable, and there's a chance this could go very, very badly. Maybe you'd be better off apologizing, but you don't want to. You're not sorry for needing him.

And the longer he waits for an answer, the more his body convinces you that he wants the same things you do. His hand is still on your ass, kneading as he urges you to rock into him, but he doesn't seem to realize he's doing it. Then, his thigh flexes and a rush of wetness coats your already soaked underwear. His expression falters, and you know he can feel it.

His voice is tighter when he speaks again, but that tinge of concern is still there. He wants to make it all better, but he can't unless you tell him how. Your hand tenses where it lies on his chest, and he covers it with his own.

"What can I do? Just tell me how to help you—whatever it is, I'll do it," he murmurs, brushing his thumb reassuringly across your skin. You tilt your chin up and suddenly you're close enough to breathe his air. Closer than you've ever been and yet still not close enough.

"I need you to...," Fuck me. But it sounds too crude. A quick fuck isn't what you need right now. You need to be full of him, to hold him deep inside you and keep him there for as long as this night will allow. "...make me feel safe again."

"Tell me how," he repeats as you struggle to bite back a moan. He's working you against him intentionally now, encouraging you up and down his leg, and it's making your brain go a little haywire. "What do you need, baby?"

"Joel," you whine at the endearment, an intense heat building at the apex of your thighs. That's new. You want to hear him say it again, to devour every word as he buries himself inside you over and over. You will him to understand. "I need you."

He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, steeling himself before nosing into the hairs at your temple. The gesture is so tender and affectionate even as he bucks into your thigh, and it's painfully obvious how hard you're making him. He nods slowly and plants a soft kiss on your forehead, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than before.

"Okay, baby. I got you," he murmurs, his lips trailing down to your eyelids, then the apple of your cheek. "I'll make it all go away, alright? M'gonna take care of you."

And you believe him. He rolls you onto your back and you gasp as his entire weight presses you into the mattress. It's more than just comforting. You feel protected. He's shielding you from this horrible, broken world, somehow managing to prove that there's still goodness to be found. And it's on top of you, broad and strong, and wanting you just as badly as you want him.

Big hands cup your cheeks and his lips meet yours, so much different than the familiar press against your forehead or the top of your head. You're in unknown territory, but he guides you carefully and moves slowly, taking the time to explore and savor. The taste of spearmint begins to overwhelm your senses as the kiss deepens, and you lick into his mouth impatiently, already craving more.

But after years of quiet observation, Joel knows better than anyone how to temper you. Ducking down to bury his face in your neck, he kisses along the underside of your jaw, regaining control of the pace with a sharp, halting suck. And while he refuses to let your urgency rush him, he still allows your hands to roam his skin and tug at his boxers, letting you take what you want—like his only goal is to make sure this lasts long enough for him to fulfill his promise.

A disgruntled groan bubbles in your throat, and you feel him chuckle. "Y'know, patience is supposed to be a virtue," he mumbles, amused, his beard scratchy and grounding against your skin. You huff in response.

Tonight doesn't feel like a night for virtues. Not when things are finally changing in your favor. After so much time, so much running, you actually have somewhere to go—and stay. You're not running away anymore. You're moving towards something that feels real, and dependable, and safe, and you're doing it together. And now that you're so close you can taste it, you're done waiting.

"You're really gonna start caring about virtues now?" you ask skeptically, slipping your hands past the waistband of his boxers to grab his ass.

He hesitates, then huffs out a quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

And with that, you both know the time for talking is over. Something shifts and you're on the same page, ready to take as much as the other is willing to give.

Joel begins to drag your shirt up to reveal more, but suddenly feeling stifled, you take over and remove it completely. The look on his face makes it more than worth it. It's not the first time he's seen you naked, but as his eyes rake over your bare curves, it feels like it could be. Reverently, he returns his lips to yours, kissing you deeply before charting a path lower.

His mouth feels hot as he laves and nips across your collarbone, and he shimmies further down the bed until he's just barely ghosting the swell of your breasts. You gasp, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a bruise below your nipple and soothes the sting with his tongue. Licking a wide stripe past the darkening mark, he captures the bud between his teeth, another hand sliding up your stomach to cup your other breast while he alternates between swirling and sucking.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire. The ache between your thighs worsens the longer he continues, but instead of squeezing them together for relief, you wrap your legs around his waist and tug him onto you. By now, you're so wet, there's no way you're not soaking right through your underwear and into his boxers, and you hope he can feel it. If your increasing volume isn't enough of an indication that you need him inside you, then maybe this will be.

He lets out a pained groan into your chest, and you clench in satisfaction. He immediately grinds down, thrusting into you like he's forgotten about the layers of clothing still separating you. You don't bother to remind him.

Bucking him off, you quickly wrench down your underwear then reach for his, yanking them off while he sheds his t-shirt. Your fingers close around his cock before his shirt hits the floor and he startles before melting into your grip, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting around a cross between a sigh and the neediest whine you've ever heard.

You feel that telltale whoosh between your legs again, and after pumping him a few times, you guide him toward your entrance. In the back of your mind, you know you're taking a risk without a condom. You should be safer, more responsible. But it's Joel. It's always been Joel.

His eyes shoot open once he realizes where you're leading him, but you only bite your lip and nod, your expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. An unspoken agreement passes between you, a quiet understanding cultivated through years of friendship and now something more. Then, he presses inside and your mind goes blissfully blank.

No more horrors, no more fear. Just Joel keeping his promise and doing exactly what you trusted him to do. He encompasses you entirely, pressing the length of his body flush against yours as he works himself into you. The stretch was nothing you ever could've anticipated, but it grounds you in the present moment. It's everything you told yourself not to hope for when you showed up on his doorstep tonight.

His movements are slow but powerful, and he rests his forehead on yours, eyes alert and acutely aware of every change in expression. The intensity of his gaze and the slick sound of him burying himself to the hilt should make you self-conscious—it's all you can see and hear, but that's the point, isn't it? To get lost in the way he drags so perfectly against your walls and grinds his hips into yours on every thrust, slow and steady.

He's attentive, cataloging whenever he makes you moan a little louder or your eyes roll, and repeats it again and again until you're writhing underneath him. Your nails rake down his back and scratch at his scalp, and he jerks forward whenever you're a little too rough, hitting so deep, it feels like he's grazing your cervix. But the longer he continues to give you everything you want, the more his body trembles with the effort of holding himself back.

You know Joel, and you can tell when he's resisting an urge. His biceps tense where he's propped on his forearms, bracketing your head, and there's so little space between you, you can feel his abs flexing every time he plunges back inside you. He needs more and you want to give it to him.

Lifting your head, you bridge the tiny gap to meet his lips. "Joel, c'mon. You can fuck me harder than that, I'm not gonna break," you mumble between open-mouthed kisses. That catches him off guard.

He accidentally lets himself go for a thrust or two, and you're cut off by a moan, your walls squeezing him so hard, it's painful. Somehow, you manage to recover just long enough to gasp out the rest. "It's okay if you need something from me, too. Just take it. I trust you."

For an agonizing moment, Joel pauses to observe you, waiting for something in your eyes to contradict the permission you just gave him. But when he doesn't find it, he shakily exhales the breath he'd been holding and his head drops to your shoulder. The groan that follows rumbles so deeply in his chest, it makes your stomach drop. Then, without warning, his hands are gripping your thighs and he's rutting into you like a caged animal finally set free.

There he is. The man who never hesitated to gun down anyone who threatened the safety of his loved ones and did whatever it took to bring his girls home.

Recognition washes over you and fills you with a familiar feeling of security. It's something only Joel has ever been able to give you. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his hair, hoping to return even a fraction of that feeling.

As he gives into his body, he starts to ramble, his words muffled and lost to your delicate skin. But you don't need to hear him to know what he's saying. With every thrust, the bed frame rattles and gets the message across loud and clear. Your heels dig into his back, encouraging him forward, begging him to keep going, and he obliges, quickly reduced to helpless grunts and curses.

The room gets increasingly hotter and more humid, and the cool air flowing through the window isn't nearly enough to provide relief, but neither of you seems to care. You're a little in love with the way your bodies slip together, sweat and slick intermingling seamlessly.

Everything is so wet, and it feels incredible—your skin against his, your walls pulsing around his cock. He's molding into you, so close that you can't do much more than swivel your hips into his, and it's sending you hurtling toward the edge faster than you can fully process. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubs your clit just right, and when he adjusts the angle to fuck you deeper than before, you hit your peak.

You dissolve into a whimpering mess beneath him, desperately riding out your orgasm as he groans and abruptly bites down on your shoulder. Releasing your legs to grab your waist, he forces himself impossibly further inside you and grinds into your spasming walls until he's coming with you. He gasps his way through it, stilling while he lets you milk him dry, then collapses on top of you and gathers you in his arms.

For a while, you both struggle to catch your breath. The mattress is bare save for the fitted sheet, your clothes, pillows, and blankets having been kicked or tossed onto the floor. It feels nice like this—to savor the winter air cooling your bodies and to just be held. Without letting you go, Joel lifts his head to kiss the teeth marks he left on your shoulder apologetically and then shifts higher to press his lips against the underside of your jaw.

"You alright?" he asks gently, his voice a little gruffer than usual from the exertion.

"Mhm," you hum, nosing into his temple. "More than." He sighs and almost sounds relieved.

The thought makes your heart ache. If he's worried he crossed a line, well. He did. You both did, but it was a long time coming and you don't regret a thing. You squeeze him a little tighter as if to tell him, and he allows himself to melt into you briefly. Then, he draws back to cup your cheek and guide your lips to his.

He kisses you slowly, taking the time to appreciate the sensation of your mouth against his without any urgency. "Feel better?" he murmurs after reluctantly parting from you. You keep him close.

"I don't think we have to worry about any more nightmares tonight," you reply with a small smile. He returns it, eyes crinkling fondly, then rolls you onto your sides to settle in for a good night's sleep.

As you start to drift off, you hear him chuckle and mutter something under his breath that you don't quite catch. But it sounds a lot like, "Might be time for you to finally move in."

thanks for reading!

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I need a huge fucking man.

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i just want a big scary man to take care of me and my holes

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Life update: I need Arthur Morgan INSIDE me

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Jackson!Joel fic in the works…

(you ride him because he deserves a damn break,

and to be fucked so good he can’t think)

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@/jovl.millvr on Tik Tok, makes the most mouth watering pantie soaking edits of Joel , go check him out and thank me later

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I feel like I need to dm every blog that I stumble upon drunk, and apologize to them.

I’m so sorry to anyone that has been a victim of me being horny under your post, and liking your entire series within an hour…

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Having daddy issues is so weird because why am I more upset over a grumpy old man from a video games death than I am over my own failed relationship with my father.

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I love posting a horny fic late at night and within a minute someone is already liking and reposting it. Like yessss I see you being horny over a fifty year old fictional video game character at 1 in the morning <3

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Your Toxic Situationship with Joel Miller

Parings: Joel Miller x Reader

Warnings: Smut, toxic, age gap (not specified), angst?, reader cries during sex, NO Y/N, reader just wants to be loved (me too), rough p in v sex.

Summary: You and Joel have a situationship, you have feelings for Joel, but he doesn't feel the same

Inspired by a post i have reposted on my blog :)

WC: 1.2k (tiny ik)

A/N: I feel like this sucks... Anyways this is NOT edited and its that time of the night where im so tired my glasses don’t help my vision any sooo take this with a grain of salt. i'll edit it later!

There was something so painful about your relationship,, situationship... with Joel Miller. 

Maybe it was the way he’d ignore you in town, even after spending days on end with you in secret. Or maybe it was the way he’d dismiss your insecurities when you would tell him about them nervously, late into the night. He’d shake his head or say.

“People would talk, no one can know about… whatever, this is.” 

Whatever

It never felt like 'whatever’ to you. When he was buried inside of you so deeply brushing your cervix over and over and over again, murmurs of 

“Fuck you feel so good, I love you. So fuckin’ tight sweet girl.” Would fall from his lips.

He would spill inside of you, and then the two of you wouldn’t discuss it again. It confused your desperate, sad, brain, yearning for love, to be loved. One night, during a particularly rough fucking from Joel, tears welled in your eyes as soon as you came. He stopped immediately, of course, and asked you what was wrong.

Sniffles interrupted your soft-spoken words.

“I want you to like me.” You hid your eyes from him, casting them down in shame.

“Aw, baby I do like you,” His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, wiping away a stray tear.

“Such a pretty little thing,” His hand trailed to your neck and you looked up at him.

“So tight and warm around me.” A devilish smirk overcame his previously soft look at you and you frowned. His look faltered, and he cocked his head at you.

“T’s not what I wanted to hear,” A sniffle. “I want you to like me…” You trail off trying to think of an example. 

“More than just for this.” You gesture to the position the two of you are in, your naked and sweaty frame shoved against Joel’s headboard. His broad chest is hovering above you, hips flush with yours, warm and shoved deep inside of you.

He frowns at you and starts rubbing your red cheeks again.

“Baby we can’t be more than this, it’s…” He wanders off for a minute thinking of the right word. 

“People wouldn’t like to see an old man like me with a young girl like you.” He gives you a sympathetic frown that you know is fake.

He shifts his weight slightly causing his heavy cock to brush that spongy spot inside of you, causing you to gasp softly.

“I-I don’t care, I want to be boyfriend and girlfriend… or something.” Hiccups interrupt you occasionally, and tears begin to form once more.

“Too young baby,” He’s shaking his head and it's breaking your heart.

“Not old enough for me, still just a kid compared to my old ass.” He chuckles trying to lighten the mood but it doesn't work, it just frustrates you more.

“I’m not a kid.” Your tone is snappy and your eyes are staring deep into his. He shifts his hips again but you muffle the reaction it causes you.

“Don't talk to me like im dumb.”

“No need to get short with me.” His smile has dropped and he looks as mad as you do now. You can’t mistake the shift in his hips this time as simply repositioning himself.

Your confidence falters.

“Why won’t you just love me?” You ask equally angry and sad. 

He pulls his hips out barley a centimeter before pushing back in, slow. You gasp louder, body beginning to heat up again.

“I love this pussy baby, feels so good.” He’s grinning again pulling out even farther now before shoving himself back in. You're mad at him but the fullness his cock is giving you feels too good to ask for him to stop. You the feel tears coming again, but his hand on your clit, rubbing light soft circles sends your focus away from them. 

“Needa stop thinkin’ baby, dumb little brain can’t handle all these emotions.” He’s talking to you like you're stupid and it makes your cheeks flush. He’s patronizing you, it’s infuriating, but just like before the feeling of his thrust growing longer and harder, short circuits your brain and all you can do is moan. 

“Yeah I know baby, feels too good hmm?”

“Jus’ let me do all the work to make you feel good like I always do.” His thrusts pick up and a coil forms deep in your belly. Your legs are wrapping around his hips instinctively and you cling to his neck like if you let go he would disappear. Your whines are needy now, you're mad but you can’t talk, you can’t do anything but let yourself be filled by him over and over. 

“I always take care of you right baby.” His breathing is labored and his eyes are black.

Staring up at him, with wide eyes and an open mouth all you can do is hum a broken.

Mhmm.

“Fill you up so nice, gonna cum in you n’ make you mine.” He’s growling, pace now erratic and mind-numbing. Your thoughts are gone and have been replaced by him. His smell, his looks, the way he feels, him him him him him.

All you can do is screw your eyes shut with a silent scream.

“All mine, fuck, you’re all mine right?” His sentence doesn’t sound like a question but you are so fucked out you don’t even hear it. 

A quick but firm slap to your cheek causes your eyes to shoot open, and stare back at him saucer-eyed. It didn’t hurt, but it got your attention.

“Who’s are you?” He's angry, still pounding your swollen sensitive pussy mercilessly.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. 

“Gonna get real mean you don’t answer me.”

You know he’s not bluffing.

“You! Fuck.” It comes out strangled and airy. All of your breath is gone, you are heaving trying to get oxygen to your brain again.

“All mine, you’re all mine. Just a silly,” He gives you a particularly rough thrust. 

“Stupid-“ Another. 

“Girl.” 

It makes your heart sink but his thrust mixed with his finger working rapidly over your swollen bud, for some reason pushes you over the edge. You're clinging to him, nails deep inside his skin, riding out the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever had. The waves hit you hard, and they are relentless. Tears prick your eyes, and your body tenses rhythmically. Before you know it Joel is pumping his seed deep inside of you. Your name is a mantra on his lips. 

“Mine, mine, mine, shit, mine.” pours from him as he loses himself within your walls. Everything is tight and warm and you feel like mush. His weight is crushing you but it feels like home. 

Joel is home to you. You know deep down that he doesn't truly care for you, but something about his experienced touch ignites a fire within you. You can’t bring yourself to do anything but worship him. He pushes himself off of you and all you can do is drunkenly admire his beautiful tan skin, covering his broad muscles. The weight of your forbidden arrangement always hangs heavy in the air after you guys fuck. 

He grudgingly pulls out of you with a defeated sigh. You whimper at the loss of contact. He brings you a towel, wiping your sensitive parts, ridding them of any trace of him.  

You know that your love for him is built upon something not returned by him completely. You are just a naive girl yearning for his affection; Yet, you are aware that the excitement of your fleeting encounters and shared looks intoxicates you both. Neither of you will ever find the strength to separate from one another.